Archive of Our Own

Minho wakes to an empty bed.

That, on its own, isn’t strange, not really. Not when one of them is out of town, not when schedules are a mess and sleep comes in scraps instead of full nights. He usually falls asleep alone anyway.

Jisung tends to stay up late. Either holed up with Chan and Changbin, or shut away in his room, the one they still call a bedroom even though it’s long since become a studio. It’s normal.

Still… Jisung always comes back.

No matter how late. No matter how exhausted. He always ends up slipping into their bed, cold fingers finding Minho’s side, freezing toes tucking against his legs like he belongs there.

So the empty space beside him feels wrong in a way Minho can’t ignore.

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to shake off the unease, and pushes himself out of bed. The apartment is quiet as he moves through it, bare feet soft against the floor, the early light barely creeping in.

The spare room door is cracked open.

Minho nudges it wider and finds Jisung slumped over the desk, head turned awkwardly against his arm, laptop still open in front of him. The dim glow of the screen paints him in pale light.

Minho’s chest tightens.

He steps inside quietly, like he might startle him, and comes to a stop at his side. His hand lifts automatically, fingers threading gently through Jisung’s hair, brushing it back from his face.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice soft. “Did you fall asleep working?”

Jisung groans.

It’s quiet, strained. Immediately, Minho knows something’s wrong.

He crouches down in front of Jisung, hand shifting from his hair to his cheek, tilting his face up just enough to see him properly.

Jisung’s skin is pale. Not just tired, off. There’s a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead, strands of hair sticking to his skin.

Minho’s expression sharpens instantly.

“Jisung,” he says, firmer now, thumb brushing under his eye. “Hey. Look at me.”

Jisung barely manages it, lashes fluttering as he forces his eyes open, unfocused and glassy.

“…hyung,” he mumbles, voice rough.

Minho presses his palm more fully to his cheek, then his forehead, frowning at the heat there.

“You’re burning up,” he mutters.

Jisung makes a small sound, something between a whine and a protest, and tries to curl in on himself, but the position just makes him wince.

Minho’s stomach drops.

“Hey, hey, don’t move,” he says quickly, other hand coming up to steady him. “What hurts?”

Jisung shakes his head weakly like he doesn’t know, or maybe can’t explain, lips pressing together as his brows knit.

“…everything,” he breathes.

That’s enough.

Minho exhales slowly, grounding himself, even as worry claws its way up his chest.

“Okay,” he says, gentler again. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He slides one arm carefully around Jisung’s back, the other under his knees.

Jisung tenses for half a second before melting into him, too exhausted to fight it, his head dropping against Minho’s shoulder.

Minho stands, holding him close, and carries him out of the room.

The bed shouldn’t have been empty this morning.

He’s not letting it stay that way.

“I should sleep in the spare room,” Jisung argues weakly as Minho lowers him onto their bed. “You’ll get sick too.”

Minho huffs a quiet breath through his nose, already pulling the blankets up around him. “As if I’m going to leave you alone.”

“Min, we can’t both be sick,” Jisung insists, though it comes out slurred with exhaustion. “Go to Hyungs. Or Minni’s.”

“And spread it to them?” Minho shoots back immediately, one eyebrow lifting.

Jisung groans, turning his face into the pillow. “I can’t fight with you right now,” he mumbles.

“Good,” Minho says, softer now, brushing his fingers through Jisung’s damp hair. “Then don’t. Just rest while I take care of you.”

He smooths the hair back from his forehead, lingering for a second longer than necessary, thumb pressing lightly at his temple.

“I’m going to grab you some medicine and water,” he adds. “I’ll be right back.”

Jisung hums something that might be agreement, or just exhaustion, and doesn’t move again.

Minho waits a beat, watching the uneven rise and fall of his chest, the way his face pinches even in half-sleep. Then he turns and heads for the kitchen.

He moves quickly, but not carelessly.

Glass of water. Thermometer. Medicine, he hesitates for half a second, scanning labels, then grabs what he needs. A small towel, too, running it under cool water before wringing it out.

When he gets back, Jisung hasn’t moved.

If anything, he looks worse, flushed now, breathing a little heavier, lips parted as quiet, uneven breaths slip out.

Minho’s chest tightens.

“Sungie,” he calls gently, setting everything down on the nightstand before sitting on the edge of the bed. “Hey. I need you to wake up for a second.”

Jisung groans, turning slightly toward his voice, but doesn’t fully wake.

Minho slides a hand under his neck, lifting him just enough. “Come on, baby. Just a second.”

It takes a moment, but Jisung’s eyes finally blink open, glassy and unfocused.

“Mm… what…” he murmurs.

“Medicine,” Minho says, bringing the glass to his lips. “Small sip first.”

Jisung makes a face but listens, barely, taking a shaky swallow. Minho presses the pills into his hand, guiding him through it, patient even as worry curls tighter in his chest.

“Good,” he murmurs when it’s done, easing him back down.

He presses the thermometer into his ear, watching the seconds tick by.

The beep feels too loud in the quiet room.

Minho glances at the number and his jaw tightens.

“…yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “That’s about what I thought.”

Jisung shifts, a soft, pained sound slipping from him as he curls slightly onto his side.

Minho’s expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he says quietly, placing the cool towel across his forehead. “Easy.”

Jisung exhales shakily, some of the tension leaving him at the contact, leaning into the touch without thinking.

Minho’s hand comes up to cradle the side of his face, thumb brushing slow, absent circles against his cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.

Jisung’s fingers twitch against the blanket, searching.

