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It's really not his proudest moment - and he's not making it much better with his handling of it; though it's not exactly his fault that he's shaking so damn much. That would be due to the...well, the dehydration that he brought upon himself, and perhaps the lack of sleep that he also sort of brought upon himself...

Okay, so maybe this is one of those learning moments he's heard so much about. He will make sure to not faint come next performance - learning is so easy.

Getting up isn't quite as easy.

He's sort of only half-conscious, and he can only hope his internal monologue doesn't take real life seconds into account, since he shouldn't still be out here, but he really has no way of telling. The others are all off the stage, barring someone behind him, but his vision is greying out again, and he can only accept the hand on his back blindly.

He tries to, at the very least, steady himself where he's crouched, but that proves difficult. His wrist aches when he puts weight on it, and he almost falls when he tries to get up on a knee. Okay. Not great.

So he needs to work on his balance - another splendid lesson learned.

He pulls his mic further down, fumbling fingers letting it dangle against his chest, as opposed to around his neck, where he's worried he's panting too loud. Holding his breath doesn't quite work, only works to make him a bit nauseous, so he rules that option out.

He's sure something is supposed to be happening, right now - it feels like they've gone off-script. Isn't something supposed to be happening?

The hand is back, and he looks up to see a familiar face almost-smiling at him. The sort of smile that's meant more as a comfort, than anything else - but he looks pained. Minho reaches out, and falls forward.

Not his proudest moment.

He gets to his feet with the hand on his back, he nods a little, registering Moonbin's voice ever so briefly.

"You're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," he nods, seeing stars. "You?"

"Fine, yeah, fine," he smiles again, both of them swaying. There's a staff member behind him, fanning at him. The cross-breeze hits Minho, and he wants to stand there for a little longer if only to cool off some. "Where's- where's your staff?" 

Minho blinks again, confusion weighing on his eyelids. He sways a bit too far too the left, and has to stutter to the right to stop himself from dropping. Again.

"My-" Right. That's what's supposed to be happening. He needs to change, get some water, wait for his next stage. It's the last one, right? God he hopes he isn't forgetting anything. "Ah, I- I-" He smiles into a grimace, "I'll go find them?"

Moonbin doesn't look pleased, but his arm is wound tight around his abdomen, and Minho doesn't think either of them want to be having this conversation right here, right now, while they both seem so out of it - and so he nods toward the wings, and they both make their way off the stage.

It's miraculous, how better he feels once out of the hot, blinding stage lights. A pain thumps behind his eyes, and he winces as it worsens - and, while the vertigo seems to have faded, a woozy sort of clumsiness takes its place, which really doesn't aid in his feather-like composition. He's made of dust, and one wrong brush will send him flying away.

Backstage is crowded - it's bound to be, what with the occasion and the sheer amount of groups present. He feels more like he's trying to escape a festival than headed to his green room. He parts with Moonbin along the way (or, rather, Moonbin parts with him) and resigns himself to a good bit of wandering until he finds the door with Stray Kids pasted on it.

The crowded halls don't help his blurry vision, but he manages to find the place anyway - luck or perhaps experience making it not the most impossible thing he's done today.

His hand has successfully grazed every wall in the labyrinth so far, so he makes a mental note to try and wash up properly before bed tonight.

It wouldn't do to get sick.

He slumps against the wall once he's in the green room - he notices familiar faces milling about (but no members, though he can't decide between feeling relief that they can't see him like this, or accept the genuine desperation coiling in his gut for his hyung to tell him it'll be alright), but his eyes whisper shut before he can realise their concern.

"Minho-ssi?" There's a towelette being pressed to his forehead, underneath his sweaty bangs. "Minho-ssi, stay awake, please."

He opens his eyes with great difficulty, and then grasps the frigid water bottle as tightly as he can in his hand. The stylist moves away once he has it, though the severe amounts of condensation does make Minho almost drop it - his other hand coming to cup the bottom of it before he causes any more of a mess.

The room is otherwise vacant - he's not sure where the other members are, perhaps either fraternizing with other idols, or off in some corridor emergency rehearsing for the final stage. He's sure his and Moonbin's collapses has interrupted the schedule somewhat.

Still, though, he has one more song to go, and so he focuses on taking small sips of water, and letting his makeup artist dab the rest of his sweat away.

