Chapter 6: Banana Later

For once, he was the one keeping the secret.

The secret lasted until morning.

Minho woke because his nose had become personally offended by the existence of air. He surfaced slowly, one hand still closed around Chan's wrist, his cheek pressed to the warm front of Chan's hoodie. For a few seconds he did not move. The room was pale with early light, the curtains holding back the sharper part of the morning, and Chan was asleep in exactly the same position as before, except that sometime during the night his arm had tightened around Minho's waist.

Clingy.

Minho considered moving away.

He did not.

Chan breathed evenly above him, careful even in sleep. His face was turned toward the window, away from Minho's hair and the warm pocket of air beneath the blanket. One of his hands rested over Minho's ribs. The other was still near the tissues, as if he had fallen asleep halfway through planning another emergency.

Minho looked at that hand.

Then he looked at the door.

The backup pudding was still outside.

So was the banana.

The banana had become a matter of principle sometime around the last group-chat message. Chan had eaten dinner, which meant he would now behave as though he had earned the right to survive on tea and concern for the rest of the day. Minho knew this because Chan had a very specific face for being cared for. It was the face he wore when he was grateful, worried, and already planning how to redirect every question back toward Minho.

Minho had seen it while Chan ate dinner.

He had seen it when Chan washed his hands.

He had seen it when Chan fell asleep first and pretended, even unconscious, that he could still guard the tissue box.

The banana would not be defeated by a face.

Minho lifted his head.

Chan's arm tightened immediately.

Minho froze.

Chan did not wake. He only made a soft, confused sound and pulled Minho closer, his fingers spreading over the back of Minho's hoodie.

"You are so annoying," Minho whispered.

Chan's eyes stayed closed.

"You heard me."

A faint smile appeared at the corner of Chan's mouth.

Minho narrowed his eyes.

"Don't smile in your sleep. That's unsettling."

The smile got worse.

Minho gave up on escaping. He put his head back down and tried to breathe through one side of his nose. The attempt failed quickly, but at least it failed quietly. He reached for a tissue, used it with as little drama as possible, and waited until the pressure behind his eyes eased.

Chan stirred.

Minho held his breath.

Chan's brow creased. His hand moved from Minho's ribs to the back of his neck, warm and searching.

"Morning?" Chan mumbled.

"No."

"No morning?"

"I cancelled it."

Chan opened one eye. His hair was flattened on one side and pointing in several directions on the other. He looked too soft to be allowed near a phone.

"Can I appeal?"

"Denied."

"What time is it?"

"A bad time."

"For who?"

"Your banana."

Chan stared at him.

Minho stared back.

The room remained quiet for exactly two seconds before Chan tucked his face into the top of Minho's head.

"Good morning," he said.

His voice was rough with sleep, but it was not congested. Minho noticed. He always noticed.

"You sound fine."

"I am fine."

"That wasn't permission to speak."

"You asked a question."

"I made an observation."

"It was a very nice observation."

"Don't make it weird."

"I think you sound cute when you are bossy before breakfast."

Minho lifted a hand and pushed at his face. Chan accepted the push without moving very far, which meant the gesture had accomplished nothing except putting Minho's palm against his cheek.

Chan turned his face and kissed the center of Minho's hand.

Minho stared at him.

"Did you wash your hands?"

Chan blinked awake by degrees. "Yes."

"When?"

"Before sleep."

"That's not now."

"You just woke up."

"And you just tried to kiss my hand."

"It was a clean hand."

"It has been in your hair."

Chan looked genuinely thoughtful. "My hair is also clean."

"That is not how hands work."

"I missed you."

"You were holding me."

"I missed you while holding you."

Minho's hand stayed against his cheek. Chan's skin was warm, and the room was still cold around the edges. Minho wanted to complain about the unfairness of being made to feel fond before eight in the morning. Instead, he pinched Chan's cheek.

Chan smiled into his palm.

"Ow."

"That was nothing."

"I am fragile."

"You ate dinner."

"It changed me."

"Get up."

Chan's arms tightened around him again. "Why?"

"Food."

"For you?"

"For you."

"I ate."

"Last night."

"Recently."

"The banana is outside."

Chan's expression shifted into the exact face Minho had predicted. Soft eyes. Concern. A ready-made excuse.

"You should stay in bed."

Minho pointed at him from the safety of the blanket. "You are not allowed to use my lines."