Minho doesn’t hesitate, he threads their hands together, squeezing lightly.

Even half-conscious, Jisung latches on.

“…don’t go,” he mumbles, voice barely there.

Minho’s chest aches.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says firmly, shifting up the bed so he can sit properly beside him, close enough that their shoulders press together.

He adjusts the blanket, tucks it more securely around him, then settles in.

An hour passed. Maybe longer.

Jisung’s breathing slowly evens out, not normal, not yet, but less strained. His grip on Minho’s hand loosens just slightly as sleep pulls him under again.

Minho doesn’t move.

He just sits there, watching him, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles.

Counting breaths.

Waiting for the medicine to kick in.

And hoping, quietly, fiercely, that this is the worst of it.

Another hour later, Minho carefully untangles his hand from Jisung’s and slips out of bed.

He pauses, watching him for a second, making sure he doesn’t stir, before heading to the bathroom. The apartment is still quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavier than usual.

He splashes some water on his face, exhales slowly, then reaches for his phone.

“Hey,” Chan answers on the second ring.

He sounds like he always does, busy, a little rushed, like he’s in the middle of five things at once.

But he still picks up. He always does.

He never ignores one of their calls.

Minho leans a shoulder against the wall, lowering his voice. “We’re not coming in today. Jisung’s sick. Pretty bad.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end.

“…Yeah,” Chan says after a second. “He looked a bit off yesterday when we were working through a song.”

Minho’s grip on the phone tightens. “And you didn’t think to say anything?” he practically growls.

Chan chuckles softly. “Down, boy. I just assumed he was tired. We’re all tired.”

Minho doesn’t laugh.

“He’s burning up,” he says instead, voice clipped. “Could barely stay awake long enough to take medicine.”

That wipes the humor from Chan’s tone immediately. “…How high?”

“High enough,” Minho mutters. “I’m monitoring it.”

Another pause, shorter this time, more focused.

“Alright,” Chan says, slipping into leader mode. “Keep him hydrated. Rotate fever reducers if you need to. If it doesn’t come down in a few hours or he gets worse, you take him in. Don’t wait.”

“I know,” Minho replies, sharper than he means to.

“I’m just saying,” Chan adds gently. “You don’t have to handle it alone.”

Minho’s jaw tightens.

“I’m not alone,” he says quietly. “I’ve got him.”

Chan huffs a soft breath, something like a smile in it. “Yeah. I know you do.”

There’s a beat of silence before Chan continues, lighter now, “Text me updates, okay? And if you need anything, food, meds, backup, I can drop stuff off.”

Minho hesitates for half a second, then nods even though Chan can’t see him. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Take care of him.”

“I will.”

They hang up.

Minho lowers the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen for a moment before exhaling.

Then he pushes off the wall and heads back.

The second he steps into the bedroom, he knows something’s wrong.

Jisung is moving, restless, tangled in the blankets, a soft, distressed sound slipping from his throat.

Minho crosses the room in two quick steps.

“Sungie, hey.”

He’s at his side instantly, hand going to his shoulder, then his face.

Jisung’s skin is hotter now. Damp. His breathing uneven again.

“Hey, hey.” Minho murmurs, sitting on the bed and pulling him gently back from the way he’s twisted into himself. “Easy.”

Jisung whines, eyes still closed, head turning weakly against the pillow.

“…hurts…”

Minho’s stomach drops.

“Where?” he asks quickly, brushing his thumb along his cheek. “Baby, where does it hurt?”

Jisung’s hand lifts sluggishly, pressing weakly against his own chest before falling back down.

Minho’s mind races.

Fever. Body aches. Maybe worse.

“Okay,” he says, steadying his voice. “Okay, I’ve got you.”

He adjusts the pillow, slides an arm behind Jisung’s shoulders to lift him just enough, keeping him from curling in too tightly.

“Try to breathe slow for me, yeah?” he murmurs. “In and out. Just like that.”

Jisung’s breaths stutter, but Minho matches them, slow and deliberate, guiding without forcing.

After a moment, he reaches for the towel again, re-cooling it before placing it back on Jisung’s forehead.

Jisung leans into the touch instinctively, a shaky breath leaving him.

Minho watches him closely, every small movement, every sound.

He doesn’t like this.

Not the fever climbing. Not the way Jisung can barely stay aware. Not the way he said everything hurts.

Minho reaches for his phone again, already unlocking it.

If this doesn’t turn around soon…

He glances back at Jisung, thumb brushing lightly over his wrist, grounding himself in the contact.

“Hang on,” he murmurs softly. “Just hang on a little, yeah?”

Because if it gets any worse he’s not waiting.

The phone sits unlocked in his hand, Chan’s contact still open, but he doesn’t hit call. Not yet.

“Jisung,” he says quietly, brushing his thumb over the inside of his wrist. “You’re scaring me.”

Jisung makes a soft, strained sound, lashes fluttering but not fully opening. “Jus the flu.” He mumbles.

Minho shifts closer without thinking, one leg folding onto the bed so he can lean over him properly. His hand slides from Jisung’s wrist to his face, thumb pressing gently under his eye.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

It takes a few tries, but Jisung’s eyes finally crack open, unfocused and glossy.

“…cold,” he whispers, even as heat radiates off of him.

Minho swears under his breath.

“Yeah, I know,” he says, softer immediately. “Fever’s messing with you.”

He glances at the blankets, then back at Jisung, quickly adjusting them, not piling more on, just tucking them around him so he doesn’t feel exposed.

“Hey,” Minho tries again, voice steady but firm. “Can you sit up for me? Just a little.”

