Chapter 4: If It's Pudding (2026)

Pudding through the door

Chan did wake him.

Technically.

He did it in the gentlest possible way, with one hand smoothing over Minho's blanket-covered shoulder and his mouth close enough to Minho's hair that the words barely had to travel.

"Min," he whispered. "Important pudding news."

Minho did not open his eyes. His fingers tightened around Chan's wrist, which was unfair, because Chan had been trying very hard not to melt into a useless puddle of a person all afternoon.

"If this is a joke," Minho mumbled, "I'm breaking up with your entire face."

Chan's smile pressed itself into Minho's hair before he could stop it. "Not a joke. There is pudding outside the door."

One eye opened.

It was watery, sleepy, and suspicious enough to make Chan feel like he was being questioned by a tiny blanket court.

"Outside?" Minho rasped.

"On the floor. Probably delivered by someone with survival instincts."

Minho blinked slowly. "What kind?"

Chan looked at the phone in his free hand again, as if the answer might have changed in the last eight seconds.

The group chat had become a battlefield of whispered updates, terrible suggestions, and one picture of a paper tray sitting in the hallway with three cups of pudding and a note placed on top. The note had two arrows drawn on it. One arrow pointed to the cups. The other pointed toward Minho's door.

The handwriting said, in large careful letters: For the patient. Not for Chan unless approved.

Chan had already decided to pretend he had not been wounded.

"There is custard," he said. "Chocolate. And something that looks like mango."

Minho's other eye opened.

Chan nodded solemnly. "I know. A serious situation."

"You have to get it."

"I thought I was under strict orders not to almost leave."

Minho stared at him from the pillow, congested and indignant. "Pudding is different."

"I see." Chan adjusted his hold around Minho's middle. "So I am allowed to move if dessert is involved."

"Briefly."

"With permission."

"With supervision."

"You're going to supervise me from inside a blanket?"

"Obviously."

Chan's laugh came out soft and helpless. Minho made a tiny sound of complaint when the movement shook the bed, so Chan immediately stilled and pressed one apologetic kiss to the back of his head.

"Sorry."

"Don't kiss apologies into my hair," Minho said.

"Where should I put them?"

"In writing."

"I'll draft a formal letter."

"Use small words."

"For you?"

"For your face. It gets confused."

Chan smiled so hard his cheeks hurt.

The phone buzzed once against his palm. Minho's attention snapped to it with the speed of someone who had been pretending not to care.

"What now?"

Chan tilted the screen away by instinct.

Minho narrowed his eyes. "Christopher."

"It's nothing bad."

"That is exactly what guilty people say."

"It's just the group chat."

"Read it."

"No."

"Read it or I will sneeze on purpose."

Chan looked offended. "You would weaponize illness?"

Minho sniffled, which ruined the threat a little. "I have limited resources."

Chan should not have found that charming. He found it devastating.

"Fine," he said, and cleared his throat with entirely too much drama. "Message from unnamed dorm member: 'Do we need to include a spoon or will Chan use the power of love?'"

Minho closed his eyes.

"Message from another unnamed dorm member: 'Please include spoon. We are trying to reduce contamination, not increase romance.'"

Minho made a sound into the pillow that might have been a laugh if it had survived his blocked nose.

Chan's grin softened. "Message from a third person who values his life: 'Do not enter the room. Repeat. Do not enter the room.'"

"That one can live," Minho muttered.

"Very generous."

"The first two are on probation."

Chan typed with one thumb, careful not to disturb the hand still trapped under Minho's. "I'll let them know the court has spoken."

"Don't."

"Too late."

Minho twisted just enough to glare at him. It was not a proper glare. His eyelids were heavy, his nose was pink, and one piece of hair had stuck itself to his forehead like it had chosen loyalty over dignity.

Chan wanted to kiss it back into place.

Chan did not, because he had some self-control.

A little.

Maybe.

"You're doing the face," Minho said.

"Which face?"

"The one that means you're thinking something embarrassing."

"I think embarrassing things all the time. You'll need to narrow it down."

"About me."

"That's still most of them."

Minho stared.

Chan leaned forward and pressed the quickest possible kiss to his temple.

"There," Chan whispered. "Now it has happened, so I can stop thinking about it."

"That is not how thinking works."

"It is for me."

"Your brain is a hallway full of balloons."

Chan took a second to absorb that.

Then he nodded. "Accurate."