"I am using them carefully."

"You are using them because you want me to stop looking at you."

"I want you to rest."

"You want to go get the banana yourself."

Chan paused.

Minho raised one eyebrow.

"Maybe," Chan admitted.

"No."

"It is a hallway banana."

"And you are a hallway magnet."

"That does not mean anything."

"It means the moment you open that door, someone will appear with a second breakfast, three questions, and a new note about your terrible eating habits."

"They would be very supportive."

"They would be loud."

"They can whisper."

"They are bad at whispering."

As if summoned by the accusation, something scraped faintly outside the bedroom door.

Both of them went still.

A whisper floated through the wood.

"Is the patient awake?"

Minho closed his eyes.

Chan's shoulders began to shake.

Another whisper answered from farther down the hallway, "Don't ask that at the door."

"Why?"

"Because he can hear you."

"I am whispering."

"You are whispering at full volume."

Minho opened his eyes and looked at Chan.

Chan was biting his lip so hard his whole face had gone pink.

"Your idiots are awake," Minho said.

"Our idiots."

"I am sick. I have temporary ownership rights."

"That's not how groups work."

"It is how blankets work."

Chan pressed his forehead to Minho's hair. "Do you want me to answer them?"

"No."

"Do you want me to get the food?"

"No."

"Do you want me to stay here?"

Minho hesitated.

Chan waited without making the hesitation worse. That was one of his more dangerous skills. He could be clingy enough to occupy every inch of a room, but when Minho needed a real answer, he knew how to leave space around the question.

Minho moved his hand from Chan's cheek to the front of his hoodie and held on.

"For five more minutes," he said.

Chan's face softened. "Okay."

"Then you wash your hands. Put on a mask. Get the tray. Come back."

"You have planned this."

"I have been awake for nearly ten minutes."

"That is a long planning window."

"You should be grateful."

"I am."

"Don't say it like you are going to kiss me."

"How else should I say it?"

"Normally."

Chan looked at him with an expression that made normal seem impossible.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he said.

Minho's fingers tightened in his hoodie.

There it was. The thing Chan did when he was too sincere to hide behind a joke. He put the words down gently and then acted as though Minho could decide whether to pick them up.

Minho looked toward the door.

"The banana is getting cold."

"Bananas don't get cold that fast."

"You don't know that."

"I know many things about bananas."

"You know how to avoid eating them."

"That is also knowledge."

Minho sniffled. The sound interrupted the argument and left him blinking at the ceiling while his nose complained again.

Chan's hand moved toward the tissue box.

Minho caught his wrist.

"I can get it."

"I know."

"Then let me."

"I am letting you."

"Your hand is already there."

"My hand is supportive."

"Your hand is hovering."

"It is a very careful hover."

Minho pulled the tissue free himself, but let Chan hold the box steady. The arrangement satisfied neither of them. That was probably why it worked.

When the worst of the sniffle passed, Minho sank back into the pillow.

"Five minutes," he repeated.

Chan glanced at the clock. "Starting now?"

"They started when I said them."

"That is not how time works."

"It is how sick-day time works."

"How long is a sick-day five minutes?"

"Long enough for you to stop talking."

Chan's mouth closed.

Minho felt the smile before he saw it.

He kept his eyes shut. "I can still feel your face."

"You are very observant."

"Bad for me."

"You learned that from me."

"I learned it from suffering."

"Same thing."

For a little while, they did stop talking.

It was not quite sleep. Minho could feel the room too clearly for that. The faint hum of the heater. The careful movement of someone in the hallway. The soft sound of Chan breathing near his temple. Chan's thumb brushing once over the seam of Minho's hoodie, then going still as though he had caught himself being affectionate without filing the paperwork.

Minho opened one eye.

"You can hold me properly."

Chan's eyes opened. "I am holding you properly."

"You are holding the seam."

"It is an important seam."

"It is not."

"It keeps the hoodie together."

"The hoodie is not in danger."

"You don't know that."

Minho shifted closer until his shoulder fit under Chan's chin.

Chan's arm settled around him at once.

"Better?" Chan asked.

"Maybe."

"I'll borrow maybe."

"You are becoming repetitive."

"You like it."

"I tolerate it."

"With affection?"

Minho's eyes closed again. "With supervision."

Chan kissed his hair.

Minho did not object.