Jisung barely reacts.

That’s enough to make the decision for him.

Minho slides an arm behind his back and lifts him carefully, pulling him up against his chest instead of forcing him to hold himself up. Jisung folds into him instantly, too weak to resist, forehead pressing against Minho’s collarbone.

“Good,” Minho murmurs, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his head. “That’s it.”

He reaches blindly for the water, bringing it up.

“Small sips,” he says. “You need it.”

Jisung turns his face away at first, a faint whine leaving him.

Minho doesn’t push, just nudges the glass gently back toward his lips. “Come on. Just a little.”

After a second, Jisung relents, taking a shaky sip. Then another.

“Good,” Minho repeats, quieter now. “That’s good.”

He sets the glass aside and presses his cheek briefly to Jisung’s hair, frowning at how hot he still feels.

This isn’t coming down fast enough.

Minho shifts, easing Jisung back against the pillows, but keeps a hand on him, grounding, steady.

“Stay right here,” he says, even though Jisung isn’t going anywhere.

He reaches for the thermometer again, checks it.

The number makes his stomach drop.

That’s it.

Minho grabs his phone again, already dialing this time.

Chan answers almost immediately. “Hey…”

“It’s higher,” Minho cuts in, voice tight. “Fever’s climbing. He’s barely responsive.”

There’s no teasing this time.

“…How long since the meds?” Chan asks.

“A few hours."

“Okay.” A pause, quick but deliberate. “Then we don’t wait. You should get him checked.”

Minho looks back at Jisung, who’s half curled into the pillows, breathing uneven, face flushed and damp.

Decision made.

“Yeah,” Minho says. “I was already thinking that.”

“I’ll come pick you up…”

“No. You shouldn’t infect yourself,” Minho cuts in, softer but firm.

There’s a beat.

“Not a choice, Minho,” Chan replies, just as calm but immovable. “I’ll be there in five with the car. This way you can sit with him in the back.”

Minho sighs, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction despite himself. The logic is solid, and right now, logic wins.

“…Okay.”

Minho doesn’t waste a second.

He grabs a thicker hoodie for Jisung, swapping it out quickly, more mindful now of the chill that comes with the fever. A towel gets draped over his shoulder, just in case, and he snags a bottle of water on the way back.

“Jisung,” he murmurs, kneeling beside him again. “Hey. We’re heading out, alright?”

Jisung barely stirs, a weak sound leaving him as he shifts.

Minho slides an arm behind his back, lifting him slowly. “C’mon. Just a little longer.”

Jisung slumps into him, all weight and heat, his forehead pressing against Minho’s neck. His fingers curl weakly into Minho’s shirt like instinct.

“…don’t feel good,” he breathes.

“I know,” Minho murmurs, tightening his hold. “I know. We’re gonna fix that.”

He doesn’t bother trying to get him to walk.

Instead, he lifts him fully, adjusting his grip so Jisung is secure against his chest. The towel slips between them, catching some of the heat and dampness, but it does nothing to ease the worry clawing at him.

By the time Minho makes it to the door, headlights are already cutting through the dim morning light outside.

Of course Chan made it in under five minutes.

Minho steps out just as the car pulls up.

Chan doesn’t waste time with greetings. His eyes go straight to Jisung, taking in the flushed skin, the way he’s barely conscious.

“…Yeah,” he mutters under his breath. “Good call.”

He reaches out, brushing a hand gently over Jisung’s hair, thumb pressing briefly against his temple. “Hey, Sungie,” he murmurs softly. “Let’s get you feeling better.”

Jisung doesn’t respond.

Not even a sound.

Minho’s chest tightens at that, and he doesn’t linger, already moving, shifting his grip so he can get them into the backseat.

“Open it wider,” he says shortly.

Chan is already there, pulling the door fully open.

Minho slides in carefully, keeping Jisung supported the entire time, easing him down just enough to sit, but not letting him go. Jisung slumps immediately, head falling forward until Minho catches it, guiding it back against his shoulder.

“Easy,” Minho murmurs, one hand cradling the back of his head. “I’ve got you.”

Jisung’s fingers twitch weakly against Minho’s shirt, barely there.

Chan closes the door and circles around to the driver’s seat, glancing back the second he’s in.

“Seatbelt,” he reminds again, gentler this time.

Minho nods, adjusting awkwardly but efficiently, securing it across both of them without loosening his hold.

“Hospital?” Chan asks.

“Yeah,” Minho answers immediately.

Chan doesn’t say anything else, just starts the car and pulls out fast.

Jisung shifts barely a minute into the drive.

A soft, strained whine leaves him, his head turning restlessly against Minho’s shoulder.

Minho tightens his hold instantly. “Hey, hey.”

Jisung’s breath stutters, uneven, his grip weakly tightening for half a second before slipping again.

“…hurts…” he whispers.

Minho swallows hard.

“I know,” he says, voice low and steady even as something sharp twists in his chest. “I know, baby. We’re almost there.”

He presses his cheek briefly to Jisung’s hair, frowning at the heat still pouring off him.

Too hot.

Still too hot.

“Chan,” Minho says, sharper now. “It’s not coming down.”

“I’m going as fast as I can,” Chan replies, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror. His jaw is tight now, all focus. “Two minutes.”

Jisung makes another small sound, weaker this time, his body going heavier against Minho.

Minho’s heart stutters.

“Jisung?” he calls, a little louder. “Hey, stay with me.”

No response.

“Jisung.” Firmer now, his hand coming up to tap lightly at his cheek. “Open your eyes.”