Minho's mouth twitched. The victory was small. Chan treasured it anyway.

Another buzz came from the nightstand, then a soft scrape outside the door. Both of them froze.

The scrape came again.

Slow.

Careful.

Minho's fingers dug into Chan's wrist.

Chan immediately lowered his voice. "It's okay. They're sliding it."

"If they open the door, bite them."

"I have many questions."

"Bite first. Questions later."

"You're very fierce for someone who asked me to wake him for pudding."

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain congestion."

Minho's glare sharpened beautifully.

Chan held up his free hand. "And multitudes. Mostly multitudes."

The paper tray bumped lightly against the inside of the door, which meant someone in the hallway had managed to slide it through the small gap beneath with more dedication than grace. A whisper leaked from the other side.

"Delivery complete."

Chan looked toward the door. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Please do not let him murder us."

Minho lifted his head by a tragic amount. "I heard that."

There was one full second of silence.

Then feet scrambled away down the hall.

Chan buried his face against Minho's shoulder, shaking with laughter he was trying not to release. Minho, who had every right to be offended, sounded dangerously close to laughing too.

"They run fast," Chan whispered.

"Cowards."

"Alive cowards."

"For now."

Chan kissed his shoulder through the hoodie and blanket. "My terrifying patient."

"Your patient wants pudding."

"Yes, sir."

Minho pointed weakly toward the door. "Go."

"With supervision?"

"I am watching."

Chan glanced down. "Your eyes are closed."

They opened at once. "I am spiritually watching."

"Your soul is very busy today."

"It has a cold. Be respectful."

Chan laughed again, then eased his arm away one centimeter at a time.

Minho's hand followed.

Chan stopped.

Minho looked at their hands as if betrayed by his own fingers.

"I need both hands to retrieve the pudding," Chan said carefully.

"Do you?"

"Unless you want custard on the floor."

Minho considered this with the seriousness it deserved.

Then he let go.

Barely.

Chan's wrist felt cold without him.

That was dramatic. Chan knew it was dramatic. He did not say it out loud, because Minho would call him several names and at least two of them would be correct.

"I'll be right here," Chan said.

"The door is not here."

"It's five steps away."

"Six if you walk like a normal person."

"I don't."

"I know."

Chan stood, took three careful steps, and stretched the last two into one ridiculous lean so one foot stayed near the bed.

Minho watched him with one eyebrow raised.

"You look worse than the magician earlier."

"I'm improving my technique."

"You are developing a new kind of problem."

Chan reached the tray, scooped it up, and returned with the triumph of a man bringing treasure back from a dangerous quest.

The treasure was three pudding cups, two sealed spoons, and one folded note that had clearly been added after a debate. Chan read it silently first.

Then he tried very hard not to smile.

Minho saw.

"What does it say?"

"Nothing."

"You are very bad at lying when dessert is involved."

"Only when the note is sweet."

Minho's face changed immediately. Not much. Just enough for Chan to see the little defensive wall go up.

"Read it," Minho said, but his voice had gone smaller.

Chan unfolded the paper with one hand. The note was short.

We will not come in. Eat what you can. Sleep more. Text if you need anything, or make Chan text if your pride is acting up.

Chan's voice softened before he reached the last line.

Also, we miss you, but we can miss you from the hallway.

Minho stared at the blanket.

For once, he did not have a comeback ready.

Chan set the pudding tray down and waited. He did not reach for him right away, although every part of him wanted to. Minho's pride was not a thing to smash through, even gently. It was a door. Sometimes it opened if no one stared too hard.

The humidifier breathed in the corner. Someone in the kitchen dropped something, whispered a panicked apology, and then the dorm went quiet again.

Minho sniffled.

It was probably because of the cold.

Probably.

"They're annoying," he said.

"Extremely."

"Loud."

"Even when trying not to be."

"Bad at whispering."

"Terrible."

Minho's fingers found the edge of the note. He did not pick it up. He just touched the paper, one corner under his thumb.

"They can miss me from farther away," he mumbled.

Chan's smile was quiet this time. "I'll tell them."

"Don't."

"I won't."

"And don't tell them I read it."

"You didn't read it. I read it."

"Good."

"You heard it."

"Against my will."

"Completely against your will."

Minho nodded once, satisfied with the legal record.

Then he looked at the pudding.

"Mango," he said.

Chan blinked. "You haven't even inspected them."

"Mango."

"What if chocolate is better?"

"Mango."

