Chapter 1: Sentence is cuddles

Minho tried to sneeze quietly into the blanket, failed completely, and looked so offended by his own nose that Chan nearly dropped the mug of honey tea.

"Don't," Minho warned, voice scratchy and stuffed up.

Chan froze in the doorway with both hands around the mug. "Don't what?"

"Don't make that face."

"What face?"

"The one where you look like I just invented being cute."

Chan's mouth pressed into a line so hard his dimples betrayed him anyway.

Minho narrowed his eyes over the edge of the blanket. His hair was a soft mess from being asleep for too long, one cheek faintly pink from fever-warm pillows even though the thermometer had promised it was only a cold, and the tip of his nose was flushed from too much tissue. He looked annoyed. He looked sleepy. He looked like a cat who had been gently rained on and blamed the weather personally.

Chan was not strong enough for any of it.

"You're doing it again," Minho said.

"I'm carrying tea," Chan said, very carefully. "This is my responsible face."

"Your responsible face is stupid."

"That sounds mean. You must be sick."

Minho sniffled, which ruined the glare instantly. His eyes squeezed shut, his brows pulled together, and he tried to duck into the blanket before the sneeze caught him.

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

The sneeze was tiny. It barely made it out from under the blanket. Minho still blinked afterward like the whole room had personally startled him.

Chan set the mug down before his heart could do anything dramatic with hot liquid in his hands.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

Minho dragged the blanket higher. "Do not."

"That was the smallest sneeze I've ever heard."

"It was normal."

"It was pocket-sized."

"Leave."

"I live here."

"Move out."

Chan sat on the edge of the bed instead, close enough that his knee pressed against Minho's hip through the blanket. "I can't. My roommate is sick and adorable. Somebody has to supervise him."

"Somebody has to stop saying adorable before I bite him."

"Your nose is too blocked for biting."

Minho's eyes opened just enough to glare.

Chan leaned in and kissed the only safe bit of forehead available above the blanket. Then he kissed the warm spot near Minho's hairline. Then the bridge of his nose, very lightly, because Minho made a ridiculous little sound of protest when Chan got too close to the pink part.

"Chan."

"That one was medicinal."

"You are kissing the germs directly."

"I'm emotionally immune."

"That's not how bodies work."

"Mine does. Very advanced."

Minho made a noise that might have been a laugh if his throat had not caught on it halfway. The cough that followed was soft but enough to make Chan's whole posture change. His teasing dropped out of his face at once. He slid one hand behind Minho's shoulders, eased him upright, and reached for the mug.

"Small sips," Chan murmured.

"I know how to drink tea."

"I know. Let me fuss."

Minho's expression shifted. It was not quite a smile, because he was determined to remain difficult on principle, but the edge of his mouth loosened.

"You enjoy fussing too much."

"I enjoy you letting me."

"I'm not letting you. You're impossible to remove."

"Same thing."

Chan held the mug while Minho drank. The tea had cooled to the careful temperature Chan had tested three times with the back of his finger. Minho wrapped both hands around the ceramic anyway, mostly because Chan's hands stayed around his, and the warmth between them made something quiet settle into the room.

Outside the window, the day was bright in that pale, lazy way that made staying in bed feel morally correct. The curtains moved a little whenever the heater clicked on. Somewhere in the dorm, a door opened, voices passed by, and then everything softened again.

Minho took another sip. Honey touched his upper lip.

Chan stared.

Minho lowered the mug slowly. "What."

"Nothing."

"Christopher."

"There is honey."

"On the mug?"

"On you."

Minho blinked, already suspicious.

Chan leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and pulled away with the most innocent face he could build.

Minho stared at him for three full seconds.

"You are unbelievable."

"You're welcome."

"I didn't thank you."

"Your face did."

"My face is congested."

"Still thankful."

Minho looked away, which was the first honest mistake he had made all morning. It gave Chan a clear view of the smile he tried to hide inside the mug.

