Work Text:
On the third day, Chan started checking his phone more often. It wasn't an obsessive checking. He wasn't sitting there staring at his darkened screen at all hours of the day. He was just looking more than usual and fiddling around on apps he didn't need to be on as he waited for something.
He'd send Minho something stupid. The first was a picture of a cat that looked perpetually offended. Then a screenshot of a recipe he knew Minho would never cook but would absolutely request be made. A video of someone attempting to assemble IKEA furniture backwards because it reminded him of Han Jisung.
There would be no response. That wasn't unusual in itself.
Minho wasn't much of a texter, no matter who was on the other end. Talking on the phone was an iffy endeavor as well.
Sometimes he'd leave Chan on read for twelve hours before replying with a single thumbs-up. Sometimes he'd ignore every message Chan sent throughout the day only to appear on Chan's doorstep at eleven at night because he'd wanted company but "forgot texting existed." He would purposefully decline a phone call or ignore it altogether but send a voice memo exactly two hours later saying, "today is an 'awkward' on the phone kind of day," and again, appear on Chan's doorstep asking what he wanted.
So, no. Silence wasn't concerning. Not replying or hearting stupid images wasn't concerning. Not yet.
It was the other things that accumulated over the week.
The way Minho hadn't opened the playlist Chan updated every Monday morning. The way his location hadn't moved from his apartment since Tuesday afternoon. The way Chan had tried sending a voice memo first and never received one back made up entirely of burbling alien language. The way Minho had not appeared on Chan's door step because he forgot texting existed.
The fact that he hadn't stolen Chan's hoodie was the biggest one. It was a ridiculous metric.
Every few days, something of Chan's would disappear. A sweatshirt. A pair of socks. Chapstick. A spoon, somehow. Chan usually didn't even ask anymore. Random things from his apartment would disappear for no reason at all. Sometimes it would be stolen right out from under his nose. Other times he'd have a thief come through while he wasn't even home at all.
All Chan had to do was simply go over to Minho's apartment a week later and discover his missing belongings scattered throughout the place as if they'd always belonged there. That spoon he mentioned, bizarrely, was sitting on the top of Minho's toilet once. Yeah, he doesn't ask anymore.
Minho hadn't taken anything in over a week though.
There were no discrepancies among his things. No thieves raiding his apartment for the most disposable things. Chan hadn't been burgled at all in over a week, and that was…odd.
On the fourth day, Chan called.
He called despite Minho rarely ever picking one of those up. Even on overly fantastic and sparkly days, Minho tended to feel awkward over phone calls. Chan was normally the one who picked up Minho's cell phone when it rang while they were together. He couldn't pick up a call he was making.
It rang. It rang again. Voicemail. Chan didn't leave one.
Instead, he sent another text.
Chan: You alive?
Nothing.
Half an hour later—
Chan: If you're ignoring me because I beat your score on that stupid game, I'm taking it as a win.
That was a valid reason for ignoring him. It was what Chan wanted to think was the problem and yet, nothing.
By evening—
Chan: Min?
Absolutely nothing.
Chan stared at the screen longer than he meant to. His thumb hovered over another message before he sighed and locked his phone. Assaulting Minho with constant messages and attempts was not something he did because it wasn't something Minho liked. It frustrated him. It made him overwhelmed. Chan had already sent enough by that point.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Minho was sleeping. Maybe he just needed space. Space was a thing Minho needed often. Chan kept hoping it wasn't the kind of space Minho drowned in. That space wasn't good. That space meant he didn't really need space at all. That space meant Minho needed help.
The agreement had been made almost a year ago, and it hadn't happened overnight. It came as the result of repeated incidents that accumulated over their time together.
The first time Chan had found him after one of these episodes, Minho hadn't eaten anything besides dry cereal for three days. Completely dry. There was milk in the fridge that was still fresh (Chan had checked), but Minho hadn't felt like he could open the door enough to take it out.
The second time, he'd forgotten to drink enough water and nearly fainted standing up. It was actual forgetfulness. Minho had said he hadn't realized how long it had been as he clung to life in his tomb of a bed. He had said that he'd forgotten humans needed to hydrate themselves right before pinpointing why his throat felt so dry.
The third time, Chan had found mold growing inside forgotten takeout containers because Minho couldn't bring himself to throw them away. The effort had been too much. Getting up to retrieve the food from outside of his apartment door was hard enough. Eating it was nearly impossible. Properly discarding of it was way beyond his abilities.
After that and many other times, they'd sat together on Minho's balcony while the sun disappeared behind neighboring buildings. Minho had been embarrassed. Chan had been worried. Neither had quite known how to fix something that kept happening.
Chan hadn't even known about this in a more personal sense. He knew Minho disappeared sometimes, went silent, and emerged days later looking like a right mess. But he hadn't known it was like this. Minho never talked about it. Minho never told Chan what happened to him when he disappeared from himself. He didn't tell him when they'd been friends for the longest time, and he hadn't told him when they started dating.
Chan just happened to discover it when the prolonged silence upset him enough to barge through Minho's door. Remembering that day and Minho's half explanation that didn't really explain anything at all tended to make his heart hurt. Chan loathed these episodes just as much as he loathed whatever thing made Minho hurt enough to have them.
So they'd made a plan instead. If they couldn't fix it, then they'd find a way to endure it. Together. Chan advocated heavily that this be something they held together. Minho never needed to be alone and suffer through it longer.
"If it's been two days," Chan had said. Minho had picked at the sleeve of Chan's sweatshirt as a distraction. "You text me." Silence. Minho never liked talking about this stuff. "I don't care if all you send is a period." More silence. More picking. "I'll come over."
"You don't have to," Minho had said quicker than he needed to.
"I know," Chan had said just as quickly. Chan never had to do anything, but he also did. He chose to for Minho. "I want to."
Minho had looked away and drew his fingers to tap them on the railing instead. "What if you're busy?" He'd been waiting for the excuses and the little deflections Minho so loved to chew on. Convincing himself he wasn't worthy enough to be taken care of was always one of Minho's favorite pastimes.
"I'll make time." That was a promise.
"What if—"
"I'll make time," he'd said stronger. Minho had bit his lip as he stared at some unmovable thing in the distance. Chan had to reassure him of the one thing that always remained in Minho's mind whenever he thought the way he was wired spelled difficult. "You aren't bothering me."
Minho had tipped his head to the side like he hadn't believed that. He tended to believe and accept most of what Chan said, but that was never one of those things. "You promise?" he'd eventually mumbled.
Chan remembered smiling. That meant they were on the right track. "I already did."
It took a very long time of blank staring and rapid tapping, but Minho had finally and very quietly agreed. "...okay."
"Okay?"
"Second day."
"Second day."
"You'll come."
"I'll come."
Minho struggled to notice himself approaching burnout because he was very good at functioning until he very suddenly wasn't. An episode often started before Minho ever realized it had started. Chan, meanwhile, had learned to see the tiny signs. But seeing tiny signs and recognizing them for what they were catapulting toward were two separate things. Chan was iffy in that second department—sometimes great and other times lacking.
Replying with one-word texts when he was in a texting mood instead of teasing was a sign. Forgetting or neglecting to burgle Chan's apartment was a sign. Declining dinner twice in a row, especially dinner with just Chan, was a sign. Stocking up on frozen meals instead of real groceries was a sign. Canceling plans he normally enjoyed was a sign. Becoming physically quieter as he moved around or simply existed was a sign. Sleeping at odd hours or struggling to get up was a sign.
None of those things meant anything when considered individually. Minho did those things separately on an off day or just because he felt like it. Together though? That became an issue. Several of those things collecting at once was an accumulation of bad that Chan started diligently counting.
Today was the fifth day.
Chan knew before checking the calendar or counting back in his head how long now Minho was showing him the signs of an episode. It was never one thing that hinted at or confirmed one. It was several things combined. Chan caught them sometimes but never usually put them all together until it was past those two days. Minho hardly ever texted him on that two-day mark. They had a plan. Minho neglected to follow it more often than not.
Chan knew it was the fifth day because of the weight settling behind his ribs. He knew because he'd reached for his phone before even opening his eyes that morning. He knew because every hour without hearing from Minho felt just slightly heavier than the last.
At eleven thirty-six, he stood from his desk. He grabbed his keys, ignored his coworker's curious remark, and left. Five days was too long for Minho to be like Chan feared he was now. Five days was terrible. It meant it was one of the lasting ones.
He scolded himself the entire way over for not doing this on the third day. But Chan couldn't always know. He couldn't always determine when Minho needed taken care of. Minho was supposed to text. Chan promised, and Minho had said okay.
The hallway outside Minho's apartment was quiet. Too quiet. It felt like this unsettling static had washed over his skin as he stood there wishing for the millionth time that they lived together.
Chan had asked. He had asked nearly every month for almost a year now. Their relationship stretched three years, but Minho always said no. Always. He always looked Chan in the eye with a sad smile, a small shake of his head, and a "not yet" that had never once changed.
Chan believed that if they lived together, then he'd catch these things on day one and squash them before they got to be this bad. Minho argued because he knew how he got when his episodes happened, and he didn't want to ruin Chan's home with it. Chan never understood it. It frustrated him. To him, there was no distinction.
Minho's home was his home, regardless the state. Minho's mess was his mess, no matter how filthy. Minho's bad days were his bad days, and he didn't care how ugly. Chan always thought Minho could never make himself believe that. He always thought Minho was just terrified of Chan watching him disappear in real time instead of only cleaning up the aftermath.
Knocking felt like it would disturb this already disturbing silence lurking over him. Knocking wasn't something they even did. Minho tended to just waltz into Chan's apartment, go straight to his fridge, and announce, "I am here to rob you." Chan did the same thing here.
He knocked anyway. Three gentle taps. "Min?"
Nothing. Another knock. "Hey."
Silence.
He waited another minute before pulling the spare key from his wallet. It had tiny white dots from a paint marker along one edge that had scuffed from use. Minho had insisted on decorating it because he wanted it to look different from Chan's other keys. When Chan told him it already looked different because the shapes didn't match, Minho doubly insisted that it would look more different.
Chan smiled despite himself then unlocked the door.
The smell hit first. The smell always hit first. It wasn't an awful smell. He had never felt like he needed to come in here with protective wear or biohazard precautions, but it definitely smelled. It was a stale sort of smell with some kind of funk lingering beneath it. Musty. The air just hadn't moved in days. Much like Minho, most likely.
Frozen food containers sat abandoned across the counter. One balanced precariously on the arm of the couch. Another rested on the coffee table with a fork still inside. A half-empty bottle of water lay on its side beneath the television. Curtains covered every window. The apartment was almost completely dark despite it being midday.
Chan closed the door quietly behind him. "Min?" Nothing.
Sometimes he did come in here with a fear that Minho had already rotted away into something he could not coddle back, but Minho wasn't like that when he was in an episode. If anything, he'd rot from forgetting to eat and drink. Evidence of him attempting to manage it laying scattered everywhere in forgotten piles had always been a relief.
His footsteps barely made a sound on the hardwood. No floorboards creaked beneath his weight. Even when Chan did try to make a sound, it was like the apartment was muting it in order to keep things quiet for Minho. Chan hoped he had his headphones charged on the nightstand. If not, then he hoped Minho was using them.
The bedroom door was already open. Chan stopped in the doorway and there he was curled tightly beneath the blankets and facing the wall. It was exactly where Chan knew he'd be—the same position Minho was always in when this happened. His headphones were not on his head nor around his neck, but Chan could see the faint glow of them charging on the nightstand.
