Hongjoong had planned for chaos, stress, and potential last-minute disasters. What he had not planned for was incidentally becoming responsible for Stray Kids’ sick maknae… Naturally, at a large scale event, fate couldn’t resist complicating the leader of Ateez’s plans juuust a little.
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Sickie: I.N/ Jeongin
Caretaker/s: Seonghwa and Hongjoong
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Ateez had already finished performing, settled around a velvet-clad table and watching other groups light up the stage. Music, voices, and the clink of glass filled the air, creating just enough chaos for someone to sneak off unnoticed.
Hongjoong slipped away with practiced ease, ducking behind the curtains backstage while the event buzzed on without him. They’d been at this venue before, and he knew of a bathroom tucked away from the rest, a quiet little nook where he could take a breath.
The hallway beyond was blessedly quiet, all muted footsteps and distant music. Unfortunately, Hongjoong had once made the mistake of sharing his hot tip on the restroom with his members. He’d barely made it halfway down when he suddenly sensed another presence keeping pace just a few steps behind.
“Hey,” Seonghwa said, falling into step beside him like it was inevitable, their arms brushing together. “Bathroom break or escaping the function?”
Hongjoong huffed out a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Maybe both?” He quipped, sticking his hand back into his pant pocket. “You?”
“Maybe both.” Seonghwa repeated back at him with a soft smile. Hongjoong chuckled.
They reached the restroom, and Seonghwa gestured for Hongjoong to go first, to which he gave a grateful nod. He pushed the door open without thinking, letting it shut behind him, only to freeze mid-step.
Someone was on the floor. Not dead, hopefully, but he easily could’ve passed as it. The guy was collapsed against the cold tile, limbs folded into his chest, which was rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
“Oh—” Hongjoong’s stomach dropped. He was at the other man’s side in an instant, crouching, hands hovering uselessly. “Hey, uh- hello-?”
He placed a hand on his shoulder, rolling the stranger over so he could see his face, and felt his throat tighten immediately.
It wasn’t a stranger, not quite. Hongjoong knew that face.
It was Jeongin, better known as I.N from Stray Kids, lying half-conscious on the floor. His skin looked pale under the harsh lights, orange hair once fiery on stage now matted with sweat.
Oh god.
“You’re.. you’re Bang Chan’s kid..” Hongjoong whispered under his breath, like his brain was still trying to wrap itself around it.
There was no doubt about it. It was him.
Hongjoong shook Jeongin’s shoulder, eyes darting around the room like he’d somehow find a solution waiting for him right there.
“Hey, hey— can you hear me?” The older man called out, rubbing a hand up and down his arm to rouse him while the other helplessly fumbled for his phone.
Jeongin didn’t answer. His breathing just hitched again, letting out a thin, broken sound that made Hongjoong’s heart slam painfully against his ribs.
What was wrong with him? Why was he here? Alone? How long had he been here? Where were his other members? Didn’t they usually go together, at least as a pair? What could he do?
Shit. He certainly had to do something.
“Seonghwa,” Hongjoong called out , voice tight, not daring to look away from Jeongin for even a second. “I need you. Now.”
The door cracked open a mere second later, and Seonghwa was already moving before he knew what they were dealing with. A quiet gasp slipped from his lips, but he reigned himself in, not wanting to add to the stress. No need to panic.
Instead, he knelt on the other side of the younger man, steady and calm in the way he knew Hongjoong desperately needed him to be.
“Okay,” Seonghwa said softly, eyes scanning Jeongin with focused concern. “Let’s figure this out. Slow down, Joong.”
“He was just lying here,” Hongjoong explained, eyes wide. His phone was in his hand, clutched so tight his fingers turned white. “Do we need to call an ambulance or?”
Seonghwa considered it for a moment, then gave a small shake of his head. “Hold on for just a second..” At this event, with cameras left and right, keeping it on the down low would probably be in everyone’s best interest.
“Let’s see if we can wake him first.” Seonghwa hesitated, eyes scanning across Jeongin’s pale face and sweaty hairline. He brushed some orange strands from his forehead, feeling the undeniable fever burning through his skin.
Then, he pressed a fist down against his sternum, just enough for Jeongin to startle with a small gasp. His eyes fluttered open, heavy and dazed as he blinked at the two unfamiliar faces hovering above him.
“Hey there,” Seonghwa greeted him, voice velvety smooth, gentle in that nurturing way only he could manage. “I’m Seonghwa, you’re Iyen, right..?” he paused, eyebrows furrowing in a frown, “can you.. can you hear me?”
Jeongin just stared at him, clearly struggling to keep his eyes focused, and let out a small sound that sounded too close to whimper. “Hyung…?”
His shallow breaths sped up as he grew more aware of his surroundings, bordering on frantic, and Seonghwa gave him a warm smile in an attempt to mollify him. “Shh, you’re okay.. We’re gonna find your hyungs..”
Seonghwa pressed his fingers more deliberately against Jeongin’s cheek now, gauging his temperature. Then, he lifted his gaze to meet Hongjoong’s eyes. “Feverish.” He informed, short and clinical.
Hongjoong frowned, his concern growing. Was he sick? Overworked? Both? Either way, the kid wasn’t looking too hot…
Seonghwa carefully gathered the younger man in his arms, startling a little when Jeongin suddenly reached out, a shaky hand hovering in the air. His eyes softened immediately.
“Aigoo..” Seonghwa cushioned Jeongin’s head on his lap and grabbed the searching hand in his own, giving it a squeeze. “You’re okay, you’re okay..”
Footsteps echoed faintly outside the door—laughter, voices drifting closer and further as people passed by their little restroom hideout.
Hongjoong shot to his feet, pulse roaring in his ears as instincts kicked in. He turned, grabbed the door handle, and planted himself in front of it, shoulders squared like a shield.
“No one comes in,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. Then, a little louder. “We need to find his members.”
Behind him, Seonghwa was still speaking to Jeongin with a soothing voice, grounding, assessing, even though he got little response. With some coaxing, he eventually managed to get the younger Stray Kids member to sit upright against the wall, bracing him against his side.
Okay, good, that was progress.
Hongjoong pressed his palm flat against the door and breathed, forcing himself to stay steady. Lifting his phone, he hit Bang Chan’s number in his contacts, holding it up to his ear as it rang, even if he’d halfway given up before he even started.
They were at one of the biggest events of the year, there was no way Chan was going to take it. Even if his phone was on, which it likely wasn’t, he wouldn’t hear it over all the noise…
After three calls, Hongjoong felt the hopelessness growing. He was about to give up when the sound of a very loud, very familiar laugh reached his ears.
Wooyoung.
Hongjoong gasped like he’d struck gold, quickly unlocking the door and pushing it open just a sliver. There, through the small gap, he could see Wooyoung outside the bathroom, cheerfully chatting to someone further down the hall.
“Hey, Wooyoung-ah..!” Hongjoong hissed out loud enough to hear, catching the latter off guard with the sudden sharpness in his voice. “Come here.”
Wooyoung turned to look at him and stumbled a little closer to the bathroom door, eyes wide. “Yah- Hongjoong-hyung, what— what are you doing? Are you hogging the secret bathroom? I gotta pee!”
Hongjoong cut him off with a sharp look, voice low and awfully solemn. No time for pleasantries. “Can you find Changbin?”
“Huh?” Wooyoung was beyond lost. He blinked once, twice, then nodded dubiously. “Changbin? Well yeah, I can sniff him out in any crowd like a K-9,” he replied earnestly, eyes narrowing. “But… why?”
Hongjoong hesitated, glancing around the backstage area before carefully beckoning Wooyoung closer. He pushed the door open and stepped to the side slightly, revealing Seonghwa sitting on the bathroom floor with someone curled up on his side.
That someone wasn’t one of their own members, but Wooyoung couldn’t help but feel he looked awfully familiar, like a cousin you haven’t seen in a few years.
His breath hitched as he recognised him, concern flashing in his eyes. “Woah- is that?”
“Yes,” Hongjoong answered in a quiet hiss, lifting a finger to his lips to quiet him. “Stray kids’ maknae— he’s not well. Can you find Changbin or not?”
Wooyoung nodded curtly, stepping his feet together and giving a brief salute. “Aye aye, captain, I’ll be back in a flash.” And with that, he rushed back out to the event at full speed, like a greyhound let out the gate.
Because sprinting through the halls is very low-key, Hongjoong thought with a heavy sigh. He lingered for a moment, watching Wooyoung vanish behind the curtains before carefully slipping back into the bathroom.
He held the door handle again, making sure no one tried to barge in uninvited, and crouched down beside the pair. “How is he?” He whispered worryingly.
Seonghwa gave a helpless shrug. “Still the same. Really out of it, but he’s a little calmer.. I think.” His arm was draped around the younger man’s shoulders, fingers carding through the sweat dampened hair at his nape.
Jeongin still looked pale as a sheet, sagging against Seonghwa like a puppet with its strings cut, but his breathing wasn’t as erratic as it was when he found him. That was good.
“Hey, can you talk to us?” Hongjoong prompted, placing a hand on his shoulder as he assessed him once more. “Do you know your name?”
Jeongin parted his lips to speak, but his body jerked when a cough came out instead, chesty and scratchy, like it had already been festering for a few days. He ducked his head and Seonghwa grimaced in sympathy, tilting him forward and patting his back .
Once the fit subsided, Jeongin groaned, out of breath, and pressed a hand to his face. Then, with a little support, he leaned back against the wall. “S-sorry, sir,” he rasped, lips trembling. “I’m.. I’m Yang J-Jeongin, sir..”
Hongjoong’s brows knit closer together, but he gave a satisfied nod. At least he knew who he was. “No need to apologise, Jeongin-ah.” He assured him in the most gentle voice he could muster. “We’re going to get your hyungs for you, okay?”
Jeongin gave a small nod, inhaling shakily through chapped lips. “Okay..”
As though the promise itself had summoned them, a sudden bang rattled the door. Hongjoong’s foot shot out instinctively, bracing the door against the intrusion as he called out, voice sharp. “Who is it?”
“It’s me!” Wooyoung whisper-shouted back, tugging at the door handle impatiently. “I found Changbinnie and Bang Chan!”
Hongjoong exhaled sharply, relief flooding his chest, and eased the door open just enough to peek out. True to Wooyoung’s word, Changbin and Bang Chan were close behind, weaving through the backstage area with hurried, concerned expressions. Hongjoong pushed the door open to let them past.
“Joong!” Bang Chan hissed as soon as he spotted him, eyes darting behind him to find Jeongin on the floor. “What happened? Is he—”
“Not sure yet,” Hongjoong interrupted, keeping a firm hand on the door and closing it once they were all inside. “Found him like this. He’s breathing weird and feverish.”
Changbin knelt quickly beside Jeongin, instantly taking in his pale complexion and cursing under his breath. “Okay… easy, innie,” he murmured, reaching out to steady the younger. “We’ve got you.”
Jeongin blinked blearily up at them, chest rising and falling more steadily now, though an occasional cough still tore through his lungs.
Relief flickered across his features when he saw familiar faces, though the effort of staying awake still showed in the way his lashes fluttered.
Chan’s hand rested lightly on Jeongin’s shoulder, reaching out to gently cup his cheek with the other. “It’s okay, Innie, we’re here. You’re safe. We’re taking you home.”
Hongjoong finally relaxed slightly, letting his grip on the door loosen and his eyes soften at the scene.
Chan’s gaze turned to Seonghwa, eyes swimming with equal parts concern and gratefulness. “Thank you, thank you— he’s been under the weather for a few days, but he still had to attend,” he rushed out the brief explanation, voice tight as he added, “you know how it is..”
“Don’t mention it,” Seonghwa replied softly, brushing Jeongin’s damp hair back with a hum. “Yeah, we do know.. we’re just glad we got to him before anyone else.”
“So are we, truly..” Changbin said softly, sliding into place beside Jeongin in Seonghwa’s stead. He draped a strong arm around the maknae’s shoulder, frowning. “Aish, Innie… we were so worried when we couldn’t find you.”
His words earned only a quiet, whispered apology from their maknae, who ducked his head away from all the lingering gazes.
Hongjoong gave Chan’s back a friendly pat and stepped back, voice quiet. “We’ll make sure no one else barges in while you guys figure out what’s going on. Take the time you need.”
Chan glanced back at him, eyes soft and dimples peeking through with a smile. “Appreciate it, Joong. Really. Thank you.”
Hongjoong reciprocated his smile and gave a nod, motioning for Seonghwa and Wooyoung to follow as they slipped back outside. Just before closing the door behind them, Seonghwa made sure to add, “let us know if we can help in any way”, seeming reluctant to leave.
For a moment, the chaotic noise of the event seemed miles away. The only sounds that mattered were Jeongin’s uneven breaths and the faint, steady murmur of his hyungs making sure he was alright.
And true to his words, Hongjoong wasn’t leaving until they were. He stayed planted outside the bathroom door, Seonghwa to his right and Wooyoung to his left, like three guard dogs ready to snap at anyone who got too close.
Because he knew without a doubt, if the roles were reversed, Bang Chan would do the same for him.
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SURPRISE!
I haven’t written for Ateez before BUT I’ve been an atiny for like 8 months now😂 so this is my debut as a staytiny writer😎 skz is still my ult and main, but maaaybe I’ll write some things for Ateez if I feel like it… Who knows 🤷🏽♂️
Anywaaays, this story was one of those ‘I just came up with the idea and wrote it all in a flash’ kinds, and BY GOD, it felt so nice. Pure ✨ catharsis ✨
My brain was very pleased to write something so incessantly in the early morning hours 🙂↕️ however, this does mean I haven’t gotten to read through and tidy it up, but I’ll do it sometime later 🤞🏼
sick han with prompts 1, 31, 81 and caretaker chan?
Remember back in July when I opened requests for this prompt list?? I'm so so sorry it's taken me this long to finish! But I hope this anon is still around! Thanks for requesting it. Despite the long time it took me to finish, I really did enjoy writing for Stray Kids. While I really enjoy them, it's the first time writing them. I hope the characterization is decent.
Pairing: Chan x Han - platonic intentions but read as you want.
Prompts: "You're burning up" || "Hey, are you still with me?" || Holding your hair as you're vomiting into the toilet. You keep apologizing, but seriously I don't mind.
Jisung's been staring at the same piece of paper for hours now. He holds his head in his hands as he watches the words blur together, swimming around whatever percentage of his vision hasn't been plagued with floating black spots.
He promised Chan he would finish these lyrics, but he hasn't been struck with a single ounce of inspiration. And he's been re-reading the draft for so long that the words he's already written hardly make sense anymore. As much as it pains him to admit, he's not going to be able to finish it.