Chan softened completely.

"There," he said, quieter. "That's better."

"Don't sound so pleased with yourself."

"Too late."

Minho finished another sip and then turned his head sharply into his elbow.

"Hh... hih-ktsch!"

This one was even smaller, trapped in the sleeve of Chan's hoodie, which Minho had stolen the night before when the chills started. The sleeves covered half his hands. His hair bounced. His eyes watered a little afterward, not enough to be dramatic, but enough for Chan to feel personally attacked by the universe.

"Oh, baby," Chan said, without thinking.

Minho froze.

Chan froze too.

The room went very quiet.

Minho's ears turned pink.

Chan's eyes went wide, because he had called Minho plenty of things before, some teasing, some soft, some said into pillows at two in the morning when nobody else could hear. But this one had slipped out so naturally, so hopelessly fond, that even he heard how far gone he sounded.

Minho slowly pulled the blanket up until only his eyes showed.

"I sneezed," he said from behind the wool.

"I noticed."

"You said baby."

"I panicked."

"Because I sneezed."

"It was a very serious sneeze."

"It was tiny."

"That's what made it serious."

Minho stared at him. Then, to Chan's total ruin, he laughed. It was quiet and rough around the edges, and he had to stop halfway to sniffle, but it was still a laugh.

Chan leaned forward until his forehead rested against the blanket where Minho's chest was. "You're laughing. I saved the patient."

"You embarrassed the patient."

"He needed circulation."

"He needs sleep."

"He also needs this."

Chan lifted his head, cupped Minho's face through the loose frame of blanket, and kissed his cheek. One kiss. Then another, closer to his ear. Then one to the soft slope of his jaw, gentle and warm.

Minho made a tiny protesting sound but did not move away.

"You said one," he muttered.

"I didn't."

"You implied one."

"I implied care. Care is plural."

"That is not grammar."

"It is my grammar."

Chan kissed his cheek again.

Minho groaned into the blanket, but his hand came out from under it and caught the front of Chan's sweatshirt. He did not push him away. He just held on, fingers curled there like he was anchoring Chan in place and pretending it had been Chan's idea.

Chan noticed. Of course he noticed. His whole face changed with the effort not to mention it.

"Don't," Minho said immediately.

"I haven't said anything."

"Your face is talking."

"My face loves you."

Minho's fingers tightened.

Chan went still enough that the air between them felt careful.

Minho stared at the drawstring of Chan's sweatshirt. His voice came out smaller, nearly hidden behind the cold. "It's allowed."

Chan's chest ached.

"Yeah?"

"Unfortunately."

"I'll try to survive the tragedy."

"You won't."

"No. Probably not."

Chan climbed properly onto the bed then, not asking because Minho's hand still had him by the sweatshirt and because the answer had been clear for hours. He arranged himself behind Minho with the seriousness of someone negotiating a stage lift. Blanket first. Pillow angled. Tissues within reach. Tea on the nightstand. Phone charger moved so it would not dig into anyone's back. Minho rolled his eyes through all of it, but when Chan finally settled behind him, chest to Minho's back, one arm looped carefully around his waist, Minho melted so fast he lost the right to mock anything.

"Comfortable?" Chan whispered.

"No."

Chan tucked his chin over Minho's shoulder. "Liar."

"You're too warm."

"That's the point."

"You're too clingy."

"Also the point."

"Your arm is heavy."

Chan loosened it.

Minho caught his wrist and pulled it back.

Chan smiled into his hair.

"You're terrible at rejecting me," he said.

"I'm sick. My reflexes are slow."

"Mm. Convenient."

Minho sniffled again. Chan reached for a tissue before Minho even lifted his head. He held it out, waited while Minho took it, and then looked away politely when Minho blew his nose with as much dignity as a stuffed nose allowed.

"Don't laugh," Minho said.

"I'm not laughing."

"You're smiling."

