Chapter 5: Backup Pudding

Chan lasted seven minutes.

That was generous, considering the phone had buzzed once, gone quiet, then buzzed again with the kind of insistence that made the nightstand feel like it was vibrating directly against his conscience.

Minho was asleep against him. Mostly asleep. His breath came in soft, stuffy pulls against the collar of Chan's hoodie, and one hand had stayed curled in the fabric like it had forgotten there were other things in the world to hold.

Chan did not move.

He was being noble.

He was being patient.

He was being tortured by a group chat full of people who had more pudding and no respect for a man trying to keep a secret.

The phone buzzed again.

Minho's fingers tightened once.

Chan froze.

"Don't," Minho whispered.

His eyes were still closed.

Chan stared at the top of his head. "I didn't."

"You thought loudly."

"That's not a crime."

"It is in this room."

Chan pressed his lips together to keep from smiling into Minho's hair. It did not work. Minho, who apparently had developed a sixth sense for Chan's face even while half asleep and congested, made a small annoyed sound.

"Your smile is on my head."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I'm sorry that you noticed."

Minho opened one eye, slow and suspicious. It was unfair how much power one tired eye could have.

"What did they say?"

"I thought you told me not to."

"I told you not to answer. I didn't say I wasn't curious."

"Ah." Chan nodded as if this was an important legal distinction. "Of course."

Minho's eye narrowed. "Read it. Quietly."

Chan reached for the phone with the careful hand of a person who understood that any sudden movement might cost him his cuddling privileges. The screen lit up again.

Three new messages.

Did he like the pudding? We have more.

Should we leave backup pudding outside now or is that aggressive?

Please define aggressive. We are prepared to learn.

Chan bit the inside of his cheek.

Minho watched him fail to be normal.

"What."

"Nothing."

"Christopher."

Chan cleared his throat. "They would like to know if backup pudding is aggressive."

Minho closed his eye again.

For three seconds, he was silent.

Then he said, "Yes."

Chan looked down at him. "Yes, it's aggressive?"

"Yes, they should leave it."

Chan's smile escaped completely.

Minho pinched his hoodie without opening his eyes. It was a weak pinch, but the intention was devastating.

"Don't enjoy me."

"I'm not."

"You are enjoying me with your entire face."

"Low-perception enjoyment."

"High-perception face."

Chan laughed so quietly it barely counted. Minho's mouth curved before he could stop it, then disappeared against the fabric of Chan's hoodie as if it had never happened.

"Do you want me to answer?" Chan asked.

"No."

"Okay."

"Wait."

Chan waited.

Minho sighed through his blocked nose, which ruined the drama of the moment but made Chan want to kiss him so badly his hands felt useless.

"You can answer," Minho said. "But don't say I liked it."

"What should I say?"

"Say the patient is asleep."

"You are talking."

"Sleep talking."

"With instructions?"

"Very advanced."

Chan's thumb hovered over the keyboard. "The patient is asleep. Backup pudding may be left outside for later. No celebration."

Minho thought about it.

"Too accurate."

"That's usually good."

"Not here."

"How about: Patient resting. Backup pudding accepted under protest." Chan paused. "No celebration."

Minho made a considering noise.

It turned into a sniffle.

Chan's other hand reached for a tissue before his brain asked permission. Minho opened his eyes just enough to glare at the offered tissue, then took it anyway.

"Fine," he said, voice muffled. "But add no spoon jokes."

"No spoon jokes."

"And no heart."

Chan looked personally injured. "I wasn't going to send a heart."

"You thought about it."

"I think about many things."

"Bad defense."

"Accurate defense."

Minho blew his nose as quietly as a person could while offended by his own body. Chan looked away toward the window, giving him the small privacy he liked. Outside, the light had shifted toward evening. The room had gone honey-colored at the edges, soft around the curtains and the water bottle and the folded note under the tissue box.

Chan sent the message exactly as approved.

Patient resting. Backup pudding accepted under protest. No celebration. No spoon jokes.

The replies arrived so fast they were almost one sound.

Understood.

No celebration happening.

We are definitely not silently cheering in the kitchen.

A fourth message appeared.

Someone just silently punched the air and hit the cabinet.

Chan's shoulders shook.

Minho lowered the tissue and stared at him.

"You are reading more."

"No."

"Your shoulders are traitors."

"They have always been weak."

"What did they say?"

"Nothing you would want to hear."

"Then tell me."

Chan gave in because he had no useful resistance to a sleepy, stuffed-up Minho ordering him around from inside a blanket.