The five minutes lasted long enough for Chan's hand to warm through the hoodie and for Minho's breathing to settle. Then Chan's stomach made a small, unmistakable sound.

Minho opened his eyes.

Chan stared at the ceiling.

"Was that the heater?" he asked.

"No."

"The building?"

"No."

"A distant cupboard?"

"Your stomach."

"It has a private life."

"It has a banana waiting outside."

Chan sighed into Minho's hair. "I will go."

"Wash hands."

"Yes."

"Mask."

"Yes."

"No talking through the door."

"What if they talk to me?"

"Point at the floor."

"Why?"

"So they know you are listening."

"That will make them talk more."

"Then point at the food."

"And if they ask about you?"

"Say the patient is asleep."

Chan turned his head. "You are awake."

"Sleep talking."

"With instructions?"

"Very advanced."

Chan laughed quietly, then pushed the blanket back.

The change in temperature was immediate. Minho made a displeased sound before he could stop himself.

Chan stopped halfway out.

"Too cold?"

"No."

"You made a sound."

"The blanket made a sound."

"The blanket sounds like you now?"

"It is learning."

Chan tucked the edge around Minho's side again. "I can stay."

"You can go."

"You just complained."

"I complained at the blanket."

"Your loyalty is impressive."

"Go eat your banana."

Chan leaned down, then paused close enough that Minho could feel the warmth of him without being touched.

"Can I kiss your forehead?" he asked.

Minho's nose was blocked. His throat felt scratchy. His eyes were heavy. He still managed to look annoyed.

"After washing your hands."

"I washed them before sleep."

"Now."

"What if I kiss the air near your forehead?"

"The air has also been in your hair."

Chan nodded gravely. "Strict."

"Alive."

"Sick."

"That is my line."

"Borrowing."

"With permission?"

"With supervision."

Minho's mouth twitched.

Chan went to wash his hands.

He came back less than a minute later, drying them on his shirt because he had forgotten to bring a towel. Minho watched the whole thing from the bed.

"That is not what towels are for," he said.

"The towel was far away."

"The towel is next to the sink."

"The shirt was emotionally closer."

"Your shirt is not a towel."

"It is absorbing."

"It is laundry."

"You are very strict about fabric."

"You are very bad at basic care."

"You still love me."

Minho looked away toward the window.

Chan went quiet.

The silence lasted only a moment, but it was enough to make Minho regret giving him a loose thread to pull.

"I did not say that," Minho muttered.

"You didn't have to."

"Don't make assumptions."

"I am not."

"Your face is."

"My face is waiting."

Minho picked up the nearest tissue and threw it.

It landed against Chan's chest and stayed there.

Chan looked down at it.

"A direct hit."

"Do not celebrate."

"I am not celebrating."

"Your eyebrows are."

"My eyebrows have always been excitable."

Minho held out his hand.

Chan gave him the tissue packet instead of the single tissue. Minho considered throwing the whole packet, but his arm was tired and Chan would probably treat the attempt as a victory. He kept it.

"Mask," Minho said.

Chan put it on.

The door was only a few steps away. It felt farther than that because the blanket had changed shape around Minho's legs and because Chan kept looking back at him as though he needed written confirmation that he was allowed to move.

"Go," Minho said.

Chan reached the door.

"Min."

"What?"

"The pudding is mango, right?"

Minho stared. "You know it is."

"I wanted to make sure."

"You are going to eat the banana."

"I can know things about pudding while eating banana."

"You are not eating my pudding."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"Only if you offered."

"I will not."

"Then I will respect the boundary."

"You will sit at the desk and eat your banana."

"What if I sit by the door?"

"You will sit at the desk."

"What if the desk misses me?"

"It has survived the night."

"You are cruel."

"Go."

Chan opened the door two inches.

The hallway went completely silent.

Minho could picture every person outside freezing in place. Someone was probably holding the second water bottle. Someone else had probably been assigned as the official breakfast courier and was now regretting volunteering.

Chan looked through the gap.

"Morning," he said.

A whisper answered, much too loudly, "He is alive."

"I told you he was alive," another whisper said.

"You said he was sleeping."

"Sleeping people are usually alive."

"Not always."

There was a sharp, horrified silence.

Minho sat up enough to glare at the door. "Do not discuss that outside my bedroom."

The hallway immediately became silent again.

Chan's eyes crinkled above his mask.

"You heard him," he said. "No discussing anything."

