“Sushi? You’re spoiling me.” Mingyu jokes.

          “I got my paycheck.” Minghao side-steps him to take off his shoes and put the three boxes on the counter, revealing a colorful assortment of raw fish and avocado. This was from somewhere in uptown, Mingyu thinks he remembers the restaurant’s logo as a place by the electronics store near Riverside. Pricy and critically acclaimed—as critical as their small town could be, “I told you I’d deliver a dead fish, didn’t I? You better eat well.” Minghao finally turns to face him and his smile drops immediately, “Woah, are you okay?”

          “Huh?” Mingyu had tried to nap numerous times throughout the day since he didn’t have anything to do on his day off. He volunteered a couple hours at the animal shelter and went out to buy a variety of drinks to stock his fridge, but each attempt to sleep was met with the same dream about high school, “I just didn’t sleep well.” Normally, he’d be flustered about anyone’s comment on his appearance. He hadn’t bothered to comb his hair or brush his teeth or change his clothes. It’s absolutely not professional, but it doesn’t look like Minghao is scrutinizing him for any of it. All that’s on his face is concern.

          “Oh,” Minghao pulls the chopsticks and soy-sauce packets out of the bag, pushing them to the side. Mingyu has a better tasting soy-sauce in the cupboard and his metal chopsticks don’t taste like wood. He even went out to buy a new set of chopsticks at the Asian market since Minghao had complained about the flatter, Korean ones being difficult to use compared to the rounded and long Chinese ones. So, now Mingyu has, like, four types of chopsticks in his silverware drawer, “we can keep it short tonight. If you just wanna eat dinner and crash, that’s fine with me.”

          Mingyu finally realizes that Minghao’s dressed like he’s come from the studio, “How was practice?”

          “Not great.” Since it seems like Mingyu’s about five minutes away from a comatose state, Minghao helps himself to the plates in the kitchen and sets up the sushi. Food this good can’t be adequately enjoyed from the confines of a Styrofoam box, “It’s hard to correct my students when I’m not allowed to demonstrate on the spot. They only get to see the routine a few times before Jun and Soon have to leave, so everything else has to be explained orally and that’s hard when you’re trying to explain a subject that’s entirely based on feel and movement.” He stacks and tosses the boxes before nuking the container holding the miso soup. He knows that Mingyu likes hot, soupy things when it’s really cold and it was drizzling today.

          “You’ll be back on your feet soon.” As if he’s not on his feet now. Minghao almost rolls his eyes, knowing that he’s not very close to freedom.

          Mingyu likes watching Minghao hustle around the kitchen. It’s only been a week or so, but Minghao already knows where everything is. He knows which drawer the utensils are in after they’ve dried and he knows how Mingyu likes to keep all his sets separate in different organizers. He knows how the knives should be lined up on the magnetic strip that Mingyu drilled into the wall a couple months ago. Minghao knows that Mingyu always stacks plates in the back of the dishrack and bowls sit with the pots in the second sink. Mugs and cups stand upside down on a dish towel to dry; if it’s glass it has to be dried immediately. Wonwoo was right, Minghao’s observant, almost hyper-observant, and has learned a lot about Mingyu based on how he keeps the apartment, “How are you feeling?”

          Minghao looks up at him as the microwave beeps a few times before he shuts it up with a slap to the eject button. He closes it with a quiet hand, “Alright. I might not be able to dance, but I can still bark orders at people.” He sighs.

          “What?”

          “Nothing.” Minghao portions out the soup into bowls so they can eat together, “Soonyoung showed me the updated routine, so I think he believes that I’ll recover by the time we leave for finals, but I don’t know if that’s enough time for me to learn and perfect the routine.”

          “What makes you say that?”

          “Well, you haven’t given me the greenlight.” Minghao hands Mingyu a pair of chopsticks and ushers him to sit. Mingyu is clearly out of it, but at least Minghao isn’t rubbing it in his face like Wonwoo and Jeonghan do.

          Mingyu puts an entire piece in his mouth, chewing meticulously and savoring the delicate flavors. He reaches for another piece and another before he realizes that Minghao’s just holding his chopsticks and not eating, “We’ll see how you do today.”

          “This sushi is one-hundred percent a bribe,” Minghao points at the food with a swirl of his chopsticks, “but you’re exhausted.” He finally takes a roll onto his own plate, “It’s fine to wait a few more days.”

          Mingyu looks down at his hands while he’s chewing. Something is weighing heavily on Minghao’s mind, he can tell based on how his eyes aren’t able to focus on any one place in particular, “I’ll take a look, just eat for now.” Again, it might just be how he’s brought up to be a gentleman, or it could be that he really does want Minghao to eat more, but Mingyu clips a particularly pretty roll and serves it onto the latter’s plate.

          Minghao’s eyes scan up to him. He stares at Mingyu for a moment before dropping his gaze back to the side, eating the sushi with a sigh.

          “What.”

          “Nothing.”

          “What.”

          “Nothing.” Minghao looks at him again, “It’s a little off topic, but I’m seriously running out of places and things to feed you, so if you could just tell me what you like to eat-”

          “Sorry.” Mingyu chuckles into his next bite, holding the chopsticks between his teeth before speaking again, “I thought you were doing a good job and I haven’t tried a lot of these places before. I had a feeling making you figure out something new each time might get frustrating after a while, but I was just waiting for you to say something.”

          “Well, I’m saying something.”

          “Honestly, everything that you’ve brought has been amazing—aside from the Subway, but I can overlook that.” Using sarcasm with Minghao is nice. It’s like telling half-jokes; passive aggressive, but not maliciously so, “My favorite foods are the ones that are close to home.”

          “What’s that supposed to mean?”