"What if custard feels easier on your throat?"

Minho looked at him.

Chan picked up the mango cup. "Mango it is."

"You're learning."

"I live to improve."

"You live to hover."

"Also true."

Chan washed his hands at the little bottle of sanitizer he'd set beside the bed, then opened a spoon and the pudding cup with unnecessary care. Minho watched every step, half amused and half tired, while Chan arranged himself back on the bed.

This time, Chan did not ask if he could feed him.

He simply handed Minho the spoon.

Minho took it, then stared down at the pudding like it had personally challenged him.

Chan waited.

Minho scooped a tiny amount, brought it halfway to his mouth, paused, and sniffled miserably.

Chan reached for a tissue.

Minho glared.

Chan froze.

"I can do it," Minho said.

"I know."

"You're holding the tissue."

"In case the tissue wants moral support."

Minho's eyes narrowed further.

Chan slowly placed the tissue within reach and folded his hands in his lap like a child pretending to be innocent.

"Better?"

"Suspicious."

"But better?"

"Maybe."

Minho managed the first bite. His expression did not change.

Chan leaned in. "Well?"

"It's pudding."

"Is it good pudding?"

"It's cold pudding."

"Is cold pudding good?"

"Stop interviewing me."

"I'm invested."

"You're unbearable."

Chan smiled. "But the pudding?"

Minho held the next spoonful out toward him.

Chan's entire body stilled.

"What?" Minho asked.

"Are you offering me pudding?"

"No. I'm threatening you with it."

"With your spoon?"

Minho froze.

Then he slowly pulled the spoon back and looked at it as if it had betrayed both of them.

Chan tried not to laugh. He failed silently.

"Don't," Minho said.

"I'm not."

"Your shoulders are laughing."

"They have no discipline."

Minho put the spoon in his own mouth with as much dignity as a person could manage while bundled under two blankets and wearing the face of someone who had accidentally offered dessert during quarantine.

Chan reached for the custard cup and a separate spoon. "I'll have my own. Sensible. Responsible. Heartbroken, but responsible."

"You are not heartbroken."

"You nearly shared pudding with me and then took it away."

"Because you like being healthy, remember?"

Chan's teasing softened at the edges.

"I do," he said. "I'm being careful."

Minho kept his eyes on the mango pudding. "Good."

Chan opened his custard and took a bite. It was fine. It tasted mostly like cold sugar and hallway diplomacy. He would have eaten sawdust if it meant Minho kept taking tiny bites beside him.

They ate in slow, comfortable quiet.

Minho only managed about a third of the cup before his spoon started lingering in the air too long. Chan noticed, because of course he did. He took the pudding before Minho had to ask and screwed the lid back on.

"Later," Chan said.

Minho looked relieved and annoyed that relief had been visible.

"I wasn't finished."

"I know. Later."

"Stop knowing things."

"I can try."

"Try harder."

Chan set the cup on the bedside table, then nudged the water closer. "Sip?"

Minho sighed like Chan had asked him to carry furniture.

He sipped anyway.

The cough drop had helped a little. The water helped more. His throat still sounded rough when he handed the bottle back, but the scratchy edge had softened.

Chan's shoulders dropped in tiny relief.

Minho noticed.

"Do not celebrate hydration."

"I would never."

"You celebrated soup."

"Soup was historic."

"Pudding was classified."

"Hydration can be private."

Minho stared at him for a beat.

Then he smiled.

It was small and tired and almost gone before it arrived, but Chan saw it. Chan saw it so clearly he had to look down at the blanket to keep from doing something unbearable, like telling Minho the truth in a voice too soft to survive.

Minho saw him look down.

"You're being loud inside again."

"Sorry."

"I can hear the balloons."

Chan laughed under his breath. "I'll quiet them."

"Good."

But Minho reached for his hand under the blanket.

Chan gave it to him.

No joke. No dramatic gasp. No victory face, even though the face tried. He just slipped his fingers into Minho's, warm and careful, and let Minho decide how much to hold.

Minho held enough.

The room slid back into its soft little rhythm. Tissue. Water. The humidifier's low whisper. A phone facedown and silent on the nightstand. Pudding waiting for later, proof of the dorm's love disguised as contraband.

Chan tucked the note beneath the tissue box so it would not get lost.

Minho watched him do it.

"Why are you saving that?"

"Because it's nice."

"It's incriminating."

"Against whom?"

"Everyone."

