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The world outside the bus window was nothing more than a blurred streak of neon city lights and rain-slicked asphalt, but Wooyoung wasn’t looking at the scenery. His reflection in the glass showed a man who was frayed at the edges—makeup slightly smudged, muscles screaming after a three-hour set, and a bone-deep weariness that no amount of caffeine could fix.
The tour had been relentless. City after city, stage after stage, the adrenaline of the performance was the only thing keeping them upright. But tonight, during the final Ment, Wooyoung had caught the way Yeosang’s hand had trembled when he reached for his water bottle. He’d seen the subtle wince when Yeosang landed a jump, a flicker of pain that was quickly masked by a professional smile. Wooyoung’s heart had been in his throat for the rest of the show, his eyes constantly tracking the blonde through the strobe lights.
Now, in the quiet hum of the tour bus, the aftermath was visible. It was a graveyard of exhausted idols. Across the aisle, Seonghwa and Hongjoong were a tangle of limbs, their heads resting against each other as they drifted in slumber. Behind them, Jongho is holding San securely against his chest while San snored softly. Even the usually energetic duo, Yunho and Mingi, were out cold, their hands loosely intertwined on the middle seat, heads lolled back in synchronized fatigue.
Wooyoung looked to his side, his breath hitching in his throat. Yeosang’s head was leaning against the cold, vibrating window pane, the harsh neon of passing streetlights casting shadows across his face. He looked deathly pale, his skin almost translucent under the dim overhead light of the bus.
Reaching out, Wooyoung gently hooked his arm around Yeosang’s shoulders. He guided his head away from the rattling glass and onto the crook of his own shoulder, flinching when he felt how limp Yeosang’s neck was. Yeosang let out a small, disoriented mumble, his eyes fluttering with a heavy, glassy look before sliding shut again.
"Shh, I've got you," Wooyoung whispered, his voice a low, soothing rasp. He hushed him softly, his hand finding Yeosang’s hair and combing through the soft strands. "Just sleep, Sangie. I'll keep an eye on everything. I'm right here."
Yeosang sighed, a sound of pure, bone-deep exhaustion, and finally went completely slack against Wooyoung’s side. But as Wooyoung’s fingers brushed against his scalp to soothe him, a frown immediately tugged at his lips. The heat radiating from Yeosang’s skin wasn't the healthy glow of a post-concert high. It was a dry, searing heat—unnatural and frightening.
Too warm. Way too warm.
Wooyoung’s heart began to drum a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He pressed his palm more firmly against the side of Yeosang’s neck, and his stomach dropped. Yeosang was burning up.
Wooyoung shifted his body with calculated precision, adjusting Yeosang’s weight so he was nestled more securely against his chest, shielding him from the bus’s air conditioning. While his hand continued the steady, rhythmic motion of stroking Yeosang's hair.
“Sleep, Yeosang~” Wooyoung murmured, though his voice sounded tight even to his own ears.
“Hm~ wake me up when we’re there,” Yeosang breathed, the words slurring together as he chased Wooyoung's warmth.
“Sure, baby. I promise,” Wooyoung replied, his grip tightening just a fraction.
When the bus finally hissed to a stop in front of the hotel, the interior lights flickered on, casting a sterile glow over the exhausted group. The members began to stir like shadows, slow and disjointed. Wooyoung moved immediately to hoist Yeosang up, his hands already braced to take the full weight, but Yeosang’s eyes snapped open—glassy and bloodshot, yet burning with that familiar, frustrating spark of stubbornness.
"I can walk," Yeosang croaked. The voice was barely a whisper, raw from three hours of singing and the fever clawing at his throat. He pushed Wooyoung’s hands away with a weak, trembling shove. "I'm fine, Woo. Don't make a scene."
Wooyoung’s jaw tightened. He didn't believe him for a second; he could see the way Yeosang’s pupils were blown wide, struggling to focus on the exit. But he knew that if he pushed now, Yeosang would only exhaust his remaining 1% of energy fighting him. "Fine. But I’m right behind you," Wooyoung muttered, his arm hovering inches from Yeosang’s back like a physical safety net.
They shuffled off the bus, a line of weary figures. Jongho moved first, San already slumped unconscious over his shoulder; the maknae gave Wooyoung a solemn, knowing nod before excusing himself to head straight to their floor. Behind them, Yunho and Mingi were a sight—Yunho was leaning heavily on Seonghwa, his eyes barely half-open, while Mingi followed with his eyes squeezed shut, his hand gripped tight on Hongjoong’s jacket as the leader guided him blindly forward.