Minho remembered to do some things; he just never remembered to text Chan on the second day. Well, that had nothing to do with forgetting. Minho just didn't want to bother him no matter how many times Chan tried convincing him that would never happen.
Minho's chest rose and fell slowly. He wasn't asleep. Chan could tell from how he was laying there and the sound of his breath. Besides, Minho never really slept much during these episodes. He just sort of…stayed—existed even, in this strange state of disassociative limbo. Chan wished Minho never knew what something like that felt like. He didn't know himself what this was like, but he'd rather carry it for Minho than watch what it does to him.
Chan crossed the room. They were supposed to do these things together. Minho was stuck and unwell for so much longer when he did it alone, and Chan had to take care of him. Part of Chan's biggest duty in loving Lee Minho and making him happy was to take care of him. This was part of it. No matter how painfully it plucked at his heartstrings, this was part of it.
The mattress dipped as he sat carefully beside him. For a moment, Chan simply looked.
Minho didn't get like this often. His episodes were few—only a handful over the course of a year. The bulk of them tended to be small things that lasted no more than a couple days. Those were worrying still, yes, but they weren't as poignant. He'd have one or two moderate ones that lingered about as long as this one had. Chan did most of his 'dropping in' during those because they were easier to recognize. He had only experienced one long one. It lasted ten days. Minho hadn't texted him then either. It took such a long time to get him back to himself.
Five days.
His hair was flattened in odd directions, dark with oil where it clung together near his scalp. The oversized t-shirt he'd slept in was wrinkled beyond recognition. Chan knew the clothes on his body were the same ones that have clung to him since he burrowed in here. The room smelled faintly of unwashed skin, laundry that hadn't been changed, and the lingering scent of Minho underneath it all.
It made Chan's chest ache. Seeing and smelling the rot was worse than just thinking about it. He reached forward and carefully brushed a few strands of hair away from Minho's forehead. Both his hair and skin left this oily residue on his fingertips, but Chan never cared about that.
"Hey," he said softly. Minho was not much more than an outline with faint features. Chan could see that his eyes were open. Though dull, they still held the faintest shine in them that no episode or bad day could entirely snuff out. Chan wished there was a quicker way to brighten them back up.
Several long seconds passed. Then, a tiny sound. "Hm," like even that took too much effort.
Chan smiled small. That was at least something. "Hi, Mimo." Minho didn't turn around, but he never did at first. The wall was blank. It was predictable, always there, and felt less exposing. Chan's hand settled lightly between his shoulder blades. He kept it a warm touch that fell still. No rubbing yet. "How long?"
"What day?" Minho asked. His voice was rough with disuse—quiet, like his vocal cords had forgotten how to vibrate sound out.
"It's Friday," Chan informed him. Minho not knowing what day it was never was a good sign. That meant he wasn't paying attention to much of anything, not just his phone.
Minho paused before mumbling, "...five."
Chan closed his eyes for a second. Five. Yeah, he'd known that. Hearing it stung a little more than just deciding it on his own. Foolishly, he'd been hoping that first few days were just days Minho forgot he owned a phone and not…this. "You were supposed to tell me on day two," Chan said. It felt lightly scolding. Chan never got angry about it, but he did get frustrated because the plan was meant to help.
Minho shrugged barely. "I know." Sometimes he spoke. Sometimes words were not things he could access. The speaking part tended to yield few results.
Chan only sighed. "I would've come. I always come."
"I know," quieter.
"So why didn't you?" Minho shrugged again with no answer. Chan would not and did not push because he already knew. He knew why Minho never texted him on that second day even when he was supposed to.
Somewhere in the fog inside Minho's head, asking for help had become impossible. When he was like this, Minho thought loving someone often felt like burdening them when his brain insisted he was difficult to love. Chan cannot express how many times he had told Minho otherwise. Loving him was one of the easiest things Chan had ever done. Loving him when he was like this was as involuntary as breathing.
Chan leaned down to press one soft kiss into the back of Minho's messy hair. He always did that despite him having to wrinkle his nose and wipe his mouth after pulling away. "You smell," he told him. 'Stink' was not a nice word to use. Everyone smelled in some fashion; Minho just happened to smell bad right now.
"Mm," was all Minho could manage.
"I think you might be growing moss," Chan tried for humor as he swiped more hair from Minho's face. That earned him another tiny sound. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it also wasn't quite not one. Progress was what it was, no matter how small.
Chan smiled at the back of Minho's head. "Can I pick you up?" Asking felt mandatory. Even though they went through the same routine every time Chan came to care for him, he still asked. Minho knew, expected, and had previously agreed to being carried, but he still deserved the choice. Last time was never going to be the same as this time.
A long silence passed before he received a slow nod. "Okay," was all Minho quietly said.
Chan pulled the mound of blankets Minho was molding to from his body. He was such a delicate thing laying there curled up in the outline his weight and unmoving shape imprinted in the mattress. Chan slipped one arm beneath Minho's shoulders and the other beneath his knees.
Minho offered no resistance. He simply folded inward against Chan's chest automatically, forehead settling against his collarbone as though he'd done this a hundred times before. He had. They had. Maybe not a hundred but enough to form a subconscious pattern.
Chan stood and adjusted his grip because Minho hated feeling not secured in his arms. Then he tilted him slightly side to side before tucking him closer to his chest. "You still weigh approximately as much as a particularly stubborn house cat," he concluded thoughtfully.
"Liar," Minho mumbled. Little petulance accompanied his tone, but it was still there.
"Ah, there he is." Because that meant just a teeny sliver of his Minho was peeking through. A tiny exhale puffed against Chan's neck. It still was not quite a laugh, but it was closer to one. If Chan could get minuscule pieces of progress like that throughout the rest of the day, then things would turn out alright enough.
Chan carried him toward the bathroom one careful step at a time. His shoulder nudged the door open wide. The room was almost as dark as the bedroom. The only light came from the doorway behind them, a thin stripe stretching across the tile floor. A different sort of funk permeated the air in here, and it wasn't the same kind that accompanied Minho's state. Still stale, but more putrid.
He set Minho gently on the closed toilet lid before reaching to flush whatever contents had been lingering in the bowl for too long. That was another thing he struggled with like this. Chan was proud of him for managing to close the lid.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Minho sat with his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging forward, and eyes unfocused on the floor. His hair curtained around his face in this shiny, gunked mess. His hands dangled limply between his legs. Chan chose not to kneel in front of him yet. He knew better than to rush Minho.
Instead, he reached to switch on the small vanity light. The overhead fixture would be too bright this sudden. A warm amber glow filled the room. This was gentler and easier in serving a purpose. Minho blinked once against it but didn't otherwise react. Good. Good light. The bathroom fan would be too loud for him to endure, so Chan settled on opening the small window above the toilet to air some of the funk out for now.
"Bath or shower?" Chan asked quietly. He'd knelt in front of the toilet now with gentle hands on Minho's knees.
Whichever he preferred always changed. Baths were low participation, but Minho didn't always like sitting in the filth. Showers took more energy, so Chan had bought a foldable stool for him to sit on as he was cleaned. The only issue with that was the added challenge of ensuring Minho did not fall off of it.
"Bath," Minho eventually decided. The answer was no more than a croak.
"Okay." Baths were simpler.
Chan filled the tub with warm water, checking the temperature against the inside of his wrist before adding just enough cool water to soften it. He reached beneath the sink for the bottle of fruity, citrus bubble bath, then paused. No. It had too much scent for right now, so he put it back. Instead, he grabbed the unscented soap they specifically kept for days like this—days where too strong of smells made Minho's nostrils burn.
When he turned back around, Minho hadn't moved an inch. It honestly looked like he'd folded closer in on himself. Chan crouched beside him again with those hands over his knees. "I'm going to help you undress. Is that okay?" Again, asking felt mandatory. He never wanted to presume.
Minho gave a tiny nod. Chan never pretended these moments weren't just a little awkward because they were—even after years together. There wasn't anything shameful or embarrassing about seeing each other unclothed. They've showered together, slept together, been physically intimate together, but Minho deserved the dignity of being included in the nakedness every step of the way. So Chan always asked. Every time.
"Shirt first." Chan carefully lifted the hem, and Minho automatically raised his arms. The shirt peeled away slowly, revealing more skin that hadn't seen sunlight in almost a week. He seemed paler because of it. The honeyed hue of his body that Chan knew so well wasn't as full as he remembered it to be.
Chan's heart pinched. There were faint impressions from the blankets across Minho's side. His ribs rose gently with each breath. He looked fragile in a way. It wasn't a physical fragility. Minho did not appear gaunt, sickly, or any other adjective that brought immediate health concerns. He just looked like someone who'd folded so tightly inward that the world had forgotten he occupied space within it.
"Pants." Another tiny nod.
Minho never hid or tried to cover himself when Chan took care of him like this. It was more him just waiting around for the next thing. He didn't have the energy to be ashamed, and Chan thought he didn't need to be. Minho didn't need to be ashamed of his bad days or how they flooded him with executive dysfunction. Chan never judged. Minho felt safer with that.
Chan helped him stand with hands on his waist. His knees wobbled as he got on his feet, so Chan just held him firmer. "I've got you," he promised. Minho leaned automatically into him while Chan slid his sweatpants down to set them aside.
His boxers followed. Chan kept his eyes where they needed to be. There was no lingering and no embarrassment. All it had to be was care. Chan often carried his actions in these times as the way someone who loved him enough to separate intimacy from necessity would. That was what Minho needed.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Mm," from Minho.
Chan wrapped one arm around his waist and helped him step into the tub. Minho kept a single weak grip on his forearm as he lowered himself into the warm water. A quiet sigh that almost sounded relieved left him when he settled. His shoulders relaxed a fraction which was a very good thing. That meant Minho could still sort of feel. He wasn't numb yet.
Chan took a moment to roll up his sleeves. Coming straight from work meant he was still in his work clothes, but he was not going to waste time. Minho's comfort came before his own. "Can I wash your hair first?"
Another nod.
He wet Minho's hair using a small plastic cup they kept in the bathroom cabinet, pouring slowly so the water wouldn't run into his face. One hand stayed across Minho's forehead with his head tipped slightly back. Always. He'd learned after the first time that Minho hated water streaming over his eyes. It wasn't a fear thing because he only hated it when he was like this. It just felt too much.
Chan squeezed shampoo into his palm. It was another less-scented kind they kept for days like this. He worked it into a lather then began gently massaging Minho's scalp. He used slow circles with just enough pressure. Rushing or doing it too vigorously would do no help. It would make all the too much feel even more.
Minho's eyes drifted shut. After a few more seconds, his head tipped forward another inch. Chan smiled faintly. "There he is," he commented quietly. A sleepy hum answered him. "You always melt." That earned him another hum—a louder one. It felt like a real sound this time, not just Minho tinily acknowledging something to let Chan know his ears still worked.
Chan worked carefully behind his ears, at the base of his neck, and along his hairline. He knew every place tension collected and exactly how Minho liked his scalp scratched. It was an acquired skill. Before they first started dating, Chan had done this absentmindedly while watching a movie. Halfway through, he'd looked over to find Minho asleep against his shoulder.
Scalp massages quickly became a thing. Over time and after this all had been inadvertently introduced, scalp massages had quietly become medicine. That's what it felt like, anyway.
Once the shampoo was rinsed away, Chan reached for conditioner. More faint, almost nonexistent scent. More gentle circles. More quiet. Chan used a separate cloth and cleanser to get his face washed. No water from the cup was dumped over his face to rinse it off. He just wiped with his hands and patted with a cotton pad.