Chan is sitting at his desk, while Jisung's sitting cross-legged on the floor. It's amazing, Jisung thinks, just how focused and dedicated his leader is. It's nearly 2 AM, and they've been holed up in this studio trying to finish this song since 6 PM. Chan hasn't complained once. He hasn't so much as stopped for a bathroom break, still clicking away on his laptop. Meanwhile, Jisung is putting all his energy into making the words on the paper stay still. It's just not fair.
Eventually, the swirling syllables make his head pound and his stomach roll. He suddenly feels like he's on a boat in the middle of the ocean during a tropical storm. If he so much as glances back at that paper, he's going to lose his dinner. So he pushes the pages aside.
The rapid fluttering of the paper startles Chan, who turns and looks at the youngest producer for the first time in hours. He looks confused, "You good?"
Jisung nods, one up and down motion because anymore may make him dizzier than he already is. "I just need a little break. Been staring at the same thing for too long. It's starting to look like gibberish."
Chan smirks, knowing he's been there before. He glances at the time and is shocked at just how much time has passed. Working until the early hours of the morning is nothing new for him, but usually Jisung calls a quits around midnight. Especially if they have early schedules the next day.
The leader walks over to the younger member and drapes a blanket over his shoulders, "Take a rest. It might help refresh your mind."
Jisung only protests for a moment before he rests his head against his folded arms. The blanket brings him a warmth he didn't realize that he was missing, "Wake me in 30 minutes." He requests before quickly succumbing to the exhaustion.
30 minutes passes like seconds to Chan, never an expert at keeping time when in the production zone. He falls so deep into the track he's working on that he forgets Jisung is even in the room with him. He's reminded when the young rapper lets out a whine loud enough to break through the leader's headphones.
Chan turns his chair to look at Jisung, who is still curled over the table asleep. Despite the whine that alerted him, he seems rather peaceful. So the leader assumes that it was just Jisung talking in his sleep. He's no stranger to the younger mumbling weird and random things in his sleep.
He spares a glance at the clock and finds that two hours passed in the blink of an eye. It's after 4 now and Chan thinks maybe it's time the two of them head back to the dorm. Before Jisung wakes up with an awful cramp in his neck and an ache in his lower back. They have dance practice in the afternoon, and Chan knows Minho will not shy away from scolding him if Jisung's not in his best condition.
Making sure he's triple saved his work, he shuts down his station and slides himself beside the sleeping rapper. As he scoots a little closer, he notices that Jisung's face is glistening with sweat. And his skin is noticeably pale even under the dimmed studio lighting. Weird, he thinks, Jisung seemed fine when they were working earlier. He presses one hand against Jisung's forehead and the other against his own. Jisung's skin is blazing compared to his.
When Chan pulls his hand away, Jisung subconsciously follows. And when he can't find the cool hand anymore, he blinks himself awake with a quivering pout. His eyes eventually settle on Chan's figure beside him and he whines. "Hyung, where'd the cold go?" He slurs the words together, it's nearly indecipherable.
Chan quickly realizes what Jisung wants and holds his hand back out for the rapper. Jisung takes the hands and holds it close to his face like a stuffed animal, nuzzling his cheek into the leader's palm. "Feels nice." He mumbles, nearly falling asleep again. "I feel funny," he admits.
"I'd bet you do," Chan uses his other hand to play with the rapper's sweaty strands of hair, "You're burning up."
Jisung shakes his head, and Chan feels it in both of his hands more than he sees it happening. "No, not that. My tummy." He whines, "my tummy feels funny."
At that, Chan moves the hand from Jisung's hair and presses it over his stomach area. He finds the rapper's middle swollen. And he can feel the organ gurgling angrily through the fabric of Jisung's shirt. "Oh, Hannie." Chan comforts. "You must've caught some kind of bug. Poor thing." He rubs the younger’s stomach, trying to relieve some of the pressure.
Jisung leans into the touch longingly, inching himself closer to Chan. "Hyung, ‘m sorry," he whines, "I don't think I can finish the lyrics tonight." The words fall out of Jisung's mouth like an afterthought, a similar slur to his sleep talking voice.
Chan clicks his tongue. In all honestly, Chan had even forgotten about the lyrics and deadlines and group responsibilities. His sole priority right now is Jisung's health. “Don’t worry about that right now, Sungie.” he reminds in a soft voice as he strokes through Jisung’s sweaty hair. “Let’s just get you back to the dorm.”
What’s usually a simple task seems impossible. Jisung is so out of it, he can’t even force himself to stand on his own. Chan has to pull him up by the armpits. And even once he’s on his feet, Jisung sways a little before his head falls against Chan’s shoulder. “Hey,” he nudges the younger, “Are you still with me?” he panics, thinking Jisung had passed out on him. At this point, he’s thinking of skipping the dorm altogether and going right to the hospital. Jisung’s gotten too sick too quickly.
When he feels Jisung nod his head against his chest, he relaxes a bit, just relieved that his dongsaeng is still conscious. He does his best to keep Jisung engaged while he thinks up a plan to get them back to the dorm. Walking doesn’t seem like a reliable option.
While Chan comes to terms with the fact that he’s going to have to carry his sick member home, Jisung pushes Chan away with a force the leader didn’t know he still had. Jisung’s eyes widen and he lets out a wet hiccup. Clamping a hand over his mouth, Jisung runs out of the studio. Chan doesn’t have time to question the newfound burst of energy as he bolts after him. He follows him into the bathroom and into the largest stall at the far end. Jisung doesn’t even try to waste time locking the door. There are no obstacles in Chan’s way, which he greatly appreciates.
Jisung bends at the waist over the clean bowl, stomach contents immediately slip between his finger tips, staining the seat and the walls. Some droplets splatter on the floor in front of him. He removes his now vomit soaked hand and uses it to grip the side of the bowl, mirroring his other hand. For a second, they are the only thing keeping him from smacking his head against the porcelain. But two hands support him quickly, one on his waist and the other on his shoulder. Jisung doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to resist as they guide him into a kneeling position. It’s probably for the best. His legs have nothing left after his sprint from the studio.
“Okay, okay,” Chan soothes. “I’ve got you.”
Jisung just shakes his head, tears streaming down his cheeks as he continues to heave into the toilet. He has so many things he wants to say, but he can’t get a syllable out between gags. It’s warm and it burns his throat. The taste left behind just makes him more nauseous. When he sniffles, the sting of vomit burns the back of his nose. It’s a miserable experience.
Strands of Jisung’s longer hair dangle in front of his face, frequently getting caught up in the sick pouring from his mouth. Chan does his best to pull them back, but every time he thinks he has them all one strand falls loose and dangles around the younger's mouth. It's a never ending cycle of carding and tugging at Jisung's hair. Chan even gets remnants of vomit on his hands in the process. But he manages to hold back the grimaces of disgust to spare Jisung's feelings.
Jisung momentarily loses his sense of awareness to his surroundings. The only thing he can think about is the eruption of mostly digested food, stomach acid and bile pouring out of him. Every time he thinks it's over, he's starting again before he can even get in a decent breath. After 10 agonizing minutes, Jisung finally catches a break. He's able to take a deep breath that doesn't trigger a wave of nausea and assumes his whole body is empty. There's a hollow feeling in his abdomen and he briefly wonders if he's actually thrown up all of his organs in the midst of it all.
He's shocked into reality when present company tugs at his hair, jostling his whole head. He's got a headache now, and that didn't help. He looks at the offending individual with as much malice as he can muster. It's a mere 2% intimidating.
"Do you feel a bit better now that you've gotten it all out?" Chan asks, so gentle and kind and hand still clamped to the back of Jisung's head. He doesn't look mad.
Jisung can't understand why he isn't. He sniffles, trying to ward off a new wave of tears. He's not sure why he's crying now. Maybe it's shame, or guilt. It could be the headache. It's probably the fever. But there's a lot going on. Jisung is overstimulated by his own emotions. It pours out of him like a fountain. "I'm sorry, hyung!" He whimpers.
"I'm sorry for being so gross. I didn't mean to. And you had to stay with me."
"Hannie-"
"And I missed the toilet a bit. I made a mess here. And some of it got on you. I'm so sorry,"
"Han, it's-"
"What if you get sick now? How will we get work done?" Jisung's eyes widen, "and I didn't finish the lyrics like I promised. I'm sorry, hyung! I tried. And you couldn't finish your work either. You stopped to take care of me."
"Han Jisung!" Chan tried a third time in a more demanding tone. It startled the younger rapper, which Chan feels bad about. His dongsaeng needs comfort. Not scoldings. But it did finally got him to stop rambling. He softens his tone quickly. "You don't need to apologize for anything, alright?" He assures.
Jisung just continues looking at him, still too stunned by his hyung's authoritative tone to react.
"Everybody gets sick sometimes. It's out of our control. It's my job, as your leader and your hyung to take care of you when you need it. So I need you to let you me. And don't worry about work or the deadlines. I know you're doing your best with the lyrics. And they will still be there when you're feeling ready to finish them. But for now you need to focus on your health and getting better. Do you understand?" Jisung nods. "Good, now. How are you feeling? Any better than earlier?"
Jisung shakes his head this time. "My tummy feels empty now. But I have a headache, and I'm really really cold." He admits, "Hyung, I just wanna go home."
"That's my Hannie," Chan smiles, petting the younger man's hair. "Let's get you home. I'll get you two days off schedules so you can rest up. How does that sound?"
Jisung smiles a bit. Chan thinks it's the smallest smile he's ever seen in his life. "Thank you, hyung"
"You're welcome Sungie." He helps the younger to stand up and guides him out of the bathroom. He asks Jisung to wait on a hallway bench while he calls Changbin. It's nearly 5 AM now, and the third 3racha member is probably waking up to get ready for his morning workout. Probably the only member ever willingly awake this early, besides the ones who don't sleep.
While they wait for their fellow producer, Jisung bobs in and out of sleep leaning against the bathroom wall. Chan's taken to cleaning the mess that became of the stall without complaint. Because that's just what hyungs do.
A/N: The ending feels a little rushed to me. I always feel like I want to keep writing until the sickie feels better, but that would be a super long fic. So I apologize for the abrupt ending.
As always, thanks for reading to the end! I really appreciate each and every one of you who make it this far! Feedback is always appreciated. And please let me know if I missed any tags or TWs. Please call me out for any errors you notice!
When Seungmin’s emotions unexpectedly bubbles over during the filming of his and Chan’s 2 Kids Room episode, something inside him stirs that he hadn’t anticipated.
The tears come back not long after the cameras stopped rolling, but so does Chan. Always with a soft smile, a cheeky comment, and the kind of hug that makes everything feel just a little less overwhelming.
Maybe the additional hint of a fever might’ve been part of the problem… or maybe it was just the final push Seungmin needed to let it all out.
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Sickie/whumpee: Seungmin
Caretaker/s: Bang Chan
___________________________________________
Seungmin had never been one who cried very easily.
So when he suddenly got ambushed by emotions while reminiscing about his past with Chan during their “2 Kids Room” episode, it caught everyone off guard.
Himself, more than anything.
The tears sprung onto him so quickly, rising from a neglected little pit in his stomach and surging up his throat before he could even think to will them back.
The panic in Chan’s voice might be something to laugh about in the future, but in the moment, Seungmin couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than keeping himself from fully falling apart.
He’d managed to compose himself midway through, to some extent, embarrassed to have broken down in front of the cameras, but thankful to have Chan.
Just like he’d always been thankful to have Chan, even if he’d never quite found the words to say so.
As the episode came to an end and the cameras cut off, the initial wave of emotion stirred back to life— just as sudden and just as overwhelming as the first time.
Maybe even more so, now that the pretense of holding it together had diminished.
Seungmin swallowed back the lump in his throat with all his might, pressing past a few crew members in the hallway as he made his way toward the green room.
His strides were brisk and determined, moving him through the halls and away from commotion at an impressive speed. He didn’t stop for anyone, he couldn’t.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, the first sob broke through— raw, like it shattered right out of him.
His shoulders shook with the weight of it, forcing him to bend over and grip onto the backrest of a nearby chair to stay upright.
Tears flooded his eyes, clouding his vision before swarming down his cheeks, like the damp tracks from before were made to become permanent installations in his skin.
Seungmin didn’t even understand why he was crying.
He wasn’t sad, it wasn’t something he’d bottled up for years, the way Chan seemed to fear— at least he didn’t think it was.
He was happy now, he was grateful for everything, even the bad times. It all had led him to where he was today. He was happy.
So then why did it feel like something inside him had suddenly been cracked wide open?
Collapsing into the chair, Seungmin buried his face in his hands, sobbing as quietly as he could manage.
Maybe it was just exhaustion— emotional, physical, everything— crushing down on him. Maybe he just needed to let it all out, to drain himself of both tears and these strange emotions he didn’t know he held.
There was a knock on the door, and Seungmin’s breath caught in his throat.
“Seungmin-ah?”
Chan.
Of course. Of course Chan had followed him.
Whether he’d seen the younger hurry off or not, the leader was bound to be searching for him, to make sure he truly was alright after his first little breakdown in the studio.
As any good leader would, probably.
Automatically and almost without thinking, Seungmin pressed a foot against the door to keep it shut, even though he knew it was a childish move.
Feeling the resistance, Chan reluctantly let go of the door handle, a soft sigh leaving his lips.
There was a pause, then the soft thunk of Chan’s forehead resting against the other side of the door. He sucked in a breath before speaking, keeping his voice calm and gentle.
“Hey, man… can I come in? It’s just me, it’s just hyung..”
Seungmin rubbed at his eyes vigourously, desperate to dispel all evidence of the emotions that kept overwhelming him.
It was no use, of course. The tears just kept coming anyways, like the dam inside him had fully been broken through, and he had no idea how to contain the leak.
At last, Seungmin decided Chan had seen him worse off anyways. Plus, he could really use a hug.
Hesitantly, Seungmin moved his white sneaker away from the door, covering his face with his hands once more as if bracing for impact.
The door creaked open, then shut again with a soft click. Footsteps shuffled gently towards him over the floor.
Then, a hand on his shoulder; not heavy, but with enough weight to be grounding in a way Seungmin couldn’t quite explain. He instinctively leaned into the touch despite himself.
“Aigoo… I’m surprised you have any tears left.” Chan murmured, leaning down beside him, the familiar cadence of humour softening the thick air. “Don’t you get dehydrated, hm?”
Seungmin let out a hoarse, breathy laugh that caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief. “Apparently not...”
Chan huffed softly, his fingers ruffling gently through Seungmin’s hair. He suddenly paused mid-motion, tracing his hand back to brush his knuckles across Seungmin’s forehead. He frowned.
“What..?” Seungmin blinked, confused by the two fingers suddenly planted on his forehead like Chan was somehow trying to gain telepathic access to his brain.
“Are you trying to install an anti-crying software or somethin’? Cuz.. too late, dude. Damage's been done..."
