Chapter 2: Two Meters Away

Chan took one step, then another, still carrying Minho like the most inconveniently precious package in the world.

Minho had gone very quiet in the way that meant he was one breath away from either sneezing, complaining, or deciding this was somehow Chan's fault.

"Put me down," he muttered into Chan's neck.

"Not until I get tissues."

"I can walk."

"You can glare. Walking is debatable."

Minho pinched his shoulder with just enough force to make the threat real and just enough weakness to make it endearing. Chan only tightened his hold and kept moving.

The closet door was half open. The spare boxes were supposed to be on the top shelf, which meant Chan had exactly three options: set Minho down, keep carrying him while he reached awkwardly, or ask Minho to hold still while he did something sensible.

All three felt like traps.

He shifted Minho higher against his chest and leaned one shoulder into the closet door.

"Don't move," he said.

"That's rich coming from you."

"I need both hands."

"Then use them."

Chan looked down at him.

Minho looked back, face still pink from the cold and the embarrassment of being carried, nose twitching once like it had something else to say.

Chan's expression softened before he could stop it.

Minho saw that and immediately regretted having eyes.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm cute because I'm useless."

"I think you're cute because you're Minho."

Minho went still.

Chan could feel the moment land between them. He also could feel Minho's grip shift from annoyed to absent-minded, one hand settling at Chan's shoulder instead of shoving him away.

Then Minho sniffled, which rescued Chan from having to say anything smarter.

"Hold on," Chan murmured.

He nudged the closet door wider with his hip and reached up, fingers finding a stack of boxes on the shelf. Of course the spare tissues had been hidden behind winter blankets and an old laundry basket, because nothing in the dorm could ever be simple when Minho was sick.

He dragged one box down, then another.

Minho watched with the resigned expression of a man witnessing a minor domestic disaster.

"We had tissues," he said.

"We did."

"And now we don't."

"We now have tissues again."

"You say that like it's a victory."

"It is a victory. We were losing badly."

Minho huffed, which turned into a rough little breath through his nose. "Put me down before you drop me."

"I would never."

"You say that right before you do exactly that."

"Have I ever dropped you?"

Minho opened his mouth, then paused.

Chan smiled immediately.

"No," Minho admitted. "Annoyingly."

"See? Reliable."

"You're unbearable."

"Still carrying you."

Chan tucked one box of tissues under his arm and reached for the second, then hesitated when Minho's face changed again.

A sharp inhale.

A tiny shake through his shoulders.

Chan reacted before Minho could. He tipped Minho's head gently forward and got the edge of his sleeve and the open side of the blanket ready at once.

"Hh..."

Minho's eyes shut.

Chan braced.

"Hhktsch!"

The sneeze was muffled against Chan's shoulder, tiny but completely helpless. Minho made a ruined sound afterward, half annoyed and half tired, and Chan felt his own heart melt on the spot.

"Bless you," he said.

Minho groaned. "Don't make it a thing."

"Too late."

He kissed the top of Minho's head because there was no world in which he had the self-control to do anything else, then reached for the second box again. Minho made a weak noise of protest, but he had already stopped trying to fight the carry and now seemed more offended by the fact that Chan was right.

That was a dangerous sort of silence.

Chan set the second box on top of the first and finally used his free hand to push the closet door shut with his elbow.

"See?" he said. "Easy."

"You make it sound normal."

"It is normal. For us."

"That sentence should not comfort me."

"And yet."

Minho stared at him for a second, then tucked his face into Chan's neck again with the most reluctant surrender possible.

Chan nearly lost the ability to walk.

"You can put me down now," Minho mumbled, although he made no move to separate himself from Chan.

"No."

"Christopher."

"Lee Minho."

"I hate when you use my full name."

"I know."

"That's not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair. You're sick and cute and carrying the whole apartment in your face."

Minho's ears turned pink again.

Chan pretended not to notice, which was the kindest thing he had done all day.

He turned back toward the bedroom, tissues stacked in one arm, blanket and Minho in the other. The hallway was cool enough to make Minho shiver, so Chan adjusted the blanket higher over his shoulders and pressed a brief kiss to his temple.

"Warm enough?"

"No."

"Liar."

"You're still too warm."

"You complained about the opposite an hour ago."

"That was before you started parading me around the dorm like a wounded prince."

Chan nearly laughed. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Rescuing you."

Minho turned his face just enough to look at him with one eye open. "From what?"

Chan didn't answer right away.

He just smiled, soft and helpless and far too pleased with himself, and Minho looked immediately suspicious.

"Oh no."

"Oh yes."

"Chan."

"I'm taking you back to bed."

"I was already in bed."

"You're still going back to bed."

"That is not a plan. That's a sentence."

Chan shot him a look. "Don't start."

"Sentence is cuddles," Minho murmured, dry as dust and still somehow fond.

Chan stopped in the hallway.

Minho felt the pause and looked up, wary.

Chan lowered his voice. "Did you just steal your own line back from yesterday?"

"Maybe."

"You're impossible."

"You like impossible."

Chan could not argue with that, so he kissed Minho's forehead instead.

Minho sighed against him, the sound small and satisfied in a way that made Chan want to keep him like this forever and never admit it out loud.

When they got back to the bedroom, Chan finally set him down carefully on the bed, piling the blanket around him before Minho could protest. He put the tissues on the nightstand, added water and the half-finished honey tea, then sat beside him and immediately pulled him back against his side.

Minho let him.

That was the problem.

That was always the problem.

He let Chan fuss until Chan forgot what pride looked like.

He let Chan fix the blanket, smooth his hair, and tuck a fresh tissue into his hand before he even asked. He let Chan touch the back of his neck to check his temperature, then rolled his eyes when Chan did it a second time for verification.