"Minho-ssi," he doesn't get too long of a reprieve, however, because then he's opening his eyes and following his stylist back behind the curtain. His mic pack is taken, and he can feel anxiety clawing up his throat. He doesn't know how much time he's wasted, he's not sure if the schedule is changing, and now he can't tell when the stages are over.

He accepts the new clothes anyway, (because the show must go on) but as he works on removing the ones he has on, he can only fumble. His fingers feel fat and fuzzy, far too uncoordinated, and he eventually calls for his stylist to come back in.

He gives him a look paired with a raised eyebrow, but Minho doesn't have time for embarrassment. He already has the jacket off, but he needs these buttons undone.

It's a silent endeavour - one pair of hands removing the shirt and accessories for him while he undoes his belt and struggles with his boots. Once he's been completely separated from the expensive attire, he moves to pull on the new outfit.

It's soft, but heavy, and he would really like a t-shirt, but it's December and they have a vibe to match. On the bright side, it's really not that many layers - there's a stylised undershirt beneath his sweater, but it's really just to look like layers, not to actually act as them. He fumbles with the belt, and then lets his stylist adjust the clothes as needed.

His sleeves are rolled up, the bottom faux-layers are adjusted to hang over his pants, and he gets his boots back on.

He's given a new mic pack, this one for a handheld - though he's more focused on getting his in-ear in for (what he likes to consider) recon. The clocks aren't quite accurate with things like this, and he'd like to, at the very least, know what's happening on stage, especially with his green room being one without a television. (They don't have the space for this many groups, which isn't exactly uncommon. Annoying, sure, with makeshift spaces prone to falling, were one to bump into them too hard. But not uncommon.)

Minho relaxes with the knowledge that they have plenty of time before the finale. He sits his exhausted ass back on the couch, grabs his water bottle, and focuses on hydrating himself.

In the back of his mind, he wonders, where the hell are the others?

His biggest worry, though, is the migraine growing behind his eyes.

His in-ear vibrates with noise, and he puts it in just in time to hear the stage call.

He's standing when the door opens, and he hears someone yelling, 'Four minutes!' while a frazzled Hyunjin stands in the entrance.

He looks at Minho for three whole seconds before seeming to comprehend him - he looks terribly anxious, and Minho pats his shoulder as a hair stylist comes over to spray his hair back down.

"I couldn't find you," he says, coming over and sticking out a hilariously gloved hand. Minho takes it (once he's freed from hair spray hell, of course) and stands. 

Minho's head spins a little, and he's still panting, but they don't have to dance, for this, so he puts it aside.

"You ready?" Hyunjin asks, looking somehow cute, despite his anxieties, entirely due to the hat on his head. Minho would be dying actively, if he had that on.

"Yeah. Where are the others?" Minho fiddles with his sweater, displeased with the heaviness of it, but resigned in the way he always is with poor costuming.

"Already up there." He opens his mouth to say more, perhaps to scold him for not searching them out (as if he could even find them, with backstage being the way that it is), but they're being ushered out just then, and Hyunjin clamps up.

They get their in-ears in, adjusting the mics over their mouths. Minho feels like he's running on fumes; his vision hasn't cleared, not since sitting down and certainly not now. He doesn't have much time to prep himself before he's back up under the stage lights - and all of his progress of cooling himself down, calming his body, turns to dust.

Hyunjin pushes him ahead, and soon he's standing behind Felix and Seungmin. He's grateful, not for the first time that day, that the stages are online - a blessing in disguise, since, at first, they all found it incredibly depressing to perform to silence and blank space.

But this way there are no rogue phones that could have been recording him - no cameras unaccounted for, in an audience that isn't quite there.

Minho lets himself relax for the finale - lets himself lean into his exhaustion, something close to euphoria taking over as the numbness settles in his bones. It'll pass, and he'll feel worse, but for right now, he feels okay.

"The van is outside when you've changed."

The group got separated, following the show's closing; the sheer amount of people (idols and staff alike) in the halls made it impossible for a group of their size to all arrive at their green room in one piece. Minho, Hyunjin, Felix, and Seungmin somehow got there long after the others finished changing.

Minho expects to see Chan somewhere, mulling about, but the leader is nowhere in sight. His stomach churns, but it isn't from nerves.