"We brought breakfast," someone whispered.

"Leave it."

"We did leave it. Then you opened the door."

"I am collecting it."

"Are you collecting the banana?"

Minho pointed at the door. "Do not answer that."

Chan's shoulders shook.

A tray appeared through the gap. Chan took it with one hand, careful not to let the door swing wider. On it sat the labeled pudding, the banana, two fresh bottles of water, a small cup of tea, and a note folded in half.

He read the note before closing the door.

Minho watched his eyes move across the page.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing."

"Your face is doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you think reading it first will protect me from information."

Chan brought the tray to the desk.

"It says, 'For Chan. Eat the banana. The patient has legal authority.'"

Minho nodded. "Accurate."

"There is more."

"Read it."

Chan turned the note over.

"'For Minho. Pudding complaint accepted. Please drink the tea before it gets cold. Also, nobody knocked.'"

Minho looked toward the door.

The hallway remained silent.

"They are learning," he said.

"They are very proud of themselves."

"They can be proud quietly."

"They are probably doing that."

"Someone is going to hit a cabinet."

From somewhere beyond the door, a muffled thump sounded.

Chan bowed his head.

Minho closed his eyes.

"I hate all of you."

"They cannot hear you."

"Good."

"I can hear you."

"That is your problem."

Chan set the tray down. The mango pudding sat in its plastic cup, label facing upward in crooked handwriting: DEFINITELY NOT A CELEBRATION. The banana rested beside it, bright and unreasonable.

Minho's stomach gave a small, interested turn.

Chan noticed.

"Pudding?"

"Tea first."

"For you?"

"For me. Banana first."

"For me?"

"You have a remarkable ability to understand nouns and ignore instructions."

"I was making sure."

"You are sure."

"I am sure that I love you."

The words came out so easily that neither of them had time to stop them.

Chan went still beside the desk.

Minho went still on the bed.

The heater hummed. The phone remained face down. Outside, someone took one cautious step and then clearly thought better of it.

Chan's eyes softened.

Minho pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"The banana," he said.

Chan's voice was quiet above the mask. "The banana."

He peeled it.

Minho watched him take the first bite.

Chan chewed with exaggerated seriousness, as though he had been given an important assignment and intended to submit excellent work.

"Well?" Minho asked.

Chan swallowed. "Banana."

"That is not a review."

"It is yellow."

"You are wasting my time."

"It is soft."

"Eat."

Chan took another bite.

Minho kept watching him. The room still felt too cold beyond the blanket, and his head had begun to ache with the dull heaviness of a cold that did not care about romantic declarations. But Chan was eating. He had taken the mask off only long enough to do it, and the moment he finished chewing he put it back in place.

Minho noticed that too.

"You can sit down," he said.

Chan glanced at the desk chair. "Here?"

"No, on the ceiling. Yes, there."

Chan sat.

He held the banana in one hand and rested the other on his knee, as though he had been told to remain still in the presence of a dangerous animal.

Minho looked at him.

"Why are you sitting like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I am going to inspect your posture."

"You are inspecting my posture."

"I am not."

"You just told me to sit down."

"That was not posture. That was distance management."

Chan swallowed another bite. "You sound like you have a chart."

"I have a chart."

"Where?"

"In my head."

"That is worse."

"It is very organized."

"What is the first category?"

"People who eat bananas when told."

"And the second?"

"People who argue until the banana becomes a historical event."

Chan raised the fruit. "I am currently eating it."

"You are currently talking."

He took another bite.

Minho nodded once.

"Better."

Chan's eyes smiled above the mask.

"Do not look pleased."

He stopped smiling.

"That was fast," Minho said.

"I am trainable."

"You are not."

"I ate half a banana."

"You are halfway trainable."

Chan glanced at the pudding. "Does the chart have a pudding category?"

"You are not touching it."

"I am looking at it."

"Look at your banana."

"I can multitask."

"You told me not to."

"I contain multitudes."

Minho pointed at him. "That is my line too."

"Borrowing."

"With permission?"

"With supervision."

Minho tried to stay stern. It did not work. His mouth twitched, and Chan caught it immediately.

"There," Chan said. "You smiled."

"I did not."

"I saw it."

"You are hallucinating from a lack of breakfast."

"I am eating."

"Finish."

Chan finished the banana in three bites, then held up the empty peel as proof.

Minho looked at it.

"Dispose of that."