"Because you're cute."

"I am disgusting."

Chan kissed the back of his head. "You're sick. There's a difference."

"My nose sounds like a broken kettle."

"A cute kettle."

"I hate you."

"No you don't."

"I could."

"Not while you're wearing my hoodie."

Minho looked down at himself like he had forgotten. The hoodie swallowed him, black sleeves over his palms, hem bunched under the blanket. He had stolen it because it smelled like Chan and because his own sweatshirt had felt too cold at two in the morning. He had been half asleep when he asked for it, voice rough, eyes barely open. Chan had handed it over in under three seconds, then spent the rest of the night trying not to combust every time Minho tucked his nose into the collar.

Now Minho tugged the collar up again, which was either an accident or an attack.

Chan made a quiet sound into his hair.

"You're so gone," Minho said.

"I know."

"Embarrassing."

"Deeply."

"For you."

"Mostly for me."

Minho's shoulders shook with a silent laugh, and Chan felt it against his chest. He hugged him closer, careful not to squeeze his ribs. Minho let his head fall back a little until it rested against Chan's collarbone.

The contact did something to both of them.

The teasing faded into the lazy rhythm of the room. Chan rubbed slow circles into Minho's stomach through the blanket, not ticklish, just steady. Minho's breathing was a little noisy because of his cold, but it started to even out. Every few minutes, he sniffed, and Chan reached for another tissue or adjusted the blanket around his shoulders. He was so automatic about it that Minho finally spoke without opening his eyes.

"Have you been trained?"

"In what?"

"Being unbearable."

"Years of practice."

"No, caretaking. You act like there's a manual."

Chan's thumb paused at Minho's side, then started again. "There is."

Minho opened one eye.

Chan smiled, shy in a way that made him look younger. "It's just called knowing you."

Minho closed his eye again immediately.

"That was gross."

"You asked."

"I regret it."

"You don't."

"I do. My cold got worse from hearing that."

Chan kissed the shell of his ear. "Then I'll balance it out with medicine later."

"And more kisses, apparently."

"Doctor's orders."

"You are not a doctor."

"I'm your Chan. Higher authority."

Minho went quiet.

It was the kind of quiet Chan had learned to listen to. Not sleep yet. Not annoyance. Just Minho taking something soft and turning it over where nobody else could see.

Chan did not push. He pressed one last kiss into Minho's hair and stayed there, breathing him in through the faint smell of shampoo, honey, and the mint balm Chan had rubbed under his nose earlier.

Minho sniffled.

Then his body tensed.

Chan knew before Minho did.

"Tissue," Chan said, already reaching.

"No, wait, I don't-"

"You do."

"I don't- hih..."

Chan got the tissue under his nose just in time.

"Hh'ktsch! Hih... ktsch!"

Two sneezes, both tiny, both helpless, both followed by Minho blinking at the tissue like it had appeared by magic.

Chan stared at him.

Minho stared back, watery-eyed and mortified.

"Don't say it," Minho rasped.

Chan's voice came out strangled. "I have to."

"You really don't."

"That was the cutest thing that has ever happened in this apartment."

"Chan."

"Maybe in this city."

"Chan."

"Possibly in Korea."

Minho twisted enough to smack weakly at his chest. Chan caught his hand, kissed the knuckles, then kissed each fingertip because he had no self-control and apparently no desire to recover it.

"You're going to get sick," Minho muttered, but it was softer now. Worried, underneath the performance.

Chan shook his head. "I'm not."

"You don't know that."

"I washed my hands. I made tea. I took vitamins because you glared at me. I am being sensible."

"You kissed my nose."

"That was less sensible."

"Multiple times."

"Emotionally necessary."

Minho looked down at their joined hands. His voice dropped. "I don't want you miserable because of me."

Chan's heart folded around the sentence.

He shifted until Minho could see him properly, still keeping the blanket tucked around them both. "Listen to me. I'm not miserable."

