Chapter 3: Come Back Later

The second knock landed softer than the first, like whoever stood outside had finally remembered there was a sick person in the room.

Minho still flinched.

It was a tiny movement, barely more than a ripple through the blankets, but Chan felt it everywhere his arms touched him. Minho had been so close to sleep that his body had already gone heavy and warm against Chan's chest. Now his fingers curled weakly into the hoodie at Chan's wrist, not quite holding on and definitely not letting go.

Chan lowered his mouth to Minho's hair.

"I've got it," he whispered.

"You said that already," Minho mumbled.

"I meant it both times."

The door knocked again.

"Chan," the voice outside called, softer now. "Are you alive?"

"No," Chan answered immediately. "Come back later."

There was a pause.

Then, from the hallway, a very unimpressed, "That sounds like something an alive person would say."

Minho made a sound into Chan's shoulder. It might have been a laugh if his nose had not been so blocked and his throat had not sounded like it had been dragged over carpet.

Chan looked down at him. "Don't encourage them."

"I'm dying quietly," Minho said.

"You're not dying."

"Then let me be dramatic quietly."

Chan kissed the top of his head before he could stop himself. "Fine. Quietly dramatic."

Outside, the doorknob did not move, which meant at least one person in the dorm had chosen survival. Chan appreciated that. He appreciated it even more when a grocery bag rustled against the hallway floor instead of the door opening.

"We brought things," the voice said.

"Leave them," Chan called.

"It's soup."

Minho's eyes opened a sliver.

Chan felt the shift and looked far too pleased with himself. "Soup."

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like soup is a person you invited to save me."

"Soup is doing more for you than you are."

Minho turned his face just enough to glare at him. The glare lasted half a second before his nose twitched.

Chan grabbed a tissue from the new box with the speed of a man who had trained for this exact event. He brought it up gently, not crowding, just close enough that Minho could hide if he needed to.

Minho stared at him through watery eyes.

"Do not look proud," he warned.

"I'm not."

"Your face is doing it."

"My face loves you. It can't help itself."

Minho's glare broke apart at the edges, which was dangerous. His breath hitched once, then twice.

"Hh... hhktsch!"

Chan caught the sneeze neatly in the tissue and folded it away before Minho could make that embarrassed little noise he hated so much. He still made it anyway, muffled and annoyed, pressing his forehead briefly into Chan's collarbone.

"Bless you," Chan murmured.

"I hate this room."

"The room didn't sneeze."

"The room allowed witnesses."

"The witnesses are outside."

"They have ears."

Chan glanced toward the door, then raised his voice. "Nobody heard anything."

From the hallway came a suspicious silence.

Then, very carefully, "Heard what?"

Minho groaned so hard that Chan had to bite his lip not to laugh.

"See?" Chan whispered. "Perfect crime."

"I am going to move out."

"You threatened that last week."

"This time I mean it."

"You cannot move out while wrapped in my blanket."

Minho looked down as if the blanket had betrayed him personally.

Chan used the moment to shift them. Slowly, carefully, he untangled one arm from around Minho's waist and kept the other firm across his middle. Minho reacted at once, a tiny tightening of his fingers that would have been easy to miss if Chan were not watching him like his entire day depended on it.

"I'm not leaving," Chan said.

"You moved."

"I need to reach the door."

"That's leaving-adjacent."

Chan's smile softened. "Minho."

Minho shut his eyes like the sound of his name in that voice was unfair. Maybe it was. Chan was not above unfair tactics when the person he loved had a cold and a stubborn streak strong enough to power the entire dorm.

"I'll keep one hand on you," Chan promised. "Deal?"

Minho opened one eye. "That's ridiculous."

"Deal?"

"You are ridiculous."

"Deal."

Minho sniffled, looked away, and then gripped Chan's sleeve with two fingers.

It was answer enough.