"Yes, boss."

"Do not call me boss."

"Yes, patient."

"That is worse."

"Yes, boyfriend."

Minho pulled the blanket over his face.

Chan laughed, but the sound was gentle and brief. He stood, tied the peel in the small waste bag near the desk, and washed his hands again before returning.

When he came back, Minho had moved the pudding closer to his side of the bed.

Chan stopped.

"You did that while I was gone."

"The pudding was far away."

"It was six inches away."

"A universe."

"You are stealing my language."

"I am improving it."

"Can I have a spoon?"

Minho's eyes narrowed.

Chan lifted both hands. "For you."

"You are not spooning me."

"I was going to hand you a spoon."

"You said it wrong."

"How should I say it?"

"You should stop talking."

Chan went to retrieve a clean spoon from the small tray near the sink. This time he brought it back without touching the pudding. Minho accepted it, peeled back the lid, and took a cautious first bite.

The pudding was cold. The mango taste was bright enough to make his nose feel even more blocked for a second, but the sweetness settled pleasantly at the back of his throat.

Chan watched him.

Minho took another bite.

"Don't."

"I did not say anything."

"Your eyes are asking."

"Is it good?"

"No."

"You took another bite."

"I am investigating."

"For science?"

"For complaints."

"How many complaints?"

Minho considered the cup. "Three."

"Only three?"

"The label is embarrassing."

"That is one."

"The spoon is too small."

"That is not the pudding's fault."

"The pudding is cold."

"That is usually part of pudding."

"You are defending it."

"I am defending the people who brought it."

Minho paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

Chan looked down at his hands.

There was no joke waiting behind the sentence. He had said it plainly. The same way Minho had said thank you in a message and deleted it before sending. The same way he had said alive boyfriend and then tried to bury the word beneath a tissue packet.

Minho put the spoon back in the cup.

"You can defend them," he said. "Quietly."

"I can do that."

"And you can stop looking like you are going to cry because I ate pudding."

Chan looked up. "I do not look like that."

"You do."

"I look happy."

"You look dangerous."

"The pudding is helping."

"The pudding is not responsible for your face."

"I think it is."

Minho took another bite, mostly to stop Chan from saying something worse.

He ate half the cup before his body remembered it was tired. His arm slowed. The spoon hovered. The room tilted gently at the corners.

Chan noticed before Minho could hide it.

"Rest."

"I am eating."

"You can finish later."

"No."

"Min."

"No."

"Your hand is shaking."

Minho looked down at it.

The spoon trembled slightly between his fingers. It was barely visible. Chan saw it anyway.

"It is the spoon," Minho said.

"The spoon is very powerful."

"Exactly."

"Give it to me."

Minho's fingers closed around it.

Chan did not reach. He waited.

Minho hated that waiting made it harder to refuse.

"I can finish it," he said.

"I know."

"You do not sound like you know."

"I know you can finish it. I also know you are tired."

"You ate the whole banana."

"I did."

"So you are not allowed to be sensible."

"I am allowed to be sensible after eating fruit."

"That is not a rule."

"It is now."

Minho studied his face.

Chan's mask hid his mouth, but not his eyes. He was trying to be careful. He was also very close to leaning across the distance and taking the spoon from Minho himself, which would have been an act of reckless devotion and a violation of at least four of Minho's rules.

Minho sighed.

"Put it on the table."

Chan nodded.

Minho set the spoon down, then let his hand fall into his lap. The effort of sitting up had become clear all at once. His shoulders sank. His eyes burned. His nose ran again, because apparently it had been waiting for a more dramatic moment.

Chan reached for a tissue.

This time Minho let him pass it over.

"Thank you," Minho said.

Chan's eyes widened.

"Do not react."

"I am not reacting."

"Your entire face is reacting."

"I am trying to keep it low perception."

"Your perception is very high."

"I have no control over that."

Minho took the tissue. "You have control over the volume."

Chan leaned back in the chair and lowered his gaze. "Yes, hyung."

Minho stared at him.

Chan went still.

"What?" he asked.

"You said it properly."

"I did."

"That was suspicious."

"I am learning."

"You are planning something."

"I am sitting in a chair and eating fruit."

"You are done with the fruit."

"I am still sitting."

"You are waiting for permission to come back to bed."

Chan looked at the floor.

Minho's chest softened against his will.

"You can come back," he said.

Chan looked up.