Nothing.

Minho’s voice drops, something urgent bleeding through. “Han Jisung.”

A faint reaction this time, a small, barely there shift, lashes fluttering without opening.

Not enough.

“Hyung….”

“I see it,” Chan cuts in, already turning sharply. “We’re here.”

The car barely comes to a full stop before Minho is already moving.

He unbuckles quickly, gathering Jisung fully into his arms again. Jisung’s head lolls against his shoulder, completely limp this time.

Chan opens the door for him and helps him out. “Go. I’ll handle parking.”

Minho doesn’t argue.

He’s already halfway to the entrance.

“Help!” he calls the second they’re close enough, voice cutting through the quiet. “I need help, he’s got a high fever, he’s not responding!”

The doors slide open.

Everything after that moves fast.

A nurse rushes forward with a wheelchair, another already asking questions Minho barely registers.

“How long…?”
“How high…?”
“Any other symptoms…?”

Minho answers what he can, voice clipped but steady as he carefully lowers Jisung into the chair, reluctant to let go even for a second.

“He was fine yesterday,” he says. “Fever spiked this morning. It’s getting worse, he’s barely conscious.”

They nod, already moving.

“Alright, we’ve got him.”

Minho’s hand lingers on Jisung’s shoulder as they start wheeling him away, fingers tightening just slightly.

He doesn’t let the wheelchair get more than a step ahead of him.

His hand stays on Jisung’s shoulder the entire time, like if he lets go, something worse might happen.

They push through a set of double doors, the pace quick but controlled. A nurse rattles off information to someone ahead of them, words like high fever, altered responsiveness, rapid onset blending together in Minho’s ears.

“Sir, we’re going to move him to a bed,” another nurse says, already steering them into a curtained area. “Stay right here.”

Minho nods, but he doesn’t actually step back until he absolutely has to.

They transfer Jisung onto the hospital bed, movements efficient, practiced. Jisung barely reacts, just a weak shift, a faint sound that dies in his throat.

Minho’s stomach twists.

“Sungie,” he calls quietly, moving back to his side the second there’s space. “Hey. I’m right here.”

No response.

A blood pressure cuff tightens around Jisung’s arm. A thermometer again. Someone checks his pulse, another shining a light briefly into his eyes.

“What’s his name?” a nurse asks.

“Han Jisung.”

“Age?”

Minho answers automatically.

“Any known conditions? Allergies?”

He shakes his head. “No. Nothing.”

They nod, continuing their checks.

“Temperature’s still high,” one of them says under their breath.

Minho hears it anyway.

Of course it is.

“Okay,” a doctor’s voice cuts in as they step into the space, already pulling on gloves. “Let’s get an IV started. Fluids first, then we’ll work on bringing that fever down more aggressively.”

Minho’s attention snaps to them. “What’s wrong with him?”

The doctor glances at him briefly, not dismissive, but focused. “We’re going to find out. High fevers like this can hit hard, especially if he’s been pushing himself.”

That tracks. Too well.

“But right now,” the doctor continued, “we treat the symptoms and stabilize him.”

Minho nods stiffly, even as unease coils tighter in his chest.

A nurse swabs Jisung’s arm, sliding the IV needle in smoothly. Tape. Line. Fluids start dripping almost immediately.

Jisung flinches faintly at the sensation, the first real reaction in minutes.

Minho leans in instantly. “Hey. Hey, you’re okay.”

Jisung’s eyes flutter, barely opening, unfocused.

“…Min…” he breathes.

Relief hits so sharp it almost hurts.

“I’m here,” Minho says immediately, his hand coming up to cup his face. “I’m right here.”

Jisung’s gaze doesn’t quite land on him, but he leans into the touch anyway, instinctive.

“…tired…”

“I know,” Minho murmurs, thumb brushing gently across his cheek. “You can rest. They’re helping you.”

Jisung exhales shakily, tension easing just slightly before his eyes slip closed again.

This time, it looks more like sleep than before.

Minho stays right where he is.

A nurse places a cooling pack against Jisung’s neck, another adjusting the IV flow.

“We’re going to give him something stronger for the fever,” the doctor says. “And run a few tests, bloodwork, maybe a viral panel.”

Minho nods, even though his focus never leaves Jisung.

“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, quieter now.

The doctor pauses for half a second before answering, honest, but reassuring. “He’s in the right place.”

Not a guarantee but it’s something.

Minho exhales slowly, nodding again.

Behind him, there’s movement, Chan’s voice low as he speaks briefly with someone near the curtain.

“I’m sorry, sir, but only family can be back here,” a nurse says as Chan pulls the curtain aside and steps into the room.

His expression drops instantly when he sees Jisung on the bed, IV in his arm, skin flushed, too still.

“I… I’m his…”

“He’s his brother.”

Minho doesn’t even look up when he says it.

The nurse’s eyes flick between them, assessing. “And you?”

Minho’s gaze never leaves Jisung.

“I’m his husband.”

The words come out without hesitation.

He knows he shouldn’t have said it. Knows exactly how complicated that statement is, legally, publicly, everything. But right now, none of that matters.

Not when Jisung looks like this.

There’s a brief pause.

The nurse studies him for a second longer… then nods.

“Alright,” she says simply, already turning back to her chart. “Stay out of the way while we work.”

Minho doesn’t move anyway.

Behind the curtain, voices murmur, too loud, too curious.

“…did they say…?”
“…Stray Kids…”

The whisper cuts through the space, sharp and unmistakable.

Chan’s shoulders tense slightly.

Minho doesn’t react.