Chan chuckled at that, a low, warm sound that rumbled against Seungmin’s side. “No, no… you just..” he paused, brushing his fingers briefly against Seungmin’s cheek. “You’re warm.”
“Warm..?”
Seungmin blinked blearily at him, sniffing yet again. “Probably just from crying.” He reasoned, lowering his voice to a hush. “Or embarrassment…”
“Yeah, maybe…” Chan murmured, seeming entirely unconvinced. “Or maybe a fever would explain why someone I hardly ever see cry suddenly burst out in tears during our quality time together.”
Seungmin let out a reluctant, breathy chuckle, his eyes squeezed shut. God, how they burned. “Mm.. Sorry about that…”
“No need to apologise.” Chan replied instantly, running his hand down Seungmin’s arm.
“I mean..” he added after a beat, the tone of his voice softening again. “It was an Oscar winning performance and all but… you were holding something back out there, weren’t you..?"
Seungmin didn’t say anything, he didn’t really know what to say. He opened his mouth to try, but quickly closed it again.
No, he didn’t feel like he was holding back.
Not necessarily.
It was a little more embarrassing to break down with cameras all in your face, yes— and a little easier to melt into a comforting hug when it was just the two of them. A hundred percent.
But…He didn’t hold back, he didn’t try to hold back, at least. It wasn’t intentional.
Seungmin was just as confused as anyone.
He didn’t know how to explain that strange swell in his chest, the way the past suddenly felt so close it was almost brushing up against his skin.
The way just thinking back to that time had brought the same emotions up front so vividly and intense, only exacerbated by the immediate guilt ignited in Chans eyes.
The unspoken weight they’d carried for years, quietly balancing between them like a shared burden they never really discussed.
It was a small thing, really.
It wasn’t a problem, it had never been a problem, but maybe, somehow, it had left marks deeper than Seungmin even knew.
They were just kids, after all. Just kids chasing dreams and working themselves to the bone.
And how strange it was to care about someone so deeply when you hardly knew the depth of it yourself.
“Hey..” Chan’s lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “I just wish you’d told me earlier, y’know. About the small things. The ones that didn’t feel big enough to share.”
Seungmin’s breath hitched, fingers curling into the sleeves of his jacket. His lips wobbled again, dangerously close to another break. “I just.. y-you know… I didn’t want to… dump them on you. You already had so much on your plate, hyung.”
Chan sighed. Not annoyed. No, just… sad. Sad and frustrated with himself for not picking up on the signs back then. For not being able to tell that Seungmin maybe needed him more than he’d let on.
That maybe, if he’d just taken the time to sit down and talk about it, things would’ve been a little different. Maybe even a little easier.
“You weren’t dumping anything. You were just being you.”
There was something about the way he said it, so plain and without judgment, that made the tears threaten yet again.
Stupid tears, Seungmin thought. Like his body hadn’t already emptied out every last drop already.
He sniffled, reaching up to wipe his nose with the last remaining tissue he had crumpled in his fist. Chan beat him to it, pressing a fresh wad of tissues into his palm like he’d been waiting for the right moment all along.
Seungmin blinked, momentarily stunned, before his gaze drifted to the tissues peeking out from the pockets on Chan’s chest.
He snorted, equally grateful and amused by the gesture.
It was such a Chan thing to do. Thoughtful to the point of being ridiculous. Sweet, in the silliest of ways.
“I’m not mad about any of it, by the way.. I’m glad you told me now, at least..” Chan said softly, a quiet chuckle threading through his words. “Better late than never, right?”
“R-right..” Seungmin choked out, puffing his cheeks as he tried to control the waves that kept pushing and pulling inside him.
His face almost felt raw now, tender and flushed, with salty remnants of tears still clinging to his skin.
“And I'm really sorry, truly..” Chan’s voice faltered, and he bit his lip, watching helplessly as Seungmin’s shoulders trembled once more.
There was silence for a moment, the only sound being of Seungmin trying to get his breathing under control. Chan remained close, his hand drawing slow, soothing circles across the younger man’s back.
Then, he leaned in slightly, one brow raised as he cupped a hand at the back of Seungmin’s damp neck. “Seriously, though. You’re really warm. You been feeling off lately?”
Seungmin paused to think, then shrugged. “I… I don’t know. Maybe a little tired. And my head feels kinda heavy? But it felt fine before crying..”
Chan let out a quiet ‘tsk’, brushing the back of his hand against Seungmin’s temple again. “You’ve definitely got a mild fever.”
Another beat of silence.
“That’s so dumb.” Seungmin declared, deadpan. “Now I’m crying AND sick? Ugh, give me a break.”
Chan smiled sympathetically, smoothing Seungmin’s hair back from his forehead. “Sometimes when your body’s a little weak, everything else gets louder. Feelings included.” He paused, then grinned softly.
“Take it as a valid excuse for crying so out of the blue. I’d milk it for all its worth if I were you.”
Seungmin thought about it for a second… then gave a small, tired nod. “Yeah,” he said softly, a hint of a smile breaking through. “That’s actually not bad.”
Chan hummed softly, clearly trying and failing miserably at hiding his growing concern. Seungmin could practically hear the sirens going off in his hyungs head the second the word ‘fever’ was spoken in relation to him.
Chan was always like that, and Seungmin hated how good he was sometimes. Too good. Too caring.
Not that he’d ever want him to change.
"Am I allowed to say it now that it’s just us?" Chan suddenly asked, pulling the younger man away from his barrelling train of thoughts.
Seungmin’s brow furrowed faintly, unsure of exactly what he meant, but he gave a small nod anyway.
“I love you, Seungmin-ah.” Chan said warmly, like a truth that had been waiting patiently in his chest.
A little incantation kept safely hidden from exploitation until it was just the two of them, in this quiet little green room, where everything felt just a little more sacred.
It was said so simply too— no drama, no fanfare. Just truth. Quiet and sincere, like everything Chan did when it mattered most.
The words wrapped around Seungmin like a warm blanket, bringing on a fresh wave of tears he didn't stand a chance of fighting. He let out a broken sound, twisting in his seat until his face was pressed against Chan's chest.
The hug that followed was full-bodied and anchoring, like it had been building for years. Chan’s arms wrapped around him, familiar and strong, holding him together when Seungmin felt himself unravelling.
Seungmin clung to him, his arms wound tightly around Chan's back, the warmth in his chest blooming bigger than the previous ache he’d failed to suppress.
The fabric of Chan’s shirt was a little scratchy against his sensitive skin, and his head was starting to hurt from the sheer amounts of tears he’d shed in just the past hour.
But when Seungmin buried his face in the crook of Chan’s neck, it was like a final puzzle piece slid into place.
His voice came out soft, muffled into the warmth of his hyung’s neck.
“I love you too, hyung…”
He hiccuped softly, his voice wobbly as he added, “Please.. don’t change. You don’t need to do anything better or-or anything like that…” he sniffed weakly.
“I like you just the way you are now. So don’t… don’t change.”
Chan paused, letting the words whir around in his mind before finally settling in. He didn’t say anything in return, not with words.
Instead, he started to sway them gently from side to side, slow and instinctive. Like how you’d soothe a younger sibling after a bad dream.
Whether it was by conscious choice or some sort of muscle memory, Seungmin had to admit…
It was embarrassingly soothing.
Under any other circumstances, Seungmin probably would’ve teased Chan or pushed him away— told him that sort of thing was reserved for babies.. But not today, not now.
Now all he could do was lean into the gentle rhythm, letting the repetition smooth the frayed edges of his nervous system and regulate whatever had triggered today’s sudden onslaught of emotions.
After a long moment of careful consideration, Chan exhaled a soft laugh, not even a shred of judgement or condescension in his tone. “Okay… I won't. Just for you.”
And just like that, something inside Seungmin began to settle.
A smile tugged weakly at his lips, even if it trembled at the corners. Somehow, even with his face pressed into damp fabric and his head pounding faintly, Seungmin felt lighter.
Somewhere between the soft reassurances and the gentle rocking motion, the tears finally slowed to a trickle. His breathing evened out, though the occasional hitch still caught in his throat. His skin still felt warm and raw, uncomfortably so, but it didn't matter. Not when Chan was there to hold him through it.
At last, Seungmin pulled away just enough to sniffle and wipe at his face. Chan shoved a new load of napkins into his hands without a word, to which he was grateful.
“Hyung…”
Chan looked down expectantly, prompting him to continue. In return, Seungmin bit his lip sheepishly.
“I-uh.. I think I might’ve ruined your shirt…”
Seungmin blew his nose as discreetly as he could, turning away from the other as he did so. But Chan only laughed, gentle and unbothered.
“Meh… It’s just a shirt.” He said casually. “You’re a lot harder to replace.”
That earned a scoff and a weak jab to his side, but Seungmin didn’t pull away. If anything, he leaned in again, nudging his head into Chan’s shoulder like he was settling into place for the night.
“I might’ve asked the stylists for something other than all white if I knew this was going to be a cryfest though..” Chan added playfully, looking down the proposed damage.
Some smudged makeup, some wet blotches— a probable mixture of tears and snot, simply a whole lot of repressed love and emotion poured out onto its plain white surface.
Seungmin huffed again, still embarrassed, yet still not pulling away.
The smile on Chan’s face didn’t fade, and Seungmin caught it out of the corner of his eye; that reassuringing, dimpled ‘it’s all going to work out in the end’ kind of smile.
Over the years, Seungmin had come to intertwine that smile with his very sense of vitality; like it was something he couldn’t quite live without anymore.
Like Chan was something he couldn’t quite live without anymore.
When Seungmin finally lifted his gaze to meet Chan’s, eyes glassy and puffy, but vision clearer now, he noticed it.
The way Chan’s own eyes were red-rimmed, with a faint sheen of tears still clinging to his lashes.
He blinked, brow furrowing once again.
“Hyung… you cried too?” Seungmin asked, even if the answer was painfully obvious, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Chan cleared his throat, quickly looking askance as if he could hide what clearly had already been caught. “Whaaat? Naah, ‘Dunno what you’re talking about.”
Seungmin just narrowed his eyes, unimpressed, and the post-breakdown-puppy-eye-look was utterly impossible to lie to.
Chan folded right on the spot, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Fine, yes- my eyes are a little damp. You know I’m allergic to seeing my dongsaengs cry.” He sniffled, letting out a watery laugh. “It’s chronic. No cure.”
Seungmin scoffed, but there wasn’t much strength behind it. “You’re so lame.” He murmured, voice deflated but with a hint of fondness woven into it.
“Yeah.” Chan agreed, tilting his head until his cheek rested gently atop of Seungmin’s. “I’m a little lame...”
Seungmin only managed a faint hum in response, his heartbeat gradually slowing with each shuddering breath. His chest burned with every inhale, and his muscles throbbed like he’d just ran a marathon.
No wonder he rarely cried. It was beyond exhausting– like his body had been wrung dry.
“Dunno how Felix does it..” Seungmin whispered softly, pressing the heel of his palm against his warm, tender cheek. Chan’s chest rumbled softly against him, a low ‘hm?’ vibrating through the quiet.
“Crying.” he clarified, another sniffle forcing its way through. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck..”
Chan chuckled lightly. “Ah.. yeah, it’s quite the workout, eh?” He squeezed Seungmin’s shoulder, giving a brief massage to the tense muscles there. “But it feels a little good too, doesn’t it? Letting it out?”
“No.” Seungmin’s answer was immediate, without even a shred of hesitation.
Perhaps not a hundred percent truthful, if he really thought about it, but right now.. It just felt shitty.
“Welp, alright then.” The leader sighed, a small smile pulling at his lips. “If you say so.”
Chan’s cheek was still resting lightly against Seungmin’s head when he added, “Y’know… it’s actually kinda unfair.”
Seungmin blinked, voice still thick. “What is?”
Chan shifted just slightly, enough to catch the younger’s bleary gaze with a faint grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“How pretty you are when you cry.”
Seungmin froze, jaw going slack. “What—?”
“I’m serious!” Chan laughed softly, raising both hands in defense as Seungmin pulled back to give him a scandalised look. “It’s insane, actually. I cry and I look like a mess. You cry and you look like the lead actor of a top tier drama.”
Seungmin paused, his poor brain working overtime to make sure he was hearing him correctly. Maybe the tears had washed a few brain cells away along with them…
“That is... so dumb..” he mumbled, eyes narrowing once again. He covered his face with his hands, peeking through his fingers. "You're so dumb."
“Yeah, yeah..” Chan laughed softly, seeming entirely unfazed by the younger man’s words. "I'm dumb and lame, and you're devastatingly cute and a pretty crier~ We've established that."
Seungmin groaned, dragging one hand down his face, even as the corners of his lips twitched upward against his will. “Hyung…” he warned.
“What?” Chan nudged his shoulder lightly, ever the playful lilt in his voice. “Just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
“Everyone better not be thinking that.”
“Well, they are. You’re doomed, Kim Seungmin.”
It was Seungmin’s turn to laugh this time. It was tired and raw, but at least it was genuine. His head dropped briefly back down to rest against Chan’s shoulder, hiding the faint pink dusting his cheeks.
Whether from the fever, the tears, or Chan’s words, he didn’t bother clarifying.
Chan let the moment settle before straightening up, smoothing his hand across Seungmin’s back in one last comforting sweep. “Alright.. fever or not, you’re clearly not feeling great…” he said, voice softening. “So let’s get you home, huh?”
Seungmin glanced up at him, eyes still glassy but clearer than before, the heaviness behind them beginning to lift just slightly. He nodded wordlessly. There was nothing he wanted more. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and forget this day ever occurred.
Chan took a step back, extending his hand out to the man still seated before him.
Seungmin hesitated for only a split second before reaching up to take it in his own, using it as leverage to pull himself upright. His fingers curled around Chan’s naturally; no dramatic pauses, no second-guessing.
Just quiet, honest trust.
Chan helped him up, not letting go of him even once he knew Seungmin was steady. Their joined hands stayed clasped between them, comforting and steady.
“…Thanks, hyung.” Seungmin said quietly, his gaze fixed on their hands for just a moment too long. Chan followed his eyes, but didn’t comment on it, only shifting slightly as they started toward the door.
“For what?” he prompted.
Seungmin glanced up at him– only to be met, once more, by that same damned smile. The one that somehow stitched together every cracked piece of him without even trying.
For everything, is what he initially wanted to say.
But it was too heavy. Too worn. Too cliché.
Instead, with what little energy he had left, Seungmin opted for a simpler response, one that didn’t feel too grand or melodramatic.
“For coming after me..”
Chan’s dimples grew just a little more prominent. “Of course..” he said– and then, a little stronger, a little steadier..
“Always.”