Chan moved like he was defusing something fragile. He slid off the bed only far enough to plant one foot on the floor, leaning back so Minho could stay tucked into his side. It was awkward and absolutely unnecessary and somehow the only method either of them would accept.

The blanket dragged after them in a soft heap.

"You look like a very bad magician," Minho muttered.

"A magician would have fixed your nose by now."

"Then be one."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

Chan laughed under his breath and pressed a quick kiss to Minho's knuckles where they held his sleeve. Minho immediately tried to pull his hand away, but Chan had already let go, which ruined the escape.

"Don't be smug," Minho said.

"I'm deeply humble."

"You are one compliment away from glowing."

"Then don't compliment me."

"I wasn't planning to."

Chan reached the door with a stretch that probably deserved some kind of athletic award. He opened it only a few inches.

A paper bag sat on the floor. Beside it were two more tissue boxes, a bottle of juice, and a packet of cough drops. A hand appeared around the edge of the hallway wall and gave a tiny wave without crossing the threshold.

Chan stared at it.

"Good choice," he said.

The hand turned into a thumbs-up.

Minho, still half hidden against Chan's side, whispered, "If they come in, I am never speaking to you again."

"They are not coming in."

"You say that like you control them."

"Today I do."

The voice outside lowered to a stage whisper. "Is he sleeping?"

"He was," Chan said.

Minho pinched his sleeve.

Chan corrected himself. "He is resting."

"Is he mad?"

Minho lifted his head by the smallest possible amount.

Chan saw the look on his face and felt a laugh climb dangerously up his throat.

"He's fine," Chan said.

"That means yes."

"Come back later."

"We left soup."

"Thank you."

"And tissues."

"Thank you."

"And the cough drops are the good ones."

Minho's grip loosened just a little.

Chan noticed. Of course he noticed.

"He says thank you," Chan called.

Minho's head snapped toward him with the most betrayed expression a congested person could manage.

"I did not."

Chan looked down at him. "Your soul did."

"My soul wants privacy."

"Your soul also wants the good cough drops."

That was, unfortunately, true.

The hand outside gave another thumbs-up, then disappeared. Footsteps retreated down the hall. A cabinet opened somewhere. Someone laughed too loudly and was immediately shushed by someone else.

Chan waited until the dorm settled into a muffled kind of quiet before closing the door with his hip.

The room felt different once the latch clicked. Smaller, warmer, theirs again.

Minho exhaled like he had been holding his breath for the entire conversation. The sound came out rough. Chan turned immediately, concern already taking over his face.

"Hey."

"Don't." Minho pointed one weak finger at him. "Do not make the worried face."

"I have several worried faces. You'll need to be specific."

"All of them."

"That seems unreasonable."

"So are you."

Chan slid the bag onto the little chair beside the bed, then guided Minho back onto the mattress. He did not carry him this time. Minho would have complained forever, and Chan had used up enough luck for one afternoon. Instead, he kept a hand at Minho's back and another at his elbow, steadying him through the three steps like Minho might dissolve without supervision.

Minho allowed it with the grave dignity of someone too tired to fight properly.

The second he was under the blanket again, Chan tucked it around his shoulders.

Minho watched him with narrowed eyes. "You are enjoying this."

"No."

"Liar."

Chan sat on the edge of the bed and opened the soup container. Steam rose, fragrant and gentle. It smelled like vegetables, broth, and the sort of care that could be disguised as an errand if everyone agreed to pretend.

"I enjoy you being taken care of," Chan said.

Minho looked away.

That answer had landed too cleanly. Chan knew because Minho stopped preparing a comeback and started worrying the edge of the blanket between his fingers.

"It's annoying," Minho said after a moment.

"Being taken care of?"

"Being easy for you."

Chan paused with the spoon in his hand.

The humidifier hissed softly in the corner. The hallway had gone quiet again except for one distant cabinet closing. Afternoon light pressed against the curtains and left the room gold around the edges.

Minho stared very hard at the blanket.