He doesn’t have room to.

But then another voice cuts through—m, clear, firm, leaving no room for argument.

“He’s a patient,” the doctor says, stepping closer without even glancing toward the curtain. “I don’t care what idol group he’s a part of. Let security know, just in case, but this does not get out.”

The murmuring dies almost immediately.

Professionalism snaps back into place.

And just like that, the focus returns where it should be.

On Jisung.

Minho exhales slowly, something tight in his chest loosening just a fraction.

Chan steps closer to the other side of the bed now, quieter, more careful.

“…Hey, Sungie,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers lightly against Jisung’s arm, avoiding the IV. “You picked a hell of a day to scare us.”

Jisung doesn’t respond.

But his breathing is steadier than before. Minho notices that immediately.

“They gave him something,” he says quietly, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s helping.”

Chan nods, eyes scanning over him. “He looks a little less… tense.”

A nurse adjusts the IV, checking the flow. “Fever’s starting to come down,” she confirms.

Minho’s shoulders drop, just slightly.

Not relief. Not yet.

But closer.

“Good,” he murmurs.

Minutes pass.

Slow. Heavy. Measured by the steady drip of fluids and the soft, rhythmic beeping of monitors.

Another nurse comes in, quiet and efficient, drawing blood for testing before slipping back out with a soft click of the curtain.

Then they’re alone again.

Minho doesn’t leave Jisung’s side. His thumb keeps moving over Jisung’s hand,absent, repetitive, grounding, like if he stops, something might slip.

Chan lingers too, quieter than usual, arms crossed loosely as he watches.

An hour later Jisung’s fingers twitch in Minho’s hand.

Minho straightens instantly. “Baby?”

Jisung’s brows knit faintly, a soft sound leaving him as he shifts his head against the pillow. “…Min…”

“I’m here,” Minho answers immediately, leaning closer.

Jisung’s eyes blink open, slow, heavy, but clearer than before. Still unfocused, but trying.

“Hyung…” he breathes.

Minho lets out a quiet exhale he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”

Jisung’s gaze drifts, landing somewhere near Chan before slipping again.

“…Chan…?”

“I’m here too,” Chan says gently, stepping closer into his line of sight. “Couldn’t let my first kid go to the hospital without me.”

Jisung huffs the faintest breath of something like a laugh, barely there.

Then his face pinches slightly. “…head hurts…”

Minho’s hand is back on his forehead instantly. “I know. Fever’s coming down. They’re taking care of you.”

Jisung hums weakly, eyes already slipping closed again, but this time, it doesn’t feel as wrong. This time, it feels like rest.

Minho watches him for a long second.

Then another.

Only when Jisung’s breathing settles into something more even does he finally look up, just briefly, toward Chan.

Their eyes meet.

No words. They don’t need them.

Minho looks back down almost immediately, fingers tightening slightly around Jisung’s hand.

“I’m going to call the guys. Update them,” Chan says quietly once it’s clear Jisung has slipped back into sleep. “I’ll grab us a coffee, too.”

Minho nods, not trusting his voice.

Chan lingers for half a second, eyes flicking between the two of them, then slips back out through the curtain.

Minho leans back in the chair with a slow exhale.

Not fully relaxed. Not even close.

But… less rigid than before.

One hand is still wrapped around Jisung’s, careful of the IV, thumb brushing absent patterns over his skin like he hasn’t quite realized he’s doing it. His other arm rests loosely against the chair, fingers twitching every so often like they don’t know what to do without something to hold.

He watches Jisung’s face.

The color is still off. Still flushed. But not as bad. His breathing is steadier now, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that doesn’t make Minho’s stomach drop every time he looks.

Still…

It had happened too fast.

Minho swallows, gaze dropping briefly to where their hands are joined.

What if he had slept in longer?

The thought hits harder now that things are quieter.

What if he hadn’t woken up when he did?

What if he’d just assumed Jisung crashed in the studio like always?

What if he’d listened, just this once, and left him in the spare room?

Minho’s grip tightens slightly before he forces himself to ease it again, careful not to disturb him.

No. He exhales slowly, jaw tightening.

He didn’t. That’s what matters.

Still, the image flashes anyway. Jisung alone, fever climbing, no one there to notice.

Minho shuts his eyes briefly, pushing it away.

Not helpful. Not now.

A soft shift pulls his attention back immediately.

Jisung moves just slightly, fingers twitching in his grasp.

Minho leans forward in an instant. “Hey… easy.”

Jisung doesn’t wake this time, but he turns his head faintly toward Minho, like he’s seeking him out even in sleep.

Minho’s expression softens. He reaches up with his free hand, brushing Jisung’s hair back from his forehead again, gentler this time. Cooler than before.

Better.

“Scared me,” he admits under his breath, voice barely audible. “Don’t do that again.”

Jisung doesn’t answer.

But his fingers curl just slightly around Minho’s.

Reflex. Instinct.

Enough.

Minho huffs a soft breath, something almost like a tired laugh escaping him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

The curtain rustles softly a few minutes later.

Chan slips back in, balancing a small tray with three cups. “One coffee, one tea,” he says quietly. “Figured you might not want caffeine right now.”

Minho glances up, nodding. “Thanks.”

Chan sets them down carefully on the side table, then glances at Jisung.

“Any change?”

“Sleeping,” Minho says. “Better than before.”

Chan nods, relieved.

“They all say hi, by the way,” he adds, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “And to tell him he’s dramatic.”

Minho snorts softly at that, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

There’s a brief pause.

Then Chan’s expression turns a little more serious as he leans against the wall.

