Work Text:
The wallpaper has looked the same since the day Chan moved in.
Saying he moved in still never feels right, no matter how many times Minho says it or how Chan knows it as an abstract fact.
He thinks it must be about a year now. Scratches on the floorboards, nails dug into soft wood.
The house is old like that, rotting floors and peeling corners.
Chan likes it though, finds comfort in living between decaying walls. It doesn’t feel like home but it feels like himself, which he thinks is close enough.
He can hear the creek in the floorboard when Minho walks up the stairs, the weight of his footsteps stained into his memory by now.
The lock clicks as it turns, the door creaks as it opens.
“Dinner,” Minho’s voice is soft, it always is, big eyes blinking from the doorway.
Chan rises slowly, leg twitching with disuse.
“Smells good,” He hums, trailing behind Minho.
The kitchen is the nicest part of the house, renovated with care for the space. Chan heard it all as it was being done, the drills and hammers and saws. Minho did it all himself, wanted it to be exactly how he pictured it.
Chan thinks sometimes he only did it himself so other people didn't have to come inside. No one does.
“Stew,” Minho gestures towards the table, the bowls already prepared and sitting on the table.
They eat in relative silence, not unusual for them.
“How was work?” Chan hums when the stew hits his tongue, relieved when his teeth sink into the chunk of meat.
It’s been days without it being fresh, nearly a week. It’s tender from being stewed for so long, falling apart under the crunch of his molars. It slides down easily and his hunger becomes ravenous, two more spoonfuls before Minho has taken one.
“Slow. Fine. I saw Hyunjin today.”
Chan’s fingers twitch, spoon knocking too loudly against his bowl. “How was he?”
“He was okay. He asked about you.”
Saliva pools under Chan’s tongue, “What did you say?”
Minho sighs, like he always does. His eyes go tired, looking at Chan with something unnamable. “What I always do.”
“They worry about me."
“I worry about you. You need to finish that before it gets cold.”
He’s nearly done, but he shovels in the last few bites anyway.
“Good,” Minho nods when Chan’s bowl is empty, his own still nearly full. He picks at it a bit before he passes it over to Chan. “Finish this, too.”
“You’re not hungry?” Chan watches him closely.
Minho shakes his head. “Don’t let it go to waste. It was hard today.”
He feels the pang of gratitude as he accepts it.
Minho does a lot for him. Keeps him safe, keeps him fed.
And he is grateful for it. He’d be dead without him, worse than dead.
It’s not easy for either of them, but they make it work.
Chan stays in the house and cleans. Minho works, pays the bills, cooks.
Minho brings home meat and Chan never asks where he gets it and Minho never tells.
So he chews the food Minho provides for him and does the dishes after, makes small talk about a non-existent future they both like to pretend could be real one day.
Minho walks him up to his room like he does every night.
Sometimes they sleep together, the door locked and Minho curled around Chan’s body like a weighted blanket.
Not tonight, though.
Minho looks tired as he watches Chan sit on the edge of the bed.
“Goodnight.”
“Thank you for dinner,” Chan’s mouth feels sore, but his stomach feels settled. “It was really good tonight. I really appreciate it. Everything you do. I don’t- I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful. I am. I know it’s hard when the others ask. I just miss them, y’know.”
Minho sighs, cups his cheek with his small palm. “We can set up a phone call at the end of the week, maybe.”
“Really?”
It’s been at least a month since the last time. Longer, maybe. The days pass by strangely here.
“Maybe. We’ll see if-” Minho shakes his head, “If I can make a fresh dinner after work on Friday, maybe we can call before bed.”
“I would really like that. Really.”
“I know. I know, it’s okay. I’m going to bed. Goodnight.”
“Night. Thank you.”
The door closes and Chan waits for the sounds of the locks, first the knob and then the chain.
He’s glad to have his bathroom attached, even if the tub is yellowed from age and the water only runs hot for three minutes.
His bath still feels good, still lets his muscles loosen and his body adjust after the meal.
He won’t fall asleep here but it’s a near thing, so he drags himself out once his eyes are heavy and takes himself to bed, damp and naked beneath the covers.
When he dreams, it isn’t of much. Meat between his teeth, raw and bloody like the first time. Bile in his throat, Minho’s hands like medicine soothing the ache.
“Wow,” Chan breathes as Minho takes him into the kitchen.
“Got lucky this week.”
“I’ll say,” Chan laughs, taking his seat.