____________________________________________
Sup🤭
As you might’ve guessed, I— like many other stays across the globe— watched the newest 2 Kids Room featuring Seungchan (and yes, I may have cried a tiny bit).
Seeing Seungmin cry definitely sparked something within me, and this little fic was born from it. The notion of adding a potential fever actually came from a friend while I was tossing around my ideas, so shoutout to them😗
Jisung has never had a UTI before, so how is he supposed to know what it feels like?
Unfortunately, his hyung isn’t much wiser. ____________________________________________
Sickie: Han
Caretaker/s: Bang Chan
____________________________________________
“Uhh, Channie-hyung?”
Jisung turned the corner of the dressing room, fully dressed for the interview that was set to start in just a few minutes, looking troubled. His hair was neatly styled, makeup applied, but there was a hazy sheen in his eyes that was hard to miss.
“Yeah, what is it, bug?” Chan replied to him gently, glancing up from his phone screen. Seeing the way Jisung sheepishly fidgeted with the edge of his blazer, his eyes instantly narrowed with suspicion.
“Oh no, what did you do?”
The question rushed out before he could stop it, triggered by some instinctual reflex rather than thought, as if his mouth had reacted before his mind caught up.
After almost a decade of being the dad of eight kids, he’d inherently been conditioned to read guilt as ‘I did/broke/lost something. And you probably need to pay for it.’
But perhaps this time, Chan had gotten ahead of himself.
Jisung scoffed at him, clearly bristling at the accusation. “What—?! I did’nt do anything! I just..”
His voice faltered, trailing off with no fight left to give. He dropped his gaze down to his shoes, fists curling tightly at his sides
Ah shit.
Chan quietly cursed himself both for jumping to conclusions and for not checking his tone before speaking. He hadn’t meant it in a disdainful way, not at all— the whole assuming the worst thing was a bad habit he was trying to shake, really.
The leaders face fell as Jisung drew back, any sternness in his expression instantly melting away.
“Shit-sorry— I’m sorry, Han-ah, I didn’t mean it like that..” he sucked in a breath and tried again, voice gentle. “What’s wrong?”
Jisung hesitated for a moment longer before exhaling in a sharp puff, crossing his arms over his chest. “So, the thing is.. I uh.. I think I might have a UTI?”
Chan blinked twice, lowering his phone completely. That was definitely not what he’d expected at all. In fact, it wasn’t even in his realm of suspicions. “A UTI?” His brows furrowed. “Wait— we are talking about the same meaning of UTI, right?”
Jisung stilled, eyes wide, and Chan could almost see the gears turning inside his poor little head. “What? Yes? Huh? What other meaning is there?!”
“The unit trust of India?” Chan tried, but immediately shook his head, trying to focus on the objective. No time for joking, clearly, he’d already hurt Jisung‘s feelings once. “But of course— no.. sorry—you’re talking about the pee kind, right?”
Jisung groaned, hiding his face in his hand as the tips of his ears flushed red. “Yes,” he confirmed gruffly, voice small. “The pee kind..”
“Okay,” Chan said, glancing at the clock. If there was one thing Han Jisung was good at, it certainly was picking the worst timing.
Honestly, they didn’t have time for this— not now, not right before an important interview.
But a UTI— a urinary tract infection, yeah that was definitely not good. That was serious, right?
“Okay,” the leader repeated, rubbing the back of his neck as his mind struggled to dig for a solution. “I’m sorry— since when?”
Jisung shrugged one shoulder sluggishly, his gaze sliding away with a sheepish look. “A couple days, maybe? I thought it’d go away if I drank enough water, but it.. didn’t…” He trailed off, pressing a hand to his lower back.
“A couple of days?” Chan echoed in disbelief.
The group had been travelling nonstop the last few days, hours packed full of long car rides and even longer flights.
It didn’t surprise him that Jisung had tried to push through some discomfort, considering everything that had been going on.
In all fairness, if there was such a thing as good timing, the past week had been sorely lacking it.
But now, something about the way Jisung’s voice wavered, like he felt guilty for not feeling well, made Chan’s chest ache. He should’ve checked in more… he should have noticed.
The room hummed faintly with the sound of hair dryers and distant chatter, but all he could focus on was how pale Jisung suddenly looked under the lights, even through his lightly applied makeup.
Something was off in the way he held himself; like he was fighting gravity to maintain proper posture, resisting collapse. The weary slump of his shoulders told its own story, and it definitely didn’t bode well.
Chan scrambled to his feet, stepping close to steady him with an arm to his waist. “Oh, Hannie…” a sigh, “Why didn’t you say something sooner, huh?”
Jisung kept his eyes averted, chewing on his bottom lip as it quivered. “I uh.. I didn’t really realise something was really wrong until last night— and-and everyone was asleep.” He made a small, distressed noise. “‘Dunno, I’ve never had a UTI before, hyung..”
He twisted just enough to press his forehead against Chan’s shoulder, finding comfort in his familiar presence. “Sorry I just.. it feels kinda worse today?”
Chan’s eyes softened, a gentle sigh slipping past his lips. His gaze raked all over Jisung, fingers below his chin gently tilting his head up so he would finally meet his eyes. “Worse how?”
Jisung gave another helpless shrug, eyes glossy and lips jutted in a petulant pout. “Ugh, I just feel wrong.. like.. tired and achy. More spacey than usual— my back kinda hurts too, but I think slept weird on the plane..”
Chan listened to him with a fixed expression, jaw tight and eyebrows drawn in thought as his hand rubbed soothing circles into Jisung’s lower back. “Okay, okay..”
His expression darkened slightly— wait, plane? His mind immediately flashed back to the last flight they’d taken last, how Jisung had (completely out of the ordinary) ordered cranberry juice for himself, not once, but twice.
At the time, they had merely thrown teasing jabs at him for the peculiar choice, but now— in hindsight, it suddenly made perfect sense. Unfortunately, the realisation was a day too late, and Chan could feel guilt bubbling under his skin.
A muscle in his jaw ticked as he leaned forward, pressing the palm of his hand against Jisung's forehead.
Not feverish per se, but clammy, maybe slightly warmer than normal.
Chan sucked in a breath, trying to tamper down the flood of worry that washed over him.
As much as he wished it were true, he had a nagging suspicion that it wasn't just the sleeping position on the plane that was making Jisung's back ache.
Either way, the poor kid looked exhausted, and they had to make an appearance in what— five minutes?
“You feel like sitting out the interview?” Chan asked, squeezing his shoulder once. “I’ll get it arranged, no problem at all. Just say the word.”
“No!” Jisung snapped, maybe a little too quickly. He reigned himself in, taking a steadying breath before repeating, “*No- I don’t feel that bad, really— I just.. thought I’d let you know.”
Chan wasn’t convinced in the slightest.
Thought he’d let him know? His lips pressed into a thin line as Jisung gave him the most insisting stare he could muster. “Han-ah..” he said warningly.
“Chan-ah..” Jisung mimicked daringly. He straightened his jacket and adjusted his microphone, forcing a small, tired smile upon his face. “No— seriously, hyung, I promise. I can handle the interview. It’s just a little UTI, right?”
Just a little UTI…
Chan studied him for a long second, unconvinced but unwilling to push harder when time was so short. They had two minutes to get on set, and Jisung was as stubborn as they get.
“Fine,” Chan relented, resting his hand at the small of Jisung’s back as he guided him toward the door. Then, almost threatening, he muttered, “But you tell me if it gets worse..”
Jisung let out a humoured huff.
“Yeah,” he murmured back, offering another one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I will.”
_
At first, it really wasn’t too bad. The interview started off smoothly; lights bright, cameras rolling, the air-conditioned studio just cold enough to make his brain feel a little less foggy.
Jisung could sense Chan’s eyes on him the entire time, boring into him with the silent persistence of a guard dog, but he didn’t mind it. Honestly, he found it to be equally as comforting as it in any other scenario could be deemed terrifying.
The others had yet to notice anything was wrong at all. Jisung smiled when he needed to, answered questions, laughed on cue, and joked the way he usually did.
Hell, he was even enjoying himself for a large portion of their time in the studio, but by the halfway mark, something suddenly shifted.
His answers slowed as his brain started lagging, and his stomach churned uneasily under his shirt. The dull ache in his back had deepened into a throbbing pulse at his left side, and every time he shifted, a sharp stitch flared just beneath his ribs.
Jisung swallowed hard, trying to ignore the bitter taste creeping at the back of his tongue and the way his skin prickled with perspiration. He usually wasn’t great at concealing the emotions in his face, but god knows he tried.
As the words of the host blurred a little; he caught himself zoning out in small blips, blinking too slow to catch up.
If any questions were directed at him, Chan or one of the other members were quick to intervene, naturally drawing the attention away from him. He would make sure to thank them at a later time..
When the cameras finally clicked off, Jisung was already leaning against the nearest wall, trying to breathe through the strange, heavy haze pressing down on him. He couldn’t recall the last few questions, nor any of the answers that had been given.
The last few minutes had been nothing but a blur of heat, stars and the weird, buzzing feeling that was spreading through his body. It didn’t feel quite like anxiety did, no… not quite.
Honestly, Jisung felt a little drunk. The bad kind. Not fun or giggly or even sappy— just muddled, unsteady and queasy.
Had he been poisoned or something? Or was it jet-lag?
He closed his eyes for just a second, but when he opened them again, the studio was almost empty around him.
“Jisung?” Chan’s voice was right beside him now, low but tense. A familiar hand gripped his side, steadying him as he swayed.
“Oh— ‘m sorry..” Jisung whispered, shaking his head a little too fast, making stars burst behind his eyelids. “I.. uh, ‘think I need to lie down, hyung.”
Chan hesitated but nodded, waving off the staff’s concerned glances. “Okay, yeah,” he bit his lip, pulling Jisung a little closer as he lead them out of the studio, shielding him from onlookers. “Let’s get you back to the hotel, ‘kay? No more pushing through..”
-
The taxi ride was quiet except for the hum of the tires on wet pavement, the gentle screech and honks of the bustling city traffic.
Jisung’s head lolled against the window, the cool glass briefly soothing against his prickly skin. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt hollow, in a way; like every ounce of energy had deserted him all at once.
His lower back still throbbed in time with his heartbeat, radiating deep into his sides, but it wasn’t an excruciating type of pain. Not really. It was just dull, persistent— he felt weird more than anything. A drunken, sleep-deprived kind of weird…
Maybe it was jet-lag, after all.
By the time they reached the hotel, Jisung’s words were slurred with enervation, and his skin felt a little warmer than earlier, Chan noted.
Certainly not a good sign.
The leader quietly guided him to his hotel room, helped him peel off his jacket, and watched as Jisung crawled under the covers of his bed. Within a few minutes of his hyung rubbing his back through the duvet, Jisung’s breathing evened out into shallow, restless sleep.
Chan lingered by his bedside for a moment longer, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. His fingers flexed at his sides, itching to do something more, anything that could help..
But he forced himself to step away, closing the balcony door softly behind him before pulling out his phone.
Chan dialed their manager first, quick and clinical: “Yeah… Han might need an appointment tomorrow.” A pause as he glanced back at Jisung through the window; still asleep but now curled into himself like he was trying to hold something together that kept slipping apart.
“UTI symptoms..”
While the manager arranged an appointment with a well appointed clinic close by, Chan reluctantly made his way to the other end of the room to do some work on his laptop. Productive, while keeping an eye out for Jisung, seemed like the way to go.
For a while, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the gentle tap of Chan’s fingers across the keyboard.
But as minutes turned into hours, and Chan ventured out into the hallways to meet the others, the stillness suddenly shifted.
Jisung stirred on the bed, twisting and turning, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. His skin glistened faintly with sweat, his cheeks flushed in a way they hadn’t been previously.
When he woke, it was with a start— his stomach twisting up in a storm that had been brewing for hours. Dizziness rolled through him as he pushed himself upright, the room spinning just enough to make his vision spotty.
Driven by instinct alone, Jisung stumbled toward the hotel bathroom, clutching at the wall for balance as he tripped over his feet.
He barely managed to flip open the toilet seat before his lunch was spilling into the water, burning bitter and painfully up his throat. Not all of the vomit made in it, unfortunately, as some splashed over the edge of the toilet seat, speckling the tiled floor with a bilious, brown tint. Considering the fact that Jisung couldn’t seem to tell up from down, it wasn’t a half-bad attempt.
The next few minutes passed him in waves of nausea and cold sweats on the bathroom floor, the world swaying and warping before his very eyes.
Jisung sat by the toilet, trembling like a chihuahua as he gripped at the edges of the porcelain. He was genuinely scared he’d fall if he let go.
But as his stomach twisted with a painful cramp he couldn’t quite distinguish, Jisung hastily got up, fumbling to pull down his pants before he took a seat on the toilet. He folded over himself with a low moan, the pain only turning sharper as agony poured out of him.
His breaths were ragged, exhales shaky as he tried to breathe his way through the ordeal, but the fogginess was making it hard to focus.
This couldn’t be jet-lag…
Had he eaten something bad? He couldn’t seem to recall anything particular..
No matter the case, his insides felt like they had suddenly been liquified, like molten lava seeping through every inch of his body.
Jisung didn’t know how long he was in the bathroom, but it certainly wasn’t a good time. In fact, it was agonising from start to finish.
He wondered distantly where Chan had gone, but the thought evaporated into thin air as his cramping stomach regained all his attention.
The chills hit him in an instant, like a switch had been flipped, every limb quivering as his body fought relentlessly to warm itself.
Jisung was confused. Why did the bathroom feel so unbearably cold? The sun was glaring through the windows, and though the numbers on the thermostat were too blurry to discern, he knew it wasn’t set to cold.
Weird.
By the time he made it back to his bed, Jisung was shaking so hard his teeth clicked together, chattering in small rhythmic bursts. The extra blanket Chan had dug from the dresser did nothing to stop the chills; they cut through every layer, deep and violent, making his whole body jerk with each shiver.
He curled onto his side with a groan, face pressed against the pillow, eyes half-closed as his head throbbed with heat.
Were his eyes warm? His eyes felt far too warm.
Jisung couldn’t seem to decide whether he was freezing or had been set on fire, and by god, he felt so weird.
-
When Chan finally came back in through the door and saw him a few minutes later, he froze dead in his tracks. He had just been out to fetch some food with the others, knowing their poorly member needed some rest.
Hell, he had even brought Jisung a piece of cheesecake from a nearby café— but the sight of him now, shivering and pale under the duvet, made him regret ever leaving.
"Fuck."
The word tore out of him before he could stop it, raw and panicked. Chan was at Jisung’s side in seconds, instinctively pressing a hand against to his forehead.
The heat that met his palm made his breath catch, his eyes widening in shock. He’d been gone for under an hour, how on earth had it escalated so quickly?
