Work Text:
The muted gray light of early morning filters through the bedroom curtains, painting long, pale shadows across the hardwood floor.
Minho opens his eyes. Before his brain can fully register the chill in the air or the heavy warmth of the duvet, his body delivers its daily status report. It begins in his right knee, a dull, throbbing stiffness that radiates up into his hip and down into his ankle. His joints feel like it made of wood, rigid and unyielding. He lies very still, staring at the ceiling, mentally cataloging the aches.
The injury happened five years ago, long before the shared apartment, long before he ever met Jisung. It was a miscalculated leap during a national contemporary dance competition. A terrible landing, a sickening pop, a ruptured ligament. The months of agonizing physical therapy that followed had eventually restored his mobility. He healed, he returned to the studio, and he built a successful career as an instructor.
But joints hold onto the past. The intense agony of the injury is gone, but it left behind persistent ache that settles deep into his bones every single dawn. Leaving the mattress is always the most punishing part of his day. He needs a full twenty minutes of slow, methodical movement just to make his body function normally.
He takes a deep breath, bracing himself to push the heavy covers aside.
Usually, he does this alone. Jisung is a music producer, a notorious night owl whose creative hours stretch deep into the early morning. By the time Minho wakes up, Jisung is almost always buried under the pillows, dead to the world, entirely oblivious to Minho’s daily struggle.
But three weeks ago, the routine broke.
A sudden bout of insomnia had jolted Jisung awake at three in the morning. Unable to fall back asleep, he had simply laid there, staring into the dark, waiting for his brain to shut down. Hours bled by. And then, the sun began to rise, and Jisung witnessed the reality of Minho’s morning.
From the safety of the tangled sheets, pretending to still be asleep, Jisung watched. He saw the way Minho’s jaw clenched tightly before he even moved. He saw the slow, painstaking effort it took for Minho to sit up on the edge of the mattress. He watched his boyfriend aggressively massage his own knee, a raw grimace of discomfort crossing his face—an expression Minho carefully hid behind a stoic mask during the day.
Lying in the dim light, Jisung had felt a painful knot form in his throat. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to wrap his arms around Minho, to ask him where it hurt, to offer to fetch ice packs or pain medicine.
But Jisung knew better.
Minho possessed a fierce, unbreakable pride. He despised feeling fragile. More than anything, Minho hated the sympathetic gaze. If Jisung offered him a look filled with pity, Minho would instantly build a defensive wall, brushing it off with a harsh word and suffering in total isolation. Coddling him would only make him feel worse.
So, Jisung swallowed his words. He kept his eyes shut, let Minho finish his grueling routine, and spent the rest of the day formulating a completely different tactic.
Back in the present, Minho finally sits up. He rubs a hand over his face, preparing to swing his stiff legs over the edge of the bed.
A loud thwack suddenly echoes across the room.
Minho blinks, startled out of his mental preparation. He looks toward the foot of the bed.
Jisung is standing there. He is wearing mismatched socks, an oversized gray hoodie, and an expression of exaggerated determination. He looks absolutely exhausted, his hair sticking up in chaotic directions, but he is wide awake.
Before Minho can ask what he is doing, Jisung violently kicks a rolled-up yoga mat across the floorboards. It unfurls with a rubbery slap. He immediately drops a second mat right next to it.
"Alright," Jisung announces, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual energetic bounce. He drops heavily onto the left mat, sitting cross-legged. "Time to suffer. Get down here."
Minho stares at him, looking thrown off guard. The dull throb in his knee is momentarily forgotten in the face of sheer confusion. "Jisung, it's six in the morning. You went to sleep three hours ago. What are you doing?"
"Starting today, I’m prioritizing my physical health," Jisung deadpans, completely serious. "My producer chair is ruining my posture. I am practically a crescent moon at this point. I need a stretching routine, and you are a professional. Let's go."
Minho raises an eyebrow, highly skeptical, but the distraction works. He doesn't focus on the stiffness as he slowly lowers himself from the mattress to the floor, taking a seat on the second mat.
"Fine," Minho sighs, adjusting his t-shirt. "Start with a simple hamstring stretch. Keep your legs straight out in front of you and reach for your toes."
Jisung nods firmly. He extends his legs. He reaches forward.
And then, he completely falls apart.
Instead of bending at the hips, Jisung violently rounds his spine, bending his knees so aggressively they practically hit his chest, and lets out a theatrical, prolonged groan of absolute agony. He flops his torso over his thighs like a deflated balloon, his hands barely grazing his own calves.
"Ah! The humanity!" Jisung wails, his face muffled against his own kneecaps. "My muscles are tearing! I am disintegrating!"
Minho pauses. He knows for an absolute fact that Jisung is not this inflexible. He has seen the younger man sleep in positions that would snap a normal person in half.