"I'll keep it as evidence."

"For court?"

"For when you try to claim nobody cares."

Minho's fingers went still in his.

Chan wished, instantly, that he had said it differently. Lighter. Less direct. Less like a hand placed gently on the thing Minho protected most.

But Minho did not pull away.

He looked at the note, then at Chan's hand, then at the blanket.

"I don't claim that," he said quietly.

Chan squeezed once. "Okay."

"I know they care."

"I know you know."

"It's annoying."

"Being loved?"

Minho's nose wrinkled. "Being perceived while being loved."

Chan had to smile at that, because it was so perfectly Minho that it hurt.

"We can work on low-perception love," he said.

"That's the only acceptable kind."

"From the hallway. With pudding."

"Exactly."

"And from inside the blanket?"

Minho gave him a look.

Chan waited, too innocent to be believed.

Minho sniffled. "That depends."

"On?"

"Volume."

"Of love?"

"Of your face."

Chan nodded gravely. "I'll keep my face at a respectful volume."

"You won't."

"No," Chan admitted. "Probably not."

Minho's smile flickered again.

Then he sneezed.

There was warning this time, a little hitch and a helpless blink. Chan reached for the tissue without making a production of it, just offered it into Minho's hand and turned his gaze toward the window so Minho could have the tiny privacy of pretending this was not happening in front of him.

"Hh... kktsch! Hh'tsch!"

Minho groaned into the tissue.

Chan's hand found the middle of his back and rubbed slow circles until the tension eased.

"Bless you," he said.

"No."

"No blessing?"

"Rejected."

"Can I appeal?"

"Denied."

"Your court is harsh."

"My nose is harsher."

Chan leaned over and kissed the top of Minho's head before Minho could object. "Then bless your nose specifically."

Minho made an outraged noise that turned into a cough halfway through.

Chan did not panic.

He wanted to. His body did the small startle, the forward lean, the anxious count of one cough, two, was there a third. But he remembered Minho's earlier slow and stopped himself from crowding too fast.

He waited with the water ready.

Minho took it after the second cough, cheeks flushed with irritation. He drank, breathed through his mouth for a moment, then slumped back against the pillows.

"See?" Chan said softly. "Slow."

Minho side-eyed him. "Don't use my own words against me."

"They were good words."

"All my words are good."

"Some of them are threats."

"Good threats."

Chan smiled. "The best."

Minho's eyes were drifting again. Chan could almost see sleep walking around the room, deciding where to sit. It settled first in the corners of Minho's mouth, then along his lashes, then in the hand that slowly loosened around Chan's fingers.

Chan adjusted the blanket around him with one hand.

Minho murmured, "Stop fussing."

"I'm not fussing."

"You're blanket-editing."

"It needed a revision."

"Bad hobby."

"You love my hobbies."

"I tolerate one."

"Which one?"

Minho was quiet for so long that Chan thought he had fallen asleep.

Then, barely audible, "Staying."

Chan forgot how to breathe again.

It was becoming a problem.

Minho did not open his eyes. His face was turned slightly into the pillow, one cheek squished, hair soft over his forehead, nose still pink from the cold. He looked exhausted. He looked embarrassed even asleep-adjacent, as if the word had escaped without permission and he had decided to ignore the consequences.

Chan did not make it a thing.

He wanted to.

He wanted to kiss every knuckle and say something too honest. He wanted to pull Minho closer until there was no room for feverish thoughts or stubborn fear. He wanted to tell the group chat that pudding had worked, which would get him murdered, so he did not do that either.

Instead, Chan bent his head and kissed the back of Minho's hand.

Once.

Softly.

"I'll keep doing that one," he whispered.

Minho's fingers curled faintly.

Maybe he heard.

Maybe he did not.

The afternoon got quieter after that.

The hallway learned, for almost a whole hour, how to behave. The dorm moved around them in careful fragments. A tap of a cabinet. A whispered laugh strangled into silence. The distant hiss of the kettle. Someone's socks sliding on the floor outside and then reversing direction as if the door itself had glared.

Chan stayed in the bed with Minho tucked against him, one arm loose around his waist and one hand free for tissues, water, and the occasional forehead check he pretended was casual.

He washed his hands whenever he got up. He used his own spoon. He kept Minho's cup separate from his. He did every sensible thing he could think of, and then ruined the whole image by kissing Minho's hair every time Minho made a particularly pitiful sound.