"I mean," he said, then stopped.

Chan waited.

Minho swallowed. His voice came out scratchier when he tried again. "I mean you make it look easy. Like this is nothing. Like you can just sit here all day and hold tissues and make tea and answer doors and not get tired of me."

Chan's expression changed so fast that Minho immediately regretted speaking.

"Don't," Minho said. "Don't look like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I said something breakable."

Chan set the spoon down.

"You did," he said softly.

Minho's eyes flicked up, then away.

Chan moved closer, slowly enough to give him room to protest. When Minho did not, Chan reached for his hand under the blanket. His fingers were warm. A little clammy. Still Minho, still stubbornly there.

"It isn't nothing," Chan said. "I get worried. I overthink. I check your forehead too much and I pretend I'm not counting how many times you cough."

"That is not comforting."

"I'm getting there."

Minho sniffled. "You better."

Chan rubbed his thumb over Minho's knuckles.

"It's not nothing," he said again. "But it's easy to want to do it. That's different."

Minho went very still.

Chan did not try to fill the silence. He had learned, after years of Minho, that some answers needed room to sneak in through the side door. If he pushed, Minho would retreat. If he waited, Minho might pretend not to come closer while coming closer anyway.

After a while, Minho's hand turned in his.

Not fully.

Just enough.

Chan looked down at their fingers and smiled like he had been handed the sun in a tissue box.

"Do not," Minho said.

"I'm not doing anything."

"Your face is being loud."

"I'll tell it to whisper."

"Tell it to leave."

"It lives here."

Minho made a congested sound that might have been a laugh, then ruined it by coughing once into his shoulder. Chan moved at once, reaching for water, but Minho held up their joined hands.

"Slow," he said.

Chan stopped.

Minho looked surprised that he had been obeyed.

Chan softened again, impossible and helpless. "Okay. Slow."

He lifted the water bottle with his free hand and held it out. Minho took a few careful sips, nose wrinkling at the effort. Chan watched him like every swallow mattered. It probably did, to Chan.

When Minho handed the bottle back, Chan traded it for the spoon.

Minho eyed him. "Absolutely not."

"It's soup."

"I know what soup is."

"Then open your mouth."

"I can feed myself."

"You can."

"Good."

Chan held the spoon exactly where it was.

Minho stared at it.

Chan stared back.

The spoon steamed between them like a peace offering and a challenge.

"Christopher."

"Lee Minho."

"I have hands."

"One of them is busy holding mine."

Minho looked down.

He had, in fact, not let go.

That was rude of reality.

Chan's mouth twitched.

"Say one word," Minho warned.

"I would never."

"You would always."

"Maybe," Chan admitted.

Minho considered the spoon with the exhausted focus of someone choosing between pride and warm broth. Pride lost in a very small, very dramatic way. He leaned forward and let Chan feed him one spoonful.

Chan did not make a sound.

He deserved an award for that too.

Minho swallowed, then narrowed his eyes. "If you cry, I am leaving."

"I'm not crying."

"You look emotionally unstable."

"You let me feed you soup."

"Once."

"A historic moment."

"A medical emergency."

"A romantic medical emergency."

Minho's ears went pink so quickly that Chan almost forgot the soup.

"No," Minho said.

"No what?"

"No whatever that was."

"That was accurate."

"That was dangerous."

Chan grinned, then leaned in and kissed the back of Minho's hand. Soft. Quick. Nowhere near enough.

Minho closed his eyes.

For a second, he looked too tired to pretend. His face softened under the cold, under the annoyance, under all the little defenses he kept arranged so carefully. Chan saw the tiredness there. He saw the trust too, which made his chest ache in a way he could not tease his way out of.

"More soup?" Chan asked quietly.

Minho nodded.

This time, he did not argue when Chan brought the spoon up.