"What is that?" Minho asks, his tone flat. "You look like a dying shrimp."
"This is my maximum capacity," Jisung argues, lifting his head just enough to glare defensively. "Do not mock the afflicted."
Jisung shifts into a butterfly stretch. He pulls his feet together, but instead of gently pressing his knees downward, he begins to flap his legs up and down with intense, chaotic speed.
"I'm a beautiful butterfly," Jisung gasps, entirely out of breath, dramatically wiping a non-existent bead of sweat from his forehead. "Look at me soar."
A snort escapes Minho’s nose. He presses his lips together tightly, fighting the immediate urge to smile. "You look like a pigeon having a seizure. Stop that, you're going to pull a groin muscle."
"I am an athlete," Jisung declares, completely ignoring the instruction. He attempts to transition into a downward-facing dog, but his hands slip on the rubber mat. He collapses forward, his face planting directly onto the floor with a pathetic, muffled thud. He doesn't get up. He just lies there, completely spread-eagled on the ground, groaning softly.
Minho cannot hold it back anymore.
A genuine, bright laugh breaks out of his chest, filling the hushed bedroom. The sound is unguarded. As he laughs, the rigid tension that had been gripping his shoulders and spine begins to melt away. The physical comedy demands his attention, forcing the ghost of the old injury straight out of his mind.
"You are an absolute disaster," Minho chuckles, shaking his head. A mischievous glint flashes in his dark eyes. Minho shifts his weight, the movement far more fluid now than it was ten minutes ago, and crawls over to Jisung’s mat.
"If you're going to do it, do it right," Minho says, his voice dripping with playful authority.
He grabs Jisung by the hips and hauls him upward. Jisung squawks in protest as Minho forces him into a seated position. Minho presses a hand firmly between Jisung’s shoulder blades.
"Straighten your back," Minho orders, applying a gentle but immovable pressure. "Reach forward. Properly this time."
"I can't!" Jisung dramatically whines, trying to twist away. "My arms are too short! This is a structural flaw!"
Minho snorts, pressing a little harder. "Stop complaining."
Jisung decides to abandon the stretch entirely. With a sudden, uncoordinated burst of energy, he twists his torso, throwing his arms out to tackle Minho around the waist.
Minho gasps as Jisung’s dead weight crashes into him. They topple over, hitting the rubber mats in a tangle of limbs. The stretching session instantly devolves into a ridiculous amateur wrestling match.
"Yield!" Jisung demands, trying to pin Minho’s arms down, though his grip is terribly weak and very so unserious. "Admit that my technique is superior!"
"You literally just fell on your face!" Minho laughs, effortlessly flipping their positions. He catches both of Jisung’s wrists in one hand, pinning them lightly above Jisung's head, straddling his hips. Minho looks down at him, his chest heaving slightly, his eyes bright and completely clear of pain. "You are the worst student I have ever had."
Jisung looks up at him. He takes in the relaxed curve of Minho’s shoulders, the genuine amusement lighting up his face, and the complete absence of the strained, tight grimace from three weeks ago.
Jisung stops struggling. His chaotic energy dissipates, replaced by something much softer. He lets his pinned hands relax against the mat.
"Yeah, well," Jisung murmurs, a small fond smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "I guess you'll just have to keep tutoring me every morning."
Minho stares down at him. The playful competitive edge fades, the realization slowly settling into the space between them. Minho isn't oblivious and stupid. He realizes exactly what Jisung is doing, and why he chose to do it this way.
Minho lets go of Jisung’s wrists. He shifts his weight off of him, but he doesn't get up. Instead, Minho drops down right beside Jisung on the mats. He slides his arm under Jisung’s neck, pulling him flush against his side.
Jisung goes willingly, turning his body to press his face into the curve of Minho’s neck. He drapes a heavy arm over Minho’s chest, tangling their legs together on the floor.
The wrestling gives way to a warm, grounding stillness. The only sound in the room is the steady rhythm of their breathing syncing together. Minho rests his chin on top of Jisung’s messy hair, his fingers slowly tracing lazy, soothing circles against the fabric of Jisung’s hoodie.
"Ludicrous," Minho murmurs, the insult barely louder than a breath, carrying affectionate weight that completely betrays his stoic tone.
Jisung shifts, rubbing his cheek sleepily against the curve of Minho’s collarbone. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means close your eyes and go back to sleep, Jisung," Minho orders softly, resting the full weight of his arm over Jisung's back. "Right here."
Jisung lets out a muffled, triumphant hum, tightening his hold around Minho’s waist, entirely content to use the rubber stretching mat as his new mattress.
Wrapped in the warmth of the person he helplessly adores, resting on the hard floorboards of their shared room, Minho closes his eyes. He doesn't say the words out loud, but as the quiet morning settles over them and the ache in his joints fades to a distant memory, he is silently, profoundly thankful.