Outside, birds chirped somewhere beyond the cracked window. Inside, only water and quiet breath moved. Chan didn't fill the silence because he never felt the need to. Minho neglected to speak unless he was spoken to first. Even then, a response was neither required nor expected.
"Body next," he announced.
"Okay." The word came out almost inaudibly. Chan smiled only because Minho was trying to be present.
He wet the washcloth, added soap, then started with Minho's shoulders. Long, careful strokes were the key. Chan was thorough with every piece of him not just because Minho hadn't washed in five days. That should have made him gross, he was gross, but Chan didn't view him like that. Chan saw his biggest love in the pits of struggle and still knew he was his biggest love. The less Minho had to worry or be conscious over, the easier it was to get him back to himself.
Soap. Rinse. Soap. Rinse.
He lifted each arm one at a time to wash underneath. Then around his wrists, across his palms, between his fingers, and underneath his nails. Minho's hands were cold despite the warm water. Chan rubbed them a little longer with and without the cloth.
"You've been freezing yourself again," he decided. He didn't accuse. Minho didn't offer a response, and Chan hadn't expected one.
He washed behind Minho's neck. He washed across his chest, his sides, his stomach, and in his bellybutton. He washed over his hips, his pelvis, and carefully on his privates. He washed down each leg, around his knees and ankles, and between each toes. Every movement was gentle and deliberate. He never hurried this part, and he never wanted to make Minho feel like he was just a task for Chan to complete.
It was just one thing. Then the next. And the next.
When it came time to wash his back, Chan shifted onto the edge of the tub. "Lean forward," he requested. Minho obeyed immediately. His forehead rested lightly against Chan's shoulder, wetting the fabric of his shirt. He always did that without thinking or asking. Like the times when Chan carried him, Minho's body simply remembered where it was safe when he got lost.
Chan froze for the briefest second before he resumed washing.
The cloth moved slowly across the curve of Minho's spine, his shoulder blades, the back of his neck again, and his lower back. It took some maneuvering, but Chan got over his butt and between his cheeks too. Minho stayed with his forehead against Chan's shoulder the entire time with his eyes closed, barely awake.
Chan rested his cheek briefly atop Minho's damp hair. "I missed you," he said softly. Silence met him. It wasn't that empty sort of silence; it was listening silence. Chan learned how to distinguish them both. "I don't like five days." He meant that in all the ways—not talking, not seeing each other, not knowing, and not being able to help until it was that fifth day.
Minho gave him another long pause, but he spoke at the end of this one. "…sorry," mumbled with not much inflection. Chan still heard the twinge though. He still knew Minho truly did mean it.
Chan immediately shook his head. "No," he stated simply and pressed a kiss against wet hair. "We're not apologizing today." Chan refused to let him apologize. He won't ever accept them during an episode, and Minho never argued. He simply stayed leaning against him while Chan finished rinsing away the last traces of soap.
By the time the bath was over, the water had gone lukewarm. Chan pulled the drain then wrapped the biggest towel in the apartment around Minho's shoulders before helping him stand. Water dripped quietly onto the tile as he stepped out.
"I've got you," he promised. It was always a promise. Minho swayed once, so Chan steadied him with both hands around his waist.
Slowly, carefully, he patted him dry instead of rubbing. That was another lesson learned over time. Rubbing irritated Minho's skin but patting didn't. Patting was good and less overwhelming. Chan dried his arms. Then his torso, pelvis, privates, legs, and feet. When he seemed less decorated in water droplets, he wrapped the towel tighter around him.
"Cold?" he asked. Minho was shivering out of the water. His hands still felt so cold. Minho gave him a small nod. "I figured. Too loud?" as he reached for the hair dryer.
Minho considered it for a moment then shook his head. "Low," he decided.
"Low it is."
The dryer hummed softly. Chan would like to say the low setting made a sound barely above a whisper, but it wasn't quite that quiet. He held it further than necessary from Minho's head to preserve his ears from the noise. Gentle fingers brushed through damp black hair while warm air flowed over it.
Five minutes passed. Minho's shivers began to recede but the grip he had on his towel kept loosening. Neither of them spoke over the soft noise. Minho slowly began leaning more and more of his weight into Chan. If Chan had an additional hand, then he'd rub it slowly over Minho's stomach. His eyelids drooped in his reflection through the mirror.
"You going to fall asleep standing up?" he asked.
"Maybe," Minho replied.
A quiet chuckle escaped Chan. "I'd rather you didn't. If you start to fall, I might accidentally bonk your head with the hair dryer trying to catch you. That wouldn't feel very nice. Neither would hitting the floor."
Minho gave another almost smile. Just an almost. The slightest uplift at the corner of his lips. Chan always counted those.
When his hair was finally dry, Chan set the dryer down and reached for the comb. This needed to be done with careful strokes. Start at the ends and work upward toward the roots. Do not pull and do not force knots. Even the slightest snag in the strands can spell catastrophe. He'd learned that one the hard way a while ago.
Once finished, he held up the comb dramatically. "No casualties," he happily announced.
"Congratulations," Minho offered with a slow nod.
"Ah, there he is," a repeat. Chan smiled at the tiny flicker of sarcasm. It wasn't much. A single word and dry comment was not much, but it was proof. The fog hadn't swallowed Minho whole. A little more of him was peeking underneath it all. He was still there. He was always there.
Chan reached into the cabinet beneath the sink and pulled out a fresh toothbrush still in its wrapper. Minho had many of these for this exact purpose. He thought a toothbrush cleaning his neglected teeth was a toothbrush he never wanted to use again. "It's more filthy because of all the build up," he would half explain.
Chan held it up. "Teeth next?" Minho looked at it for several seconds before nodding. He was normally very good with his dental health and frankly, all of his hygiene in general. Just not now. Just not when he was like this.
Chan wet the bristles for him and squeezed a dollop of toothpaste on top. He tried handing it over, but Minho just stared at it with slow blinks. His fingers refused to even twitch from where they curled over his towel. "Can't," he finally decided.
Chan's heart tugged. It wasn't that Minho physically couldn't brush his teeth or simply didn't want to. His brain had just reached that point where even holding a toothbrush felt impossibly complicated.
"Okay." Minho wasn't embarrassed. Chan wasn't either. This was just another thing to do together and take out of the equation. They would try flossing tomorrow or even the next day. That was a different beast that was much too overstimulating right now.
Chan helped Minho sit on the closed toilet lid beside them. It was easier like this. "Open," he requested. Minho obediently parted his lips. He always followed directions so easily when Chan came to care for him. His well Minho, his better Minho, would be a menace about something like that. He'd adamantly refuse being taken care of like this too.
Chan brushed slowly with a light pinch on Minho's chin. Back to circles that were gentle, but these were also small. He brushed crooked front teeth, the sides, the backs, his tongue, and every little tooth in there. Minho never really looked anywhere in particular. He didn't stare up at Chan or go unfocused on the floor. His gaze just blanked at wherever his eyes already were.
He paused every few moments just to check because it's different when someone else cleans your teeth. "Doing okay?" A little nod was every single reply.
As they finished, he handed Minho a small cup of water. "Swish." Minho managed that himself, and Chan always thought it was because no one else could swish for him. He spat it back into the cup so Chan could dump it out and leaned heavily against the back of the toilet.
"All done," he announced. "No more washing up because you're all clean." Chan wiped a stray bit of toothpaste from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Ah, there. Now we're all done."
Minho's eyes followed the movement and continued to as Chan wiped the excess on a bit of toilet paper. Very quietly, he spoke. "Thank you."
Those words always caught Chan off guard. It wasn't because Minho was an ungrateful person; he said thank you a lot whenever Chan did something nice for him and expressed gratitude in other, less verbal ways. They caught him off guard because Minho tended to save his energy for things he considered absolutely necessary. Chan didn't classify being thanked for brushing his teeth as absolutely necessary, but Minho did.
Chan leaned in to press a soft kiss to his forehead that Minho subconsciously leaned into. "You don't have to thank me," he told him. If it were like that, then Minho would be constantly saying thank you for the rest of the day.
"I know." But he wanted to.
Chan gave him another kiss on his temple. "I like taking care of you." Especially when you can't take care of yourself, was the part he always omitted. He didn't think Minho would like hearing that. He thought it would only make him feel worse and more like a burden if Chan said that part even if Minho already knew it.
"I know." But he decided not to ask him to. He decided not to text Chan on the second day .
One more kiss. This one pressed to his cheek. "And I like kissing you." That earned him the faintest upward twitch at one corner of Minho's mouth. More slivers of him peeked through the fog. "Mhm, there you are."
Choices were easier than open-ended questions in a state like this. Minho needed 'this or that' and 'yes or no' type questions. If Minho could not easily nod or shake his head or point his answer, then it wasn't a good thing to ask. So, instead of asking Minho what he wanted to wear, Chan held up two shirts he pulled from the closet.
"The black one?" and he shimmied the option. Or…"The blue one?" and he shimmied that one too. If Minho couldn't decide a question like that on his own, then Chan just chose for him and double checked that his decision was an okay one.
Minho looked between both shirts. He sat on the edge of the bed completely nude with his head hung forward and his hands once again dangled limply between his legs. He was present though. He was focused on his choices and actively listening.
"Black," he finally decided.
Black it was, then. Chan put the blue one back and shuffled over to inspect the clean sweatpants Minho had in his drawer. "The soft ones?" he asked with them pulled out. A nod. Socks now. "The fuzzy ones?" These sat above his ankles and warmed his toes. Another nod. "Underwear?" Because that was a 'yes or no' question, believe it or not. Minho decided no as he often did.
Chan asked if it was alright to help him get dressed after rolling some deodorant on his underarms. Sometimes Minho thought he could manage. Sometimes he didn't. This time, he accepted the help with another small nod. His limbs moved easily each time Chan maneuvered them to get an article on.
By the time Chan had finished helping him dress, Minho looked considerably more like himself. He still looked exhausted in that 'sleepy soul' kind of way. He still appeared a little hollow-eyed and held himself up like his body weighed too much. But he was clean now. He was warm and comfortable. His freshly washed hair fell softly over his forehead instead of sticking together in oily clumps.
The oversized gray sweatshirt Chan helped pull over his head swallowed him almost to his fingertips. It was, unsurprisingly, Chan's. "You stole this," he stated with fingers settling the hood in a way that wouldn't bother him. He found this in Minho's closet mixed in with other articles that had also mysteriously disappeared from his house.
"Borrowed," Minho clarified with a blank face.
Chan thought on it some more. "Pretty sure you've had it for at least six months," he finally concluded. It had been awhile since he saw this hoodie in his own laundry and that was probably why he hadn't recognized it right away. Minho wore this one so often that it sort of just became Minho's.
"Long-term borrowing," Minho amended.
Chan snorted. Long-term borrowing was essentially stealing. Minho never meant to return anything he burgled from him. "I'll let it slide this time." More like every time. Chan always let it slide because Minho having comfort was more important than replaceable things.
Minho's head tipped ever so slightly against Chan's shoulder. Barely any pressure backed the touch, but it was enough that Chan stayed perfectly still before him. Sometimes affection looked like wrapping your arms around someone. Sometimes it looked like refusing to move because the person you loved wanted to lean into you.
Chan stood there quietly for a few minutes with his thumb rubbing at the base of Minho's neck. Minho remained sat in place with that light contact just breathing and resting. There was no rush or expectations in moments like this. Whatever Minho wanted or needed was exactly what he would get.
Eventually Chan murmured, "couch?" The bed was too sorry and needed to be refreshed anyway. The couch was one step closer to reentering reality. Minho gave a nod, so Chan helped him to his feet.