They managed half the container like that, slow enough that the soup stopped steaming and Minho's shoulders loosened by degrees. Between spoonfuls, Chan wiped his nose when Minho let him and looked away when Minho needed to do it himself. There were rules to this kind of care. Some of them were written in Minho's glare. Some of them Chan had memorized by heart.

At one point, Minho sneezed twice in quick, breathless little bursts, and Chan handled the tissue without comment.

At another, someone laughed in the kitchen and Minho froze again.

Chan squeezed his hand. "They won't come in."

"They could."

"They value their lives."

Minho made a small, pleased sound, then pretended he had not.

Chan let him have the lie.

When Minho finally leaned back against the pillows, his eyelids were heavier. His cheeks still held a faint pink flush, but the restless edge had gone out of him. The blanket had swallowed most of his shape. Only his face, one hand, and the tip of his nose remained visible.

Chan put the soup aside and reached for the cough drops.

"Good ones," he said.

Minho opened one eye. "Don't sound so victorious."

"I won them in battle."

"You opened a door three inches."

"Emotionally, it was a battle."

"For me."

"For both of us."

Minho accepted the cough drop and tucked it into his cheek with an expression of grudging approval. Chan watched him for a reaction, got none, and looked delighted anyway.

"Better?"

"No."

"Liar."

"A little," Minho admitted.

Chan's smile went soft enough to be embarrassing.

Minho sighed. "You need to stop looking happy every time my body does one normal thing."

"I can't."

"Try."

"I tried yesterday. It didn't take."

"Weak."

"Completely."

Minho blinked at him, caught by the easy honesty.

Chan leaned closer, resting one hand near Minho's shoulder but not crowding him. "Do you want to sleep again?"

"I want everyone to evaporate."

"That's not one of the treatment options."

"Then sleep."

"I can work with sleep."

Chan rearranged the pillows with the seriousness of someone building a tiny fortress. Minho complained about every adjustment and accepted every one. The blanket went higher. The water moved closer. The tissues sat at an angle Chan deemed optimal and Minho deemed absurd. The humidifier continued its soft corner hiss, turning the room into a little bubble of warmth and breath.

When Chan started to stand, Minho's hand shot out from under the blanket.

It was not graceful. It was not dramatic. It was just fast enough to catch Chan's sleeve and weak enough to make Chan's entire expression fold.

"I'm only putting the soup away," Chan said.

Minho looked at the wall.

His fingers did not let go.

Chan sat back down.

"Or I can do that later."

"You said you would stay."

"I am staying."

"You keep almost leaving."

Chan wanted to argue because technically he had not left at all. He wanted to point out that reaching for doors and soup and water did not count. He wanted to make a joke so Minho would roll his eyes and the air would go light again.

Instead, he heard what Minho had actually said.

He slid back under the blanket.

Minho did not look at him.

Chan tucked himself behind him the way they had been before the knock, one arm around his waist, the other careful near his chest so Minho could breathe easily. He left space. Minho eliminated it by a fraction, shifting back until his shoulder touched Chan again.

"This better?" Chan asked.

Minho's answer was a tiny nod.

Chan kissed his temple.

"This?"

Another nod, smaller.

Chan kissed his cheek, barely there.

"This?"

Minho's mouth twitched. "You're testing your luck."

"I like data."

"You like being annoying."

"Also true."

Chan pressed one more kiss to the edge of Minho's hairline and then stopped, even though stopping took effort. Minho relaxed by degrees. His fingers found Chan's wrist under the blanket and settled there like they had always meant to.

The room quieted.

From the hallway, someone opened the fridge too loudly, then whispered an apology to no one in particular. Minho's shoulders tensed, but Chan rubbed a slow line over his arm until they dropped again.

"They're trying," Chan murmured.

"They are bad at it."

"A little."

"They care."

"A lot."

Minho was silent for a long moment.

"Don't tell them I said that."

"Never."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"And don't tell them I ate soup."

"They brought the soup."

"They don't need closure."