By the time he reached the cabinet message, Minho had covered his face with the tissue again. His eyes were squeezed shut. The sound he made behind it was very close to a laugh and very close to a groan.

"Idiots," he said.

"Affectionate idiots."

"Still idiots."

"Our idiots."

Minho was quiet.

Chan realized what he had said a second too late.

But Minho did not flinch. He only lowered the tissue and looked at him with tired, shiny eyes.

"Your idiots," he said.

"Mine?"

"You're the leader."

"That makes them your idiots too."

"I am sick. I resign."

"Temporary resignation denied."

"Illegal."

Chan smiled down at him. "Take it up with the blanket court."

Minho's mouth twitched again. Then he sneezed.

There was barely warning this time. His whole body went small and tense, the tissue came up just in time, and the sneeze folded him toward Chan's chest.

"Hh'tsch! Hh... ktschh!"

Chan's hand landed on his back, steady and warm.

"Bless you."

"Rejected," Minho muttered into the tissue.

"Still filing it."

"Bad paperwork."

"I'll improve the form."

Minho sniffed miserably, then made a face at the sound. "I hate this."

Chan's teasing softened at once.

"I know."

"It's stupid."

"Very stupid."

"My nose is doing things without permission."

"Rude nose."

"Traitor nose."

Chan rubbed slow circles between Minho's shoulders until he felt the tension let go. "Water?"

Minho gave him a look that said he would rather be defeated by his traitor nose than admit water helped.

Chan held the bottle anyway.

Minho took it.

Small victory. Private victory. No celebration, because Chan was learning.

Mostly.

Minho drank, then leaned back into him with a sigh so tired Chan felt it in his own ribs.

"Better?" Chan asked.

"No."

"Different?"

"Less rude."

"I'll take less rude."

"Don't take things from sick people."

"I'll borrow it."

Minho's eyes were already drifting closed again, but his fingers found Chan's sleeve and tugged once. Not enough to move him. Just enough to make sure he knew.

Chan knew.

He set the water down and tucked the blanket back around Minho's shoulder, then stopped before the blanket-editing could become a hobby again.

Minho noticed the stopping.

"You can fix the corner," he mumbled.

Chan looked at the tiny folded bit of blanket near Minho's elbow.

"This corner?"

"No, the imaginary one. Yes, that corner."

Chan fixed it.

"Better?"

"Maybe."

"High praise."

"Don't tell anyone."

"Never."

A few minutes passed in quiet. Chan thought Minho had gone under again. Then Minho's hand moved from Chan's sleeve to Chan's wrist.

"Did you eat?"

Chan blinked.

"What?"

"Food," Minho said, as if Chan might need help with the concept. "For your face. Did you eat?"

Chan's first instinct was to say yes.

This was a problem, because he had eaten two spoonfuls of custard, one cough drop by accident because he had grabbed the wrong wrapper, and half a cold piece of toast sometime before the pudding court began its proceedings.

Minho opened his eyes.

Chan smiled badly.

"I had custard."

Minho stared.

"A responsible spoon," Chan added.

The stare got worse.

"And toast."

"When?"

"Earlier."

"Earlier today or earlier in your life?"

Chan tried not to laugh. "Today."

"How much toast?"

"A meaningful amount."

"Christopher."

"Half."

Minho's expression changed into something so offended that Chan almost apologized to bread as a species.

"You made me drink water every fourteen seconds and ate half toast?"

"It was a very good half."

"I am breaking up with your nutrition."

"Fair."

Minho pushed himself up on one elbow.

Chan immediately started to help, then stopped when Minho's glare sharpened.

"I can sit."

"You can also fall over."

"I can do both."

"Please don't multitask."

Minho sat up anyway, slow and stubborn, cheeks flushed from the effort. The blanket slid down his shoulder. Chan's hands hovered in the air, visibly suffering.

Minho pointed at him.

"Text them."

"Who?"

"The kitchen cabinet punchers."

"For what?"

"Food. For you."

Chan's heart did something unbearably soft and inconvenient.

"Min."

"No. Don't Min me. You are not furniture."

The words came from the last conversation, thrown back at him with a scratchy voice and perfect aim.

Chan looked at him for a second too long.

Minho's ears went pink.

"I remember things," Minho said defensively.

"I know."

"Unfortunately."

"Very unfortunately."

"Text them."

Chan did not want to text them. He wanted to tuck Minho back down, kiss his forehead, and continue pretending his own stomach was not making quiet legal complaints.

Minho saw every thought cross his face.