Minho settled into his usual corner when Chan got him sat comfortably. A blanket got placed over his lap and tucked behind his sides. His legs tucked beneath himself like they already knew where to go. His headphones (the noise cancelling ones) rested around his neck for now. Chan made sure to unplug them from their charging on the nightstand.
Chan grabbed a bottle of water from the pack Minho kept on top of the fridge and dug a straw from his stash in one of the drawers. Straws were easier. It involved less lifting the bottle and eliminated any unnecessary cap screwing.
Chan opened it for him, stuck the straw in, and placed it directly into Minho's hand. He would not give any reminders or lectures. He would not ask Minho about his drinking habits over the last five days because wouldn't remember anyway and tended to get upset over the prying. He didn't like forgetting. Chan was just making the next step easier for him.
Minho drank slowly from the straw, but he did not drink much. It wasn't even half the bottle when he decided he was done and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. For now, it would be enough. Minho was trying.
"Good," Chan said and squeezed his knee once from his seat beside him.
"Do you know where your phone is?" Minho shook his head. "Do you remember the last time you had it?" Minho shook his head again. He tended to forget about the device and lose it when he was like this. Chan had found it in odd places before, usually with a drained battery, and that explained a lot of the not texting back. Minho couldn't do that (even if he had wanted to) if he didn't know where his phone was.
Chan leaned toward him to kiss the top of his ear. "I'll find it, I'm sure." In the meantime, he pulled his own phone out and pressed it into Minho's hand. "You know the passcode. For your music if you want it." Minho gave a single nod and curled his hand protectively around Chan's phone in his lap. That was one thing he would never lose—Chan's things.
"I'm going make the apartment a little less haunted," he said with a quick look around. That's what it always felt like—lived in without truly being lived in. Like an abandoned space where something still lingered. Minho preferred that word too. It made him less self-conscious over how it all looked.
Chan stood to do just that after a few silent minutes. Minho decided to speak as Chan was walking away like it came to him as an afterthought. "Sorry," mumbled again.
Chan turned to point at him. "We already talked about this."
Minho blinked slowly. "Right."
"No apologizing," Chan repeated. Minho forgot words too.
"Mm."
The bedroom usually came first because it was the most affected. If Minho was going to rot, then his bed was his preferred tomb. Chan stripped the bed in practiced motions—blankets, sheets, pillowcases. Everything went into the laundry basket. When he lifted one pillow, he found three granola bar wrappers underneath it.
He smiled sadly at them. "Of course," he said to himself. "You always hibernate, but only with granola."
Into the trash they went. Along with those wrappers were the empty bottle of an electrolyte drink and a half-eaten takeout container of shrimp noodles. The container still had traces of heat on it as he threw it out. That was a good sign. That meant Minho ate from it recently and had something in his belly.
The washing machine rumbled to life a minute later with the contents of the stripped bed and Minho's greasy clothes from the bathroom floor. Fresh detergent and an extra rinse cycle. Always. Minho liked the smell of clean laundry but hated when detergent lingered too strongly. Chan often washed his own things like that now in order to accommodate him, even when he wasn't like this.
He always took a brief moment here to himself. Chan leaned his forehead against the wall of the laundry room to close his eyes for roughly ten seconds. He never did it to cry or have his own breakdown. Chan did not resent the care part; he resented seeing Minho suffer like this. Five days, he thought, I wish you'd text me on day two. Then he took a deep breath and went back to it. That was all he needed.
Back in the bedroom, he cracked the curtains. He only ever opened them six inches. Never completely. Minho liked six inches. Sunlight spilled gently across the floorboards instead of flooding the room. Too much light after spending so long in the dark hurt. It was enough to warm the space rather than overwhelm it. That was what Minho needed.
He repeated the process throughout the apartment. Bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen. A sliver of light here and a sliver of light there. Then he unlocked and opened the windows in the same order because one thing had to be done after the other. Back and forth, back and forth. Minho enjoyed it that way.
Warm afternoon air drifted inside almost immediately. The apartment seemed to exhale as life slowly returned in each corner. The stale smell began disappearing inch by inch, but it would take some time for it to completely dissipate. Outside, someone laughed in the courtyard. A dog barked and chased after a squirrel. Wind rustled through nearby trees.
Yes. Life, slowly returning. Minho would get a taste of it too.
The kitchen always took longer. There weren't mountains of dishes. It was hardly any at all because Minho rarely had the energy to cook during these episodes. Instead, there were frozen meal trays, instant noodle cups, protein bar wrappers, and takeout containers. All of them were half eaten. Even the bottles of electrolyte drinks were half empty.
Minho never finished anything and just left it laying scattered around like he'd come back to it later. One mug contained something Chan wisely chose not to identify. Most of it was evidence that Minho tried—that he had remembered to nourish himself enough to make it through. Chan didn't think a lot of it counted as actual nourishing, but Minho tried.
He tossed everything. He washed all the utensils and ran whatever was already in the dishwasher. He wiped the counters and took the overflowing trash bag of stinky food outside.
When he returned, he opened the refrigerator only for his heart to sink. There wasn't much, but Chan had expected nothing at all. A little milk that expired three days ago, half a cucumber that had teeth marks in it like Minho couldn't be bothered to cut it up, one egg, a whole container of butter, and a handful of wilted spinach. At least he had a container of strawberries that looked surprisingly okay.
The freezer was completely void of any additional microwave meals. Chan had just thrown them all out, and he didn't really like thinking about what Minho would have done if he hadn't come over today. At least he'd been eating something. Not enough, but something.
Chan grabbed the note pad from the fridge door to make a grocery list. More eggs, pre-made chicken, rice, soup, fresh fruits and veggies, and better cup noodles. Minho needed things he could throw together when functioning felt difficult—things that didn't require twenty steps. Chan would cook for him for the time being, but this wouldn't magically disappear come morning.
When Chan walked back into the living room, Minho hadn't moved even a centimeter. He was exactly as he'd been left. He didn't have his headphone on and the breeze from the window lightly blew his fluffy bangs around. Except…the water bottle was empty. Completely drained of all liquid. Chan smiled at that very proudly. "Good job, Mimo."
Minho slowly raised his head to blink at him. He gave a few blinks this time, not just one. "You sound like I'm five." Chan heard that for what it was, and it wasn't Minho chastising or feeling displeased. He was trying to joke with a softened voice that couldn't muster up the attitude.
"You finished your water," Chan nodded. "That's a very good thing that deserves nice words."
"Still sound like I'm five."
Chan laughed as he sat next to him on the couch. "There he is," he cooed a bit with a kiss on Minho's shoulder. That earned him another tiny, almost smile. Progress came little by little, but Chan could only be glad that it was coming at all.
Against the far wall and shoved between the television stand and wall sat a portable folding treadmill. It was one of those compact ones for easier storage and smaller spaces. Minho would have liked a bigger one with incline and faster speeds, but something like that couldn't fit in the apartment.
Minho loved walks, but he preferred to go on runs. When things were well, Minho went running every early morning to watch the sunrise and took an early-evening walk to enjoy the outdoors. Chan often accompanied him on the walking part. Even if Minho wanted to have his headphones on and ignore everyone and everything around him, he still liked having Chan beside him.
The treadmill had originally been purchased after one particularly bad winter when snowstorms made leaving the apartment difficult. Minho had still wanted to get his movement in and settled on steps as he watched the snow pile up outside.
Now though, it had become part of the routine. A walk on the treadmill was achievable while a walk around the block wasn't.
Chan walked over and unfolded it in front of the television—the same spot Minho always used because it meant he could look out the window. The soft click of it unfolding into place echoed through the room. Minho watched him from beneath tired eyes that weren't necessarily sleepy. They didn't need to entertain it right this second, but Chan wanted him to try. Staying stagnant for five days never felt good.
Chan crouched beside the couch with a hand on Minho's knee. "What do you think?"
Minho let several silent minutes stretch between them with his eyes glued on the treadmill before he made a decision. "Don't want to," he whispered, but that meant he had room to be convinced.
"I know," Chan said calmly and waited for his pause to settle in the air. "Ten minutes?" It sounded like such a small task, but it wasn't for Minho. Chan liked to encourage because he knew Minho could do it. "You don't have to see anyone." Nothing. "You don't have to talk." Nothing. "I'll stand next to you the whole time."
Finally, Minho closed his eyes. That was an indicator of actually considering it rather than outward rejection. Chan waited patiently as Minho thought because Minho's thinking moments tended to drag when he wanted to say no.
Eventually, he received a slow nod and eyes that blinked open. They still felt dull, but that shine that always lingered was ever present. "Ten," Minho murmured.
"Just ten." That's all Minho would need for now. They'd work on some more later and through the next day. One thing after another.
Chan offered his hand. Minho looked at it for a beat too long before placing his own inside it. His fingers were still cooler than the rest of him, so Chan rubbed gentle circles over the back of his hand with his thumb as he helped him stand.
They walked together toward the treadmill. Chan knew Minho could have made it on his own. Minho knew that too, but today he didn't have to. Today, they would do the easy-turned-hard things together. This was one of them. Chan would help him every step of the way as long as Minho wanted it.
Chan kept one hand lightly at the small of Minho's back while he stepped onto the treadmill. His hands automatically found the handles that he never touched when he was using this normally. Chan kept one of his hands on the handle too, close to Minho's fingers, just in case he needed to reach out.
He waited until Minho nodded that he was ready to start. The machine beeped softly as Chan pressed the power button and set the speed to the slowest setting. It wasn't brisk enough to call it exercise, but it was movement. Just movement. That was all Minho needed, so the speed didn't matter. Chan just wanted him to move and get some circulation back through body.
The belt began to crawl beneath Minho's feet. For the first few steps, his balance wavered. Chan instinctively reached out with his free arm in a half hold around his lower back. "You okay?" He worried sometimes that Minho only agreed to requests to get Chan off his back and that he wasn't actually ready for them yet, but Minho often surprised him.
"I've got it," Minho said quietly with a tiny nod.
Chan nodded right back. "You've got it." He stayed beside him anyway but took his arm away. He wouldn't call it hovering. Not really. He just wanted to be close enough that if Minho stumbled, he'd already be there to help.
The apartment was quiet except for the muted hum of the treadmill. Step, step, step. Minho watched the moving belt rather than the room around him. Chan wondered if he could feel his legs and feet working with every step or if he watched them to make sure they were. His shoulders remained slightly hunched and his hands rested lightly on the side rails.
After about a minute, Chan reached over and untangled the headphones that had been sitting around Minho's neck. He turned them on because he figured the answer to his next question. "You want these?" he asked. He should have thought about it before, but Chan couldn't always get everything exactly right. Reminding himself of that saved him a lot of unnecessary guilt when they first started doing this together.
"Please." A tiny request with a tiny nod. Minho never put much effort into those movements because a tiny nod was just a normal nod that used less energy.
Chan slipped them gently over Minho's ears and fished his phone out of Minho's hoodie pocket. It was safe in there. Chan had already paired the headphones to his phone a while ago, so he only had to make sure they connected properly. Sometimes they didn't if Minho's phone was alive and nearby.
"What are we listening to today?" he asked louder than usual so Minho could hear him through the barrier.
"Same."
"The rainy one?" Chan knew, but he wanted to be extra sure. One tiny nod.
Chan smiled. "I should've guessed," said to himself. Minho had a playlist for nearly every mood or thing. A playlist for cleaning. One for when he was excited and another when someone pissed him off. One for driving at night. One that consisted almost entirely of piano music and distant thunder.