Dinner is a rib steak, the bone still attached to the slab of meat. The butchering is amateur, uneven knife cuts and jagged edges but Minho does his best and Chan’s mouth starts to water.
“Eat,” Minho nods at him, cutting into his own steak. It’s a smaller cut than Chan’s, but Minho never eats as much.
It’s less from distaste and more to make sure Chan has enough to keep him full. Minho can eat things Chan can’t.
“This is amazing, really, Minho"
The tips of Minho’s ears go a lovely pink, and Chan rips into the steak before he can focus on it for too long.
“I set up a call with Felix and Hyunjin after dinner.”
Chan grins around the flesh in his mouth, feels the juice drip down his chin.
Minho grimaces at the sight, but Chan sees the slight smile when he turns his head.
“That’s fucking disgusting, seriously.”
“Wha?” Chan keeps chewing, “The meat or the mess?”
“Hm, should the meat be disgusting?”
It’s not something they joke about, really, if they acknowledge it at all. It lights a spark in Chan’s chest.
“You would know, right?” Chan swallows, savors the flesh as it slides down his throat.
Minho huffs a laugh and shakes his head, “Eat. I worked hard for that.”
So Chan eats.
After, he’s full. A rare feeling to be as satiated as he is, no pang for more, nothing stirring and unfulfilled.
“When are they calling?” He sits on the sofa, nervously fidgeting with the pillow in his lap.
“Ten minutes. Relax.”
“I’m relaxed! It's just been a while.”
“Go walk around the room or something while you wait, your anxiety is giving me a headache.”
“Maybe,” Chan bites the inside of his cheek. “Maybe we could walk around the neighborhood while we talk to them?”
Minho’s stare forms a lump in his throat. It’s chilling, one of the scarier things Chan has ever seen.
“Okay,” He relents immediately, “Sorry. I’m good, I’m fine.”
“Seriously. Go walk around the kitchen for a minute. You’re no good when you’re nervous.”
And Minho is right, so he gets up to pace around the kitchen, feet against cold tile. He did the dishes when they finished so there’s nothing to do with his hands besides bite at his cuticles, teeth pulling at hangnails until blood blooms.
He licks at it, calming himself down until he hears the ring of Minho’s phone.
He trips over his own feet as he rushes back, pressing himself against Minho’s side.
“Hello?” He rushes out, breathless.
“Channie-hyung?” Hyunjin’s voice crackles.
“Hi,” He breathes, finally, “Hi, Hyunjinnie. Felix?”
Felix laughs, bright and happy. “Hey!! Hi! Wow, hey, how are you? Minho-hyung says you’ve been feeling pretty good lately!”
“Ah,” He leans into Minho’s side, close enough to feel the faint beat of his heart, “Yeah, Lix, I’m doing alright. It’s been okay.”
“We really miss you, hyung,” Hyunjin sighs, “Maybe we could visit soon?”
“Um-”
“We have to think about it, Hyunjinnie. We’re not sure if he’s well enough to leave the house yet.”
Chan thinks of the lock on his bedroom door. The one on the front entrance, the bolts that keep Chan in. The sealed windows, the reinforced glass.
He’s only left once since the day Minho brought him here, dragging through the streets bloody from punching the window out and limping along the asphalt.
It was lucky Minho found him before he hurt someone. That there were quiet alarms in the window that alerted him something had happened, that Chan was gone.
He’d just been so hungry.
“He’s been sick for a really long time, hyung,” He can hear the frown etched onto Felix’s face. “We’re just worried about him. We’re worried about you , Channie.”
“I’m okay,” He swallows, “Really, I’m doing better. ‘M just not ready to see anyone yet. I don’t- I don’t look the same, y’know. I lost all my muscle, I’m probably as small as Seungminnie now, hah,” He tries to joke, attempting to lighten the mood.
All he gets is a huff of laughter and quiet resignation. “Okay,” Felix whispers. “I’ll bake some brownies to give to Minho-hyung next time I see him, and he can bring them to you.”
“That’d be great,” Chan nods against Minho’s shoulder. “How’s work been?”
It’s idle chit-chat, small talk veering into random anecdotes and recent memories. It’s a comfort to picture it all; life as it goes on outside. Felix and Seungmin’s new apartment, the shoes Jeongin spent his whole paycheck on. The girl Changbin started seeing who looks suspiciously like Hyunjin, according to Jisung.