"After you put the pudding in the fridge."

The softness vanished.

"Minho."

"It is going to melt."

"It is already half eaten."

"That is not a reason to leave it out."

"You should lie down."

"You should put the pudding away."

"You are sick."

"You are fed."

"You should rest."

"You should move."

Chan's eyes narrowed above his mask. "This is role reversal."

"This is breakfast."

"You are enjoying this."

"Low-perception enjoyment."

Chan stood.

He picked up the pudding cup, the banana peel bag, and the note, then paused beside the bed.

"Do you need anything while I am up?"

Minho thought about saying no. He had learned that Chan would interpret no as a challenge, a hidden request, or evidence that Minho was trying to be brave for no reason.

"A tissue," he said.

Chan handed him the whole packet.

"One tissue."

"You always need another one after the first."

"You are making assumptions."

"I am making preparations."

"That is my job."

"We can share the job."

Minho looked at him.

Chan's hand rested on the door handle. The morning light had found the edge of his hair, turning it gold for half a second before he moved.

"Fine," Minho said.

Chan's eyes warmed. "Fine?"

"Do not make me repeat it."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would."

"I absolutely would."

Minho picked up the tissue packet and threw it.

This time it landed closer to the door.

Chan put the pudding away.

He came back with the cup of tea and a fresh spoon for later, because he had apparently decided that being trusted with one task meant he could quietly add four more. Minho watched him set everything down and then return to the side of the bed.

"You washed your hands?" Minho asked.

"Yes."

"After the fridge?"

"Yes."

"Before the spoon?"

"Yes."

"You are allowed to be proud of yourself."

Chan's eyes smiled. "Can I?"

"Privately."

"My private pride is loud."

"Then keep it outside."

Chan climbed carefully back onto the bed. He kept enough space between them to satisfy the rules, but Minho could feel him there, warm and solid and waiting.

Minho drank the tea.

It had gone lukewarm, but the honey was still there. His throat eased a little. Chan watched his face with painful attention.

"Do not ask if it helps," Minho said.

"I was not going to."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking that your eyes look tired."

"That is worse."

"You can close them."

"You can stop looking at them."

Chan turned toward the wall.

Minho took another sip.

The room was quiet again. The cup warmed Minho's hands. Chan's shoulder was close enough to lean against, though Minho would have to choose it deliberately. He put the tea down and did exactly that.

Chan did not move for a moment.

Then he lowered his arm around Minho.

"Comfortable?" he whispered.

"No."

Chan waited.

Minho tucked his face under Chan's chin.

"Maybe."

"I'll borrow maybe."

"Do not take things from sick people."

"Borrowing."

"With permission?"

"With supervision."

Minho's fingers rested over Chan's wrist.

"Your hand is warm," he said.

"Yours is cold."

"It is fine."

"I know."

"Do not warm it too much."

"How much is too much?"

"If you become pleased."

"I am already pleased."

"Then stop."

Chan's thumb brushed once over Minho's knuckles.

Minho did not tell him to stop.

A new message buzzed on the nightstand.

Both of them looked toward it.

Chan made no move.

Minho reached first, but the phone was farther away now. His arm stretched. The room swayed. Chan caught the phone before Minho's fingers could reach it.

"I had it," Minho said.

"I know."

"You are getting too fast."

"You were leaning too far."

"The phone was right there."

"It was across a dangerous gap."

"The nightstand is not a cliff."

"It is before breakfast."

Chan checked the screen.

"What?" Minho asked.

"They say the banana has been successfully deployed."

"Tell them there will be no report."

"They also ask if the pudding complaint has been upgraded."

"No."

"There is a poll."

"Delete it."

"The options are 'still under protest,' 'quietly approved,' and 'Minho will deny everything.'"

Minho held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

Chan kept it just out of reach.

"No."

"You do not get to refuse me."

"I do when you are tired."

"I am not tired."

"You just tried to climb across the nightstand."

"I reached."

"With your whole body."

"Dramatic."

"Accurate."

Minho made a grab for the phone.

Chan lifted it above his head.

The movement pulled his mask loose from one ear. Minho stared at him in disbelief.

"You are impossible."

"I am protecting the patient from a poll."

"You are holding the phone like a child."

"A child with breakfast."

"Give it back."

"Say please."

Minho's eyes narrowed.

Chan's expression softened immediately. "You do not have to."

"I was going to say please."

