V.

He knew that this day was bound to arrive but that doesn’t mean that he is prepared to deal with it. He has repeatedly, several times, told Jinwoo that it was an error, a mistake. They could have so easily avoided this situation if only they decided to home-school Mei… and yet, there he is, collecting his daughter from class with a fever and a rash because playing with a swarm of other kids is not safe or healthy.

“I’ve told you” Minho complains, waiting in front of Mei’s classroom, leather boots stomping over the hardwood, nervous, agitated, feeling completely and utterly defeated.

“Minho,” at the other end of the phone Jinwoo sights, rolling his eyes, “we have already discussed this many times, and right now is not the best moment to go through it again,” and he is right, of course, but that doesn’t make Minho feels any better; any reassured. He just wants to grab Mei and tug her under her favorite fluffy blanket, surrounded by all her plushies – let her have Minho the bear to hold her, still four feet bigger than she is, to lay next to her in her bed and play silly voices until she falls asleep and he is sore, his chords raspy and sandy but his heart happy, delighted. He wants to fight Jinwoo, to be the one on the right side for once – because, so far, Mei has been so elated every day, waking up thrilled at the prospect of another day at school, playing with her friends, learning all the things Minho is sure that Jinwoo could also teach her at home. But no amount of reasoning or persuading has made any of the two change their minds: Jinwoo has to work, albeit from home, and Mei needs to be with children her age, interact with them, play, share all the viruses and diseases that come from the same toys, from eating sand from the playground. He feels ashamed seeing her baby being passed to him, her skin too warm, her eyes giddy, unclean, lids battered, sloppy. He takes her from his teacher, who is trying to explain the situation Minho is so concerned about – but he is too worried to listen, and has no patience for it, he embraces Mei and runs away.

Runs because he doesn’t want to expose her to more damage – she is already febrile in his arms, her forehead hot, her skin prickled with sweat, and her voice sleepy, and drowsy and Minho can only think of home, of Jinwoo doing his magic and fixing all that is wrong. Jinwoo, who is still on the phone, talking sweetly to Mei, her head lingering over Minho’s shoulder, Jinwoo’s voice coming from afar but palpable, tangible, taking over the situation.

“Minho, what did Mr. Wonpil tell? How was Mei at school? Did she have any symptom upon arrival or something?” and Minho finds himself without any answers because, firstly, who is Wonpil, and why any of this is of importance? Jinwoo growls, exasperated, frustrated, and Minho can’t imagine the reason for it – he can imagine him sitting on his desk, nurturing a headache that will go away the second he sees them arriving, the minute he has them both under his grasp, enveloping them with all the love in the world (for Jinwoo there is no better remedy than them, for any pain or any problem). “Minho?” and now his voice is lowered, stern, clearly not directed to Mei. Minho blinks, opens the door of the car and seats Mei inside, plugs the seat-belt under her child seat, rubs her cheeks with tenderness, feels her heart beating at a fast pace – his matching it, a rapid torrent of hummingbirds beating their wings against his ribs. “Minho!” Jinwoo is now demanding, and commanding.

“Yes, love?” he replies, sounding more scared than anything else. He knows that Jinwoo is not pleased by this happening, but there is no need for this hardness, this harsh tone. E

“Did you ignore Mei’s teacher?” and blood is colouring Minho’s semblance, while he becomes mortified.

“I am in a rush to get home, didn’t have time to spend chatting,” he manages to say, now more convinced that he feels deep down – and he is glad, for the first time in his life, that Jinwoo is not here because he can read him all like an open book, one glance and he has no secrets to him, not capable to invent a white lie.

“Whatever,” he sighs, “I’ll give them a call, say sorry on your behalf, and see how Mei was at class.” Minho wastes no time turning the engineer on, pedal to the metal, peeking at Mei from the rear-viewer mirror to check that she is still breathing, still present.

It takes ten minutes from school to their house; Minho makes it in four, the wind scratching, ungentle, the car, driving at a blistering speed just to win time with his family.

Even with puffy eyes, and red-rimmed, hair a mess, Jinwoo is still gorgeous. He covers his face while coughing, his throat sore, his voice coming in little puffs of words, like smoke, like fog. He did sound a little off over the phone – but, again, Minho was too concerned by Mei to have the capacity to worry about anything else.