"If you don't," Minho said, "I will."

"You should rest."

"Then don't make me work."

Chan laughed, helpless. "That is blackmail."

"Caretaking."

"From bed?"

"Efficient."

Chan picked up the phone.

The group chat was still alive, though it had apparently moved into a debate about whether backup pudding needed a formal label.

Chan typed: Does anyone have something dinner-shaped I can steal quietly?

Before he could send it, Minho snatched the phone with surprising speed for someone who had been dying of dignity ten minutes ago.

"Hey."

Minho squinted at the message. "Too pathetic."

"I thought you liked pathetic."

"Only in your face. Not in writing."

He deleted steal quietly and replaced it with eat, then added: Chan has eaten half toast and custard. Please bully him into dinner from the hallway.

Chan made a wounded sound.

"Betrayal."

Minho pressed send.

"Health."

The replies detonated.

HALF TOAST?

CUSTARD IS NOT DINNER.

WE TRUSTED YOU WITH THE PATIENT AND YOU BECAME A GHOST.

Chan stared at the screen.

Minho looked deeply satisfied for a person breathing through one nostril.

"You have ruined my reputation."

"It needed a revision."

Chan's mouth fell open. "You used my blanket-editing phrase against me."

"Good phrase. Bad hobby."

"You're very cruel when you're sick."

"I'm always cruel. The cold adds texture."

Chan could not help it. He leaned forward and kissed Minho's temple.

Minho went still.

Chan went still too, because the kiss had happened before he checked whether it was allowed.

Minho's face stayed warm under his mouth. Then Minho sniffled.

"You washed your hands after the phone?"

Chan pulled back, laughing under his breath. "Not yet."

"Then that kiss is pending approval."

"Pending?"

"Provisional."

"Can I make it official after soap?"

Minho looked away. "Maybe."

Chan was going to die here. Not from Minho's cold. From this.

He washed his hands with enough soap to satisfy the most demanding court in the room. Minho watched the whole time like a tiny exhausted inspector. When Chan came back, Minho lifted his chin a fraction.

"Official," he said.

Chan's smile went quiet.

He kissed Minho's temple again, softer this time. Then, because he knew better than to push, he kissed the air above Minho's hair just once and sat back.

Minho's eyes dropped to the blanket.

"You can do the hair one too," he mumbled.

Chan closed his eyes for half a second.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

"With hygiene."

"It's working."

Chan kissed his hair.

Minho made the smallest satisfied sound and immediately pretended he had not.

The knock came five minutes later.

Not a full knock. More like a knuckle gently asking the door for permission to exist.

Both of them looked toward it.

A voice whispered from the hallway, "Dinner delivery. Do not attack."

Minho inhaled.

Chan put a hand on his back. "No murder."

"I wasn't going to murder."

"You looked like you were drafting a plan."

"I was editing one."

Chan smiled and slid out from under the blanket.

Minho's hand caught his sleeve.

"Mask," Minho said.

Chan blinked.

"What?"

"If you're opening the door. Mask."

"I'm only opening it a little."

"Mask."

Chan's heart folded in half.

He had been the one keeping track all day. Separate cups. Hand washing. No sharing spoons. Careful kisses. But Minho, stuffed up and tired and offended by his own nose, had kept track too. For him.

Chan did not make it big.

He wanted to.

He only grabbed the mask from the chair and put it on.

"Good?"

Minho nodded once.

"Bossy patient."

"Alive boyfriend."

Chan's hand froze on the doorknob.

Minho froze too.

The word had slipped out in the most practical voice possible, like it belonged next to water bottle and tissue box and use soap. It landed anyway.

Chan turned slowly.

Minho's face had gone red all the way to his ears.

"Don't," Minho said.

Chan's eyes were wide enough to be embarrassing. "I didn't say anything."

"Your eyes did."

"My eyes are on silent."

"Your eyes are screaming."

From the hallway, the whisper came again. "Is now a bad time?"

Minho shut his eyes like he wanted the floor to take everyone.

Chan covered his laugh with one hand, which was useless because the mask already covered his mouth.

"One second," he called softly.

"We can leave the food and run."

"Please do," Minho said, voice muffled by humiliation and congestion.

There was a quick scrape outside the door. A tray slid in with far more efficiency than the pudding had. Whoever was outside had learned from battle.

Chan opened the door just enough to pull it in. A covered bowl, rice, a banana, two bottles of water, and another note sat on the tray.

This note read: For Chan. Patient may supervise. No one is allowed to pretend custard is dinner.