One that only came out during these episodes. Chan had listened to it once because Minho shared all of his playlists with him in case Chan needed them too. It was slow instrumentals, soft and spaced vocals, and sometimes something that sounded a lot like static. They were songs with more space than sound. It was music that didn't ask anything of the person hearing it.
A lot like Chan tried to, this playlist held noise that simply existed beside a person. Minho took a deeper inhale when Chan pressed play.
By the third minute, Minho's steps had become steadier.
By the fifth, there was a little more color in his face. It wasn't much but certainly enough for Chan to notice. He always noticed things like that during times like this. Every little change mattered, even the ones not to celebrate.
Minho glanced sideways at him. Chan mouthed, "you're doing good," to keep him going. Minho rolled his eyes at that. Well, he tried to. It came out more sleepy than exasperated, but it had Chan grinning anyway. There you are. More and more slivers.
At minute seven, Minho's fingers found Chan's on the side rail. It wasn't this conscious thing either. He simply reached, held onto fingertips, and continued walking. Chan pretended not to notice because making a deal out of noticing could feel like discouragement. He knew what Minho was doing and why he reached, even if it wasn't a conscious action: grounding. Nothing more and nothing less than that, so Chan let him.
At exactly ten minutes, Chan pressed the stop button. The belt slowed to an abrupt halt. Minho stepped off with careful feet and fingers raising to turn off his headphones before sliding them back to rest around his neck. It seemed not to be one of the times where music was required constantly by his ears. That was a neutral indication that never meant one thing or the other.
His breathing had deepened slightly from the beginning. He looked tired still but different. Like the apartment, Minho looked as though someone had cracked open a window somewhere inside him to let the air in. The curtains would come next, just not at this moment.
Chan held out the water bottle he'd already refilled, and Minho accepted it without prompting this time. He took three long drinks through the straw. The action hollowed his cheeks and dimpled his chin as he swallowed. "That's my favorite sound," Chan smiled.
Minho blinked and cast him a sidelong glance. "What?"
Chan nodded toward the bottle in Minho's hand that was being handed back to him. "You drinking water."
"You're weird," Minho accused with a sleeve coming up to swipe over his wet lips.
"I've been told," Chan affirmed that accusal as he set the bottle back on the coffee table and bunched Minho's blanket in his arms so he could settle in his spot once more. "Mostly by you though, so I'm not sure if we can consider that a fact."
Another almost smile. It lingered a little longer this time. Chan decided to call it a win because it was one.
Broaching the next part of slowly waking Lee Minho up required some rest beforehand. Walking for ten minutes after days of prolonged immobility was already an insurmountable feat. Chan was already exceptionally proud of Minho for both trying and completing a victory, no matter how small it was. There was more to encourage, however. More slivers needed drawing out and more life needed returning.
Chan liked taking the process of it all slowly so as not to overwhelm someone already so overwhelmed. Minho enjoyed the slowness of it too. He felt like he was more worth celebrating when he overcame all these small hoops over a long race rather than tripping over everything because he forced too much too quickly.
Forcing was out of the question. Chan never forced a step, a touch, or a helping hand. Everything they did was up to Minho just like coming back to himself was up to Minho. All Chan did was stand beside him. All he did was lessen the cognitive load and remove obstacles Minho could not overcome by just doing them himself. It never felt like a lot when it was all over with, but Minho told him countless times that the weight Chan's lifted for him was the biggest relief.
Minho could come back on his own. It just took longer, hurt harder, and was more difficult. Even when he did come back like that, he didn't really come all the way back. It was different with Chan. Minho never said why or how specifically it was different, just that it was. Easier, Chan always inferred. He tried to make it easier. He just wished Minho would text him when he was supposed to.
Chan waited until Minho had some time to finish his second bottle of water and rest his eyes as he slumped in the couch to bring it up. It was just like he said—a window inside Minho had been cracked and soon was time for the curtains. He would at least throw it out there and wait until Minho was ready for it.
"The weather's nice," he commented. Minho's finger twitched over his lap, but he didn't do much else. His head was rested on the back of the couch with parted lips he kept licking over. "We could stay out there five minutes." A different finger twitched. "Or ten." Five was often the bare minimum. Ten was what they strove for.
Minho rolled his head to the side to look out the newly opened curtains and toward the sunlight spilling onto the floor. His jaw tightened ever so slightly when his mouth closed. Chan recognized that expression. The outside world felt loud even when it wasn't. After days inside these walls, everything became sharper, brighter, and more demanding. Minho liked none of those things.
"We don't have to talk to anyone." Chan always had little promises ready. They weren't meant to trick or convince Minho into anything. They were just little things to hold as he tried to endure the things he didn't like. "I'll even drive us around for a while if sitting in the car is better." Not much of a reaction to that. "We can come right back if it's too much."
Minho tipped his head forward to stare at his hands. Chan let the silence stretch because big endeavors needed big thinking time. One minute passed. Then another. Finally, Minho dropped his head back into the couch cushion. "No stairs," was all he said. That meant yes, he would do it.
Minho lived on the fourth floor. He liked the stairs and hated the elevator. The exact opposite was true when he was in an episode. The stairs required way, way too much from him, so he avoided them like the plague. On the other hand, the elevator required nothing but bravery, even the false kind. The elevator was his friend on days like today.
"Well, of course not," Chan agreed. He wasn't even sure Minho could manage going down four flights of stairs at this point. Even if Chan helped him down and back up, Minho would loath it. People would stare, and he'd get frustrated with both himself and his lack of ability. "Stairs are evil."
"Mm," Minho hummed quietly with a tiny nod before turning back toward the window. His hand lifted a few moments later to half point at something beyond the window. The courtyard laid there. Patches of grass beneath trees and cement walkways with wooden benches. "In the grass."
Chan's heart warmed. Minho wanted to go outside, he just could not manage it without some encouraging help. "We will find the best spot out there. Don't you even worry about it. I know the lousy patches from the good ones."
Then Minho went through his slow and silent-gesture routine that Chan was all too familiar with when it came to braving the outdoors. Each pat and motion meant a very specific thing. Showing could be easier than saying so much at once despite it involving him moving his arms. He maintained a gaze with Chan the entire time because him understanding was important.
Minho patted his head. Hat. "Yeah," Chan nodded. Cupped hands over his ears. Headphones. "Uh huh." Pointer finger on the bridge of his nose. Sunglasses. "Mhm." A hand covering his mouth. Mask. "Absolutely." One pat on each forearm. Long sleeves. "I figured," he agreed with all those things. "We'll make you into the coziest little cryptid anyone has ever seen."
A tiny huff escaped Minho's nose. Almost a laugh, and the closest to one he had heard today. "I already am," he mumbled.
Chan smiled because there he is. "Yeah," he decided with a so-so motion. Minho said it first, so Chan can agree. "You kind of are."
Getting ready took another twenty minutes. Chan never hurried him. It would not solve or lessen anything if he had. Besides, they had nowhere else to be other than wherever Minho dictated. He, of course, was in charge of the pace too.
A bathroom break was in order. Those two bottles of water seemed to have gone right through him. That, or Minho was just used to holding his bladder until it hurt too much not to go. He did that a lot like this. Less trips to the bathroom or anywhere else were preferable regardless of if they could impact his health or not.
Minho went alone, but he left the door open. Chan suspected he'd need help with one of two things: flushing the toilet or washing his hands. That was how it usually went. Until Minho needed or didn't need help, he'd arrange his things to remove those extra steps.
He finds the ball cap with the longer brim and looser fit because Minho prefers that. It was less stimulating and shadowed his face better. Then he located his sunglasses—the ones with wider frames and lens that only partly allowed Chan to see his eyes behind them.
Minho kept a bundle of masks in the top drawer of his dresser. All of them were fabric so he could reuse them. Cotton because it was softer and more breathable. Most of them were black. Some had a few gray shapes stitched on. He owned a singular pink one with colored cats fishing in ponds, but Minho would not like that one right now. It would draw too much attention.
As he pulled a plain black one out, he heard the toilet flush. "There's a good Mimo," he whispered to himself with a proud smile. Shockingly, he proceeded to find Minho's phone facedown in the same drawer. It was dead and probably had been for days. Chan plugged it in for him before wandering over to the bathroom because too long had passed without the sound of the tap running.
Minho stood hunched over the sink with limp hands under the dry faucet. His knees pressed into the cabinet beneath the sink and elbows rested over the edge of the counter like that was all that was holding him up. Minho blinked slowly at him through the mirror. "Can't," was all he managed.
Chan nodded, told him that was okay, and helped him wash his hands with softer soap and warm water.
Back in the room, Minho changed into a heavier hoodie despite the warm weather. He only needed help pulling it over his head. The rest he could do all on his own. The second Chan stepped away, he pulled the hood over his fluffy hair and buried his hands in the sleeves. Chan could do the rest for him, but he asked before he put anything on.
"Hat?" Minho nodded. Chan pulled his hood back down for only a moment to fit his hat on his head. He made sure his bangs were smoothed completely out of his face as he did it. The ends of hair poking at his eyes were torture when he couldn't easily swipe them away.
"Sunnies?" Minho nodded. Chan fixed them carefully over his ears before sliding them to rest on his nose. Lashes fluttered behind the lens but that was the extent of what Chan could see behind them.
"Mask?" Minho nodded. Chan looped one ear, then the other. He fit the straps behind the arms of his sunglasses and adjusted it properly over the bottom half of his face. Minho already had his headphones around his neck, so there was nothing more.
By the time he was done, very little of his face remained visible. Only his ears (if those counted), small slivers of his cheekbones, and a strip of his forehead. That was exactly how Minho liked it. Other people might have questioned it, told him to take it all off, or said he looked ridiculous. Chan thought he looked safe and that mattered more.
Together they walked toward the front door, but they didn't leave yet. Chan collected an old blanket from a small hallway closet they saved for outside lounging. Minho tended to want to hold it himself, so Chan passed it to him. Water was still important. Even if Minho drank his fair share for the day, it would still be important because of all he'd neglected.
Chan filled up a metal bottle Minho kept in the cupboard. How much ice he added was crucial. Water that was too cold hurt Minho's teeth and water that was too warm tasted unbearably flat. That sentiment only applied to water that did not come in a plastic bottle. So yes, the ice ratio mattered, and Chan had it mastered.
"You ready?" he asked when everything was in order. Minho could tell him right now that he had changed his mind and that would be okay too. Chan would just sit with him on the floor in the light from the window as an alternative.
Minho inhaled slowly. His fingers tightened over the blanket against his chest. He offered no tiny nod, but said, "think so." That was enough.
"Okay." Chan reached for the door then paused and held out his hand. He never insisted on this. Rather, he liked to offer.
Minho looked at it for a long time before he reached a decision. Instead of taking it, his fingers dropped from one half of the blanket to curl around one of Chan's belt loops that didn't actually house a belt. It was a gentle hold. Loose and familiar.
Chan smiled at it. "That works too."
Outside, late afternoon sunlight washed the apartment complex in gold. The air smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and something smokey from someone father down the street grilling. Children laughed somewhere beyond the neighboring building. Minho immediately tucked himself a little closer to Chan's side at the sound. His fingers remained hooked through the belt loop.
Chan deliberately matched his pace—slow and unhurried. No plans or commitments meant this could take as long as it needed to.
They walked only as far as the grassy courtyard behind the building. It was the same patch Minho had pointed at from his apartment. A place tucked away from the road and further from the walking paths. It was mostly quiet. A few trees swayed lazily overheard.