"I know."

"I was."

"I know."

"You are ruining the argument."

"I am trying not to make you work for the phone."

Minho looked at the hand holding it above them, then at Chan's face. The teasing had gone out of his eyes. He was still playful, but the care beneath it had become visible again.

Minho held out his hand.

"Come closer," he said.

Chan lowered the phone.

Minho took it, turned off the poll notification, and put the phone face down again.

"There," he said. "No work."

"Thank you."

"Do not react."

"I am not."

"Your hand is shaking."

Chan looked at it. "It is not."

"It is a little."

"Maybe I am tired."

Minho's gaze moved over his face.

Chan had eaten the banana. He had washed his hands twice. He had made it to the hallway and back without catching anything or letting the dorm invade the room. He had sat down when told and put the pudding in the fridge when told.

He was still tired.

Minho knew that look. Chan could care for someone else for hours and then act surprised when his own body asked for a chair.

"Lie down," Minho said.

Chan blinked. "I am already on the bed."

"You are sitting."

"I am sitting very comfortably."

"Lie down."

"You need the room."

"I need you to stop hovering like a badly folded lamp."

Chan looked at the ceiling. "That is a new one."

"I am sick. My insults are developing."

"I am proud of you."

"Do not be. Lie down."

Chan shifted, carefully stretching out beside him. He kept his face turned away from Minho, as promised, and left a respectful space between their shoulders.

Minho looked at the space.

It was too much.

He reached across it and caught Chan's sleeve.

Chan glanced down.

"Come here," Minho said.

The words were simple. They still changed the shape of the room.

Chan moved closer, slow enough to let Minho stop him. Minho did not. He tucked himself against Chan's side, keeping his face near Chan's shoulder and his breathing angled down toward the blanket.

Chan's arm came around him.

"Better?" he whispered.

"Maybe."

"You are generous."

"I am congested."

"Same thing."

Minho closed his eyes.

For a few breaths, Chan stayed perfectly still. Then his fingers moved over Minho's back in slow, absent circles.

Minho let them.

"You said you loved me," he mumbled.

Chan's hand paused.

"I did."

"You said it very easily."

"I have been saying it in my head all night."

Minho opened one eye. "That is not better."

"I thought about saying it out loud."

"Why didn't you?"

"You were asleep."

"I was awake for some of it."

"You were pretending not to be."

"You should have checked."

"I did."

"When?"

"When you moved the tissue box."

Minho's face warmed.

"You were awake?"

"A little."

"And you let me reach for the phone?"

"I wanted to see what you would do."

"You are a terrible person."

"You sent them a message."

"I sent them a complaint."

"You almost thanked them."

"I did not."

"You typed it."

"I deleted it."

"Why?"

Minho tucked his face farther into Chan's hoodie.

"It was too much."

Chan's fingers resumed their slow movement over his back.

"Thank you is not too much."

"It was for them."

"They would have liked it."

"That's the problem."

"Why?"

"Then they would know I liked the pudding."

"They already know."

"They do not."

"You ate half of it."

"That proves nothing."

"It proves you did not hate it."

"Those are different things."

"Very different."

"Exactly."

Chan kissed the top of his head.

Minho felt the smile against his hair before Chan spoke.

"Did you like it?"

"No."

"Should I tell them?"

"Tell them the patient remains under protest."

"And you?"

"I am also under protest."

"About the pudding?"

"About everything."

"Including me?"

Minho's hand closed around the front of Chan's hoodie.

"You are the worst part."

"I am sorry."

"No, you are not."

"I am sorry that you noticed."

Minho felt the laugh rise in Chan's chest. It was quieter than last night, softer around the edges. Minho's own mouth curved against the fabric.

"You stole that," he said.

"Borrowed it."

"With permission?"

"With supervision."

Minho's nose chose that moment to betray him again. He turned toward the tissue, sneezed once, then twice, each one muffled carefully into the paper.

Chan's hand steadied his shoulder.

"Bless you," he whispered.

"Rejected."

"Silent filing."

"Rejected."

"Tiny filing?"

"No."

"A very small administrative acknowledgment?"

Minho looked at him through watery eyes. "You are making this worse."

"I am trying to make it better."

"You are using paperwork."

"I have a system."

"Your system is bad."

"Your system includes pudding complaints."

"My system is elegant."

"Your system made you reach across a dangerous nightstand."