“Jisung? Hey-“ Chan breathed shakily when his fingers confirmed what they'd been dreading; the fever burning under his pale skin was not just a ‘little UTI’. “Holy shit, you’re burning up— Jesus, Han-ah, you’re boiling.”
Jisung barely stirred, voice thick and slurred, body still shaking like he’d stepped on an electric current. His words came out trembly and paradoxical, “‘’scold.. m’so c-cold, hyung..”
“Hey— shhh, shh, you’re okay,” Chan fumbled with his phone with one hand, the other rubbing over Jisung’s back, trying to accumulate any heat he felt like he needed. Though, to be fair, the younger man already felt like he was on the verge of going up in flames.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered weakly, eyelashes brushing across scarlet tinted cheeks as his lower lip wobbled. “‘feel really sick, hyungie.. ‘threw up..” he admitted shakily, breath hitching. “Stomach hurts..”
Chan's pulse jumped. He didn't like that tone; that small, shaking sound that sounded both like Jisung was trying too hard not to cry and like he was too lost and disoriented to remember his own name.
“I know, baby, I’m—“ as Chan smoothed the younger rappers hair back, it was as if the glass suddenly spilled over. Tears started flowing down Jisung’s cheeks, and small, hitched sobs followed, pitiful and honestly— deeply unsettling.
Chan’s heart shattered on the spot. It wasn’t like he’d never seen Jisung cry before— in fact, he’d seen him cry more times than he could count, especially when he wasn’t feeling well.
But this was different, this was scarier. His dongsaeng looked so disoriented, pained and scared of what was going on, that Chan couldn’t bear to watch him.
He gathered Jisung into his arms immediately, cradling him close despite the feverish heat radiating off him. “Shhh, it’s okay, Han-ah,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Jisung’s damp forehead. A small comfort, if only he could stop his own lips from quivering. “I’m here, hyung’s got you. You’re gonna be okay...”
The leader fumbled through Google searches as Jisung cried into his chest; he knew some things about UTI’s, but not nearly enough to know if this could be related, or if it was merely a miserable coincidence.
Either way, the internet supported his gut feeling. Something was horribly wrong, and they couldn’t risk waiting it out any longer than they already had.
Jisung breathed shakily as the sobs tapered off, groaning and moaning in between bursts of chills, and Chan watched helplessly as he tried to figure out his next move.
His fingers closed lightly around Jisung’s wrist, feeling the younger’s heartbeat thumping erratically under his fingertips.
It was too fast, too thready, and it made his own chest tighten with alarm.
Mr. Google did nothing to soothe his nerves.
“Jisung-ah..” Chan’s voice wavered, soft but urgent. His thumb circled over Jisung’s wrist, trying to ground him with the gentle pressure. “Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts, baby..”
Jisung moved sluggishly, slipping off the covers just enough to move a hand down his shirt, splaying it across his lower belly in a silent display. Then, a little hesitantly, he reached around to point to his left flank. “‘N here…”
Chan felt his stomach twist with dread, blood turning cold as ice in his veins. The correlating google results flashed back at him, red alerts at every corner. UTI, chills, fever, flank pain, nausea… each symptom was like a new warning bell going off in his brain.
A short call to their manager later and the judgement was clear; a trip to the ER was inevitable.
Chan didn’t hesitate after that. He wrapped Jisung in an oversized hoodie in a futile attempt to soothe the chills, grabbed a water bottle, and guided him toward the door.
Jisung barely stayed upright, his head resting weakly against Chan’s shoulder as his hyung half-carried him through the hallway.
The manager had a car waiting for them my the hotel entrance, and Jisung barely got inside before he was retching into the small plastic bag Chan had cleverly snatched along from the lobby.
The leader steadied him, rubbing between his shoulders blades as he heaved, and muttering sweet nothings into his ear. “It’s okay, baby, breathe.. just breathe, I got you.. you’re gonna be okay, sweetheart..”
Another long blink later, and the scenery had shifted once more. No longer in a car, the room around them was suddenly bright and sterile.
Jisung’s head rested against something hard, and his eyes cracked open only to see Chan’s face blurry before him.
“-n-ah? Jisung..? Hey, hey, you with me, bug?”
Jisung blinked up at him blearily, trying to wrap his head around the situation. He narrowed his eyes at Chan’s face, the concern etched onto it making him feel guilty for making such a fuss.
What the hell was up with him today?
“Yeah.. ‘m.. I’m here, hyung..” he murmured faintly, the flush on his cheeks and starry doe eyes making him look heartbreakingly young. “Sorry, did I fall asleep..?”
Chan gave him a tight lipped smile, trying (and horribly failing) to hide his concern. “Something like that..” he whispered reluctantly, brushing a few damp curls off Jisung’s forehead.
A nurse appeared before them, poking a needle in Jisung’s finger and gathering a couple drops of blood before he could even comprehend what had happened.
Just as quickly as she came into view, an angel clad in pale blues, she vanished down the hall, leaving Jisung to follow her with a dazed look.
He peered down at his hand for a moment, distantly observing the little cotton ball taped to his fingertip— but then another hand gently slid into his, twining their fingers together and giving him a gentle squeeze.
Chan.
“It’s okay,” his hyung promised, and Jisung barely managed a weak nod in return, his chest tight. He felt so uncomfortable and lost, and the bright lights flickering above them made his skin crawl.
Jisung just wanted to go home. He just wanted to go home, sleep and hope to feel normal again when he woke up.
His head tipped to the side, leaning against Chan’s strong shoulder as the tiled flooring rippled before him.
“Hyung.. hyung, I fee—“ Jisung whimpered, the chatter of his teeth interrupting him mid-sentence. “I feel really weird” he repeated the phrase that had been lingering on his mind all day, shutting his eyes so tight it looked like it hurt.
Chan's grip tightened around him, pulling Jisung closer against his chest as if he could somehow shield him from whatever was making him so miserable.
“I know, bug, I know," he murmured, voice low and steady despite the panic clawing at his throat.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of Jisung's head gently, fingers threading through sweat-damp hair at his nape.
The younger’s fevered skin burned against his palm, and Chan had to bite back a curse; he couldn’t recall ever seeing Jisung this out of it before, and he had to admit, it was absolutely terrifying.
“Doctors gonna be here soon, baby..”
Chan promised, pressing his lips to Jisung’s temple— still way too hot, before glancing toward the hallway where the nurse had disappeared. Where the hell was the doctor?
Jisung whimpered, shifting restlessly against him, and Chan hummed softly to try and appease him. “Just keep breathing with me." His chest rose and fell deliberately beneath Jisung’s cheek in slow exaggeration, a silent plea for rhythm between them even when nothing else made sense anymore.
A few minutes later and Chan was about ready to get up and fight someone when a team of nurses and a doctor finally arrived. They briskly informed him that Jisung’s CRP was a whooping 183mg/L and were quick to usher the two of them down the hall.
Jisung was laid out in a private room, half-conscious and teary-eyed as they hooked him up to monitors and immediately placed him on a broad spectrum antibiotic.
Chan, who’d only been dragged along for the ride, whispering reassurances and holding Jisung’s hand, perked up as a doctor mentioned needing to find the cause of the infection.
“A UTI—“ he blurted, flushing a little in embarrassment as he realised he’d cut the doctor off mid-sentence. “Sorry, I.. “ Chan gave a small bow to emphasise his apology before continuing, “he said he thought he had a UTI..”
The doctor quickly scribbled something on a pad, handing it to a nurse before returning his gaze to Chan, eyes narrowed. “And why didn’t you come in sooner?”
Chan stiffened at the words, dumbfounded at first, but then his jaw tightened.
He felt his blood simmer, heat rising in his chest as frustration bubbled to the surface. Why they didn’t come sooner? Who the fuck did he think—
He opened his mouth, but Jisung’s hand gripped onto his just a little tighter— both a comfort and a plea. Don’t be rash. Don’t raise your voice. Please.
Chan bit his tongue and forced down the retort clawing at his throat, willing himself to keep his composure, even in the face of the doctor’s condescending tone.
“We didn’t know.” He answered simply, voice tight with restraint. “He just told me a few hours ago.. it got worse quick.”
The doctor didn’t seem impressed, and Chan swore he could see him rolling his eyes, but he bit the inside of his cheek, reminding him who he was there for.
Jisung. Only Jisung.
The medical team seemed pretty unanimous in their hypothesis. Even without the test results laid out in front of them, everyone had placed their bets on pyelonephritis.
Big word, even bigger threat.
Chan had to admit, with his newly garnered Google expertise, he had been led to a similar conclusion.
For a while, the room bustled with information, tests and nurses pushing fluids, but then, after a little under an hour, it suddenly stilled.
Jisung was curled up on the bed, drifting in and out of sleep as his system fought off the infection that had festered inside his poor body.
Every once in a while, his eyes fluttered open, but the heavy weight of his eyelids always pulled him back under.
Chan moved his chair a little closer to his side, wrapping his hands around Jisung’s and rubbing his thumb over the dips of his knuckles.
A shaky breath escaped him, one he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding until now.
Jisung’s face was calmer now, the harsh lines of pain and confusion smoothed out, his breathing slow and even under the soft glow of the hospital lights.
But the pasty complexion still clung to him like a ghost, sweat-curled hair still sticking to his forehead.
It made Chan’s stomach twist; how fast everything had spiralled from a timid confession to what he had realised— just a little too late, could’ve become a life-threatening infection.
How had he not done more extensive research about UTIs before? How could he have rocked into a situation so unprepared? He should’ve known better, as a leader, as a hyung.
Chan reluctantly leaned back in the chair, still holding Jisung’s hand like a lifeline. He could feel his dongsaengs hand clenching against his, weak but still seeking out comfort, and he squeezed back, grounding himself with the simple connection.
Jisung’s eyes fluttered open again a short while later, just enough for Chan’s breath to hitch and tears to threaten at the corner of his eyes. “Yo..” the younger of the two mumbled, blearily looking around the sterile room.
“Yo.” Chan echoed with a scoff, a tired smile pulling at his lips. He kept his voice low, reaching up to gently brush his fingers across Jisung’s warm cheek. “How’re you feeling?”
“Tired..” Jisung mumbled, shutting his eyes again, like the simple act of keeping them open was simply too much. “Tired ‘n achy… but not that nauseous.”
Chan hummed softly, pushing a couple strands of hair behind his ear. “Yeah? That’s good..” he paused, carefully watching the way Jisung smacked his lips. “Want some apple juice?”
Jisung groaned, eyebrows knitting together like he was trying to force his eyes open again, but nothing happened. With a deflated sigh and his eyes still closed, he only gave a small nod.
Chan grabbed a juice box he’d fetched from the vending machine in the hallway (originally for himself, but he had a change of heart) and stuck the straw in, leaning forward. “Here..”
The straw slotted between Jisung’s chapped lips, and Chan held it steady while his kid took a couple small sips of the beverage. Once satisfied, Jisung let the straw slip from his lips, turning his head just slightly askew.
Progress, Chan thought, when Jisung didn’t immediately turn green after swallowing. “You good?” He checked in, just to be sure.
“Mhm..”
“Okay..” Chan watched over Jisung like a hawk, the furrow in his brow deepening with every faint tremble that rocked through his body.
The fever had yet to break, but he was far more lucid now, able to form a thought even if he was too weary to voice it.
Chan tucked the blanket under his chin and resettled in the chair by the bed, once again clasping the other man’s hand in his own.
The fear still lingered in his chest, dull and heavy, but the adrenaline was starting to settle.
He pressed a kiss to Jisung's knuckles before lifting their joined hands and resting them against his forehead like some kind of prayer.
“You scared me..” Chan murmured, voice barely above a whisper now, as if part of him didn’t want Jisung to hear him admit it.
But he heard, and those big eyes of his finally cracked open again. A Herculean feat, but one he was determined to see through, even if it drained him of any energy he had left.
“‘M sorry, hyungie..” Jisung replied quietly, voice cracking a little. He shifted, the line in his arm stinging just enough to made him wince. “Hey..” he called out, making Chan meet his gaze with a confused look.
Jisung forced his lips to form a small, weary smile— genuine, but lacking it’s usual spark . “Next time it burns when I pee, you’ll be the first to know… ‘promise”
Chan let out a chuckle despite himself, rolling his eyes, though he nodded gently. “Okay..” his hand squeezed Jisung’s once.
“Deal.”
____________________________________________
TA-DAH! I present to you a Han pyelonephritis fic, which is heavily based on the first time I had a kidney infection myself 🙂↕️
I was dangerously close to titling this one “Han peesung”— thank god I came to my senses 😂
Wanna know something funny (that is not really funny at all) ? As I was writing this, I just so happened to get another kidney infection of my own😭😂 is that… karma? Or???? What??
thankfully not as severe this time around (because I recognised the signs quite early), but terribly annoying 🙄
I’m just glad I got to finish and publish this now, at the tail end of my own antibiotics course— which feels strangely bittersweet 😂
The time pneumonia convinced Minho he was from outer space, and for just a moment, Chan almost believed him.
____________________________________________
Sickie: Lee Know
Caretaker/s: Bang Chan
____________________________________________
“Hyung.. I think… ‘think I’m having a.. transcendence..”
Chan paused, slowly lowering his phone as he met the pale-faced Minho stood in the doorway of his room. He knew then, without a doubt, that that word was not supposed to be in that man’s vocabulary.
“Okay,” he replied casually, like it was just an every day conversation starter. “Would you like to elaborate..?”
Minho sighed heavily, breaths sounding congested and thick as he leaned against the doorframe. “Every time I sneeze… I swear,” he blinked hard, squeezing his eyes shut like he was trying to recreate it in his mind. “I… I travel across the galaxy.”
Right.
“Mhm,” Chan stood from his chair, approaching Minho in slow steps as the younger man’s eyes struggled (and inevitably failed) to follow him. He pressed a hand to the sick man’s forehead before he could swat him away, and the answer made itself clear.
He was burning up. Again.
Time for another dose of those fever reducers, Chan thought with a sigh, eyebrows creasing.
Just the other day, Minho had been coerced to urgent care by their manager, leaving with a prescription of antibiotics for what turned out to be a stubborn case of pneumonia. But Chan had to admit, those antibiotics weren’t working nearly as fast as he wished they would…
Minho blinked at him way too slowly, like even his eyelids weighed a ton. “I think I might be…” he drew in a laboured breath, and Chan didn’t miss the crackling noise that rang from his chest when he did. “Extraterrestrial..”
Another word Minho had no business harbouring in his mind right now.
Chan paused, taking a second to process what he was hearing. Then, he let out an incredulous huff of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, yeah, duh… that much I’ve gathered…”
Minho groaned a hoarse grumble, something akin to a protest, though even he had no idea where he was protesting, and Chan simply shushed him in return. His hand slid to the younger man’s arm, fingers wrapping loosely around Minho’s wrist.