"You're impossible," Minho mumbled once, somewhere between waking and dreaming.

"I know."

"Healthy impossible."

Chan smiled. "Trying."

"Stay that way."

The words came out fuzzy, but the worry inside them was clear.

Chan tucked the blanket more securely around Minho's shoulder. "I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Minho's hand found his sleeve again.

"Too easy," he whispered.

"Still mean it."

Minho made a faint sound of acceptance and drifted.

Chan thought about sleeping too. He really did. The room was warm, Minho was heavy and soft against him, and his own body had gone slow from holding still for so long. But every time his eyes closed, Minho sniffled or shifted or breathed a little rougher, and Chan opened them again.

After the third time, Minho spoke without moving.

"I can feel you staring."

Chan froze.

"I'm not."

"Liar."

"You're asleep."

"I'm sick, not dead."

"We've covered this."

"Then stop watching me like I'm going to disappear."

Chan's answer caught in his throat.

Minho opened one eye, immediately regretted the effort, and closed it again.

"Chan."

"I'm here."

"I know. That's the problem. You're here too intensely."

Chan let out a tiny laugh, but it came out thinner than he meant it to.

Minho shifted until he was half turned toward him. It was a slow, clumsy operation involving blankets, one offended pillow, and Chan's desperate attempt not to help too much. By the time Minho faced him, his cheeks were flushed from the effort.

"Don't," Minho said before Chan could make the worried face.

Chan pressed his lips together.

"You look like a kicked puppy," Minho said.

"That's still a face."

"A worse one."

Chan tried to smooth his expression into something normal.

Minho looked unimpressed.

"You need sleep too," Minho said.

"I'm fine."

"No."

"I am."

"Chan."

There it was again, his name without the teasing armor. Chan had no defense against it. Never had.

Minho sniffled and pulled one hand from under the blanket. It trembled a little from tiredness, which made Chan's heart do something stupid and painful. Minho ignored the hand's weakness with great determination and placed two fingers against Chan's cheek.

"You are doing that thing," Minho said.

Chan did not move. "What thing?"

"Where you take care of everyone and pretend your body is furniture."

"My body is very useful furniture."

"Bad joke."

"Sorry."

"You can sleep if I sleep."

Chan's chest tightened again, but this time it hurt sweetly.

"Yeah?"

"Don't sound like I gave you a medal."

"It feels like one."

"Your standards are embarrassing."

"Only around you."

Minho rolled his eyes, but the motion was fond and sleepy. His fingers slid from Chan's cheek to the collar of his hoodie, catching there.

"You can stay close," he said, voice rough. "And sleep."

Chan swallowed.

Minho noticed, because Minho noticed everything when he wanted to and denied it later.

"But wash your hands first," Minho added.

Chan burst into quiet laughter.

Minho looked satisfied, which made the whole thing worse.

"You are very romantic," Chan said.

"I am very hygienic."

"That's my favorite kind of romantic."

"It better be."

Chan slipped from the bed only long enough to wash his hands again, check that the water was close, and set the mango pudding where Minho could see it if he woke. Minho watched through slitted eyes the entire time.

"Supervising?" Chan asked.

"Spiritually."

"Of course."

"Use soap."

"I am using soap."

"Use more."

Chan used more.

When he came back, Minho lifted the blanket without looking at him.

It was maybe two inches.

It was the grandest invitation Chan had ever received.

He slid in carefully, keeping space where Minho needed air and warmth where Minho always pretended he did not. Minho immediately shifted closer, because apparently his body had no interest in supporting his official policy positions.

Chan did not comment.

He deserved a third award.

Minho settled with his forehead against Chan's shoulder and one hand folded against Chan's chest. Chan wrapped an arm around him, loose enough to let him move, close enough to keep him there.

"If you breathe on my face, I'll bite you," Minho mumbled.

"I will aim responsibly."

"Good."

"If you sneeze on me, I will still love you."

Minho pinched his hoodie.

"Ow."

"Deserved."

Chan kissed the air above Minho's hair instead of his hair itself, because he was trying to be good. Minho, somehow, sensed the restraint.

"You missed."

Chan went still.

Minho's eyes stayed closed.

"What?"

"You missed," Minho repeated, so quietly it was almost not a confession.

Chan stared at him.

Minho's ears turned pink.

"Never mind."

Chan did not never mind.

Chan lowered his head and kissed Minho's hair properly. Once. Twice. The third time, Minho made a tiny huff that was more content than complaint, and Chan stopped before the feeling in his chest became too big for the room.