They made it through the sliding glass doors of the hotel, but the transition from the humid night air to the sharp, biting chill of the lobby’s air conditioning was the breaking point. The moment the cold air hit Yeosang’s overheated skin, his system short-circuited. His knees buckled, his frame swaying dangerously.
Wooyoung didn’t think twice. He didn’t even wait for Yeosang to fall. In one fluid, practiced motion, he scooped Yeosang into his arms. The bridal carry was swift and secure, catching Yeosang just as his head lolled back. This time, there was no protest, no stubborn remark. Yeosang simply collapsed into the hold, his face tucking into the crook of Wooyoung's neck, his breath fanning against Wooyoung’s skin like a feverish furnace.
"Wooyoung-ah?" Seonghwa’s voice was soft but sharp with concern. He paused, still supporting a groggy Yunho, his eyes widening as he saw Yeosang’s limp form. He stepped closer, reaching out to press a motherly hand against Yeosang’s cheek. He winced at the heat. "He’s burning up. Why didn't he say anything?"
"You know how he is, Hyung," Wooyoung said, his voice strained as he adjusted his grip. "He waited until he literally couldn't stand."
Hongjoong stepped up beside Seonghwa, his hand still steadying Mingi. He took in the scene with a tired but focused gaze, the weight of the whole team on his shoulders. "Get him upstairs immediately. Don't worry about the bags; I'll have the staff bring them up." He looked Wooyoung in the eye, his expression stern but deeply caring. "Call me the second you get him settled. Seonghwa and I are going to check the first-aid kit and bring some medicine and some cooling strips to your room."
"Go, Wooyoungie," Seonghwa added, gently patting Wooyoung’s shoulder while fussing over the way Yeosang was shivering. "Take care of him."
Wooyoung gave a curt, grateful nod. He didn't wait for another word, turning toward the elevators with his precious cargo held tight. As the elevator doors hissed shut, isolating them from the rest of the world, Yeosang let out a soft, broken whimper, his fingers curling weakly into Wooyoung’s shirt.
"I've got you, Sangie," Wooyoung whispered into his hair, his heart aching at the sheer heat radiating off the man in his arms. "We’re almost there."
The hallway to their room seemed longer than usual, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the sterile walls in a way that made the silence feel heavy, but Wooyoung didn’t rush. He balanced Yeosang’s weight against his chest, feeling the frantic, shallow heat of his boyfriend’s breathing against his collarbone. He fumbled with the keycard, his own shoulders screaming with fatigue, but he ignored the ache. The door clicked open with a soft mechanical chirp. He stepped inside, kicked the door shut with his heel, and navigated the dim room to lower Yeosang onto the mattress with deliberate, aching gentleness.
He pressed the back of his hand to Yeosang’s forehead. Still burning—a dry, searing heat that made Wooyoung’s stomach twist.
"Woo..." Yeosang’s voice was a tiny, broken thread. He gripped Wooyoung’s forearm, his knuckles pale. "Everything is... spinning. So dizzy."
"I know, baby, I know," Wooyoung coaxed, his voice dropping into that honeyed, protective register he used only for Yeosang.
Wooyoung moved with practiced, quiet efficiency. He didn't want to jostle Yeosang more than necessary, so he sat on the edge of the bed and began the slow process of unreadying him. He started with the jewelry, nimble fingers unhooking heavy stage earrings and unzipping the stiff, glitter-encrusted vest that was constricting Yeosang’s chest. Yeosang let out a soft, pathetic whine as he was shifted, his head lolling back into the pillow.
"Almost there, Sangie. Let’s get these off," Wooyoung murmured. He carefully peeled off the sweat-damp stage clothes, his hands lingering briefly on Yeosang’s fever-flushed skin to offer a soothing touch. He replaced the heavy fabrics with one of his own oversized cotton tees—soft, worn-in, and smelling like home.
Next, Wooyoung reached for a cleansing wipe. He cupped Yeosang’s jaw, tilting his face toward the bedside lamp. "Stay still for me, beautiful." With feather-light strokes, he began to wipe away the traces of glitter and heavy foundation. Yeosang hummed, a low, vibration in his chest, leaning his face into Wooyoung’s palm. Even in his delirium, he sought that contact.