          Mingyu shrugs, “Local restaurants, y’know, like, family recipes, homecooked stuff, things of that nature.” He nods, “Stuff like that always tastes better in my opinion.”

          He knows that his answer doesn’t help Minghao’s cause. Most of the food that Minghao had brought had been cooked by several generations in the kitchen, changing it up now would be no fun. Sushi, admittedly, isn’t the most ‘homecooked’ meal, but he’s not one to complain. Mingyu appreciates different cultures from different places, mixes of cultures, tastes of different traditions; people at their authentic core. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, he’s really missing his parents’ cooking. He should call them up for a recipe from his childhood.

          After a couple rolls, he notices that Minghao picks up a sizeable blob of wasabi and smears it on a roll before downing it. He stares. That can’t be good. That has to burn. But Minghao is totally fine, “How much wasabi have you even eaten?” Mingyu leans over to check his plate and sure enough, most of his mound of wasabi is gone, “Are you okay?”

          “You have to eat the ginger and wasabi. It kills all the bacteria in the fish.”

          “Can you even taste the fish?”

          Minghao shrugs, “You haven’t eaten any. What, can’t handle the burn?” he eats another piece and chases it with a bead of wasabi. He gives Mingyu a coy and cheeky grin.

          “Is that a challenge, Minghao Xu?” He’s going to regret this in approximately thirty seconds.

          “I never said that.” Mingyu takes about a quarter of his wasabi and puts it all on one roll. Why is he doing this to himself? Why. This has got to be the stupidest thing that he’s done to impress anyone ever. And this isn’t even impressive. Mingyu can tell that his habits from college frat parties are coming back. He can’t bow out of a challenge if it involves 1up-ing someone, especially regarding drinks or food, even if it is Minghao, “Isn’t that too much? You’re going to choke.”

          Lo and behold.

          Mingyu’s a hacking, coughing, tearing, screaming mess in a matter of seconds. Minghao, bless his soul, is already in the kitchen digging through the fridge and pulling out a can of Coke that Mingyu had been saving for a rainy day. He hands it to Mingyu—who is currently hunched over his stool, resting his forehead on the seat—and rubs a calm circle into his back until Mingyu’s able to take a sip and wash out the wasabi’s burn.

          “Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.” Mingyu can’t really manage that. He’s trying to wipe the tears and snot away before he can meet Minghao’s prett- not-gross, normal face again, “You good?”

          If he’s honest, the weight of Minghao’s hand on his back is more soothing than the cola, “I’m good.”

          When Mingyu looks at Minghao’s knee, it’s leagues better than it was a month ago. He’s finally taking the healing process seriously and he’s not lying through gritted teeth anymore. When Mingyu pushes a little too hard on a certain point in the joint, Minghao will tell him in earnest how much it hurts or if there’s any discomfort. However, despite the strides in progress he’s made, it’s still nowhere near complete repair. It needs time. He can’t just stop moving for a few days an expect all the problems to disappear. The knee brace isn’t some miraculous pain eraser. Pain-killers don’t fix the problem, they just make you forget about it for a little while.

          “I think you need another week.” Mingyu sits on the armrest of the couch, looking down at Minghao who is on his back on the floor, “Just a week. Can you manage that?”

          Minghao nods, “Yeah.” There seems to be more that he wants to say. Mingyu knows that Minghao’s still sore and that waiting a little longer should be better in the long run. However, he also tries his best to understand his perspective. The competition is ending in exactly three weeks. They don’t have time; he doesn’t have time. Minghao can watch the moves all he wants, but like he said earlier, it’s difficult to explain something that must be felt to be understood.

          “How hard is the choreo?”

          Minghao shrugs, “Hard. It has to be hard this late into the game.” He chuckles.

          “How much of it do you know?” he tries to help his patient stretch, but Minghao seems a little out of it, “Minghao?”

          He blinks a couple times before refocusing his attention on Mingyu, “Not enough. I mean, I know it, I know it, on paper I know it, but I don’t understand it yet.” He sits up, gently pushing off Mingyu’s hands, “Soonyoung modified a few parts because Jihoon changed some of the audio. Normally, it’s not a big deal because we practice as often as possible. There’s supposed to be this syncopated beat before silence and a sort of drop after that in our second act, but Jihoon modified it a bit and Jun and I are supposed to figure out how to air chair into a leaning headstand so that we cross like In-N-Out palm trees.” Mingyu doesn’t get it, but it sounds difficult, “It’s something that we’ll have to practice together. Our third act has a lot of partner moves and our first one has a lot of group interaction, so I can’t practice stuff like that alone. I had a few weeks to get the moves down, but I’m sure Soon or Wonwoo have told you about how often the music and choreo change as we progress.”

          Mingyu nods, cracking a sympathetic smile and reaching over to pat him a few times on the shoulder, letting his hand rest there until he can feel Minghao’s body heat through his clothes, “I think it’ll be fine.” Minghao just gives him a questionable look and turns back to his hands in his lap. Mingyu retracts his own hand with hesitation. There’s something Mingyu doesn’t understand resting behind his eyes and he wants to ask about it, “What?”

          “What, what?”

          “Why are you looking at me like that?”

          He gets Minghao to lift the corners of his mouth just slightly, “Like what?” he glances up at Mingyu again with that same, wide-eyed, coy look. He’s kind of cute; barely cute. It’s just a little sliver in time that feels liminal. It feels like they stop and five seconds grows into five minutes of just locking gazes and breathing. Maybe this is just Minghao’s power; he can manipulate time.

          Mingyu would say his heart stops, but it doesn’t. It maybe skips a beat or two, but looking at good food does that to him too.

          “Nothing.”