He misses it like his own lungs, but there’s an understanding now. He knows why he’s here, why he’s been separated from the thrumming pulse of normal life.
“Next time, could we video call if we can’t visit? We could even get everyone here for it!”
Minho hums, considering. “The signal isn’t great out here, but maybe.”
“Okay,” Hyunjin and Felix agree in unison. “We’ll take a maybe.”
They say their goodbyes and goodnights, and when the phone call ends, Chan finds himself already in tears.
“Come on, Chan-ah,” Minho stands first, careful as he helps Chan up after. His hand is firm on Chan’s hip, stoking over his hipbone as they ascend the stairs.
He doesn’t cry so much as let the tears drip in heavy drops down his cheeks, the exhaustion carrying him towards the bed.
“Stay?” His voice is rough when he speaks, stripping off his clothes to seek comfort underneath the sheets.
Minho doesn’t hesitate when he nods, taking off his own clothes to slide in front of Chan.
His heart beats under Chan’s ear when he presses it against his back.
“I miss them,” He whispers, lips brushing against scarred skin. It makes him flinch, the texture of his own teeth permanently embedded in Minho’s skin.
“I know,” Minho pressed back against Chan’s chest, body warm and thrumming. “Just a little longer. You need to have better control- you can’t have any urges around them. You’d kill yourself if your hurt them.”
Chan squeezes his eyes shut, knocks his forehead against Minho’s spine. “I have better control. I feel fine most days. I could see them for a little bit, if I eat first.”
Minho sighs, and Chan wraps an arm around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. His teeth ache with the urge to sink into the muscle of his shoulder.
“You haven’t been around anyone but me for a year. We don’t know how it would be for you to be around so many people at once.”
“But they’re-”
“I know. I know.”
“I want to see them. At least let us video call next time.”
“You act like I’m some jailer keeping you prisoner.”
“I don’t,” Chan sighs. He rubs a thumb over a scar on Minho’s belly, fingers twitching in apology. “I don’t feel like a prisoner. I get it, Min.”
“If you want to video call them, you have to start getting yourself together.”
He understands without it being said. He looks different now, sunken cheeks and dark circles. Once, during the early days when he was still confined to his room, he read a book about it. How eating doesn’t just change your soul, but your body.
It’s a sickness, like anything else; it runs through your blood and your nervous system. It rewires you completely, and Chan has felt every second of it.
He looks at his hands and sees knives for fingers, bony and sharp and dangerous. Most days, he can’t look at himself in the mirror, sees a monster where a person used to be.
Minho says he doesn’t look so bad, just weak, just sick. And he supposes that’s the truth of it, that he is just sick.
“How?” Chan asks him now, pushing into his warmth.
“You could try eating something other than meat again. Build up a tolerance so you don’t look so…”
“Frail?”
“Small.” Minho decides. “I’ll start making rice with everything, you can eat it together and put some weight back on. I can bring home some dumbbells and you can start working out. It’s about time, anyway, for you to start getting back together.”
“Do you really think I can?” Chan whispers, heart clenching.
He groans when Minho suddenly shifts in his arms, turning over until their noses brush.
“I think you can do anything.”
“But can I come back from this? Fuck- Minho, look at where we are. What we do . How we eat.”
“It’s survival.”
“It’s wrong.”
“It isn’t your fault. None of this was your fault, you’re sick and I’m taking care of you.”
“You should have just let me die,” Chan closes his eyes.
“I wouldn’t. Not then, or now.”
“I don’t want to be like this,” He admits, quiet breath passed between them.
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to have to do horrible things for me.”
Minho sighs, “I wouldn’t do them if I didn’t want to. I don’t do it because you ask."
“You kill people,” Chan’s voice cracks, and he shoves his face into the crook of Minho’s neck. Presses his nose against his pulse, feels his warm blood rush.
“You eat them,” Minho slips a hand into his hair, keeping Chan against him. “We are who we are and we do what we do. No changing that now.”
“I’m sorry,” Chan kisses the skin behind Minho’s ear.
“I love you,” Minho answers.
It’s a reoccurring dream.
More of a memory distorted by his mind, a punishment.
His hands sink into the soft insides of a body, blood caked under his fingernails. He feels ravenous, starving like he hasn’t eaten in years. It twists his stomach, crawls up his throat.
Everything is blurry except the organs in his hands, still warm from life barely left.
His stomach growls, grating in his ears and he can’t resist anymore.