"The nightstand is fine."

"The nightstand has been placed on probation."

Minho stared at him.

Chan's eyes were bright with laughter.

Minho reached up and pressed two fingers to Chan's lips, stopping the next sentence before it could escape.

Chan went quiet.

Minho held his fingers there for one second longer than necessary.

"No more talking," he said.

Chan nodded against his hand.

Minho withdrew it.

Chan did not say anything. He only turned his head and pressed a kiss to the side of Minho's knuckles.

Minho's eyes narrowed.

"That was not talking."

Chan shook his head.

"It was still smug."

Chan's eyes smiled.

"You are impossible."

Chan nodded again.

Minho let his hand fall to Chan's chest.

The heartbeat beneath it was steady. His own body was tired enough that the rhythm began to pull him back down. He listened to the room. The heater. The distant kitchen. Chan's breathing, still careful. The almost-silent buzz of the phone, which Chan ignored without being told.

Minho opened one eye.

"You can check it."

Chan shook his head.

"What if it is important?"

Chan shrugged.

"You are allowed to know things."

Chan pointed toward the phone and then toward Minho.

Minho understood.

"They can wait?"

Chan nodded.

Minho's fingers curled lightly in his hoodie.

"Good."

Chan kissed his hair again.

This one was not smug. Minho decided that immediately, before the kiss had time to become anything else.

It was warm. Careful. Quiet enough to fit inside the room without disturbing the blankets or the pale morning light.

Minho closed his eyes.

"That one is allowed," he whispered.

Chan's arm tightened around him.

"Medical reasons," Minho added.

Chan's chest moved with a silent laugh.

"Do not make me revoke it."

Chan nodded.

The next time Minho woke, the tea was gone, the pudding was safely in the fridge, and Chan was asleep again.

Minho knew because Chan's fingers had loosened in his hoodie but had not let go. He knew because the room had brightened, and because someone had slid another note beneath the door without knocking. He knew because his head felt less heavy when he lifted it, though his nose remained determined to make the improvement temporary.

He reached for the note.

Chan stirred.

Minho stopped.

Chan's eyes opened halfway. "What is it?"

"A note."

"From the hallway?"

"Obviously."

"Do you want me to get it?"

"No."

"Do you want me to read it?"

"No."

"Do you want me to stay here?"

Minho looked down at Chan's hand around his hoodie.

"You are already here."

Chan's eyes closed again.

Minho carefully pulled the note free.

It read:

BANANA STATUS: COMPLETE.

PUDDING STATUS: HALF UNDER PROTEST.

CHAN STATUS: DO NOT LET HIM LIVE ON TEA.

MINHO STATUS: PLEASE REST.

There was one more line at the bottom, written in smaller letters.

NO ONE IS KNOCKING. WE ARE VERY GOOD AT THIS NOW.

Minho looked at the door.

"You are not," he said.

Chan made a sleepy sound. "What?"

"Nothing."

"You thought loudly."

"Sleep."

"Are you going to eat the rest of the pudding?"

"Later."

"Banana later?"

"You already ate the banana."

"I mean you."

Minho considered the remaining pudding in the fridge, the tea cooling on the desk, and Chan's warm arm around him.

"Maybe," he said.

Chan smiled without opening his eyes.

"I'll borrow maybe."

Minho pressed his face into Chan's shoulder.

"You are still annoying."

"I know."

"And you are not allowed to get sick."

Chan's hand moved once over his back. "I know."

"Wash your hands. Wear your mask. Eat real food. Sleep when I tell you."

"Yes."

"Do not say yes like you are going to kiss me."

Chan opened one eye. "Can I kiss you after I wash my hands?"

Minho's throat tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with the cold.

He lifted his chin a fraction.

"Forehead only."

Chan's smile went soft.

"Forehead only," he agreed.

"And no medical jokes."

"I make no promises."

"Then no kiss."

"I promise."

"You changed your mind quickly."

"I am very committed to forehead privileges."

Minho closed his eyes again.

Outside, the hallway remained miraculously quiet. The dorm had learned the new rules, or at least learned that breaking them would give Minho enough energy to issue corrections. Inside, Chan's hand rested over Minho's ribs, warm and careful. The pudding waited in the fridge. The banana had been defeated. The phone stayed face down.

Minho let himself drift, still holding Chan's wrist.

This time, when sleep took him, he did not need to keep the secret alone.