Chan looked at Minho.

Minho looked at the note.

"Reasonable," Minho said.

"You are all enjoying this too much."

"Low-perception enjoyment."

"This is not low."

"For me it is."

Chan closed the door again, washed his hands because Minho's eyes demanded it, and carried the tray to the small desk. Minho watched him sit down as if supervising a dangerous medical procedure.

"Eat."

"Yes, sir."

"Don't say it like that."

"Yes, hyung?"

Minho threw a tissue packet at him.

It traveled perhaps twelve centimeters and fell on the blanket.

Chan stared at it.

Minho stared too.

"Powerful," Chan said.

"I am conserving strength."

"Terrifying."

"Eat."

Chan ate.

At first, he kept looking up after every bite, checking Minho's breathing, Minho's posture, the blanket, the water, the tissues, the little line between Minho's eyebrows that appeared when his nose blocked again.

After the fourth look, Minho pointed a tired finger at him.

"Food goes in your mouth. Eyes can stay on bowl."

"That's a very advanced technique."

"Learn."

Chan lowered his eyes obediently.

The food was warm. He realized how hungry he was on the second bite, which was annoying because it meant Minho had been right. Minho, from the bed, looked smug in a very sleepy way.

"Don't be pleased," Chan said.

"I'm asleep."

"You're sitting up."

"Advanced sleep."

"Your skills are expanding."

Minho sniffled. "My suffering has range."

Chan nearly choked on rice.

Minho's smugness became dangerous.

"Careful," he said. "I can't Heimlich you."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Then don't laugh while eating."

"Stop being funny."

"No."

Chan took another bite, slower this time.

The room changed while he ate. It felt less like a vigil and more like evening. The kind of evening where one person was sick and one person was worried, yes, but also the kind where rice warmed the air and the tea had gone from hot to drinkable and the hallway had learned to whisper badly but with love.

Minho's head tipped back against the pillow.

"Good?" he asked.

Chan swallowed. "Yeah."

"More than half toast?"

"Tragically, yes."

"Good."

"Are you hungry?"

Minho's nose wrinkled. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting. I'm gently opening a topic."

"Close it."

"A little rice?"

"Chan."

"Banana?"

"Christopher."

"Tea?"

Minho paused.

Chan tried not to show victory on his face.

He failed.

Minho pointed at him. "That is not dinner."

"No. It's tea. Very different."

"I hate your face."

"Hydrated hate?"

"Warm hate."

Chan smiled into his bowl. "I'll make tea after I finish."

"Finish first."

"You are really committed to this."

"You started it."

"Caring?"

"Being annoying about caring."

"And now you're being annoying about caring."

Minho looked away toward the curtains. His voice went smaller when he said, "Maybe."

Chan set his spoon down.

Minho's eyes cut back to him immediately.

"Don't stop eating."

Chan picked the spoon back up.

"I just wanted to look at you."

"Eat and look. Multitask."

"You told me not to multitask."

"I contain multitudes."

There it was again. Their phrase for everything Minho wanted to hide and also hand over. Chan felt something soft settle under his ribs.

He ate. Minho supervised. The banana remained unopened because Minho decided it could be a later problem. Chan finished the bowl under heavy surveillance and then raised both hands.

"Done."

Minho's eyes softened before his mouth did.

"Good."

"Proud of me?"

"Don't push it."

"A little?"

"Your bowl is proud of you."

"I'll take it."

"Don't take things from bowls."

Chan laughed, stood, and washed his hands again. Minho's gaze followed him with a sleepy satisfaction that he would absolutely deny if asked.

When Chan brought the tea over, Minho had sunk lower into the pillows. His stubborn sitting-up experiment was ending by force.

"You look tired," Chan said.

"You look observant. Bad for you."

"Can I help you lie down?"

"No."

Chan waited.

Minho sniffled.

"Maybe."

Chan came closer.

"Low perception," Minho warned.

"Extremely low."

Helping Minho down took three pillows, one blanket adjustment, and a negotiation about whether Chan was allowed to touch the back of his neck. He was, but only if he did not make a face about how warm and fragile Minho felt there.

Chan made the face internally.

Minho still caught him.

"Your concern has elbows again."

"Sorry."

"Make it tea."

"Yes, sir."

"Stop yes-sirring me."

"Yes, hygienic romantic."

Minho stared at him.

Chan smiled brightly.

"I hate that," Minho said.

"I know."

"Don't use it again."

"I will try."

"Try like you mean it."

"I mean it a little."