"Better?" Chan whispered.

Minho's answer disappeared into Chan's hoodie.

It sounded like, "Maybe."

Chan closed his eyes.

For a while, they slept.

Not deeply. Not cleanly. Sick-day sleep came in uneven pieces. Minho woke once to sneeze, once to cough, and once because his nose had blocked completely and he became personally offended by breathing. Each time, Chan woke too, steady and warm, offering tissues and water without making a ceremony of it.

The fourth time, Chan woke because Minho was staring at him.

He opened his eyes slowly.

Minho lay inches away, bundled up to his chin, looking at Chan with an expression Chan could not immediately read.

"Hi," Chan whispered.

Minho blinked. "Your hair is stupid."

Chan smiled. "Good morning to you too."

"It's not morning."

"Good pudding nap."

Minho's mouth twitched. "Bad phrase."

"Useful phrase."

"No."

Chan's gaze softened. "How do you feel?"

Minho's eyes drifted toward the ceiling. He seemed to inventory himself in silence. Nose. Throat. Head. Pride.

"Less terrible," he said finally.

Chan did not celebrate.

His face tried.

Minho pointed at him before it could fully happen. "No."

"I didn't do anything."

"You were about to."

"I was about to be calmly pleased."

"Your calmly pleased is loud."

"I'll make it quieter."

"Make it pudding."

Chan blinked.

Minho blinked back, then seemed to realize what he'd said.

A slow grin spread across Chan's face.

"No," Minho said immediately.

"Make it pudding?"

"I have a fever of language."

"You don't have a fever."

"Then I have a cold of language."

"That's very serious."

"Terminal."

"You're not dying."

"My dignity is."

Chan laughed and reached for the mango cup. "Your dignity can have two more bites."

Minho accepted this with the solemnity of a fallen king.

They managed the rest of the mango pudding in tiny spoonfuls. Chan sat beside him, eating none of it, using his own clean spoon only to help scoop when Minho's hand got tired. Minho complained that Chan's help was unnecessary and then let him do it anyway, which had become the sick-day language neither of them translated out loud.

When the cup was empty, Chan showed it to him.

"Look at that."

"Do not report me to the group chat."

"I wouldn't dare."

"You want to."

"Desperately."

"If you do, I will tell them you cried over soup."

"I did not cry."

"You were emotionally damp."

Chan stared at him.

Then he laughed so hard he had to press his face into the pillow to keep the sound down.

Minho looked pleased with himself until the laughter made him cough. Then both of them froze. Chan sat up just enough to offer water, and Minho took it with a glare that said this was somehow Chan's fault.

"Emotionally damp," Chan repeated when Minho finished drinking.

"You liked that."

"I hate how much."

"Good."

Chan set the water back. "Textbook cruelty."

"Low-perception love."

"That was love?"

Minho pulled the blanket higher over his mouth.

Chan's heart went very still.

"Min?"

"I said what I said."

It came out muffled, congested, and half hidden behind fleece, but it landed in the room with both feet.

Chan did not move for a moment.

The air between them seemed to hold its breath.

Minho's eyes flicked up, wary and shy under the stubbornness. "Don't be weird."

Chan nodded once, too quickly. "Okay."

"You're being weird silently."

"I know."

"Stop."

"I'm trying."

"Try less obviously."

Chan let out a shaky little laugh.

Then he leaned in slowly, giving Minho every chance to stop him, and pressed a kiss to the blanket where it covered Minho's knuckles.

Not his mouth. Not too close to his face. Just the blanket, warm from Minho's hand underneath.

"Low-perception," Chan whispered.

Minho's eyes softened before he could hide it.

"Barely acceptable," he said.

"I'll take it."

"You take anything."

"From you? Yes."

Minho groaned and turned his face into the pillow. "Too much."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"Not even a little."

Minho huffed, then sneezed into the tissue Chan had already placed near his hand.

"Bless you."

"Rejected again."

"I will keep submitting."

"Your paperwork is terrible."

Chan grinned.

Before he could answer, Minho's phone buzzed again.

Both of them looked at it.

It buzzed once more.

Chan picked it up, already braced for group chat nonsense. Instead, his expression shifted into something quieter.

Minho noticed at once.

"What?"

"It's a calendar alert."

"For what?"

Chan hesitated.

Minho pushed himself up on one elbow, which was a terrible idea and immediately made his face go a little pale.