He knew that Minho was stubborn. Hell, all of the members knew that, but he was also well acquainted with just how clingy the younger man was during times like these.
In his own, mostly silent, way.
“Alright,” Chan hummed, eyes softening as a half-concerned, half-amused sound left his lips. “Let’s get you back to bed, Mr. Alien..”
When his arm wound around Minho’s waist, steadying his teetering frame and steering them down the hall, there were no rebuttals.
Which was concerning in and of itself.
Chan led him down the hallway with conscientious care, and Minho followed in quiet compliance, only breaking the silence with a few wheezy coughs.
It was strange whenever Minho was this feverish— he always got so out of character, in one way or another. Sometimes he babbled like a brook; other times he grew unusually touch-seeking and affectionate. At times, he had otherworldly, mind-boggling experiences that no one could quite explain.
And sometimes, like right there in the hallway, he was so pliant and amendable it made Chan shudder.
It almost unnerving, how quickly he could flip from one version of himself to another. A remarkable volte-face of their usual dynamic, all at the hands of a pesky pathogen.
Normally, Chan was the clingy one, the one hanging off Minho and pressing every button he could find, while Minho pretended to loathe every second of it. But Chan was never fooled by it. He never missed the way the corners of his lips would twitch, the way he’d quickly bury it beneath a practiced scowl.
Deep down, Chan knew Minho liked it more than he’d ever admit aloud.
But when Minho fell ill, something inside Chan shifted. A strange sort of guardianship seemed to surge from within, like a fierce, protective urge set ablaze in his chest.
It wasn’t the same as he felt for the others, at least Chan didn’t feel like it was, but that didn’t mean it didn’t burn just as strong. It was just… different, with him.
Minho had never been good at asking for help, but neither had Chan. They both knew it, they both understood it, yet neither had ever spoken the words aloud.
Instead, there was almost as if they’d made a silent pact— no words, no written agreement, just a mutual commitment to help each other out when life struck them to the bone.
They’d never have to ask for help if the other part acted first, right?
Suddenly, Minho planted himself mid-step like a cat refusing to move, yanking Chan back from his straying thoughts. “Wha—Whats wrong?” The elder asked quickly, already searching Minho’s pasty face for any signs he was about to hurl. He’d never been one to give much warning in the past…
Minho straightened up a little, breaths heavy as he strained to pull air into his poor lungs. “My bones… they feel like jelly..” he stated, swaying dangerously until Chan locked him back against his side. “Hyung, why’s… jellyfish… they made of jelly?”
Ah. No sudden urge to vomit— good. Just… whatever you could call Minho’s fever-addled ruminations.
Chan couldn’t hold back his amusement even if he tried, biting his lip as a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Mm, no, jellyfish are in fact not made of jelly,” he replied with a sigh, voice turning impossibly soft as he added, “And neither are you, for that matter. Come on now, we’re almost there.”
Minho let out a weak groan, allowing Chan to steady him on wobbly legs the rest of the way to his bed. The covers were all rumpled and tossed to the side from earlier, sheets still a little damp from the excessive bouts of sweating the infection was triggering.
“I feel so dumb,” Minho said sadly as he sank down onto the mattress, hair slicking against the side of his face.
“Ya, Chan-ah..” He lifted a finger, poking it into Chan’s chest to emphasise his solemnity. “I… I’m a dignified extraterrestrial… they can’t know I’m being dumb..”
Chan let out a soft, warm laugh, his dimples peeking through despite himself. “Don’t worry, alien prince, I’ll make sure to protect your intergalactic reputation.”
He caught Minho's finger gently between his own, pressing a small kiss to the tip. In return, albeit a lot slower than usual, Minho withdrew his hand and scrunched his nose in disgust.
“Ew.”
Chan had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing again.
Minho was too cute sometimes; even in the throes of delirium, he still fought to hold onto some shred of dignity.
Though it certainly didn’t help his case that his nose was all red and his hair a fluffy mess, making him look less like a grown man and more like a scruffy little kitten…
As Minho flopped back onto the sheets, completely boneless, Chan grabbed the box of fever reducers and his prescribed antibiotics from the nightstand, carefully measuring out the right doses into his palm. “Alright, you gotta take some more medicine before you go spacefaring again.”
Minho didn’t budge, voice muffled against the pillow as he replied, strangely polite, “No, thank you..”
Chan sighed, dragging a hand down his face as he begged for patience. “It wasn’t an offer, Minho.” he said firmly, nudging his shoulder. “Come on.”
Minho let out a soft whine, then a tiny grumble as he rolled his head to the side, eyes fixed warily at the pills in Chan’s outstretched hand. He scowled at them like they were poison, squinting his eyes like he was trying to determine if it was some sort of elaborate trap.
“Those are eggs..” Minho finally said, making the other man feel all the more confused than he already was.
“Eggs?” Chan repeated, trying to wrap his head around the delirious musings. The younger man sounded so damned serious he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Mhm,” Minho nodded faintly, before adding quietly, like it was meant to be kept a secret, “Alien eggs..”
Chan stared at him for a very, very long moment, trying to figure out how to go about this turn of events. He sighed, staring down at the little round pills in his hand, then back up at Minho, who was still looking at them like they may just hatch into tiny monsters at any given moment.
He held them up, tilting the pills this way and that, trying to see through whatever fever-induced hallucination was playing out in Minho’s brain.
But no, they were both just pills, nothing more, nothing less. Not even translucent, but solid white, boring and chalky in their exterior.
Chan had to admit, he was already thrown off by all the absurd claims that had spilled from Minho within the last thirty minutes. Declaring that his pills were not actually medication prescribed by professionals, but alien eggs— yeah, that was the final straw.
He nudged the sick man’s shoulder again, steeling himself as he scooted closer to him on the bed. The leader had a solemn look on his face now, any humour swallowed by the insistent need to make Minho take his damn medicine.
In the back of his mind, he was already wondering if he’d have to crush the pills into some pudding to make this work… or potentially force them down his throat if that didn’t do the trick.
“Lee Minho,” Chan said earnestly, maintaining a stoic calm alongside the firmness in his voice. “I swear on my life, I am not trying to feed you— alien eggs…” he let out a long sigh. “Please… just take the medicine. It’s gonna make you feel better.”
Minho seemed to consider the request, peering up at him like he was trying to see through a fog. Then, he sighed resignedly.
“Do I have to?” He asked pitifully, like a child pleading to a parent, but Chan simply raised an eyebrow, lips pursed in feigned disappointment. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to— not out loud, anyways. Chan had already perfected the disappointed, exhausted dad look by the time he turned twenty.
Chan seized it, that tiny crack in delirium's armour, and made the most of it. He grabbed the water bottle off the nightstand before Minho could have second thoughts and held it to his lips along with the two pills still nestled in his palm.
"One swallow," he coaxed, voice low and soothing like he was taming something wild. "Just one. For me?"
With great theatrical reluctance, Minho parted his lips, only to immediately gag at the taste of the medicine, scrunching his whole face in disgust. With a mouthful of water, he washed the pills down anyway.
“Gross..” he murmured hoarsely, flopping back onto the pillows like the whole ordeal had personally wounded him.
Victory. Chan grinned, patting his knee affectionately as Minho recoiled with a petulant pout. “Atta boy.”
Minho groaned, swatting weakly at Chan’s hand. “Tsk.. ‘m not a dog…” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.
Chan just smiled, smoothing a cool hand over Minho’s damp forehead and brushing his fringe aside. “No,” he whispered softly in agreement, the next part barely audible, “you’re a grumpy old cat..”
A tiny hum escaped Minho, barely there, but it was enough to tell Chan he’d heard him.
And the way he was still scowling while half-sleep? Adorable. Chan had to stop himself from snapping a photo, knowing the repercussions would be far from pretty.
He was about to get up, maybe to go and get a cool towel, but his attention was suddenly drawn back to Minho, who had gone strangely silent all of a sudden. Not asleep, just silent.
Instead of protesting, Minho’s face was scrunched up in a familiar expression, his nose curling in distaste. This time, though, Chan knew it wasn't just because the medicine tasted terrible.
He could see it in the way Minho's eyes squinted as his sinuses filled, the way his chest rose and fell with laboured breaths, trying to hold off the inevitable.
“Hh’tch!”
One…
“Huh’tSSKH!”
Two…
“Hhh’TSCH!”
Three.
Like clockwork.
Chan turned to grab some tissue from the small box on the nightstand, a minuscule smile tugging on his lips despite himself. Minho really did sneeze like a kitten sometimes.
“ss…sorry.. ‘m back now.” Minho slurred, making Chan glance back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
Right. He’d almost forgotten about the whole transcending time and space thing.
“Where’d you go, bud?” Chan hummed with gentle curiosity, holding a couple of tissues up to Minho’s face.
Minho coughed again, low and chesty, eyes squeezing shut against the spin. With a sniffle, he replied, “sixty degrees off Jupiter.. ‘think..”
Chan let out a low chuckle, gently wiping Minho's nose with the tissue before he could shove him away. “Oh, is that so?” he teased softly, voice warm with amusement. “Sounds interesting.”
He tossed the used tissue into the bin and sat back on the edge of the bed, watching as Minho blinked at the ceiling, eyes growing heavier as he struggled to keep them open.
It was a battle he was quickly losing. No matter how stubbornly he tried to fight off sleep, his eyelids were betraying him, slipping closed with every flutter of his eyelashes.
Chan could see his exhaustion clear as day, the way it seemed to weigh on him, pulling his limbs down into the mattress and locking them there. Minho was worn out, completely at the mercy of the bacteria raging in his lungs.
And despite himself, Chan could feel fondness welling up in his chest as he watched the other man fight sleep like a toddler refusing a nap.
Shaking his head, he ran a hand down Minho’s side in a gentle motion. “Go to sleep, baby…” he murmured, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead. “And send me a postcard from your next galactic vacation, yeah?”
Minho didn’t flinch or protest when he called him ‘baby’, and Chan silently vowed to hold onto that moment for as long as he could. He chuckled again, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he watched Minho’s breathing slow, finally surrendering to the lure of sleep.
Chan stayed seated beside him, diligently watching the unsteady rise and fall of Minho’s chest. He reached over and tugged the blanket up to cover his shoulders, adjusting it with gentle hands before sitting back with a sigh.
Alien or not, Chan had to admit; Minho truly was something out of this world.
Danceracha (short of Felix, who was doing promotional shoots for one of his many ambassadorships) were gathered in the practice room to polish off their newest choreography, smoothing out kinks and adding minor changes where they saw fit.
Usually, working on choreography was a fun pastime, but the joy was taken out of the equation when the so-called leader seemed to be drowning under a miserable headcold.
The music cut after another run through, and Hyunjin froze in ending position, catching his breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
Glancing in the mirror, he saw Minho teetering just behind him, his breath hitching before the older dancer bent over, sneezing for the umpteenth time that day.
“H’tsch!” Minho pitched forward, Hyunjin barely able to grab onto him before he hit the floor. “Lino-hyu—“ Minho stubbornly shook his hand off, “ssh’ktUH!”, and finally, “TCH’SHH!”
Hyunjin watched him, stunned, half expecting another sneeze to cut him off, before speaking up again.
“Hyung, you need to sit down before you—“ Just as he was saying it, Minho staggered toward his bag, arms flailing out to catch himself before he toppled over. The fact that the latter had even survived dancing for well past an hour was beyond Hyunjin.
“‘M fine..” Minho braced himself against his knees, heaving in breaths like his lungs were about to cave.
He wouldn’t say it out loud, but whenever he sneezed, he saw stars everywhere. The floor, the ceiling, the walls— all over Hyunjin’s casual black outfit.
Stars.
It was strange symptom he had never considered before. Not one he cared to mention.
Minho sniffled, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s just a cold.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Hyunjin replied dryly, crossing his arms with a sigh as he watched Minho support himself against the wall. “But you also keep having to grab onto something to keep from falling over, so it seems to me that this cold is kicking. your. ass.”
Minho didn’t even spare him a glance this time around. He just let out an evasive grunt, plopping down to the floor and unscrewing his water bottle.
The lack of response didn’t exactly ease Hyunjin’s mind.
“It’s the lights,” Minho said gruffly, assigning blame to the beaming rods above them. “They make my nose tickle.”
Hyunjin scoffed. “Yeah, sure, blame the ambiance for your sneezing. It’s the lights fault, not the fact that you’ve been stubbornly pushing through a damn cold for three fucking days.”
He didn’t know where the bold snappiness had come from; Hyuniin rarely spoke to Minho like that, knowing any strike back would be twice as harsh. Today, threats of being thrown in an air fryer just didn’t seem to touch him, somehow.
Maybe it was because his patience was stretched thin after almost two hours of vicarious suffering, watching Minho insist he was fine like a damn pigheaded fool.
Or maybe it was because he knew Minho was in no shape to retaliate either way, because even his attempted glares fell flat.
“‘S too bright…” Minho insisted, more timid this time, as his head tipped back against the wall.
Hyunjin placed a hand over his face, the other on his hip, drawing in a steadying breath before releasing it in a sigh. Oh my fucking god.
Judging by the past hour of trifling rebuttals that had spilled from Minho’s lips, he was beginning to suspect it wasn’t merely obstinate resistance, but that the older dancer truly was lost deep in the throes of denial.
Hyunjin glanced at the ceiling, quietly pleading for patience before sauntering over and plopping down at Minho’s side. His gaze fixed into still air and he briefly wondered whether he should just abandon his quest for an admission, or if the matter was worth pressing further.
Luckily, Hyunjin was almost equally as stubborn as Minho himself, and he wasn’t about to let him win. Not today.
“Hyung..” he started, voice resolute despite the way his eyebrows tilted up with concern when Minho ducked back into his elbow. His hand settled silently on his back, rubbing across it until the older man feebly shook him off again.
Stubborn bastard…
Hyunjin’s lips pressed together into a thin line. While Minho had shunned every little attempt of comfort he initiated, Hyunjin’s hand had been in contact with him long enough to feel the raging fever burning through his shirt. The heat was unnerving. “Please, I can’t keep watching you do this.”
“Then close your eyes.” Minho croaked back, sniffling into a small napkin he’d fished from his pant pocket. Hyunjin felt his jaw tick.
“No.” He answered, loud enough to make Minho wince, the sharpness in his voice only whetting the knife that already sunk deep in his skull.
Hyunjin didn’t have time to feel bad for him, not when his blood was skittering with exasperation. How fucking impossible could he be?
“Will you just stop it already? You’re sick, hyung. I know it, you know it— so stop beating around the bush. You won’t get better if you keep pushing like this.” Hyunjin paused, weighing his options before speaking again in a low, warning tone.
“I will tell Channie-hyung.”