Chan buried a laugh against Minho's shoulder.

Minho turned his head just enough to see him. His eyes were tired, but the corner of his mouth had softened.

"You're laughing at a sick person," he said.

"I'm laughing with a sick person."

"I didn't laugh."

"Your soul did."

Minho's expression went flat. "My soul is filing a complaint."

"I'll handle the paperwork."

"You can't even handle a tissue box normally."

"I handled two today."

"While carrying me like stolen laundry."

"Precious laundry."

"Do not call me laundry."

"Then stop being bundled."

Minho looked down at the blanket mountain around him. "This is your fault."

"I accept full responsibility."

"Good."

His voice had thinned around the edges. Chan could hear sleep returning, slow and persuasive. He softened his hold and let the silence grow again.

Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. Sick-day time moved strangely, measured less by clocks than by sips of water, fresh tissues, the shifting weight of a body finally giving up on being brave.

Minho's breathing evened out.

Chan thought, carefully, that he might be asleep.

Then Minho whispered, "Chan."

"Yeah?"

"You really won't catch it?"

Chan's chest tightened.

There it was. The worry hiding under all the complaining. The thing Minho had been pushing away with jokes because saying it plainly would have made him too soft in his own eyes.

Chan kept his voice steady.

"I'm being careful. Washing my hands, using my own cup, all of that."

"You're still too close."

"I like too close."

"Chan."

"I know." He kissed the back of Minho's head, then rested his cheek there. "I know. I'll be careful. I promise."

Minho shifted, not enough to turn around, just enough to press his forehead to Chan's arm.

"You promise too easily."

"Only when I mean it."

"You mean everything too much."

"That's why you like me."

A pause.

Then, so quietly Chan almost missed it, "Maybe."

Chan stopped breathing for one very normal, very embarrassing second.

Minho must have felt it because his fingers tightened around Chan's wrist.

"Do not make it a thing," he said.

Chan's voice came out soft. "I would never."

"You already are."

"Only inside."

"Be inside quieter."

Chan smiled into his hair.

"Okay."

He stayed quiet after that. Properly quiet. He counted Minho's breaths without admitting it. He watched the light thin against the curtains. He listened for the hallway and decided, every time a floorboard creaked, that he would personally defend this room from anyone with soup, tissues, or good intentions.

Minho drifted again.

His hand stayed on Chan's wrist.

Chan stayed exactly where he was.

For a while, nothing interrupted them.

Then Minho's phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Minho's eyes opened with the slow horror of someone betrayed by technology.

Chan reached for it before the fourth buzz could happen.

"I'll silence it."

"Who's texting?"

Chan glanced at the screen.

Then his face did something Minho did not trust at all.

"What?" Minho rasped.

"Nothing."

"Christopher."

Chan held the phone just out of reach, which was brave for a man sharing a blanket with Lee Minho.

"They made a group chat," Chan said.

Minho stared at him.

Chan tried not to smile.

"It's called Operation Do Not Enter."

Minho closed his eyes.

"I hate all of you."

The phone buzzed again.

Chan looked down.

His smile turned helpless.

"Someone asked if they can slide dessert through the door later."

Minho opened one eye.

"What dessert?"

Chan's grin widened.

Minho realized his mistake at the exact same time.

"Don't," Minho warned.

"Your soul says thank you again."

"My soul is sick. It cannot be held responsible."

Chan laughed, soft enough not to hurt the room, and tucked the phone face down after switching it to silent.

Minho burrowed back against him, grumbling under his breath about betrayal, dessert, and group chats. But his hand found Chan's again, and when Chan kissed his knuckles this time, Minho did not pull away.

Not even a little.

Outside the door, the dorm kept trying very hard to be quiet.

Inside, Chan held Minho through another drowsy breath, another stubborn sniffle, another small surrender.

And when Minho finally whispered, almost asleep, "If it's pudding, wake me up," Chan smiled against his hair and promised he would.