“You did good,” he says quietly.

Minho doesn’t look up. “I did what anyone would have done.”

Chan huffs lightly. “Not everyone would catch it that fast.”

Minho’s fingers tighten again, just slightly. “I almost didn’t,” he mutters.

Chan doesn’t argue, he just nods once. “But you did.”

That lands.

Minho exhales slowly, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says after a second.

He looks back at Jisung, thumb brushing over his knuckles again.

“So, husband, huh?” Chan asks lightly.

Minho doesn’t look up. His thumb keeps tracing slow patterns over Jisung’s hand.

“If I said anything else, they would’ve kicked me out,” he replies. “And there’s no way I was leaving his side without being dragged out. Saved you a publicity stunt. Besides…” his jaw tightens faintly, “…anything else sounds wrong.”

Chan hums, not disagreeing. “Oh, I know. I’ve just never heard you say it out loud.” A small pause. “He does all the time.”

That makes something flicker across Minho’s face, too quick to name.

Silence stretches.

Long enough that Chan assumes the conversation is over, his attention drifting back toward Jisung.

“You know,” Minho says finally, voice quieter, rougher around the edges, “if it was legal here, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Chan stills.

Minho’s gaze hasn’t left Jisung once. “Marry him,” he continues, almost like he’s thinking out loud now. “I wouldn’t care about the company. Or the fans. Or what anyone thought.”

Chan watches him carefully, something soft settling into his expression.

Minho exhales slowly, his grip tightening just slightly around Jisung’s hand. “I already act like I am,” he adds, quieter. “Live with him. Take care of him. Fight with him about stupid things. Worry about him like…” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing.

Like this.

He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t have to.

Chan lets the silence sit for a moment before speaking again, gentler this time. “Then why haven’t you said it to him like that?”

Minho’s fingers still for the first time since they got here.

“…Because saying it out loud makes it real in a different way,” he admits after a second. “And if something goes wrong…”

His eyes flick to the IV. The monitor. The too pale skin that’s only just starting to look normal again.

He doesn’t finish.

Chan nods slowly, understanding anyway. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I get that.”

Another pause.

Then Chan pushes off the wall slightly, stepping closer. “For what it’s worth,” he adds, “I don’t think he’d run from it.”

Minho lets out a soft, humorless huff. “No. He wouldn’t.”

If anything, Jisung would meet it head on. Probably grin about it. Tease him for taking so long.

The thought tugs at something warm in Minho’s chest.

Jisung stirs again, this time a little more than before. His brows knit faintly, fingers twitching in Minho’s grip.

Minho leans forward instantly. “Sungie?”

Jisung makes a soft sound, lashes fluttering before his eyes slowly open.

They’re clearer this time. Still tired. Still heavy. But present.

“Hey.” he murmurs.

“Hey,” Minho says immediately, all the earlier weight in his voice gone, replaced with something softer, steadier. “Hi.”

Jisung blinks slowly, gaze focusing on him for a second before drifting slightly. “Hyung?”

“Right here,” Chan says, stepping into view with a small smile. “You gave us a bit of a scare.”

Jisung exhales weakly, something like embarrassment flickering across his face. “…sorry…”

Minho’s expression tightens. “Don’t,” he says, sharper than he means to. Then softer, “Don’t apologize.”

Jisung’s eyes slip back to him, studying his face like he’s trying to read something there.

“…you stayed,” he murmurs.

Minho lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Obviously.”

Jisung’s lips twitch faintly at that, the smallest hint of a smile.

“…my Min…” The words are slurred with exhaustion, barely there, but they land.

Jisung’s eyes drift closed again, his grip loosening slightly as sleep pulls him back under.

Minho watches him for a long moment.
Then, quieter than before, so quiet it’s almost lost in the hum of the room.

“…yeah,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over Jisung’s hand. “Yours.”

Twelve hours later, they’re back in their apartment.

Jisung is stretched out across the couch like he belongs there, like he always does. His head rests in Felix’s lap, fingers loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt. His legs are thrown over Hyunjin’s, who absently rubs slow circles into his shin. Changbin sits cross legged on the floor right in front of him, holding one of Jisung’s hands. Seungmin and Jeongin lean hover near the back of the couch, close enough to be part of it.

Minho is in the chair.

Not far.

Close enough.

Close enough that he can see Jisung’s chest rise and fall, steady, normal. Close enough that he doesn’t feel like something is about to go wrong if he looks away for too long.

For the first time all day he feels like he can breathe.

“So,” Jisung says, voice still a little rough but him, unmistakably him. “What did I miss?”

“Changbin ate all the food again and pissed off Seungmin.”

“Hey!” Changbin protests immediately, loud, then drops his voice just as fast when he glances back at Jisung. “I was stress eating. You know how I get when I’m worried.”

Jisung’s expression softens, something warm and apologetic slipping into his eyes. He lifts his free hand and runs it gently over Changbin’s hair.

“I do,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

Changbin rolls his eyes, but he leans into the touch anyway.

“Well, we went to rehearsal,” Seungmin adds dryly, “but didn’t get much done. So you basically gave us a rest day without it being scheduled.”

Jisung huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re welcome?”

A few soft chuckles ripple through the room.

“Oh.” Chan shifts in his seat, sitting up a little straighter.

Minho feels it immediately. He knows that tone.

“Minho told the nurse you were his husband.”

The room goes still, conversation cutting off mid breath as all the attention shifts to him.

Minho doesn’t look at any of them, doesn’t look at Chan, doesn’t acknowledge the weight of their stares.