"You're stuck in bed."

"With you."

"I'm sweaty and gross."

"You're warm and sleepy."

"My nose is red."

"I like your nose."

"You like everything."

"About you? Yeah. That's kind of the problem."

Minho's mouth twitched.

Chan leaned closer. "If I start feeling sick, I'll say so. I promise. But right now, I want to be here. I want to look after you. I want to be annoying and clingy and kiss you too much until you either get better or throw a pillow at me."

"I can do both."

"I believe in you."

"You're impossible."

"And still here."

Minho's eyes moved over his face. The cold made him look softer than usual, all his sharp little defenses blurred around the edges. He was tired enough not to hide every feeling before it reached his eyes. Chan watched the worry loosen, then the fondness come through in its place.

"Fine," Minho said.

Chan brightened suspiciously fast.

"Fine what?"

"You can stay."

"Generous."

"You can be clingy."

"Already happening."

"You can kiss me."

Chan went completely still again.

Minho's face turned pinker than the cold alone could explain. He looked away, suddenly fascinated by the blanket seam. "Not my mouth. I'm sick."

Chan nodded, too careful to tease. "Okay."

"Forehead is fine."

"Okay."

"Cheek is fine."

"Okay."

"Hair is weird but you already do it."

"I do."

"Hands are fine."

Chan lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of Minho's again, slower this time.

Minho swallowed.

"See?" Chan murmured. "Very respectful."

"You are smiling like a villain."

"A respectful villain."

Minho huffed. It turned into a cough at the end, and Chan immediately reached for the water bottle. Minho accepted it without complaint, which told Chan he was more tired than he admitted.

After a few sips, Minho sank back down into the pillows. Chan followed him, refusing to let the space between them open wider than a breath. He tucked the blanket over Minho's shoulder, then tucked himself against that blanket like an extra layer of warmth.

"You're really not going to leave me alone, are you?" Minho asked.

Chan kissed his temple. "Nope."

"Even if I sneeze on you?"

"Especially then."

"That's disgusting."

"That's love."

"Disgusting love."

"Your favorite kind."

"I never said that."

"You pulled my arm back earlier."

Minho fell silent.

Chan smiled.

"Evidence," he said.

"I was cold."

"You were needy."

"I have a cold."

"And you're needy."

Minho shifted under the blanket, turning just enough to press his face into Chan's chest. It was an answer and a surrender all at once.

Chan's teasing vanished again. He wrapped both arms around him, one hand at the back of his head, fingers sinking gently into his hair. Minho breathed against his sweatshirt, warm and stuffy and close.

"There you go," Chan whispered.

Minho mumbled something into the fabric.

"What was that?"

"Didn't say anything."

"You did."

"No."

"Minho."

A pause.

Then, barely audible: "Don't move."

Chan closed his eyes.

"I won't."

"Even if I sleep?"

"Especially if you sleep."

"You'll get bored."

"I have your hair to pet."

"I'm not a cat."

Chan's hand continued its slow path through his hair.

Minho made no move to stop him.

"Sure," Chan said.

"Don't say sure like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you don't believe me."

"I believe you're not a cat."

"Liar."

"A little."

Minho's breath hitched against him. Chan felt the tiny warning before he heard it. He reached for a tissue with one hand while keeping the other braced around Minho's back.

"Again?" Chan asked softly.

Minho made a miserable noise.

"It's okay. I've got you."

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

The sneeze landed in the tissue, soft and tired. Minho stayed curled into Chan afterward, too sleepy to be embarrassed right away.

Chan kissed the top of his head.

"Bless you."

"Stop sounding happy about it."

"I'm not happy you're sick."

"You are happy I'm cute."

"That's separate."

"You're so annoying."

"And still here."

Minho's hand crept up and gripped the back of Chan's shirt.

"Still here," Chan repeated, quieter.