"Here?" he questioned. Minho looked around once, taking in all the precautions Chan had already considered. Less traffic, less people, even ground, and trees close enough if the sun got too hot. Then Minho nodded and handed him the blanket. Chan spread it out as smoothly as it would lay.
Minho sat first. It seemed like a slow process that involved a curled grip over Chan's forearm as he got closer to the ground in case he lost his balance. Minho settled on his chosen half of the blanket cross-legged and with his head lowered. Chan settled right beside him. They didn't quite touch, but he stayed close enough in case Minho wanted to.
Nothing happened for several minutes beyond Minho pulling Chan's phone from his pocket to start his music up. He'd pulled his hood back down at least. Wind stirred the grass. Birds called from somewhere in the branches above. A squirrel darted across the sidewalk carrying something suspiciously large. Minho listened to his songs.
Chan leaned back on his hands with his head tipped toward the sun. Occasionally he glanced sideways. It wasn't necessarily him checking. He thought of it more as him just being there for if or when Minho needed or wanted something.
Eventually, Minho shifted almost imperceptibly until their shoulders touched. Chan stayed exactly where he was with his head tipped back. After another minute, Minho reached over to interlace their fingers. He squeezed just once. It was a weak squeeze but still enough.
Chan lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss against the back of Minho's knuckles. "You know..." he trailed off, remembering that Minho had his headphone on. But Minho turned his head slightly like he'd been listening. His music must be playing very softly. Minho must still want to be able to hear his voice. "I missed holding your hand."
The silence was something he'd gotten used to in times like this. Minho was so talkative, snarky, and filled with dry humor when he was well. Chan didn't know how to interpret the silence right away or even after the first handful of times. Now though, he knew it was okay to talk. He knew it was okay to never hear anything back and to not be so surprised when an answer came at all. Even the delayed ones.
"Missed yours."
Chan swallowed. The words were quiet and still roughened around the edges from days of disuse. Still, they landed with surprising force. Chan smiled to himself. "I know."
Minho leaned his head against Chan's shoulder to rest there. Chan carefully slipped his free hand beneath the back edge of the ball cap. His fingers found soft black hair and slowly began scratching gentle circles against Minho's scalp.
The reaction was immediate. Minho's entire body softened. His shoulders dropped, breathing slowed, and body leaned a little more weight against him. The corners of Chan's mouth lifted. "There you are," he cooed quietly. More and more slivers kept creeping out from under darkness.
He stayed there, combing his fingers through freshly washed hair while the breeze moved around them. Neither of them spoke again for a long while, and they didn't need to. Sometimes a good step back toward the world wasn't conversation.
Sometimes that good step was simply letting the sun find your face again while someone you loved sat beside you. That someone you loved should sit there asking nothing except that you keep breathing. Chan would forever be grateful that he could be that thing for Minho. Even when he didn't seem to desperately need it.
They stayed in the grass until the sunlight softened into the warm, honey-colored glow of early evening. Those hues of honey always reminded him of Minho and his soft skin. Chan thought that if he looked hard enough at everything he came upon, then he'd be able to tie that thing back to Minho somehow. He loved a lot of things, but he loved Minho the most. It was like that long before they started dating.
Minho was not always like this—though, he'd thought he'd made that clear already. Just a handful of episodes throughout the year when he struggled with the fight. The fog just really got to him sometimes. It came in those rare times when Minho was already so piled up and vulnerable. It liked to shroud and consume, get him all lost in himself, and take away so much of him.
Minho always said he didn't like the fog because it made him forget more than just basic needs and where his phone was; it often made him forget himself too.
The Minho Chan knew best was the Minho that was well. He loved that Minho so much. He was…kind of a menace, actually. Minho was mischievous, loud in a quiet way, dryly funny, and incredibly affectionate in ways he claimed were not affectionate. Minho stole from him because he liked to burgle. The burgling in question often included stealing only one of Chan's socks just to confuse him when he did laundry.
Minho stood in Chan's kitchen eating shredded cheese right out of the bag while criticizing Chan's cooking. Minho insisted he wasn't cuddling and was just cold while actively laying on top of Chan and half smothering him into whatever surface they were on. He talked more. He laughed more. His eyes were brighter. He'd tease Chan relentlessly, then five minutes later quietly ask to go home with these big eyes because his social battery ran out.
Chan would say their relationship was unbelievably and (if you asked their friends) unbearably domestic. Not in the sense that they lived together because Minho kept saying "not yet", but in the sense that they were each other's safest person. According to Minho, Chan was the only human being he ever purposefully touched for recreational purposes.
Chan trimmed Minho's hair when it got too long around his ears because he hated how it felt just as much as he hated going to a barber. Chan folded Minho's laundry because he kept it lumped in baskets for too long. Minho cleaned on good days, no matter whose apartment they were at, because it genuinely helped him feel settled. Minho knew exactly which juices to buy for Chan and which to avoid because he was "a heathen who couldn't dream of enjoying one decent cup of coffee."
They were constantly touching without even thinking about it. A hand on someone's back as they passed each other in the kitchen. Feet tangled together on the couch and absent rubs after a long day. Foreheads lightly bumped as they passed another in the hallway. Quick kisses that interrupted conversations for no reason at all.
Their relationship was one that felt profoundly easy, even through all those years of friendship and foggy episodes Chan was kept in the complete dark about. Whenever the episodes arrived, all that easy affection just changed form. The teasing mostly disappeared, but the love didn't. It became practical and softer instead.
Because the Minho Chan knew was also this one. Chan loved this Minho too, no matter what. He even loved this one a little harder because that was something Minho needed. Minho did the same for him time and time again when Chan fell down and got lost in his own fog. His never consumed as harshly as Minho's did.
Ten minutes had surely passed a while ago now, but some steps didn't need to be measured by time. Chan never even checked his watch. If he looked at his watch, it might turn the moment into something with a deadline. There were no deadlines, and Minho was not a project he needed to finish.
Instead, Chan measured the time differently. He used the way Minho's shoulders gradually lowered another inch. He used the way Minho's breathing stopped catching every few minutes. He used the way his grip on Chan's hand loosened. It wasn't an indicator of him wanting to let go. Minho just no longer needed to hold on quite so tightly.
Things were improving. Little by very little.
When Chan finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. "Think you've got one more stop in you?" Chan could absolutely do this one himself, but Minho had the opportunity of being included. Always.
Minho didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed on the grass swaying in the breeze. Chan waited because he always waited. There was no pressure. Eventually, Minho gave one slow nod. "Store," he guessed.
Chan squeezed his hand. Minho needed groceries, but he did not need to be there to collect them. Chan knew what to get, and he could pay for them himself. "Yeah."
Minho bit his lip like he was seriously considering the effort. "If it's too much—"
"We leave."
"If I can't—"
"We leave."
"If I just—"
"We leave." Minho pushed a breath through his nose but offered no other counter. Chan smiled. "You don't even have to finish the sentence. The answer is always us leaving."
Minho offered a small nod and said, "okay."
The grocery store wasn't far. Chan drove because he said he would earlier, and it was the proper thing to do. Minho liked to go unfocused on mostly everything when he was like this, so driving was not a safe thing to do.
Sitting in the passenger seat was a much more Minho thing to do. He had the seat reclined farther than usual, hood pulled low, and sunglasses still on despite the sun dipping further over the horizon. His mask was lowered beneath his chin, however, and more color now sat in his cheeks. Despite all the hiding, Chan still thought he was so beautiful.
Rainy piano music drifted quietly through his headphones that now rested around his neck. It was nice for the comfort to accompany him, but Minho did not need it to block right now. Chan kept the radio off to keep extra noise at a minimum. Talking was not required, so there was not much talking.
Halfway there, he reached across the center console without looking. Just another silent offer Minho did not have to take. Minho's hand found his almost immediately. It was considerably warmer than the first time they touched. Their fingers linked, and they drove the rest of the way like that.
The parking lot was busier than Chan would've preferred. His immediate thought was that so many people should not be here, but then he reasoned that is was a Friday evening. Those were typically busier times. He saw Minho notice it too. It was the slight stiffening in his seat and the inhale that stopped halfway.
Chan parked near the very back where there were fewer cars, but he left the ignition on. There was always the possibility of Minho changing his mind before they truly took on the task. Fewer cars was nice. That did not lessen the amount of people inside or the longer distance they'd have to walk
"We can go somewhere else," he offered. This was the store they always came to. It was closer to both their apartments, and Minho knew it always had everything he liked, including the correct brands. "Or home." Leaving was the default option.
Minho gave a tiny shake of his head. "Here."
"You sure?"
"Mm." Another nod.
"Okay."
Neither of them moved right away. Chan waited until Minho reached his fingers up to readjust his mask correctly to get everything rolling. He unbuckled first and turned the car off. Minho still just sort of sat there, so Chan stepped out to walk around the front of the car. He opened Minho's door before he could with an offered hand.
Minho only held him lightly as he stepped out. It was a slower process getting his feet on pavement and hauling himself up. He was easier on his feet now—steadier and less inclined to sway around as if he'd fall. That didn't mean he was all energized now. His movements were still sluggish. Being mobile still took an effort he didn't have plenty of energy for, but it was better.
Minho let go of Chan's hand to push his door closed softly. He adjusted the brim of his hat lower and pulled his hood back up to sit a little farther forward. His headphones were picked from around his neck and settled comfortably over his ears. Then, without saying anything, his fingers hooked through Chan's belt loop again.
Chan looked down at the curled hood then over at Minho. Yes, the coziest little cryptid he was. Chan enjoyed cryptids very much. "You ready?" he asked. One tiny nod as Minho adjusted the volume higher on his headphones. "Alright, let's go."
The automatic doors whooshed open. Cold air rushed over them. The fluorescent lights were brighter than outside. Chan watched Minho blink beneath his sunglasses and shove his free hand through the pocket of his hoodie. Even if he looked a bit odd wearing big shades indoors, Chan was glad he had them. They were protection. He slowed his pace even further so Minho wouldn't feel rushed in the environment.
There was no list in his hand despite Chan having written one. That was left magnetized and stuck on the notepad on the fridge. He already knew what they needed because they got the same things each time this happened.
Easy breakfasts, produce that Chan would cut up so Minho wouldn't have to nibble on full sticks of cucumbers, and things that could be eaten without the harrowing task of actually cooking. Yogurt was usually a must. Electrolyte drinks were important. Minho needed some good protein too, but none of it should be too overwhelming that it'd upset a hungry tummy.
The first few aisles passed quietly. Minho stayed close enough that Chan could feel the gentle tug on his belt loop every few steps. It wasn't really pulling. Minho was just trying to remain present and grounded for as long as possible. Chan placed his hand on the small of his back as often as he could.
When they reached the produce section, Chan picked up two bags of grapes. Minho really liked grapes. Chan would spend extra time washing and pulling them each off the stems so that all Minho had to worry about was putting them in his mouth. He held one in each hand. "What do you think?"
Minho looked at the first bag, then the second. Chan could never really tell if Minho was able to hear his words over his music or if he'd just gotten extremely talented in reading his lips as he spoke. Maybe he too had learned what things to expect.
Minho pointed. "Those."
"The darker ones?" Chan clarified with one of the bags lifted higher. A nod. "They do look better," Chan agreed. "Probably sweeter and more juicy." Into the cart they went. It was a small choice and a small success.
At the yogurt cooler, Chan found Minho's particular brand and tapped on the peach flavor. "Peach?" Minho shook his head slowly. He always tried for peach because it was what Minho typically wanted. Peach, however, was too much flavor right now. "Vanilla?" because that was Minho's now flavor. A nod. "Three?" Never more and never less. Another nod.