He only looks at Jisung.

Jisung, who’s gone completely quiet. Still half curled on the couch with his head in Felix’s lap, but fully awake now, eyes locked onto Minho with something unreadable flickering in them.

“…you did?” he asks softly.

Minho exhales slowly through his nose.

“No one else would’ve let me stay,” he says simply. “They were asking questions. It was the fastest way to shut it down.”

It’s the truth. But not all of it.

The room stays quiet. Too quiet.

Jisung keeps looking at him.

“…that’s what you went with?” he asks after a second, voice still light, but there’s something underneath it now. Something searching.

Minho finally shifts in his chair. Leans forward just slightly. Still not looking anywhere else.

“Anything else would’ve been wrong,” he says.

Felix’s hand stills in Jisung’s hair. Hyunjin stops moving entirely. Even Changbin goes quiet, his grip tightening just slightly around Jisung’s hand.

Jisung’s lips part like he’s about to say something. Then close again.

“…oh,” he says instead.

Minho watches him for a second longer.

Something from earlier, the hospital, the chair, the quiet hum of machines, presses forward in his chest again. Heavy. Unfinished.

So he doesn’t let it drop.

“You scared me,” Minho says, more blunt than before. Not sharp, just real. “I thought…”

He cuts himself off, jaw tightening.

Minho exhales, steadier this time. “If I hadn’t checked on you…” he continues, quieter now, “if I’d just left you there like you asked…”

Jisung’s expression shifts immediately. “Min.”

“No,” Minho says, not harsh, but firm. “I’m not doing that again. I’m not pretending that was nothing. I meant it.” Minho doesn’t look away.

“When I said it,” he adds, voice lower now. “I wasn’t just trying to get past a nurse.”

Jisung’s breath catches.

Around them, the others are very suddenly not part of the moment anymore, frozen, silent, watching without interrupting.

Minho leans forward just a little more, elbows resting on his knees now.

“If it was legal,” he says, steady, unwavering, “I would marry you. Tomorrow. Today. Doesn’t matter who knows.”

No hesitation. No room to misunderstand.

Jisung stares at him, eyes wide, bright. “…you would?” he whispers.

Minho huffs the faintest breath, almost incredulous. “Of course I would.”

There’s a beat.

Then another.

And then Jisung is moving, slow because he has to be, but determined anyway, pushing himself up despite the protests that immediately come from everyone around him.

“Hey…”
“Careful.”
“Jisung.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, already reaching for Minho.

Minho’s up out of the chair before he even realizes it, closing the distance in two quick steps.

Jisung catches his hand first.

Then his shirt.

Pulls him closer.

“You’re so…” Jisung starts, voice breaking a little, a laugh slipping through anyway. “bad at saying things when they matter.”

Minho raises an eyebrow faintly. “I just did.”

“Yeah,” Jisung says, smiling now, really smiling. “Took a medical emergency, but yeah.”

Minho huffs, but there’s no bite to it.

Jisung’s grip tightens slightly, eyes softening as he looks up at him.

“I’d marry you too,” he says, quieter now. “In a heartbeat. I don’t care about any of that either.”

Minho stills. Just for a second.

Then his hand shifts, sliding up to cup the back of Jisung’s neck, thumb brushing lightly along his skin.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

Jisung nods once. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause.

A breath.

“Next time we’re overseas,” Minho says, like he’s just finishing a normal thought, “let’s do it. Let’s make it official.”

Jisung freezes.

Completely.

“…Was that…” he blinks, staring at him. “Did you just propose to me?” His head snaps toward Chan. “Did he just propose to me?”

“Sure sounded like it to me,” Chan says, lips twitching.

“No,” Minho says immediately. “No, I didn’t. I just said…”

“That you want to marry me next time we’re somewhere it’s legal,” Jisung cuts in, moving to sit back down on the couch before he faints for the second time that day due to a completely different reason. “That definitely sounded like a proposal.”

“I mean,” Hyunjin adds, ever helpful, “he didn’t technically ask the question.”

“Thank you,” Minho mutters.

“But,” Hyunjin continues, “the intent was very… proposal adjacent.”

“That is not a thing,” Minho shoots back.

“It is now,” Seungmin says flatly.

Changbin nods. “Yeah, you basically proposed without the formalities.”

Minho drags a hand down his face. “I hate all of you.”

But Jisung isn’t laughing anymore. He’s just staring at him. “Minho,” he says, quieter now.

Minho’s hand drops. He meets his eyes and just like that, the teasing fades. Because Jisung looks like he did earlier, just for a second. Open. A little fragile. Like this matters more than anything else in the room.

“…What?” Minho asks, softer.

Jisung swallows. “Do you want to marry me?”

There it is.

Clear. Simple. No way around it.

The room quiets, not chaotic this time, but expectant.

Minho doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”

No hesitation. No deflection. Just truth.

Jisung’s breath catches. “Then ask me properly,” he says, almost like a challenge but there’s something hopeful underneath it.

Minho exhales, shaking his head like this is ridiculous.

Like they’re ridiculous.

But he steps closer anyway. Slow. Intentional. Until he’s right in front of him again.

Jisung tilts his head up, eyes bright, tired, emotional, but steady.

Minho’s hand comes up, brushing lightly along his jaw before settling at the back of his neck.

Grounding.

“Fine,” he mutters.

He pauses, studying Jisung’s face like he needs to get this right.

Then, quieter, “Han Jisung… will you marry me?”

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, obviously yes.”

Laughter breaks somewhere, Changbin, probably, but it fades under the way Jisung grabs Minho’s shirt and pulls him down into a tight, slightly uncoordinated hug.