Now that threat finally sparked a response. Minho tensed, before surrendering to another bout of coughs that emanated from deep in his chest, rattling like coins shaken in a jar.
When the effort tapered off, his eyes locked on Hyunjin’s, narrowing in another ineffectual stare down. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
Hyunjin held his gaze, unrelenting and stern like a parent who’d run out of patience many hours ago. He couldn’t back down now, couldn’t capitulate and allow the older to run himself to the ground. Not today. Not on his watch.
Because while Minho’s self-destructive stubborn streak made him want to throttle him, they were still family, and family took care of each other…
“You have three seconds to relent,” Hyunjin tapped into Bang Chan’s contact on his phone, thumb hovering above the call button. “One…”
Minho stared at him, baffled— because since when was Hyunjin the one threatening HIM? The role reversal made his brain short-circuit. “Yah-“
“Two…” Hyunjin’s thumb inched closer to the screen, eyes razor sharp.
“Alright! Okay, fuck— enough.” Minho grumbled with a sniffle. His foot poked out to lightly nudge Hyunjin’s shin. “If I go home ..” he said nasally, eyes squinting like he was fighting another sneeze. “You won’t tell him. Deal?”
Hyunjin let out a breath of relief, eyes softening a fraction as his lips curled into a triumphant grin. “And you’re letting me make you tea.”
Minho let out an incredulously huff. “What—why?”
Hyunjin’s finger wordlessly descended back towards the call button, and Minho scrambled to push the phone from his hand, a little surprised by his own desperation.
“Jesus— okay, okay, fine.” Minho relented, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll drink your stupid tea. Let’s go..”
Hyunjin grinned, slipping his phone into his pant pocket.
He fucking won.
____________________________________________
Short and sweet 🙂↕️ my (too busy) life is very much prioritised over writing lately, but I do try to write whenever I’m able… it’s just… I rarely am🥲
First of the dorm fics, featuring the Minsung dorm with a sick LK 🥰 Enjoy! ✨
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Minho shows up for their usual bedtime cuddle, but Jisung quickly realises something is wrong when it feels like an oven just climbed into bed with him.
Between disorganised medicine cabinets and sleepy confessions, Jisung scrambles to take care of Minho in any way he can.
Luckily, he’s got Chan on speed dial.
____________________________________________
Sickie: Lee Know
Caretaker/s: Han
____________________________________________
Minho slipping into Jisung’s bed late at night for a cuddle wasn’t anything unusual in their dorm. In fact, it was practically routine. On the rare occasions it didn’t happen, Jisung would lie awake staring at the ceiling, listening intently for footsteps that never came.
But tonight, the pattern played out as usual.
The dorm was quiet; only the soft hum of a fan down the hall, the occasional creak of old flooring beneath socked feet.
Jisung had gotten in bed first, burrowed beneath his blanket and scrolling half-distractedly through videos on his phone.
Then, right on cue: the whispery pad of footsteps crossing the room, the familiar dip of the mattress behind him, and finally, a pair of arms curling around his middle.
Minho tucked in behind him without a word.
Sometimes he asked what Jisung was watching. Other nights, he didn’t say anything at all; he just molded into place, his breath tickling against the back of Jisung’s neck, as though this were the only place he belonged.
It was nice— quiet and familiar.
But tonight, something felt off.
Jisung paused mid-scroll, brow furrowing. It wasn’t anything Minho had said, because clearly, he hadn’t said anything. It was how he felt.
He was warm. Too warm.
It wasn't the cozy kind of warmth Minho usually brought into bed, either. No, this was different. The heat he exuded was almost suffocating.
Jisung shifted slightly under the blanket, trying to glance at him over his shoulder. “What the… did you just shower?”
There was a pause, then a barely-there mutter behind him. “…No?”
Jisung’s thumb slowly stilled against the screen.
He didn’t know how, didn’t know why, but something was wrong. A quiet, creeping feeling had settled in his chest, like his instincts had picked up on something his mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Something in that one worded answer— how soft it was, how rough it sounded— had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, a quiet alarm humming inside his head.
“Then why…” Jisung started, but his sentence faded halfway up his throat. He let his phone drop to the mattress. He could feel his own temperature rising, Minho’s warmth bleeding into him bit by bit, and he kicked the covers off the two of them.
“You’re really warm.” He said finally, a simple statement. With what little room Jisung had, contained within Minho’s grasp, he turned over to face him.
There, a pair of glossy eyes greeted him, alongside a red nose tip and a flush that spread high on his cheekbones.
“And you’re red.” Jisung added, brow furrowing. “Did you drink alcohol or something?”
The guessing game continued, but Minho faintly shook his head no.
Jisung’s mind clicked into gear, putting pieces together like a puzzle that suddenly made too much sense: flushed face, bleary eyes, radiating heat like a space heater on blast.
Unless Minho had suddenly developed some kind of fire-based superpowers, there was only one logical reason in Jisung’s mind.
“You’re sick?” It wasn’t much of a question, more a vocalisation of the realisation finally sinking in.
Without a second to waste, Jisung pressed a hand to Minho’s forehead, immediately confirming his suspicions.
That was certainly not a normal body temperature. Jisung knew that much.
Now that he thought about it, a fever made far more sense than any other explanation Jisung had tried to conjure up. No amount of hot showers or soju could create that kind of heat.
No, only a fever would explain why Minho was blazingly hot to the touch yet simultaneously shivering like it was the middle of winter.
Jisung sighed deeply, a scowl forming on his lips. “Yaaah, you’re sick and you didn’t think to tell me?”
Minho blinked slowly, like his brain needed a few extra seconds to process the words. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”
What followed was an exasperated groan, and a tiny flick of Jisung’s finger against Minho’s shoulder. “In what world is you being sick not relevant for me to know?”
Minho already knew he had lost the argument, but stubborn as he was, he tried anyway. “In… in this one?”
The volume of the buzzer sound effect bore into Minho’s skull, making him wince and recoil with a small hiss.
A hint of guilt stirred in Jisung’s chest upon seeing the reaction, but he didn’t let it linger for long. Minho was in the wrong for hiding such a crucial thing from him, he deserved a little scolding.
“Seriously.. you’re too stubborn for your own good..” Jisung murmured, letting his hand slide down to rest against the side of Minho’s neck. “Well, I’ve figured you out. Now spill.”
Minho just stared at him. Jisung stared back, unwavering, but with the growing suspicion that Minho wasn’t following.
“.. spill?” The older of the two muttered hoarsely.
Jisung sighed, quieter this time, his thumb rubbing slow, calming circles into Minho’s overheated skin. “When did you start feeling sick?”
He settled on a more gentle approach, choosing patience over panic and coaxing answers rather than demanding them. That usually fared better with Minho— push too hard, and he only dug his heels deeper.
Minho responded with a weak sniffle, eyes fluttering shut. “Uhm, this morning, I think? ‘Got worse after practice.”
Jisung's jaw tensed, but he bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from launching into any more scolding. Despite the frustration bubbling in his chest, now wasn’t the time nor the place.
He took a steadying breath. “Okay, okay...” he murmured, fingers drifting up to brush gently along Minho's jaw. “And now? how do you feel?”
Minho’s eyes flickered away for a moment, unfocused and glazed over with a feverish sheen. “Mm… I feel… weird? I feel weird.”
“Weird how?” Jisung pressed, gently but firmly, not letting the thread slip.
Minho shifted a little, a soft sigh slipping past his lips as he tried to find the right words.
He felt cold, but he knew he wasn’t. His nose was stuffy, throat sore, and somewhere in his foggy mind, he realised that the room probably wasn’t tilting the way it felt like it was every time he moved.
It all just felt weird.
His body felt heavy– not in the way it would after a workout or a hearty meal, but in the way that made him want to sink through the mattress and into the floor.
His limbs weren’t cooperating with him even in the smallest of tasks, and every breath dragged itself in like it had to fight for space in his chest.
“Tired..” Minho finally conceded, voice small. “Tired and achy… feels like my body is filled with wet sand.”
Jisung’s eyes softened as they drifted over Minho’s face, taking in the subtle tremor in his lips and the sweat prickling across his brow. “That’s…” he started, hesitant. “That’s not very comforting.”
“‘Didn’t say it was..” Minho mumbled, barely coherent as he pressed in closer, burrowing his nose into Jisung’s shoulder like a sleepy, stubborn cat.
Jisung let his fingers run through the damp strands of Minho’s hair, tucking a few behind his ear. The older man looked, for the lack of better word, pitiful.
“Okay, nah, that’s it..” he said, rolling over and slipping out from under Minho’s arm despite the groggy protests. “You’re officially being taken care of.”
Minho just groaned, turning to bury his face into the pillow. “I was being taken care of… we were cuddling.”
Jisung shook his head. “Cuddle therapy doesn’t count when you’re on the verge of melting, hyung.” He frowned. “You need medicine.”
Minho looked like he wanted to protest, but he had no more fight left in him. Curling around a pillow in Jisung’s absence, he just muttered sourly, “Don’t poison me, Han Jisung..”
Jisung smiled. “I would never.”
As Minho remained slumped on the bed like a used, shabby towel, Jisung scrambled off to the bathroom, rifling through drawers and muttering to himself like a mad man.
“Where’s the stupid thermometer—oh my god, do we even have one? We bought a new one after it broke, didn’t we? Jesus Christ, we’re adults, how do we not have—“
Jisung opened the bathroom cabinet, rooting through a chaotic array of half-used medicines, eye drops, and suspicious ointments no one remembered buying.
His eyes scanned through a small, just as disorganised box of random first aid things, then landed on a blister pack of what appeared to be cold medicine. Instructions in tiny print, way too many letters in such a confined space.
Jisung squinted at the pills. They looked familiar, at least. “Wait, is this one good for fevers? Or is this the one that knocks you out?”
He stared at the pack, then picked up another one that was just off to the side. They looked almost identical, one just a little more vibrant in its colour scheme.
Minho’s voice echoed in the back of his mind: “Don’t poison me, Han Jisung”.
Jisung sighed, eyes flickering between the different, yet annoyingly similar, packs of medication before him. “Hmm…”
He hesitated for a moment, then pulled out his phone, opening up his messages. There was no time to dilly-dally, he needed adult supervision.
[12:35AM] Jisung: Hyung are you awake
[12:35AM] Jisung: Lino is sick and I promised not to poison him
[12:35AM] Jisung: he’s very hot
[12:36AM] Jisung: temperature wise!!!
[12:37AM] Jisung: idk whether I should toss him into cold water or give him one of these pills or what
Jisung had never been so relieved to see three dots appear in the corner of his screen.
[12:38AM] Chan: wait what
[12:38AM] Chan: how hot? Did you take his temperature?
[12:39AM] Chan: don’t give him anything yet I’ll call you
True to his word, Jisung’s phone started ringing almost immediately, and Chan’s face appeared on the screen a second later.
“Alright, what’s going on?” Chan said, eyebrows drawn in concern.
Jisung started rambling, the words tumbling over each other like he was on the verge of bursting. “I’m pretty sure Minho’s got a fever, but I don’t have a thermometer. He’s really hot, but not in the usual ‘Lee Know is devastatingly handsome’ kind of way. I don’t know what medicine to give him and I can’t read any of the instructions ‘cause I think I’ve lost the original packaging, and now everything just looks suspicious-"
Chan blinked at him slowly through the screen, carefully processing the rush of words. “Alright.. show me what you’ve got.” He said through the speaker, voice calm but alert.
Jisung flipped the camera, pointing it at the mess of supplies. "We have... these blister packs.. this box. Aaand this... bottle with no label..?” He paused, biting his tongue. “That seems bad, right?"
“Very bad.” Chan confirmed, voice tight.
Jisung could practically hear the internal screaming on the other end— the urge in Chan’s very bones to break into their dorm and reorganise every cabinet himself.
Who knows? Maybe he should let him once.
Jisung focused the camera on the two annoyingly similar looking blister packs. “This one says cold, but is this one the drowsy kind? Because the other one also says cold, but in bold and all caps- like it’s screaming it at me.”
Chan leaned closer to his phone. “Go slower,” he instructed. “Show me the first one again.”
Jisung did as he was told, moving back to the first medication and zooming in. “This?”
After a moment of silence, Chan seemed to have it all figured out. “That one is fine, it’s just a basic fever reducer. The one in bold is the drowsy kind.” He explained.
“Oh, okay, good.. wait—“ Jisung panned the camera over to another box, just to make sure he didn’t miss anything. “What about this one?”
There was a beat of silence before Chan responded. "Han-ah, that's charcoal."
Jisung blinked, brows furrowed. "…Okaay?"
“It’s for your stomach.” Chan clarified.
Still nothing from Jisung, just a slow nod that made it obvious he was not comprehending whatever his hyung was hinting at.
Chan sighed. “Well, is Lino shitting his brains out?”
Jisung spluttered, nearly dropping his phone into the sink. “No-no— he’s not. As far as I’m aware… or— wait I didn’t ask him, I should ask him.”
“Wait, don’t—“ Chan began, but it was already too late. He’d been abandoned on the sink in his phone-prison, and Jisung was a man on a mission.
Before Chan could even attempt to stop him, Jisung popped his head out of the bathroom, voice perfectly casual. “Irino, are you shitting your brains out?”
Minho stirred from his half-conscious sprawl, slowly turning to meet Jisung’s imploring gaze. He lifted his head just slightly, hair sticking out in every direction, and spoke in a hoarse, baffled voice. “What…? No…?”
“Okay!” Jisung called back, ducking into the bathroom again like that had been a perfectly normal exchange. “He says no.”
There was a long pause on the line. Chan stared at him through the screen like he was contemplating just hanging up, then clasped his hands together. “Okay. Cool. Then leave the charcoal.”
“Gotcha.” Jisung nodded, grabbing the approved blister pack of non-drowsy cold medicine. He waved it at the camera. “How many do I give him?”
Chan sighed like someone preparing to file for early retirement. “Just.. start with one, and make sure he drinks enough water with it. If there’s no change in an hour or two, he can take another. But that’s it.”
Jisung saluted him on the phone. “Aye, aye, captain.”
“Good luck.” Chan muttered, before finally hanging up.
Back in the bedroom, Jisung returned triumphantly, a pill in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Alright, sicko. It’s medicine time. And no, I’m not gonna poison you, this has been approved by a professional.”
That the professional in question was Chan, he chose not to disclose, at least not for the time being.
Minho let his head roll to the side, following Jisung’s movements with the kind of sluggish attention reserved for nature documentaries or rainy window views. He really felt weird.
Everything sounded like it was coming through a fish tank, even Jisung’s voice, which had always cut through noise easier than most things.
“Hm..?” Minho hummed quietly, vaguely aware of the water bottle being pressed against his open palm. It felt cool, which was nice, but he just wanted to sleep.