"You are being absurd," Minho said, voice rough and low.

"I'm being careful."

"You don't need to check my forehead every ten seconds."

"I do if you're warm."

"I'm always warm."

"Exactly."

Minho narrowed his eyes. "You're saying that like it's a problem."

Chan looked at him for a long second and then leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his cheek.

"It's not a problem," he said quietly. "It's just a fact I happen to enjoy."

Minho's expression shifted, brief and dangerous, because he heard things Chan barely meant to say out loud.

Then he turned his head away before Chan could see too much of it.

"You need a hobby," he muttered.

"I have one."

"Annoying me?"

"Taking care of you."

Minho was silent again after that.

Chan knew that silence too. It was the one that came after Minho realized he had been seen clearly and did not quite know what to do with it.

So Chan gave him an exit. He held the tissue box closer, nudged the water bottle within reach, and stretched out behind him under the blanket like he was settling in for a very serious mission.

Minho glanced back. "You're not leaving."

"I told you."

"You also told me you'd be sensible."

"I am sensible."

Minho made a sound of disbelief.

Chan reached over him to flip the humidifier on. The soft hiss of it filled the corner of the room almost immediately.

Minho blinked. "Since when do we have that?"

"Since I bought it because you get dramatic when your nose is blocked."

"I do not get dramatic."

"You threatened to move out over one bad allergy day."

"That was one time."

"It was last week."

Minho looked scandalized, which only proved Chan's point.

He leaned back against the headboard, still wrapped around Minho from behind, and started rubbing slow circles into his arm through the blanket. Minho's breath evened out in stages. First the irritation. Then the fatigue. Then that last little layer of resistance that always seemed to keep him upright until Chan had worn it down through sheer stubborn affection.

"Tea," Minho said after a while.

Chan reached for the mug immediately.

"Too hot?" he asked.

Minho took one careful sip and shook his head. "Fine."

"Doctor approved?"

"I am not a doctor."

"You're my only patient."

Minho snorted, then regretted it when the motion stirred his nose. He turned quickly into a tissue and coughed once, soft and irritatingly small, like even his cold was trying to remain polite.

Chan kissed his hair because that was easier than saying how worried he still was.

Minho knew anyway.

"Don't hover," he said, voice muffled by the tissue.

"I'm not hovering. I'm present."

"Same thing."

"For me, it's a lifestyle."

Minho dropped the tissue into the open box and leaned back again. His shoulder pressed into Chan's chest. Chan wrapped both arms around him without thinking.

For a little while, they just stayed there.

The room was quiet except for the heater, the humidifier, and the occasional soft rustle of tissues. Outside, the light had shifted from bright morning to something calmer and more slanted, the kind of afternoon that made the bed look even more inviting than it already was.

Minho's breathing started to slow.

Chan thought he might have dozed off until Minho suddenly stiffened again.

Chan felt it before he heard it, the tiny rush of breath that meant trouble. He reached for a tissue and held it ready at Minho's face.

"Don't apologize," he said before Minho could even try.

Minho gave him a look that would have been sharper if his eyes were not watery and tired.

"You say that like I would."

"You would."

"I absolutely would not."

"You would and then act offended that I noticed."

Minho inhaled again.

"Hh... hih... hhktsch!"

Chan caught it cleanly.

Minho's eyes shut for a second afterward, and when he opened them again he looked even sleepier than before.

Chan's chest went soft with it.

"Good," he murmured.

Minho frowned. "What do you mean, good?"

"You sneezed into the tissue and didn't even have to sit up. We're improving."

"I hate that you sound proud."

"I am proud."

"Why?"

"Because you're resting."

Minho stared at him for a beat, then looked away with a tiny, exhausted sigh.

"You're too much," he said.

"And you're still here."

Minho gave no response to that except to lean back into Chan's shoulder and close his eyes again.

Chan kissed the side of his head, then kissed his temple, then stopped before he got carried away. The temptation sat in his hands like heat.

When Minho spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"If I fall asleep again, don't go get busy."

"I won't."

"And don't start doing dishes."

"I wasn't planning to."

"And don't text anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because then they might come in here and see me like this."

Chan smiled against his hair. "Like what?"

Minho opened one eye just enough to glare at him. "Liked."

Chan's heart did a painful little somersault.

He tried very hard to answer normally.

"Too late," he said.

Minho snorted, but the sound came out sleepy and small.

Chan settled his chin on Minho's shoulder and let the quiet stretch.

A few minutes later, Minho started to drift for real. His head tipped back against Chan's collarbone, his hand fell open on the blanket, and his breathing deepened until it was almost even. Chan kept his grip gentle and steady, eyes on the tissue box, the tea, the water, the way Minho's face softened when sleep began to win.

He was just thinking about whether to move the blankets one inch higher when Minho mumbled, very drowsy and very sure, "You're staying."

Chan kissed his hair once more.

"I said I would."

"Good."

That should have been the end of it.

It almost was.

Then the front door opened somewhere down the hall, followed by a burst of voices and the clatter of someone dropping a grocery bag, and Minho startled half awake with a sleepy little frown.

Chan tightened his arms immediately.

"I've got you," he murmured.

Minho blinked up at him, still caught between sleep and the room.

"Don't let them in here," he whispered.

Chan's smile turned slow and fond. "Oh, now you want privacy."

Minho looked profoundly offended for someone who was halfway asleep.

Chan kissed his forehead.

Then the voices outside got louder, followed by a knock on the bedroom door.

"Chan?" someone called. "Did you steal the tissues again?"

Minho groaned into Chan's shoulder.

Chan only held him closer and answered, "Yes. Come back later."

Minho's muffled, exhausted laugh was the last thing he heard before the knock came again.