Minho puts Mei down and jumps to hug Jinwoo, who allows it, too tired to argue.

“Oh, love, you look terrible!” he exclaims. When he left, early in the morning, he didn’t notice anything.

“I think you owe us an apology because it was me who passed the cold to Mei”, Jinwoo says, slouching on the couch, Minho covering him with blankets, fluffing pillows and cushions to make it more comfortable for Jinwoo. “How is she doing?” he asks, looking around, unfocused, to where Mei’s room is, where she is already sleeping tight, peacefully. “I’m so sorry to obligate you to come back to get her…” and he is interrupted by another fist of coughing that brings tears to the corner of his eyes. He bends and breaths in hard, his head dizzy and stuffy.

“Don’t be silly, I am his father, it is nothing, I’ll take care of you both, you’ll get well in no time,” he promises, nestling Jinwoo closer to him, kissing the top of his copper curls, tasting his shampoo – vanilla scoops of ice-cream, the same that Mei uses and it feels wrong to want to reveal into it when it is your daughter’s same smell. Jinwoo leans into him, letting tiredness wash over him, closing his eyes under the safe that it is resting next to Minho – assured that he will take care, whatever that means (if he were lucid he would know, but his mind has exhausted all of its resources, it is shut down and he wants just to be like this, pressed against Minho’s body, feeling the warmth that he irradiates, his hands holding his frame, keeping him safe, grounded).

Minho wakes up to another little body squeezed together.

“Mei wants to be with dad, too,” she proclaims before snuggling against Minho’s lap, falling asleep again, on top of him, so little still that can fit perfectly there. Minho cups her cheek, and rubs it tenderly with his thumb, drawing lazy circles until her breath is even and he feels at ease, the two halves of his heart right next to him.

Jinwoo wakes up to watch his family sleeping, all crushed on the sofa. He takes a picture of them, and keeps the moment to himself before getting up, sorting everything out because Minho, as lovely and wonderful as he is, can’t deal with a sick girlie – and, even though he doesn’t feel any better, has been through it before, has been there when Mei got chicken pox, has held her while throwing up, food poisoned by Minho’s negative skills on that day he was having dinner out with Seungyoon, he has spent hours cleaning, giving her fluids and keeping her company, holding her hand while sleeping, reading book after book when her tummy hurt so bad she couldn’t rest. Minho has been busy building up his business, his enterprise, and as much as he has been relying on others, he is not home as much as Jinwoo is, so he is not used or versed at treating sick babies though he is getting there, he is becoming closer to Mei day by day.

It feels alien all this silence evolving him – at this hour Mei should be arriving home, bringing in giggles and laughs, a rain of new words, excited explanations of her day at class, of what she has done with Nayeon, her ponytail midway down, hands dirt with soil and flowers dangling from her ear, daisies and dandelions and an evergreen smile. Jinwoo drinks a sip of hot tea and lets it clean his mind, stirring the soup that is brewing on the stove, its smell slowly creeping into the dining room.

“I’m hungry!” and he reaches down to hug Mei, who latches at his leg. “But I feel too warm, Dad,” she complains.

“I know butterfly”, Jinwoo helps her to sit at the counter, holding a glass of water towards Mei, “that’s why dad has a magic potion for it,” and, with a swirl, he pours Dalsy into it. “Now, drink it fast before the spell dispels!” he urges her. Mei looks at the drink suspiciously, sniffs at it, and pouts. Jinwoo unties her hair and ruffles it, soft locks tangling around his fingers.

“It doesn’t look good,” she affirms, retching from it. Jinwoo groans – not what expected. He fakes a gulp, swallowing air, the flavor of the medicine slightly touching his lips. He smiles bright and big.

“Not too bad,” he announces, “now, baby, if dad can, so you can too!” this time Mei takes it, hands stretched and beams at Jinwoo, trying her best to impress – and drinks it in one go.

She grimaces but nods at Jinwoo, who claps, delighted.

“You are such a good girl” and rubs her hair again, affectionately.

“Yes, Mei is a good, good girl!” she agrees, smiling.