Raw flesh fills his mouth when he bites down, tears away the soft belly below him. He shivers as he chews, cries as he feels himself settle because he knows what this means, knows what he’s done.
He wants to stick two fingers down his throat and purge it out of his body but he can’t. He takes another bite, and another. Until the body is bones, his teeth gnawing on them like there’s anything left to be had.
When he pulls back, he’s crying. His stomach is full and more settled than it’s ever felt.
It’s then that he looks at the body below him, the flayed open insides, and recognizes his own face.
And that’s when he knows it’s a dream.
When it happened, it wasn’t like that.
It was the neighbor from across the hall, the one whose mail always got mixed up with Chan’s so he’d have to come over and sort it out.
He’d cut himself on an envelope that day. Just a papercut, barely a scratch.
It was a feeling he wasn’t unfamiliar with, some kind of sick urge persisting through his life. He’d always been able to stamp it down, to swallow the saliva that pooled in his mouth and continue on. Until the day he couldn’t.
The blood had dripped down his neighbor's finger, sharp and metallic, and Chan was so hungry. He was so hungry, and it was so easy. He was right there, barely paying attention when Chan’s mouth started watering, his stomach growling.
The rest gets blurry. He’s grateful for that, at least. He doesn’t want to remember.
He likes the mornings when Minho doesn’t work.
Lazy, sunday mornings, like something he used to dream about.
They have a backyard here, just a small strip of grass really, but on sunny days, Minho will unlock the back door and they’ll eat on the shitty plastic furniture.
“How’d you even learn how to make this?” Chan rips apart a piece of bacon between his teeth.
Minho made eggs, too, and some sausage patties.
“It’s mostly the same as how you make it from a pig. It’s just fat and muscle.”
“Is that what’s been in the fridge?”
Minho nods, poking at his own eggs. “It has to cure before you can cook it.”
“Hm. You’ve gotten adventurous lately.”
“I can’t spice things up?” Minho grins when Chan laughs.
It’s a nice moment to sink into, the air warm on his skin and Minho’s laugh in his ears.
“No, no, I like it. I can tell you used the fat to cook the eggs.”
“I thought they’d be easier for you to eat that way.”
“Mm. They are. I’ve been feeling pretty good, lately.”
“You’ve been using the weights?"
Chan nods, “Yeah, they’re good. Might need a heavier set soon, though. Do I look different?”
Minho considers for a moment, his eyes taking in everything the way they always do. Then he nods. “Your cheeks are filling out a little. You don’t look as tired. You’re still pale, though, you look half-dead."
“Hah,” Chan leans back into his chair, “I sort of am, right?” He sets down his plate to stand, inching slowly into the grass. He worries for a moment that if he steps into the sun he’ll burst into flames like some demon.
Minho frowns, blinking as he watches Chan sit down in the grass.
“Do you think that?”
“What?” Chan looks away, flattens himself to the earth and turns his face up towards the sun. The sky is so blue it makes him ache.
“That you’re dead.”
“I mean, I know I’m not. I just- I sort of am? I’m not like, human. Not after everything.”
“Chan,” Minho stands. “Bang Chan.”
“What?” He tries to laugh, going still when Minho’s shadow blocks the sun from his eyes.
“You are a human being. I can touch you,” He sits down and pokes Chan’s belly, “I can feel your heart,” His palm, flat over his chest, “You can still bleed, and die, and feel.”
Chan sighs, eyes closed. “I don’t want to get into it.”
“Fine, then we won’t get into it.”
He feels it when Minho lays on the grass beside him.
The backs of their hands brush, their pinkies linking silently. He loves the mornings Minho when doesn’t work.
Minho didn’t cry the first time Chan hurt him.
It was bad, too, the way Chan had thrashed against him and bit him hard enough to draw blood.
He deserved it when Minho struck the side of his face, kicked his stomach until he fell away.
It wasn’t a fight. Chan didn’t try to attack.
He’d puked on the floor right after, choked on the blood that dripped from his mouth and again when he saw the gaping wound on the thick of Minho’s forearm.
Begging forgiveness as Minho cleaned himself up in the sink.
Chan has always been grateful that Minho is a nurse, that he’s always known what to do in situations of emergency.
He’d cried for a week every time he saw the bandage on his arm until it healed, and then cried harder than he ever had in his life when he saw the scar it had left behind.
The door to his bathroom is unlocked, so Minho invites himself in.