Minho accepted the tea with both hands. Chan kept his own hands near the mug without touching it, there only in case tired fingers slipped. Minho noticed. He always noticed.

But he did not scold him this time.

He drank two careful sips, sighed through his nose, then immediately regretted trying to breathe that way.

"Traitor," he whispered.

"The nose?"

"Always the nose."

Chan took the mug back and set it on the table.

"Do you want to try sleeping again?"

"You ask that like you would let me do anything else."

"You could supervise me eating a banana."

"Later."

"You could threaten the group chat."

"Always."

"You could let me hold you."

Minho looked at him.

The room went soft at the edges.

Chan had meant it lightly. Mostly. But the words came out quieter than the joke before them, and Minho heard the difference. His lashes lowered. His hand moved over the blanket, searching without admitting it was searching.

Chan gave him his hand.

Minho held two of his fingers.

"You can," Minho said. "If you also sleep."

Chan's chest warmed so quickly it almost hurt.

"Deal."

"And if you breathe responsibly."

"Always."

"Lie."

"A hopeful always."

"Wash hands first."

"I just did."

Minho's eyes narrowed.

Chan stood again.

"I love your standards," he said.

"They keep you alive."

"My hero."

"Soap."

Chan washed his hands.

When he came back, Minho had made room for him by dragging the blanket back exactly two inches again. It was still the grandest invitation in the world. Chan slid in carefully, keeping his face angled away from Minho's breath and his arm loose around Minho's waist.

Minho tucked himself against Chan's side with a small huff.

"Comfortable?" Chan whispered.

"No."

Chan waited.

Minho shifted closer.

"Maybe."

"I'll take maybe."

"Don't take things from sick people."

"I'll borrow maybe."

Minho's forehead rested against Chan's shoulder. The position was almost the same as earlier, but something in it had changed. Minho's hand stayed on Chan's chest this time, not clutching, not hiding. Just there, a light weight over the place Chan kept failing to keep quiet.

Chan covered Minho's hand with his own.

"Is this okay?"

"You ask too many stupid questions."

"I like hearing the answers."

Minho was silent for a moment.

Then he said, very softly, "Okay."

Chan closed his eyes.

He had promised to sleep. He meant to try.

The problem was Minho. The problem was always Minho. Minho sick and stubborn, Minho pink-nosed and sharp-tongued, Minho making sure Chan ate dinner from underneath a blanket, Minho saying alive boyfriend like it was a checklist item and then acting scandalized that words had consequences.

Chan breathed out slowly.

Minho tapped two fingers against his chest.

"Stop thinking."

"I can't."

"Try."

"About what?"

"Pudding."

Chan smiled. "You want me to think about pudding?"

"It's quieter than your feelings."

"My feelings are not that loud."

Minho lifted his head just enough to look at him.

Chan gave up immediately.

"Okay. They're loud."

"Think pudding."

"Mango or backup?"

"Backup. Secret backup."

"Under protest."

"No celebration."

"No spoon jokes."

Minho's mouth softened against Chan's hoodie.

"Good."

Chan thought about backup pudding.

He thought about the paper cup probably waiting outside the door, or maybe in the kitchen with a protective label. He thought about the way the dorm cared by not entering, by sliding things across the threshold, by learning the shape of Minho's pride and leaving offerings just outside it. He thought about Minho accepting that care in tiny pieces. A spoonful. A message. A two-inch blanket lift. A command to eat dinner.

He thought maybe this was how they all loved Minho best right now. From the hallway. From inside the blanket. With low perception and backup pudding.

Then Minho sneezed directly into a tissue and ruined the poetry of it.

"Hh'tschh!"

Chan opened his eyes at once.

Minho groaned. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to bless me with your whole body."

"I can bless you with half my body."

"Rejected."

"Quarter?"

"Rejected."

"A very small blessing?"

Minho turned his face into Chan's shoulder, careful not to breathe too close. "Fine. Silent one."

Chan's smile went helpless.

He pressed a kiss to Minho's hair. No words. Just the kiss.

Minho relaxed under it.

"That was not silent," he mumbled.

"It didn't say anything."

"It was smug."

"My kisses have personalities now?"

"Unfortunately."

"What personality was that one?"

Minho was quiet.

Chan waited, foolishly delighted.

"Annoying," Minho said.

"Of course."

"Warm."

Chan's heart stopped misbehaving and started misbehaving in a new direction.

"Warm is allowed?"

"For medical reasons."

"Right. Medical kiss."

"Don't call it that."

"Never again."

"You will."

"Probably."