“And now this good girl is going to feel better,” Jinwoo adds, “because you have magic inside of you,” and Mei looks at him, amused.

Jinwoo plays with Mei while cooking, listening to her listing how terrible it was at school “Because my head was muddled and mushy, Nayeon had to tell Mr. Wonpil that Mei wasn’t paying attention. And then Mr. Wonpil took me to the infirmary and it was a fever. Nayeon was unhappy and sorry because she snitched me to Mr. Wonpil, thinking I was distracted but Mei was feverish and sick and Nayeon held my hand until Dad came for me to take me home. But Dad didn’t have to because I like school,” she says, nodding. “Mei doesn’t have homework because of that,” she complains, “and Dad forgot my bag with my books, too,” she sulks and pouts and Jinwoo needs to make a call.

He rings Mr. Wonpil while Mei mopes about her awful day – that she felt dizzy and dozy, sidetracked, her head spinning and her lips trembling.

“I am so utterly sorry, my husband freaked out,” he explains, “first time in this situation. And I’m not feeling all so good, either,” and, as if to prove it, Jinwoo bends down with another fist of coughing. “No, I don’t think she will be coming tomorrow. I know she won’t miss much other than her friends,” he continues, “I’ll tell her not to worry, though she will be very displeased”.

Mei yells even though her voice is half gone and she is sore to the core. She kicks and tosses and throws a tantrum and Jinwoo watches it unfold, unable, for once, to do something. He tries all of his tricks – and nothing works. Not the infallible “stay at home watching Disney movies all day long”. Not the “going to granny and Danha”. Not even “24 hours with Dad at home”. She is heartbroken, crying and promising that she is fit as a fiddle to assist classes tomorrow.

“But I am not,” Jinwoo tries one last attempt at convincing Mei, “and I won’t recover unless I have a Mei with me,” and he must look so terrible that even his five-year-old girl notices. She gleams at the prospect.

“Because Mei is a good girl, right!?” now she is back to be excited.

“Of course” Jinwoo agrees. “Now, let’s eat and sleep.”

“Because Minho Dad doesn’t know how to cure Dad,” she exclaims, sinking a spoon into the soup. Jinwoo drags himself to sit next to Mei, eyeing that she is eating well and properly, ensuring that she has water and fruit and that she takes her medicine before bed. She does just fine. Fever breaks again and Mei's head collapses on the table and Jinwoo can hardly manage to carry Mei to her bed. He kisses her forehead and notices the high temperature on her skin.

“Ok, butterfly,” he mumbles, “Dad is here, everything is going to be ok,” he promises, caressing her little face, a wet cloth over her eyes to cool the fever down.

When Minho finally wakes up to a silent house, he finds Jinwoo asleep by Mei’s bed, half of the sheets hanging above him, covering him.

When Jinwoo wakes up, he finds himself propped in his bed, Minho’s hand interlocked with his, a glass of water and a bunch of pills on the bedside table, a note telling him to rest well “and I will be here tomorrow as well, I’m going to take care of you because, as much as I adore Mei, a five years old girl can’t be trusted in taking care of my most loved one and that it is you, my Jinwoo”.

Jinwoo turns around and buries his face on Minho’s chest, letting his warmth lull him back to sleep, feeling already ten times better – because Mei and Minho are all that he needs.

"I'm sorry, love," Minho murmurs to the night, unsure if Jinwoo will hear his plead, "I didn't do any of the things I wanted. You had to deal with Mei alone, again," and there is so much sorry inside his words.

"Don't worry," Jinwoo chuckles, "there will be many other opportunities. Remember, kids become sick all the time," and he can already feel the pout forming, recreating the words that will come next. But Minho bites his lips and shakes his head. 

"And next time I will be ready for it," he assures, "though you will always be ahead of me, I will follow your lead. You know that I am lacking, but you make me want to be better; try harder."

"Oh, stop it," Jinwoo punches Minho, "I would shush you with a kiss right now only if I didn't feel this terrible. Also, I don't want to pass it on you, you are our only hope to keep us entertained tomorrow," and Jinwoo's laughter still is the sweeter even amid couches and sneezes.