“Hey,” Chan blinks up from the bathtub, undisturbed by the intrusion.
“Hi,” Minho says, and begins undressing. Chan tries his best not to flinch at the scars littering his body, but the shame simmers in his gut despite it.
Chan watches from the warm water, and scoots forward to make room for Minho to slip in behind him.
“How was work?” Chan leans back against him, back to chest. Minho’s hands settle on his thighs.
“Mm. Fine. A guy came into the ER with a candle stuck in his ass.”
Chan laughs and lets his head fall back against Minho’s shoulder. “How’d that happen?”
“Lack of proper BDSM etiquette," He says definitively, “Can I touch you?”
“Sure.”
His hand slips between Chan’s legs and he melts into it when Minho wraps a small fist around him, palm soft under the water.
There’s no talking. Just Minho working him over slowly, mouthing at the wet skin behind his ear.
When Chan spills over his hand, he feels Minho sigh and start to shift. He kisses the back of his neck once before he gets out.
“Dinner soon,” He drips onto the tile and takes a spare towel, nodding when he leaves the bathroom.
Chan relaxes back into the water.
For the first time in so long, he doesn’t feel the end lingering overhead.
Days pass.
Some things stay the same. Chan cleans, and he reads, and watches TV. Minho works, and hunts and cooks.
But some things change.
Minho starts cooking more vegetables, stir-fries them in the fat from the meat to make them more tolerable for Chan to eat.
They go on short walks around the woods behind the house, spend more time in the backyard.
Their friends get to call more, and that above all makes Chan feel normal.
No video call, not yet, not while Chan is still willowy, but he can see the small changes. The bit of color coming back to his skin from spending time outside, the ripple of muscle as it starts to build back up.
He thinks he might be a person again, after all this time.
Until it breaks, because it always does.
It’s an accident, because it always is.
“I’m sorry,” Chan heaves, and there’s blood running down his chin, clinging to his teeth. He can feel the chunks of flesh stuck between them, the raw taste.
It was stupid to believe anything could change.
Minho’s hands are like iron as they pull him away, dragging him across the wet floor.
He loses his footing for a second and slips in the blood, catching himself on the wall.
They’ll have to repaint, Chan thinks deliriously. Their walls are light grey, the blood is going to stain dark.
“Just stop talking,” Minho grunts, shoving Chan back.
The delivery driver makes an awful gurgling noise, blood gushing from the side of his neck and his jaw twitches.
Chan sobs a wrecked noise, and he jerks violently as he tries to move closer, mouth filled with spit. He’s so fucking hungry. He’s so hungry.
“Stop,” Minho shouts, “Let me deal with this. Fuck, come on, come upstairs,” He grabs the back of Chan’s shirt and drags him towards the stairs, forcing him up heavy step.
“I’m so sorry,” Chan wails, “Please- Min, please.”
He’s pulled into his room, nails dragging against the old wood as he tries to claw his way forward. Minho yanks him back hard enough that he goes dizzy.
“Stay here. Stay. Here.”
He leaves the room and the locks click into place.
Chan barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits into the tub, eyes glassy as it burns up his throat.
He sees the body downstairs when he closes his eyes.
He shouldn’t have been there. No one was supposed to have been there.
They live in an isolated part of town for a reason. No one is ever out here except for stray cats and the occasional deer. Minho gets all his packages delivered to his work. Chan never orders anything.
He saw the wrong address printed on the box the man was holding as soon as he bit into his neck. Blood covered it less than a moment after Chan ripped through his jugular.
It doesn’t matter why he was there anyway.
He was dead the second he stepped on their porch.
There’s no attempt to clean himself up, so he just curls his body against the floor and listens to the sounds of Minho moving around downstairs.
The heavy thump of the body being removed, the hum of the electric saw as it’s cut up.
It’s well over an hour before Chan starts to hear the actual cleanup. Most of the blood must be dry by now, but Minho is meticulous and skilled. All their floors are laminated hardwood, easy to clean, and clean again.
He feels numb against the floor, and blinks at the peeling wallpaper until he hears the floorboards creek.
“Hey,” Minho’s hand cups his cheek, “Shower.”
They go to Minho’s room, the tub is bigger and not filled with vomit.
“I’m sorry,” Chan breathes under the stream of water when he can finally speak again.
Minho is scrubbing his hands, digging the caked blood from under his nails.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Minho doesn’t even look up.