Minho pinched his hoodie again, softer than before.

The evening went still around them. Somewhere in the dorm, someone laughed and was immediately shushed. A cabinet opened with extreme caution. The hallway floor creaked, then stopped, then creaked backward as if the person had remembered the door was dangerous.

Chan's body finally began to believe in rest. His eyes grew heavy. Minho's breathing, rough at the edges but steady, warmed the fabric of his hoodie. The phone was face down. The tea was close. The room smelled faintly of honey, rice, soap, and mango.

"Chan," Minho whispered.

"Mm?"

"If you fall asleep first, I won't tell anyone."

Chan opened one eye.

Minho's face was hidden against him.

"That's very kind."

"It's low perception."

"Thank you."

"Don't make it emotional."

"I won't."

Chan made it emotional privately.

Minho, somehow, knew.

"Privately is also loud."

Chan laughed under his breath. "Sorry."

"Sleep."

"You too."

"Bossy."

"Sick."

Minho smiled against his hoodie.

"That was my line."

"I'm borrowing it."

"Don't take things from me."

"Borrowing."

"With permission?"

"With supervision."

Minho's hand patted his chest once, clumsy and sleepy. "Approved."

Chan slept first.

It happened by accident, which was the only way Minho could have gotten away with it. One moment Chan was listening to Minho breathe, counting the little spaces between sniffles with the quiet part of his mind. The next, the edges of the room folded in and the warm weight of Minho's hand held him there.

Minho stayed awake for a little while after.

Not long. His head was too heavy and his nose was too useless and his body had begun pulling him under with both hands. But he stayed awake long enough to look at Chan properly.

Chan's face, finally quiet, looked younger in sleep. Less leader. Less furniture. More person. His hair was still stupid. His mouth was slightly open behind careful, even breaths aimed away from Minho. One hand rested near the tissues, because even unconscious Chan apparently wanted to be useful.

Minho's chest hurt in a way the cold could not claim.

"Idiot," he whispered.

Chan did not wake.

Good.

Minho lifted his hand from Chan's chest with great effort and moved the tissue box closer to his own side, so Chan would not have to reach if he woke. The movement made him sniffle, which made him freeze, which made him scowl at his nose with as much energy as he had left.

The nose did not care.

Minho found a fresh tissue by feel and handled the crisis quietly. Mostly quietly. Chan stirred once, brows drawing together.

Minho put his hand back on Chan's chest.

"Sleep," he whispered.

Chan settled.

The satisfaction Minho felt about this was private, illegal, and none of anyone's business.

The phone buzzed again.

Minho glared at it.

It buzzed a second time.

Chan did not wake.

Minho, who had accused Chan of many crimes that day, committed one of his own: he reached for the phone.

It took effort. Too much effort. The nightstand was too far away by about a universe, and his arm was not interested in being heroic. But the phone was there, glowing traitor-blue in the dim room, and Chan was asleep, and Minho was not furniture either.

He got it on the second try.

The group chat had two messages.

Backup pudding is outside but we labeled it "definitely not a celebration."

Also tell Chan to eat the banana.

Minho stared at the screen.

Then, very carefully, with slow thumbs and a concentration that would have impressed anyone who was not asleep beside him, he typed back.

He ate dinner. Banana later. Patient sleeping. Do not knock.

He looked at the message.

Deleted patient.

Typed Chan.

Deleted Chan.

Typed: He is sleeping. Do not knock.

Then, after a long pause, he added: Thank you for pudding.

His thumb hovered.

That was too much.

Too visible.

Too not low-perception.

He deleted it.

He stared at the empty space where the words had been.

Then he typed: Pudding complaint received.

Better.

He sent it.

The replies came at once.

WE UNDERSTAND THE COMPLAINT.

NO KNOCKING.

TELL HIM BANANA LATER.

Then another message appeared.

Sleep well, both of you.

Minho read it twice.

His eyes burned, which was obviously because of congestion and nothing else.

He turned the phone face down the way Chan had, because he had learned from an expert in dramatic restraint. Then he tucked himself back against Chan's side, slow and careful.

Chan made a faint sound and pulled him closer without waking.

Minho froze.

Then he let himself be pulled.

"Clingy," he whispered, with no heat at all.

Chan slept on.

The backup pudding waited outside the door, labeled badly and loved embarrassingly. The banana waited for later. The dorm waited without knocking, which was the best gift it could have given them.

Inside the room, Minho put his cold hand over Chan's warm one and closed his eyes.

For once, he was the one keeping the secret.