Chan reached for him. "Hey, slow."

"Read it."

"Minho."

"Read it."

Chan glanced at the screen.

The alert was simple. Too simple for how much it changed the air.

Vocal practice. 6:00.

Minho stared at him.

For the first time all afternoon, the cold seemed to move from being annoying to being real in a way neither of them could joke around. The room stayed warm. The blankets stayed soft. The pudding cup sat empty on the table.

But Minho's face closed carefully.

"I forgot," he said.

Chan silenced the alert and set the phone down.

"You're not going."

Minho looked away. "I know."

"Good."

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's easy."

Chan's mouth closed.

Minho swallowed, throat clicking faintly. He looked smaller suddenly, not because the cold had gotten worse, but because all the stubbornness had rearranged itself into guilt.

Chan hated that more than the cough. More than the sniffles. More than the hallway. Guilt was harder to bring water to.

"It's okay," Chan said.

Minho's eyes flashed. "Don't."

"I'm not saying it doesn't matter."

"It does."

"I know."

"Everyone has things to do."

"I know."

"I can't just..."

His voice cracked around the words, not quite from emotion and not quite from sickness. Both, maybe.

Chan moved closer but did not touch him yet.

"You can be sick," Chan said.

Minho laughed once. It came out rough and humorless. "Apparently."

"No, I mean you can be sick without apologizing for it."

Minho's jaw tightened.

Chan reached for his hand under the blanket. "Min."

"I'm going to get behind."

"For one practice?"

"It won't feel like one."

"I know."

"Stop saying you know."

"Okay."

"You don't know."

Chan nodded. "Okay."

Minho looked at him then, startled by the agreement.

Chan rubbed his thumb over Minho's knuckles. "I don't know exactly. I know you hate missing things. I know you hate feeling like everyone has to wait for you. I know you hate when your body makes decisions before you do."

Minho's eyes dropped.

"And I know," Chan continued, softer, "that if you go to practice sounding like that, I will personally become everyone's problem."

Minho blinked.

Then, unwillingly, he laughed.

It hurt his throat. Chan could tell. Minho still laughed.

"You already are everyone's problem," Minho said.

"Then imagine me with a cause."

"Terrifying."

"Exactly."

Minho coughed into his elbow. Chan passed water without comment. This time Minho took it immediately.

Progress, Chan thought.

He did not say that either.

Minho drank, then leaned back with a sigh that seemed to take a little of the fight out of him.

"You can't cancel for me," he said.

"I can help you text."

"That's the same thing."

"It's really not."

"It feels the same."

Chan let that sit between them. Then he nodded.

"Okay," he said. "You text. I sit here. I don't touch the phone unless you ask."

Minho eyed him. "And you don't write a paragraph."

"I will not write a paragraph."

"Or add sad emojis."

"I would never add sad emojis."

"You would add twelve."

"Maybe one."

"Chan."

"Zero."

Minho reached for the phone with the grave expression of someone preparing for surgery. His fingers moved slower than usual. He typed, deleted, typed again, sniffled, frowned, and glared at the screen as if it had personally invented responsibility.

Chan sat beside him exactly as promised.

He did not hover.

He hovered spiritually.

Minho noticed anyway.

"Stop spiritually hovering."

"I am sitting very still."

"Your concern has elbows."

Chan pressed his lips together.

Minho went back to typing.

After another minute, he turned the phone toward Chan without looking at him.

The message said: I caught a cold and my throat is rough, so I should rest today. Sorry. I'll check in tomorrow.

Chan read it twice.

Not because it needed correction. Because Minho had written it plainly, without insulting himself, without turning the apology into punishment.

"It's good," Chan said.

Minho's shoulders loosened a fraction.

"Not too much?"

"Not too much."

"Not too dramatic?"

"You? Never."

Minho's eyes narrowed.

Chan smiled. "It's good. Send it."

Minho looked at the screen for three more breaths.

Then he sent it.

The whoosh sound felt too loud.

Minho immediately dropped the phone face down and hid under the blanket.

Chan did not laugh.

He wanted to, gently, but he did not.

Instead, he put one hand on the blanket mountain where Minho's shoulder probably was.

"Proud of you," he said.

The blanket made a muffled noise.

"Was that 'thank you' or 'go away'?"

Another muffled noise.

Chan nodded. "Both. Understood."

The phone buzzed less than a minute later.