“Medicine.” Jisung repeated gently. He hovered over him again, his mouth tugged into a line, like he was trying not to look worried but horribly failing at it.
Minho knew that look. It was the same one Jisung had when he couldn't get a recording right, or when the members got too quiet in the group chat and he started overthinking.
Somehow, it made Minho feel heavier than the fever already did.
“Mm.. do I get a prize?” He muttered, half joking, but mostly just buying himself time to summon the strength to move.
Jisung rolled his eyes. “The prize is.. oh, I don’t know, not dying?”
“Lame.”
Minho smiled weakly as he popped the pill into his mouth and sipped at the water, swallowing it with far more effort than he’d expected. He leaned back with a sigh, holding the bottle loosely against his chest like a makeshift cooling pack.
All of a sudden, Jisung leaned down and pressed his forehead against Minho’s, checking his temperature again in the most roundabout way possible.
“You’re still boiling.” he stated, pulling back with a disappointed look. “Like a.. like a sexy egg.”
Minho let out a breath that could’ve passed for a laugh if he’d had more energy. A sexy egg? He didn’t even know what that meant. But somewhere between his fever-addled mind and the fact that Jisung was the one saying it, it made perfect sense.
His eyes fluttered shut for a moment before cracking back open, fixing on the blur of Jisung’s face just above him. The younger man was wrangling with a cool cloth, trying to fold it correctly for its intended use.
Minho had to admit; It was kind of.. adorable.
It wasn’t often Minho let himself be sick. Not out loud, anyway. Not in front of people. He preferred to power through, bluff his way past it until he physically broke down. But something about Jisung made it harder to lie.
Not because Minho wasn't a good liar, he was, but because Jisung didn’t need to be told. He just knew.
He saw it. Felt it, even. Like now.
Minho could’ve easily insisted he was fine, but he’d learned the hard way that there was no use in lying to a bloodhound who’d already caught a scent. Jisung always saw right through him.
“You’re actually pretty good at this, y’know..” Minho mumbled softly, letting out a soft, rattling breath. “Taking care of me...”
Jisung paused, staring down at him like his brain had short circuited and needed a quick reboot. His mouth opened, but closed again when nothing came out.
Instead, he finally placed the folded rag across Minho’s forehead.
Minho hummed. Even if his mind was frazzled with fever, he meant what he said.
Jisung always acted like he didn’t know what he was doing, like he was just stumbling through, but he always showed up when he needed to. Always did the right thing, even if it was messy or clumsy or if he needed some help doing it.
And maybe it was the fever talking, or maybe the fact that his body felt so heavy it had officially become unusable, but Minho wasn’t afraid to admit that it felt nice. That it felt safe.
That Jisung’s hand on his forehead, or his shoulder, or curled around his wrist, made the world seem a little less blurry.
“Shut up and get better already..” Jisung said softly, but his hand lingered near Minho’s face, fingers brushing his cheek like an afterthought.
Minho sighed and let his eyes close again, tired of forcing them to stay open. Maybe when he woke up, he would feel like himself again.
Maybe not.
But if he had to feel like death, at least he had his Jisung.
Jisung who would check his temperature in the most unconventional ways, run around like the house was on fire just to find the right medicine, and clung to his side like a very concerned, very persistent leech.
Jisung, who somehow— without even trying to— always managed to make the worst things feel just a little more bearable.
A stomach virus has Seungmin feeling beyond miserable, but he's reluctant to tell Felix. Why? Well... it's complicated.
When he finally breaks, Felix shows him there was never any risk of being a burden, and that there’s undeniable comfort in not having to face it alone.
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Sickie: Seungmin
Caretaker/s: Felix
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The bathroom light was way too bright.
Seungmin gripped the edge of the sink with trembling fingers, breath stuttering in his chest as he rinsed his mouth for what felt like the hundredth time that day.
His stomach ached in waves, sour and restless, and his head was buzzing in a way that couldn’t seem to let him think straight.
At some point earlier in the morning, Seungmin had naively thought that maybe the vomiting was a one off thing, that something from last night's dinner had simply disagreed with him.
That when he threw up for the first time at around 6 o’clock, that would be it.
But as he found himself stumbling back to the bathroom in an endless loop, the truth had made itself apparent. He was sick, and by early noon, he had entirely lost count of just how many times he’d thrown up that day.
Seungmin closed his eyes, pressing his forehead briefly against the cool mirror. His knees felt weak, wobbling beneath him, so he stayed hunched for a while, waiting for his stomach to settle.
It didn’t, but it was also empty— so every new heave was entirely fruitless.
God, he hated this. Hated the way his body had turned on him overnight, hated how heavy his head felt, hated that he couldn’t even seem to keep water down.
And he hated, most of all, that Felix was only a room away. Because that meant he had no valid excuse not to lean on him, not when he was clearly falling apart at the seams.
Dragging his feet back into his room, Seungmin stubbornly decided to wait it out anyway, to allow Felix to be blissfully unaware of his suffering for juuust a little longer. He collapsed on his bed, wrapping himself up in the comforter and hugging a pillow to his chest.
For a while, after realising he was too uncomfortable to sleep, he tried to distract himself. He scrolled through some lyrics and sound files on his laptop, half-formed melodies drifting through the haze, but the effort was futile.
Seungmin's vision blurred whenever he stared at the screen too long, the words swam before him, and he abruptly had to close the device before the motion made him get sick all over again.
At last, all he could do was just to lay there, twisting in pain, waiting for sleep to consume him or his next bathroom trip to arrive…
Sometime during the afternoon, Seungmin was finally ready to admit defeat. One second he was halfway upright, trying once more to focus on some lyrics on his laptop— the next, his head spun, and his body burned hot and cold at the same time.
A fever had joined in on the fun. There was no doubt about it. Alongside the way his stomach still twisted relentlessly, convulsing around nothing, it only added yet another layer of pain and misery.
This time around, he gave up on pretending, gave up on distracting himself away from his sad reality. Call him needy, but Seungmin didn’t want to be alone like this any longer, not when everything only seemed to be getting worse.
The pillow was still in his arms, hugged tightly to his chest, when Seungmin padded softly into the den where Felix was playing games on his computer. He hovered in the doorway for a second, eyes a little dazed, body swaying as only one phrase kept repeating in his mind; Don't throw up.
At first, Felix didn’t look up, simply acknowledging him with a short “Hey, Seungmin”. But as Seungmin made no effort to move forward, he quickly sensed something was amiss.
Honestly, at first Felix suspected the younger man might have come with some malicious intent up his sleeve, ready to pull a prank or bother him mid-game.
But one look at the way Seungmin slumped against the doorframe told him that was not the case. Not today.
Felix scowled deeply, slipping the headset off his ears. His eyes flickered back to the screen, fingers still tapping away, but the concern in his voice was hard to miss. “Min? You good?”
Seungmin didn’t answer right away. And when he did, his voice came out small, sounding almost embarrassed, “Uuuhh. I think I’m kind of.. sick.”
At that, Felix looked up and got a proper look of his face, his game no longer of importance. Fingers stilled against the keyboard, his eyebrows creasing in a frown.
“Kind of sick?” He repeated softly, confusion and concern blending in his voice.
Seungmin hesitated, pressing his cheek briefly into the pillow like a child stalling for courage, then gave a half-hearted shrug. He couldn’t find the words to explain, but he knew Felix understood. Somehow, he always did.
“Oh, Seungminnie..” Felix pushed himself away from his desk, putting the headset away and getting to his feet.
“Come here,” he said gently, reaching out as Seungmin stepped forward and leaned into him with a quiet sigh.
Felix pressed a gentle hand against the younger man’s neck and inwardly cursed himself for not noticing anything sooner. With a deflated sigh of his own, he muttered, “You’ve got quite the fever, love.”
“Mhm..” was all the answer Seungmin could muster, muffled against Felix’s hoodie. He hesitated only for a moment before supplying, “I threw up..”
Felix’s eyes widened a little. “You threw up?” He echoed, a concerned scowl carved onto his face. “Oh, baby.. I’m so sorry.”
A pause.
“How many times?” He prompted, rubbing a hand across Seungmin’s back as he drew him in closer.
“Dunno..” The younger admitted with a shrug, voice hoarse. “Lost count after seven..” his breath caught in his chest, a sharp inhale betraying the effort it took to hide a whimper when another cramp twisted through him.
Once it passed, Seungmin let out a sigh so heavy and defeated that Felix felt it sink straight into his own chest. Without thinking, he tightened his arms around him, as if holding on a little closer might lift some of the weight off his weary bones.
Felix's brows drew together again, his chest aching with sympathy. “Oh, pup..." he murmured, half to himself. The nickname slipped out before he could stop it, instinctual, but Seungmin hardly even reacted to it.
Another bad sign.
He just gave a faint whimper, eyelids fluttering as if he might fall asleep standing there.
“Okay, okay, you’re okay..” Felix said gently, swallowing back the lump that suddenly had formed in his throat. “Let’s get you back to bed, huh? Just lean on me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”
He guided Seungmin slowly back down the hallway, one arm firm around his waist, the other steady at his elbow. The floor swayed under Seungmin’s feet, each step heavier than the last, and though he hated to admit it, he let Felix shoulder most of his weight.
When they reached the bedroom, Felix eased him down onto the mattress with more gentleness than Seungmin thought possible.
The sheets were still twisted with the imprint of his previous struggle for comfort, but Felix didn’t seem to mind.
He simply tugged the comforter straight before tucking it back around him, smoothing the fabric as though he were patching up something fragile.
And maybe, in a way, he was.
Seungmin shifted uneasily, hugging his pillow again. He felt a little embarrassed— like a sulky, sick child confiding in his mother, rather than a grown man capable of taking care of himself.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled abruptly, the words muffled against the pillow.
Felix tilted his head to the side, caught off guard by the unexpected apology. “You’re sorry? For... for what?”
“For… this.” Seungmin’s hand fluttered vaguely, as if all of it could be summed up in one small gesture. “For bothering you.. For being so.. pathetic…”
The sheer sincerity in his voice nearly broke Felix in two. He leaned forward, reaching out to rest a hand on Seungmin’s arm, his thumb brushing soothing circles over the goosebumps in his skin.
“Seung,” Felix said quietly, though his voice carried a somewhat stern undertone, “you’re sick, not pathetic. You’d do the same for me, wouldn’t you?”
The younger man hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. “…of course.”
“Exactly.” Felix said triumphantly, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. “So, no apologies allowed.”
Seungmin glanced up, eyes glassy and lips chapped. He still wanted to argue, wanted to cling to the pride that usually carried him through everything, but Felix’s expression immediately softened any protests.
The warmth in his gaze made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with being sick. So Seungmin gave in, a soft sigh slipping from his lips.
Okay, so maybe Felix was right. No apologies needed. Not today.
"You should've come to me sooner though," Felix said gently, no reprimand in his voice, only concern. He saw how bloodshot Seungmin’s eyes were, how the dark circles beneath his eyes almost took on a bruised appearance against his pale skin.
“You’ve been sick all day, haven't you?"
Seungmin just shrugged, his expression half stubborn, half sheepish. "Didn't wanna bother you.”
Felix let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning his forehead briefly against Seungmin's knee. "You could never bother me. We’ve talked about this." He looked up again, softer now, and brushed damp hair off Seungmin's temple with tender fingers. “You need to let me know when you’re sick.. it’s important, yeah?”
“But you really don’t like vomit.” Seungmin blurted, eyes shut and expression pinched. “I… I didn’t wanna bring you down with me..”
Felix blinked at him, momentarily at a loss for words. The logic was so Seungmin— twisted around and selfless in its own stubborn way—that he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“That’s what you were worried about?” He asked finally, his voice quiet with disbelief.
Seungmin shifted under the blankets again, his hand splayed out over his still churning belly, trying to keep it under locks. “You hate it,” he muttered, eyes darting away.
“I’ve seen you gag just watching a drama scene.. figured the last thing you needed was me actually…” Seungmin trailed off, grimacing at the reminiscence of his incessant bathroom trips. “Yeah. That.”
Felix shook his head slowly, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips despite the worry in his eyes. “Oh, Seungminnie…” he said softly, brushing a hand over Seungmin’s arm again, “I don’t mind. Really. I can handle it.”
Seungmin’s stomach twisted again, and he let out a quiet, embarrassed groan, pressing the pillow closer to his chest. “I just… I didn’t wanna make you feel all queasy too.” he admitted, voice small, almost ashamed.
“That’s… strangely considerate of you,” Felix said, tone almost amused, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Seungmin’s ear. “But I’d much rather be there to hold your hair back, than know you’re suffering all on your own..”
“Oh… okay.” Seungmin swallowed hard, eyes watering despite himself. “…I just didn’t wanna bother you,” he repeated, softer this time, as though saying it aloud might somehow justify his stubborn avoidance. “Even though I… I feel really bad, Lix.”
He let out a long, shaky breath, tilting his head into Felix’s palm, comforted despite the ache in his body. For the first time that day, Seungmin allowed himself to be completely honest about how weak and miserable he truly felt.
And as the room tilted a little, he shut his eyes against the spin. “‘Feel so gross," he mumbled, a slight whine weaving into his voice. "Everything hurts."
"I know, I know..." Felix murmured, moving to sit beside him on the mattress. He slipped an arm around Seungmin's shoulders and gently drew him against his chest. “But I’m here now, okay? Just let me take care of you, baby..”
Seungmin squinted his eyes open just enough to blink up at him, vision swimming. Even distorted, Felix remained annoyingly pretty. “You’re… too nice.”
Felix tilted his head as he peered back down at him, offering a lopsided grin. “Lucky for you, huh?”
“Mm, yeah..” Seungmin hummed a soft agreement, his voice hardly above a breathless whisper.
Now that Felix was there, warm and gentle, the pull for sleep suddenly came in full. He yawned, eyes slipping shut again. “Thanks, Felix… ‘Didn’t wanna be alone anymore…
“You’re never alone, Seungminnie..” Felix crooned, rubbing his thumb in slow circles against Seungmin’s warm temple. “You’ll never be, not as long as I have a say in it.”
Eyes still closed, Seungmin let the familiar scent of Felix’s cologne drift over him, soothing him into rest. “so…does that mean I’m stuck with you?” he murmured weakly.
“Yeah, it does.” Felix chuckled, a warm, soft smile illuminating his features. He pressed a kiss to Seungmin's forehead, watching the tension slowly ease from his brow.
“Couldn’t get rid of me even if you tried.”
____________________________________________
The final part of the dorm series is here!! 🎉 (an accomplishment I didn’t know how badly I needed rn 🫡🤣) This one featuring my current favourite sickie and his angel of a roommate taking care of him❤️
Activity here may be a bit limited and sporadic for an indefinite time, but thank you for being here 😎 I’ll keep doing my best 🫡