When it came to his teeth, Wooyoung didn't even make him get up. He brought a cup of water and a pre-pasted brush, supporting the back of Yeosang’s head. "Just a quick rinse, baby. Open up." Yeosang obeyed like a tired child, eyes half-lidded and glassy, letting Wooyoung care for him without a shred of his usual guardedness.
Finally, Wooyoung headed to the bathroom, wrung out a fresh towel in cool water, and returned to perform a quick, gentle sponge bath. He wiped down Yeosang’s neck, his arms, and his chest, the cool moisture drawing a relieved sigh from the feverish man.
"So cold... feels good," Yeosang whispered, his shivering subsiding into a heavy, lethargic stillness.
"Good. That's my brave boy," Wooyoung whispered back. He pulled a pair of soft cotton shorts over Yeosang’s legs and finally tucked him in. Yeosang had already begun to curl into a tight ball, his body seeking the comfort of the duvet. Wooyoung smoothed the damp towel over his forehead one last time, brushing a stray lock of blonde hair from his damp face.
He stood there for a heartbeat, his own chest aching with a mixture of adoration and frustration. He knew exactly how this happened—Yeosang never says no, never complains, just pushes through until his body finally forces him to stop.
With Yeosang settled, Wooyoung finally turned his attention to his own grime. He felt the dried hairspray and the salt of the stage itching his skin, but just as he reached for the hem of his shirt to strip, a soft, muffled chime echoed from the door.
He moved quickly, not wanting the sound to startle Yeosang. Opening it just a crack, he found Hongjoong standing there looking every bit the weary but vigilant leader. He held a small pharmacy bag and a bottle of room-temperature water.
"Here," Hongjoong whispered, handing over the bag. "Seonghwa checked the dosage. Give him the white tablet first—it’s for the fever—and the liquid one only if he starts shivering. There are also some extra cooling patches in there." He paused, his gaze softening as he looked past Wooyoung toward the bed. "How is he?"
"Dizzy. Burning up," Wooyoung murmured, his fingers tightening around the bag. "But he’s finally resting."
Hongjoong reached out, squeezing Wooyoung’s arm. "You did well, Wooyoungie. Get some sleep yourself. Call me if his temperature doesn't drop by dawn. We’ll figure it out."
Wooyoung leaned forward, pulling his leader into a quick, tight hug. "Thanks, Hyung. Goodnight."
Once the door clicked shut, Wooyoung moved like a ghost. He took a lightning-fast shower, the hot water washing away the literal and metaphorical weight of the concert. He didn't bother with a full skincare routine, just the essentials, before pulling on his loose sleeveless top and cotton shorts.
He approached the bed, the dim light catching the way Yeosang’s eyelashes cast long, flickering shadows on his flushed cheeks. As Wooyoung climbed in, the mattress dipped under his weight. He expected Yeosang to be dead to the world, but as he slid an arm under Yeosang’s neck, he heard a soft, congested hum.
Yeosang wasn’t fully under. His eyes didn't open, but his brow furrowed as he sought out the source of the movement. Feeling Wooyoung’s familiar scent and the damp coolness of his skin, Yeosang began to shift, a series of small, weak movements as he tried to bridge the gap between them.
"Woo...?" it was a tiny, breathless question.
"I'm here, baby. Right here," Wooyoung breathed, pulling him flush against his chest.
Yeosang let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, his head settling right over Wooyoung’s heart as if it were the only place he could truly rest. His arm draped loosely across Wooyoung’s waist, his fingers curling into the fabric of Wooyoung’s shirt. He kept nuzzling in, wanting to be closer, his feverish forehead resting against Wooyoung’s collarbone.
Wooyoung wrapped his other arm around him, pinning him gently but securely against his body, grounding him against the dizzying pull of the fever. He reached down, grabbing the edge of the duvet and pulling it up until they were both encased in a warm, protective cocoon.
He pressed a lingering kiss to Yeosang’s forehead, then another soft peck to his temple, murmuring a quiet promise that the meds would work and the morning would be kinder. The room was quiet except for the steady, slightly labored rhythm of Yeosang’s breathing and the calm, rhythmic thrum of Wooyoung’s heart—a steady beat that finally gave Yeosang the permission he needed to let go.
Wooyoung closed his eyes, his chin resting atop Yeosang’s head, and waited for the fever to break.