Every answer required almost no words. Chan never asked for more. He'd gotten quite good at this asking questions thing after so much practice. Sometimes he did word them wrong. Sometimes he did ask the incorrect things. Mostly knowing what to do did not always mean knowing how to do it.
An elderly woman stopped beside them while reaching for milk. Instead of waiting for Chan to finish selecting a carton of eggs he deemed worthy, she decided to just grab her milk anyway. "Oh, excuse me, sweetheart." She smiled kindly at Minho. "I just need to squeeze past."
Minho stiffened beside him as she did just that. It wasn't some dramatic thing. It wasn't enough that anyone unfamiliar would notice, but Chan felt it immediately. The fingers on his belt loop tightened. Minho's breathing grew shallow. Chan shifted just enough to stand between Minho and the woman without making it obvious.
"Go ahead," he offered. She thanked him, moved on, and probably didn't think anything of it. The moment she disappeared around the corner, Chan quietly asked, "too much?"
Minho stared at the floor and fidgeted his fingers in that belt loop. "Little," he murmured.
"We can leave," Chan offered. They were almost done. Only a few items remained on his internal list, but they could just leave. Chan had no issue being an unkind shopper who left their cart of perishables in some obscure aisle because Minho wanted to go.
"Need chicken," Minho argued.
Chan almost laughed. "Okay."
"Need food," he continued.
"Yeah," Chan nodded, "you do."
"You'll worry," Minho said softer with a bounce in his leg.
"I was already worrying," Chan half laughed. "Just in case you hadn't already gotten that memo."
That earned him the tiniest puff of air through Minho's nose. Almost a laugh. Again. Chan counted it as another victory.
Filling the cart was easy. Frozen dumplings and vegetables were the only things Chan would allow to go into into the freezer. He didn't want to see anymore abandoned trays of microwavable meals that provided next to nothing. A rotisserie chicken was easy. No cooking with that, and Chan could just shred the whole thing into separate meal containers for easier access. Electrolyte drinks of different flavors and a box of protein bars with granola that he would discourage hibernating with. He had no idea why Minho always did that.
At the checkout, Chan deliberately chose the self-checkout lanes. It involved fewer conversations, less waiting, and less pressure. Minho stood beside him, one finger still looped on him, while Chan scanned everything. Beep. Beep. Beep. The rhythm was almost soothing.
By the time he loaded the bags into the trunk, the sky had turned soft shades of pink and lavender. Chan closed the hatch and looked over at Minho who'd just been silently standing there the entire time. He had pulled one earcup of his headphones off. "Home?" he mouthed.
Chan smiled at him. "Home."
The first thing Minho did when they got back inside the car was reach for his water bottle perched in the cup holder. Again, he took three long drinks. Three was a number that he liked for some reason. As he pushed the straw mechanism back down into the lid, he whispered to himself, "perfect ratio."
Chan smiled again. He knew how Minho liked his water, and he knew a perfect ratio meant he was more inclined to drink it.
The apartment felt different when they walked back inside. It wasn't because it was cleaner, though it was. It wasn't because fresh air drifted through the cracked windows, though it did. It simply didn't feel abandoned anymore. Someone was living here again.
Chan carried the groceries into the kitchen while Minho automatically wandered toward the living room. His destination probably involved the couch and his blanket. Dangling precariously from his fingers curled over the plastic handle was his water bottle. But Minho stopped just at the coffee table. He removed all his protective wear slowly, one by one, and shrugged his headphones down to rest around his neck.
Then he turned around and walked back. Without speaking, he leaned against Chan's side while Chan unpacked vegetables into the refrigerator. One shoulder pressed lightly against another. Chan continued putting things away one-handed. "You supervising?"
"Helping," Minho informed.
Chan lifted his head higher just to tilt it. "Oh?" Leaning on him wasn't much of helping, but maybe Minho was trying to prevent some catastrophic fridge injury by doing so.
"Moral support," Minho then clarified.
Chan laughed. Ah, that made way more sense. "I appreciate your sacrifice," he told him and let his free hand rest on the small of Minho's back as he leaned into him. "They should build statues in your honor. Best moral supporter of the millennium."
Minho blew more air, stronger air, from his nose. A bigger victory. There you are.
Supper was simple—rotisserie chicken, rice, roasted broccoli tossed together with garlic and butter, and slices of strawberries on the side. Nothing complicated and nothing overwhelming. Minho could eat something like that, and Chan had no issues eating it with him.
Chan shredded the entire chicken. He washed produce, cut them up or plucked off stems, and stored them in respective containers for easier access. Minho had nice containers with snapping airtight seals, but he also had his "grungy tupperware" that took less effort to open. Those were best in these times.
While the rice cooked, Chan noticed movement from the corner of his eye. Minho had wandered back into the kitchen after deciding he wanted some rest on the couch. He wasn't saying anything, just watching. He leaned against the counter with his sleeves pulled over his hands and eyes that followed every movement Chan made. All he was doing was slicing up strawberries.
"You okay?" Minho nodded. "Wanna sit?" Minho was just sitting, but he might have wanted to sit in the kitchen now. Chan could grab him a chair to use. Minho shook his head. "Alright, you just going to stare at me?" There was no issue with that.
"Mm," Minho hummed.
"A little creepy," Chan jokingly decided. Minho stared, hovered, and watched a lot, even when he pretended not to.
"Know," was all he replied. Chan smiled down at his strawberries.
Minho was such a man of little words during these episodes. Chan missed the babbling nonsense he would heatedly talk about. He missed the burbling alien language Minho constantly used just to frustrate Chan because he had no idea what any of it meant. He missed his affectionate goofball that laughed at and teased him only to quietly say he loved him just a few minutes later. He missed—
"I missed being stared at," he admitted. Those shiny eyes that held so much within them. Chan loathed the days when their brightness dimmed. Minho deserved to sparkle for eternity.
Even from the corner of his eyes, Chan could see Minho's gaze soften. "Missed watching," he whispered. Sadness pulled at his tone.
Chan looked up from the cutting board and turned his head to fully see him. "What do you mean?"
The longest pause stretched between them. Minho's softened gaze admired the floor while his socked foot bounced on it. Not even a single fingertip peeked through the bundled sleeves shrouding his hands. Chan watched him carefully, just as careful as he tended to, and waited with every ounce of the utmost patience he stored for moments like these.
Chan would let the air breathe between them for silent centuries as he calmly waited for Minho to gather enough energy to say what most sat on his tongue. Love looked like that too.
Finally, Minho said, "…you." Just one word that was quiet, simple, and breathed out in an effortful stutter.
The simplicity of it did not matter because for Minho, it was not simple to say just that one word. Despite the hardship and how long it took for him to shape his lips with the word, he still said it. 'You' settled somewhere deep inside Chan's chest.
He crossed the kitchen before he could think himself out of it, strawberries and cooking broccoli be damned. Minho stood there as harrow, fogged, and shelled as he'd been all day (the past five days, Chan reminded himself). He rested both hands lightly on either side of Minho's face with thumbs on his delicate cheekbones. Then he tilted his chin upward.
"You don't have to earn this," he promised him softly. "I choose this every day, well or not, because I want to. I choose this because you deserve to be loved regardless of if you think you did something to earn it. The episodes don't define you or us, okay? All you have to do is breathe, Jagi. That's all I need to love you."
Minho blinked at him. All it really took was that single blink for his eyes to turn glassy. Bright mist settled over them as he stared at Chan. Though, it was not the same brightness he missed in his Minho's eyes. This one was different. Minho's chin dimpled as it did when he chewed on food, but it also did that when he was trying not to cry. Minho wouldn't let any tears go now. He normally saved those for after their meal no matter how affected he was by the words Chan gave him in the kitchen.
Chan kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the mark on his nostril that Minho claimed gave him enhanced smell. Then one cheek and the other. Minho leaned into every small peck without realizing it, just like he'd been doing all day. His body constantly remembered where it needed to go to feel safe. Chan only wished Minho himself could remember it too whenever he got lost.
Finally, a soft kiss pressed against his lips. Slow, always gentle. These kisses were never done in urgency. The single purpose was affection—pure affection that Minho had both the want and need to hold. Tender things he could easily grasp without feeling like it took too much to accept.
When they separated, Minho's eyes had drifted closed. He leaned forward just enough that their foreheads rested together. Chan stayed still for him save for the thumbs caressing his cheeks. "Missed you," Minho whispered, able to say it fully now. "Hyung, missed you."
Chan felt his throat tighten. It never felt easier hearing Minho say that. "I know, Jagi." Another kiss even sweeter than the last. "I missed you too. So much." Chan always missed him. Even when Minho was well, he still missed him. Chan would even argue that when (not if) they eventually moved in together, he would miss him then too.
Minho kissed him first this time. It lasted only a few seconds because that was all Minho could or wanted to manage. It felt sleepy, soft, and almost hesitant. But it was enough to tell Chan that beneath all the exhaustion and fog that had kept him trapped in bed for five days, Minho was finding his way back one very small step at a time.
Supper was ready ten minutes later. Chan set two bowls on the table—not the dining table, yuck. Neither of them particularly liked eating there. Instead, he carried everything to the coffee table in the living room. The couch had always been their preferred place no matter if anyone was well or not. It was closer, softer, and less formal. That made it perfect for this.
Chan spread a folded blanket across Minho's lap as he settled in his claimed spot with legs tucked beneath him. "Careful," he said, handing him the bowl. "It's hot." Minho accepted it with both hands and a very quiet thanks. Chan settled easily beside him just as he always did. The couch easily fit three, but they always used it like it was only meant for two.
Neither of them ate for a few minutes. Minho simply looked down at the food nursed in his hands. Steam curled lazily from the rice. The chicken was already extra shredded into bite-sized pieces and broccoli cut smaller than usual. Chan always did that for Minho. It was one less thing to think about and one less step between hunger and actually eating.
"You don't have to finish it," Chan said quietly, stirring around in his own bowl.
"I know," Minho said after a few moments.
"I'd just like you to try." Sometimes encouragement was all Minho needed to locate the will. Chan reached down to squeeze his knee because that tended to help too.
"Okay."
Minho lifted one small bite. He chewed slowly before swallowing. Then he took another bite. Chan didn't watch him as he began eating his own food. He knew being watched could make eating harder, even impossible at times. Instead, he focused on his own bowl, occasionally glancing over just enough to make sure Minho was still taking bites. He was.
Every few minutes, he nudged the metal water bottle a little closer. It had yet to be finished. Minho reached for it without prompting and took three more drinks. Good. That was good. Just a few more groups of three, and Minho would graduate with one day of mostly proper hydration.
Chan noticed something halfway through their meal. Minho had unconsciously leaned against him again. Their shoulders touched. Every time Minho slowly lifted his spoon, his elbow bumped Chan's. Neither of them moved away because something like that would be ludicrous. Being together was always better than being apart.
By the time the meal was over, Minho had eaten nearly all the rice, most of the chicken, and a surprising amount of broccoli. Only a few Chan-sized bites remained. He smiled at the evidence of Minho's life returning. "I'm impressed," he told him.
Minho immediately looked suspicious. "Why?" he asked, because according to him, eating was not something to be impressed about. It was just a thing he had to do.
"You ate."
Minho nodded, a bigger motion this time, before stating simply, "yes, that's usually how supper works."
Chan smiled real big at that and felt a ball of warmth in his chest. "There you are," he quietly cheered. They were getting closer. Minho gave another almost roll of his eyes that looked much better than his last attempt. "I've missed your attitude," Chan laughed.