“I’m not going to get better,” He chokes back tears, the admittance harsh and jagged, “We tried, but. But I can’t be around people.”
“You can be around me,” Minho shrugs, switching to Chan’s other hand.
“And look at you,” Chan’s chin wobbles, his nose scrunching, “Jesus, Minho, just look,” He wretches his hand back, pokes his fingers against the scars that litter Minho’s stomach. They cover his arms, his back, his thighs.
Minho’s gaze is hard, cold. Angry, somewhere underneath it. He janks Chan’s hand back into his own and continues cleaning. “If I didn’t like it, I wouldn’t do it. Stop blaming yourself for everything. You’re sick.”
“What does that matter! I’m still hurting people! I’m sick and I’m not going to fucking get better, and we just have to admit that. Fuck. Minho, I’m never going to get better.”
“Then we’ll stay here. We’ll do video calls, we’ll say your immune system is fucked so people can’t visit. I’m a nurse, so I take care of you, that’s why I’m here.”
“And what, you’ll just be a fucking serial killer on the side? That’s the fucking life you want?”
“That’s the fucking life I have. It’s the life we have. ”
“I don’t want it!” It bursts from him like fire, scorching, “I don’t want to be this. I don’t, I don’t. Fuck. You should just kill me. Jesus, please, just kill me. I can’t take it anymore.”
It’s the same thing he said that first day. When he’d woken up on the bedroom floor with Minho hovering over him. He still doesn’t remember how he got there, or what happened to his neighbor, or his apartment.
But he remembers begging Minho to kill him, digging his nails into the floor until they bled.
“Fuck you,” Minho spits, like he had, “We’re stuck in this. Me and you. Me and you . You’re not leaving me, and I'm not leaving you. And I am especially not going to tell our friends that you’re dead. So we’ll keep figuring it out. You’ll stay home and I’ll keep you in your room until I know you won’t throw yourself out of a window and we’ll live like we did before. I’ll bring home food and you won’t ask and I won’t tell. Maybe I’ll bring home a fucking dog some day and you’ll find a reason to live for it. I don’t fucking know. But God, don’t ever ask me to kill you again.”
He pushes Chan’s back against the wall and kisses him with all the force he’s ever known.
“Fuck,” Chan gasps against his mouth, and pulls his warm body closer, “Fuck. Okay. Okay, I’m sorry, Min.”
“Don’t ever say that to me,” Minho holds his waist, letting the water turn the dried blood covering their bodies into pink droplets as it washes away, “Fuck you.”
“I love you too,” Chan kisses him back, pulls his top lip between his teeth, “I’m sorry. I love you too.”
They kiss until their lips bruise, until all the blood has swirled down the drain and the water has turned freezing.
Naked and shivering, Minho pushes him towards the bed and covers Chan’s body with his own.
There’s an unmarked space on Minho’s trapezius, smooth skin, and he cranes his neck to stretch it out.
He moans when Chan puts his mouth there, sweet at first. Soft kisses, dragging his tongue along the muscle.
His body jumps and he cries out when Chan’s mouth closes around it, his incisors piercing the skin.
“Good boy,” Minho gasps, a hand in Chan’s hair, “That’s good. You’re okay. We'll be alright.”
Blood is sharp and familiar on his tongue, and Chan tries to believe him.
Chan thinks it must be about two years now, since he’s moved in.
The wallpaper is still peeling in the same corner.
Downstairs, Chan hears the door unlock and the floorboards creek as Minho comes up the stairs.
“Dinner,” Minho’s voice is soft, his big eyes blinking.
In the living room, Berry is asleep on the sofa. She yawns when she hears them come back down the stairs and flips onto her back, yipping until Chan pets her belly.
“You’re feeding her too much,” Chan laughs, scratching her ribs.
“You feed her too much.”
“And you give her treats when you think I can’t tell.”
He takes his seat at the table with Berry on his heels, her feet clacking against the tile.
“Hm. I suppose we’re both to blame. Here,” He places a plate down in front of Chan, “New recipe."
“Wow. I don’t think I’ve had bibimbap in years.”
“Mm. Yours is mostly meat and rice, but you’ve been doing well with vegetables lately so I kept them in. Be careful with the egg yolk. Don’t throw up on my table.”
Berry curls up at his feet, and he grins around the first bite.
Minho smiles back at him, the corners of his mouth upturned and sharp.
“So,” Chan asks, teeth sinking into flesh, “How was work?”