Minho did not move.

Chan looked at the phone, then at the blanket.

"Do you want me to read it?"

"No."

A pause.

"Yes."

Chan picked it up.

The reply was short and kind. Rest. Don't force it. Feel better. We will cover today.

Chan read it exactly as written, no embellishment, no extra softness added because the softness was already there.

Minho stayed under the blanket.

"See?" Chan said.

"Don't see me."

"Low-perception seeing."

The blanket shook once.

A laugh. Definitely a laugh.

Chan's heart loosened.

"Do you want the note from the pudding court added to the evidence file?" he asked.

"Shut up."

"Is that yes?"

"It's shut up."

"I'll interpret carefully."

Minho emerged from the blanket slowly, hair a disaster, eyes shiny from tiredness and maybe something else. Chan resisted every instinct he had and did not fix the hair.

Minho looked at him.

"You can fix it," he mumbled.

Chan's hand was in Minho's hair before his brain fully caught up.

He smoothed the pieces back from Minho's forehead, gentle, careful, thumb brushing once near his temple. Minho let his eyes close.

"Too much?" Chan asked.

Minho shook his head.

So Chan kept going.

The room settled again, but this quiet felt different. Not lighter exactly. More honest. The kind of quiet that came after something had been named and not punished.

Minho's breathing eased little by little.

Chan tucked him back down, checked the water, and moved the phone farther away after setting it to do not disturb. He washed his hands again because Minho watched him until he did.

"Happy?" Chan asked.

"Sanitary," Minho said.

"Beautiful compliment."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

Minho reached for him with two fingers.

Chan came back immediately.

"Lie down," Minho said.

"Bossy."

"Sick."

"That too."

"Lie down or I will tell the group chat you ate unapproved custard."

Chan gasped softly. "You wouldn't."

"I contain multitudes."

Chan laughed and slid under the blanket again.

Minho curled toward him before Chan could even ask, careful not to breathe too close, careful even while wanting. That was the part that undid Chan the most. Minho could be all sharp corners and complaints, but even feverless and stuffed up and tired, he was still trying to protect Chan in the small ways he could.

Chan kissed his forehead.

Minho made a tiny satisfied sound.

Then he opened one eye. "You washed your hands, right?"

Chan laughed into his hair. "Yes."

"Good."

"Can I stay?"

Minho's eye closed again.

"You ask that like you would leave."

"I wouldn't."

"Then stop asking stupid questions."

Chan smiled.

"Okay."

For a while, there were no more alerts. No knocks. No sliding trays. No hallway hands waving around corners.

There was only Minho's slow, stuffy breathing and Chan's hand moving carefully over his back. There was the empty mango cup on the table, the folded note under the tissue box, the soup container waiting to be put away later, and the phone sleeping face down where it could stop demanding things from someone who needed rest.

Chan was almost asleep when Minho whispered, "Chan."

"Yeah?"

"If they ask, I hated the pudding."

Chan opened his eyes.

Minho did not move.

"You finished it," Chan whispered.

"Because I hated it completely."

"Devastating review."

"Tell them never to bring it again."

"Never?"

Minho's fingers curled in Chan's hoodie.

"Tomorrow," he mumbled, "they can try again."

Chan smiled against his hair.

"I'll pass along the complaint."

"Low perception."

"Extremely low."

"And no group chat celebration."

"No group chat celebration."

Minho relaxed.

Chan waited until he thought Minho had drifted again.

Then the phone, traitor that it was, buzzed one more time from the nightstand.

Chan reached for it with the caution of a man approaching a sleeping cat.

The screen lit up.

A new message from the group chat sat at the top.

Did he like the pudding? We have more.

Chan looked at Minho.

Minho's eyes were still closed, but his mouth had curved into the smallest possible smile.

"Don't," Minho whispered.

Chan smiled back.

"I didn't say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face is on silent."

"Liar."

Chan turned the phone face down again without replying.

Minho's smile faded into sleep.

Chan stayed awake just long enough to press one more kiss into his hair, careful and warm, a promise made without making a sound.

Outside the door, the dorm waited with backup pudding.

Inside, Chan kept the secret for exactly as long as Minho needed him to.

Fanwork note: Bang Chan and Lee Know are public performer names listed on Stray Kids' official profile; this chapter is fictional, non-explicit fanfiction and does not describe real private events. 1

References

1
Stray Kids official profile
straykids.jype.com

Pudding through the door

References

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