"Didn't go anywhere," Minho mumbled. His fingers picked at stray threads on his blanket.
"It absolutely did," Chan argued. He'd been waiting for the blatant attitude to shine through all day. Little peeks of it were good but hearing it fully was great.
"Temporary vacation."
Chan huffed like he was particularly offended by that. "Well," more offended huffing. "I didn't approve the time off."
That finally earned him a real smile. A small, crooked smile that was gone almost as soon as it appeared. That didn't mean it wasn't unmistakably real. Chan stared for half a second before ducking his head to blink cutely in Minho's face. "Hi, Mimo."
Minho's ears immediately turned pink as he turned away from him. "Don't."
"I saw that," Chan singsonged. His pointer finger wiggled its way over Minho's lap to tickle the back of his hand.
Minho weakly slapped it away. "You imagined it."
"I absolutely did not." Chan tried terribly hard to meet Minho's eyes again, but he kept turning his head further and further away while mumbling about him being a liar. "You smiled," Chan hummed. Minho shook his head once. "You smiled at me," giggled with that same finger poking at Minho's side.
"No evidence," Minho whipped his head around to say. The very corners of his mouth dimpled the moment the words left him as he tried not to smile again. It made his cheekbones sharper.
"I have eyewitness testimony," Chan politely informed. He wasn't poking so much now. Instead, his palm rested over the blanket covering Minho's hip.
"Biased witness," Minho concluded with a very short nod.
Chan couldn't stop grinning. He grinned when he kissed the very tip of Minho's nose and grinned some more when he was threatened with a spat-on face if he did it again. There you are.
After they settled again, Chan cleared the dishes before Minho could even think about standing. He pointed a stern finger at him because Minho was already trying to get his blanket off his lap. "You stay."
"I can—"
"You stay."
Minho huffed and wriggled back into his spot. "Bossy," he mumbled, burying himself a little more beneath the blanket.
"I've been called worse," he chuckled with a raised brow. Minho glanced at him a few times with expectation in his eyes, waiting for the words that should accompany that statement. "Mostly by you," he added. Minho hummed contently. That seemed right.
The dishwasher hummed quietly a few minutes later. Chan wiped down the counters one last time before drying his hands. Then he wandered into the laundry room to put all the bedding in the dryer because he forgot all about that. They couldn't sleep in a bare bed, and Chan would put them through two cycles so that it all came out warm when it was time for bed.
He took another few seconds to himself as he stood in the hallway out of Minho's sight. The apartment looked lived in now. Comfortable. The overflowing trash was gone. The stale smell had disappeared. Fresh sheets were tumbling dry in the laundry room. Sunlight had faded into the warm amber glow of evening lamps. It finally felt like Minho's home again instead of a place he'd hidden inside.
When Chan returned to the living room, he found Minho exactly where he'd left him. Eh, kind of. He'd curled onto Chan's side of the couch like a cat seeking the warmth of a used cushion. Chan stopped before him with his hands on his hips. "You stole my spot," he accused. Minho brew war if Chan ever stole his spot.
"Ours," Minho mumbled without even opening his sleepy eyes.
Chan laughed softly. "Our spot?" One tiny nod as Minho snuggled further into himself. "You sure?" Another nod. Chan sat carefully beside him, but before he could settle completely, Minho shifted. It was a slow and deliberate wriggle until his head rested in Chan's lap. Chan blinked at the blanket mound he was. "Comfy?"
"Mm," Minho hummed. Chan thought he was lying because only a second later, Minho fished his hand up to pull his headphones from around his neck. He shook his head when Chan asked if he wanted his music. No music, then. Chan set them on the coffee table in case he changed his mind.
"Need anything?" he asked, just to be sure. Minho was all snuggled up in a blanket with his head and curled hands in Chan's lap as he blinked at the blank television. If he wanted something to play, then he would say. Minho shook his head. "You just want me here?"
"Please." The single word was so quiet Chan almost missed it.
Instead of answering, he simply slid one hand into Minho's hair. Freshly washed strands of black that still felt impossibly soft. He scratched lightly behind one ear, then along his scalp in just the way Minho liked it. He did like it. The action often made things easier to navigate. Minho sighed contentedly. His whole body seemed to melt another inch into the couch.
The television remained off. Neither of them suggested a movie or those obscure YouTube videos Minho grew obsessed with. No music or conversation either.
The apartment had enough sound already. The rhythmic swish of tires outside filtered through the cracked windows. The dryer continued to turn over fresh sheets. The refrigerator hummed softly. Even Chan's fingers moving through Minho's hair had the slightest accompaniment.
Silence wasn't always empty. Sometimes it was the safest place in the world.
Chan watched dusk slowly deepen beyond the cracked curtains. His free hand rested lightly over Minho's forearm. Every now and then, he felt tiny movements beneath his palm as Minho traced absentminded circles against Chan's leg. It, again, was not one of those conscious things. It was just a matter of simply existing and either remembering or reminding that he was still here.
It was nearly an hour later when Chan felt something damp against the back of his hand. He frowned at the oddness of it, thinking Minho might had fallen asleep and drooled on him. Minho didn't drool though. That was Chan.
When he looked down on him, Minho's face hadn't changed. His eyes were still closed and his breathing still slow. Chan could recognize through both those things that Minho was not asleep. Not yet. His mouth often fell open when he drifted off and the way his lashes rested over his cheekbones would be more peaceful than it was now.
The only difference Minho held was the tear that'd escaped. It was caught on the slope of his nose and stuck on Chan's thumb as Minho half cradled his hand to his face. Then another slipped free to crawl sideways over his features rather than down his cheeks because he was laying down.
It was silent. Almost unnoticed.
Chan didn't say anything. He didn't ask what was wrong or why he was crying. Minho didn't always cry when Chan was physically here during an episode. Crying in front of others was "the lousiest thing I could ever think of spending my time doing," per Minho. When he did cry though, it was always at this point of the evening.
Chan brushed his thumb gently beneath one eye to catch a tear before it disappeared into his hairline. Another one followed. Then another. Minho never made a sound. If he could cry quietly and hold his breath until they were gone, then he could convince himself he never let them escape in the first place. Chan wished he would cry more even if it hurt to see.
He leaned down the best he could to press a kiss against Minho's dry temple. "I'm here," because Minho often forgot about that. The words were barely louder than breathing. "You don't have to say anything." Another tear slipped free.
Chan continued running his fingers through his hair, slow and steady. He didn't count the tears anymore. He used to do that in the beginning because he thought if he gave Minho one kiss for every tear he spilled, then it would make everything okay again. That never worked. All he did was upset himself with that when Minho cried more than usual.
It lasted several minutes. The cries were quiet enough that anyone in the kitchen would've never known, but Chan knew. Chan knew, and he was there for him.
Eventually, Minho whispered something so softly Chan almost couldn't hear it. It was nothing more than a slip of voice, impossible to make out. Chan knew he was trying to speak though. It wasn't a whimper or some other cried noise. Minho was trying to talk.
Chan leaned closer despite the strain it put on his back. "What is it, Jagi?"
Minho sucked in a shaky breath. "Thought maybe..." he struggled. Silence followed him for a while before he tried again. "Maybe you'd be…tired."
Chan's brow furrowed. He wasn't sleepy yet. Minho knew he went to bed at very unreasonable hours on a normal day. Or, well, every day. "Tired?"
"Of this," Minho clarified. The words came slowly, as if each one had to fight its way through something heavy. Then quieter, oh so minuscule, Minho whispered, "…of me."
Chan's hand stopped moving for only a second then resumed immediately. Gentle scratches and gentle circles, exactly the same as before. Minho asked or expressed some form of what he'd just said at some point during this upward battle. No matter how many times Chan had heard or answered it, he still got that pinch in his chest.
Chan could spend the rest of his life disproving and dismantling that doubt, and Minho's fogged parasite would still find a way to uproot it. "No," he answered simply. It was simple. It was the simplest no he had ever given.
Minho's lips trembled. "I disappear."
"I know."
"For days."
"I know."
"I'm gross."
"You can be," Chan needed to clarify that one. "You can do gross things because your brain doesn't let you not. That's different. You're not an inherently gross person, Min. You know that."
"You have to—" His voice cracked. Chan never liked hearing that either because it meant Minho was trying to hold it all down still. "…do everything."
"No, I choose to." That was the biggest difference of them all.
Chan didn't have to do anything, but he chose to. Most of what he did was aid, accompany, and exist with Minho through his episodes. He completed tasks, removed obstacles, and did some cleaning, yes—but Minho was always a part of most of those steps.
Minho spent so much time trying to name reasons why he thought Chan should be tired of it and him by now. Chan chose to spend even more time assuredly naming the reasons why he wasn't.
He bent until their foreheads almost touched despite Minho lying in his lap. His back would hate him tomorrow but this was necessary. "You know what I see?" he asked. Minho turned his head slightly so their noses touched, but he didn't answer.
"I see my little Mimo." A blink. "I see the man who brings me soup every single time I get sick because I let it get too bad before doing anything about it." Another blink. "I see the man who drives across town because I mentioned once that my favorite bakery had sold out before I got there." Another. "I see the man who remembers I hate sleeping alone after a sleep scare when my apnea acts up."
Minho's eyes filled again. His fingers curled against Chan's pant leg.
"I see the man who looked me dead serious in the eyes after I threw up all over his feet, and said 'yah, I didn't order these vomit shoes'. That same man made me laugh so hard that I threw up again, but he cleaned it up. He cleaned it all up, told me not to worry, and sat with me on the bathroom floor until the spell passed."
A watery breath escaped him.
"I see someone who loves me every day he's able." Chan smiled softly. "And on the days you can't…" He brushed damp hair away from Minho's forehead. "I get to love you a little louder."
Minho broke then. There were no sobs or dramatic wails. Just a quiet, exhausted cry that sounded almost relieved. It sounded like someone who had been holding their breath for five days and had finally remembered they were allowed to let it go.
Chan gathered him up as much as he could from where they sat to hold him close. He pressed slow kisses into his hair, his forehead, his cheeks, and wherever he could reach. "I've got you," murmured against streaked skin. He gave another kiss. "I'm not going anywhere." Another. "You never have to earn me."
Minho's fingers curled weakly into the front of Chan's shirt. "Love you." The words were muffled against cotton, barely audible. Chan smiled so softly it almost hurt. He hadn't realized softness could hurt, but this one did.
"I know," whispered back. He kissed the top of Minho's head—his little Mimo whom he loves so terribly much. "I love you too. I love you so much, Jagi."
Outside, evening settled fully over the city. Inside, with clean sheets waiting in the dryer, groceries stocked in the refrigerator, and the stale air replaced by the scent of life drifting through cracked windows, Minho finally allowed himself to rest.
He didn't allow it because the fog had disappeared; it hadn't. Recovery would take more than one afternoon. Tomorrow might still be difficult and the day after that too. But Minho wasn't facing it alone anymore. Chan was here to help. He was here to help pull as many of those slivers of his Minho as he could out from under the murk.
And sometimes, Chan thought as Minho slowly drifted into the first real sleep he'd had in nearly a week, love wasn't measured by the ability to make someone's darkness disappear. Sometimes it was measured by the willingness to quietly sit beside them until the morning came.
When Minho was well again, Chan would ask. He always asked at the start of every month and after the last dredges of an episode fizzled to dust. He'd ask Minho to move in with him, waiting for the time his answer was "yes".
However long it took, Chan would keep asking, because he chose this. He chose Lee Minho again and again. Not once had choosing anything else ever crossed his mind.