“Careful!” Felix protests.

“Hey, he just got out of the hospital.” Jeongin adds.

Minho ignores all of it.

His arms wrap around Jisung just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head instinctively.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into his hair. “Okay.”

Jisung laughs against him, breath shaky but happy. “You’re unbelievable. You accidentally propose and then act like it’s annoying.”

“You forced me to do it properly,” Minho points out.

“You’re welcome.”

Minho huffs, but there’s no bite to it. He pulls back just enough to look at him again, thumb brushing under his eye, checking, grounding, making sure he’s still here.

“Next time we’re overseas,” Jisung echoes softly.

Minho nods once. “Yeah.”

“Make it official.”

“Yeah.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a second longer.
Then, inevitably…

“Do we get to plan a wedding?” Hyunjin asks.

“No,” Minho and Jisung say at the exact same time.

Chan laughs. “Too late. You involved six other people the second you said it out loud.”

Changbin is already pulling out his phone. “I’m making a group chat.”

“You are not.”

“It’s called Minsung Wedding Committee.”

“Delete it.”

“No.”

Jisung is laughing again now, leaning back into the couch, still holding onto Minho’s hand like he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.

Minho doesn’t let go either.

Not even for a second.

But this time…

He doesn’t feel like he has to.

Which is exactly when Changbin, completely unhelpful as always, adds, “So basically all it took for Minho to finally man up and make it official was Sungie nearly dying.”

“I didn’t nearly die!” Jisung snaps immediately, glaring at him.

“Hey,” Minho cuts in at the same time, “I would have done this years ago if the company wouldn’t have interfered.”

“Years?” Seungmin echoes, eyebrows lifting. “Years?”

“Oh, this just got interesting,” Jeongin mutters.

Jisung slowly turns his head toward Minho. “…years?” he repeats, quieter.

Minho freezes just long enough to give himself away. “…Don’t start,” he mutters.

“Oh, I’m starting,” Jisung says immediately, pushing himself up again despite the hands hovering to keep him from overdoing it. “You had years and didn’t say anything?”

“I said things,” Minho defends.

“No, you didn’t. You glared. And hovered. And cooked for me aggressively.”

“That means something!”

“It does not mean ‘I want to marry you,’ Minho!”

“It should!”

Changbin snorts. “Aggressive cooking as a love language…”

“Shut up.”

Felix is practically folded over him, grinning. “Wait, how many years are we talking?”

Minho presses his lips together.

Jisung leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “…Minho.”

“…A few,” he mutters.

“How many is ‘a few’?” Hyunjin asks, way too invested.

Minho doesn’t answer.

Jisung’s eyes widen slowly.

“…Lee Minho.”

Minho exhales through his nose. “…Since before debut.”

The room explodes.

“What?!”
“No way!”
“You’re kidding?!”
“Are you serious?!”

Jisung just stares at him, completely silent. “…you’re joking,” he says finally.

Minho doesn’t respond.

Which is answer enough.

Jisung lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You’ve wanted to marry me that long and your best move was what? Making me food and judging me?”

“I did more than that,” Minho protests.

“Name one clear thing.”

“I…” He stops.

Silence.

“Exactly,” Seungmin says chuckling.

Jisung groans, dropping his head back. “I could’ve been engaged by now!”

“You are engaged now,” Chan points out.

“Yeah, but I could’ve had a head start!”

Minho rolls his eyes, stepping closer again, but there’s something softer under it now. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters. “You do realize you were seventeen then? I wasn’t much older. We were kids.”

Jisung tilts his head, looking at him again, less dramatic now, more thoughtful. “…still,” he mumbles, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Minho huffs quietly, reaching out to brush his hair back from his face again.

“Still nothing,” he says, gentler this time. “We got here anyway.”

“Took you long enough.” Jisung mumbles half heartedly.

“I was waiting for the right time.”

“You had YEARS, Minho, pick one!”

“I just did.”

That stops him.

Jisung blinks. “…okay,” he admits after a second. “That was annoyingly good timing.”

“I know.”

The tension softens, the room settling again around them.

Jisung studies him for a long moment, something quieter replacing the frustration.

“…you really mean it?” he asks softly.

Minho doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Jisung holds his gaze then smiles.

Small. Soft. Real.

“Took you long enough.”

Minho huffs, but his hand comes up automatically, brushing Jisung’s hair back.

“Yeah,” he says. “It did.”

Jisung laces their fingers together again like it’s instinct. Like it’s always been this.

Changbin sniffs dramatically. “I still think I deserve credit.”

“You don’t,” Minho and Jisung say in unison.

“I saved your love life.”

“You stress ate,” Seungmin corrects.

“Same thing.”

Laughter fills the room again, easy, warm, alive.

Minho barely registers it.

He’s too busy looking at Jisung, still here, still smiling, and now, finally, not something he has to hold back anymore.

“I claim best man spot number one!” Changbin shouts.

Chaos erupts immediately, loud and relentless, shattering whatever quiet moment had settled between them.

But neither of them pulls away.

Jisung’s still holding his hand. Minho’s still standing close enough to feel the warmth of him, the steady proof that he’s here.

The noise swells around them, arguing, laughter, voices overlapping, but it doesn’t take anything away.

If anything, it makes it feel more real.

Jisung glances up at him, grin softening into something smaller, warmer.

Minho huffs quietly, thumb brushing once over his knuckles.

And despite everything, despite the chaos, the noise, the absolute lack of peace.

Neither of them would have it any other way.