The room warmed around them. The tea cooled on the nightstand. The tissue box sat open like a tiny white flag of surrender. Minho's breathing gradually slowed, each stuffy inhale pressed into Chan's chest, each exhale loosening another bit of tension from his shoulders.

Chan thought he had fallen asleep until Minho spoke again.

"Chris."

"Mm?"

"If I fall asleep and you leave, I'll know."

Chan smiled into his hair. "How?"

"I'll feel betrayed in my dreams."

"Can't have that."

"No."

"I'll stay."

"Promise?"

The word was small. Sleepy. Honest in a way Minho usually protected himself from being.

Chan pressed his lips to Minho's forehead and kept them there for a long second.

"Promise."

Minho seemed to accept that. His fingers relaxed in Chan's shirt. His head grew heavier against Chan's chest. Chan kept stroking his hair, counting the slow breaths, resisting the urge to kiss him every time his nose made a soft little sound against the fabric.

He resisted for almost a full minute.

Then Minho sniffled in his sleep, tiny and indignant.

Chan melted.

"Sorry," he whispered to absolutely no one, and kissed his hair again.

Minho, half asleep, mumbled, "Caught you."

Chan froze.

One of Minho's eyes opened a sliver.

"You said you wouldn't move."

"My mouth moved. Technically different."

"Criminal."

"Guilty."

Minho's eye closed again. "Sentence is cuddles."

Chan's smile went soft enough to hurt.

"How long?"

Minho burrowed closer, nose tucked safely against Chan's sweatshirt.

"All day."

Chan tightened his arms around him, careful and sure.

"I can do all day."

For a while, that was enough. The apartment stayed quiet. The sunlight shifted across the blanket. Chan's phone buzzed once on the floor and went ignored. Minho slept in little pieces, waking only to sniffle, accept a sip of water, complain weakly about being babied, and then lean back into Chan the second Chan tried to give him space.

The next time Minho woke, his hair was flatter on one side, his voice even rougher, and his first word was a hoarse, offended, "Tissues."

Chan reached for the box.

It was empty.

They both stared at it.

Minho's eyes widened. His nose twitched.

Chan looked from the empty box to Minho's face and made the grave mistake of laughing.

"Don't laugh," Minho said, already breathy.

"I'm not. I'm moving. I'm saving you."

"You promised not to leave."

"I have to get tissues."

"Traitor."

"It's two meters away."

"Feels farther."

Minho grabbed the front of Chan's sweatshirt with surprising speed for someone who had claimed his reflexes were slow.

Chan looked down at the fist in his shirt, then back at Minho's desperate, sneezy little face.

His entire expression softened into something helpless.

"Okay," he whispered. "New plan."

"What plan?"

Chan slid one arm under Minho's knees and the other around his back.

Minho blinked. "No."

"Yes."

"Absolutely not."

"You said I couldn't leave."

"I didn't say carry me."

"You implied portable clinginess."

"That is not a phrase."

Chan stood up with Minho bundled against his chest, blanket and all.

Minho made the smallest, most scandalized sound Chan had ever heard.

"Christopher Bang."

"Lee Minho."

"Put me down."

"After tissues."

"I'm sick, not helpless."

"You're both, emotionally."

"I will end you."

"After tissues," Chan repeated, and kissed his forehead while carrying him toward the hallway.

Minho hid his face in Chan's neck, grumbling into the collar of his sweatshirt, but his arms went around Chan's shoulders anyway.

Halfway to the closet, his breath hitched.

Chan stopped dead.

"No," Minho whispered.

"Bless you in advance."

"Don't make me laugh."

"I'm not."

"You are. Your body is laughing."

"My body is emotional."

Minho sucked in a tiny, helpless breath.

Chan tightened his hold, eyes bright and ruined.

"I've got you," he said.

Minho's nose twitched again.

And Chan, still holding him in the middle of the hallway with no tissues within reach, realized tomorrow's problem had already arrived.