He gets a single drink of water in before he's hurrying behind the curtain, peeling the clothes off his too-sweaty body, now with significantly more dexterity than before. And more urgency.

The stage lights heated him back up, and the water hasn't been enough. His day clothes feel oppressive, and he skimps out on his jacket. He hands his stylist his clothes before grabbing his water bottle and making an executive decision.

Minho hurries out the green room, white-knuckling the water bottle as he moves back through the halls, muscle memory guiding him as his body burns and his stomach churns. He pushes the door open with his shoulder, kicks it shut behind him, his elbow pressing down on the lock.

The water bottle finds the sink, and Minho resigns himself to the toilet.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the cold water sloshing around his insides like waves against a hull. He gags, covers his mouth, and then drops his hand with some effort. He just needs to get it out. He just needs to get it out.

He brushes his hair out of his face, propping himself up with an elbow when his concern for hygiene is outweighed by his concern for face-planting into a public toilet.

His stomach cramps, and then the water comes right back up again, escorted so kindly by a painful string of bile. He spits the rest out, and then forces himself up.

He flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and then looks at his reflection. His makeup is getting cakey from the sweat, and he's sure it's hiding the worst of it - because apart from his swollen lips and reddish eyes, he looks...okay. Sort of like he's been crying, which is irritating, but at least he doesn't look sickly.

He takes careful, slow sips of water, eyes shut and face tipped away from the overhead lights. If he could turn them off, he would - alas, the motion detector makes that pretty much impossible, unless he has time to stand here perfectly still for five minutes.

Ah, fuck.

Minho hurries back out of the restroom, eyes staring at the doors as he passes them, mentally counting them until he reaches the right one. Inside, he finds the other boys clothed and waiting.

Hyunjin raises an eyebrow, and Minho waves him off.

"Are we good to go?"

"Yeah," they all nod, looking at each other with the sort of uncertainty that occurs when Chan isn't there. Like lost ducklings.

"Come on," he says, although he has full intent to follow their manager like the helpless duckling he is. Seungmin hands him his bag as he passes, and Minho breathes out a thanks.

"Good night, hyung," Minho says, the last to leave the car. Felix and Seungmin have already entered the building. Minho is only dawdling because his body isn't quite ready to cooperate. He forces it to, anyway.

"Take care of yourself," he's told, "Have a big meal. Get some quality sleep. Okay?"

"I will," he says, and then thanks him and shuts the door, crossing around the front to meet Hyunjin on the sidewalk. The van drives off, and Minho takes a deep breath of the somewhat fresh city air. He feels more alive, now, though the car ride did jostle him more than he would've liked. He wants this feeling to pass, this sickness to leave him, but it seems like every situation he finds himself in leads to more discomfort.

"You good?" Hyunjin asks, that anxiousness back - though more subdued, now. Probably too tired to care as much. Minho doesn't blame him.

"Fine," he nods, brushing the hair from his face.

"It's just." Hyunjin gestures at him a little. "You're...not wearing a jacket."

Minho glances at himself briefly, startled by his own clothes; too many costumes in one day. Too many temperature changes. He doesn't laugh, because he knows if he does, he won't be able to stop.

"As if you weren't hot, too," he says, not moving in order to get more time in the frigid December air. Or, well. Technically it's January now, isn't it? "That hat looked thick as hell."

"It was." He shrugs, "Did you have that many layers?"

"Yeah," he looks away.

"C'mon," Hyunjin says. It's simple, it's nothing more than what it seems, but it's enough.

Minho follows him inside.

He goes through the motions: Taking his shoes off, hanging his bag by the door, disposing of his empty water bottle.

He had said goodnight to Hyunjin before they parted ways in the hall, mere moments ago- yet that soon begins to feel like longer, the more he's upright. Maybe he should have let on a bit more of his unwell, and Hyunjin might've babied him some.

But- no. He couldn't do that. Hyunjin needs his sleep too. He can't be selfish like that.

He sighs, runs a hand over his face, and grabs a drink from the kitchen.

Someone's in one of the showers, but the other bathroom is blessedly empty. He puts his cup in the sink, stomach only mildly irritated by the intrusion, and then goes about finishing his nighttime necessities.

He washes his face once, to get the makeup off, then again to wipe the rest of the sweat away. Standing there seems to upset his knees, but he ignores it for the time being. He really needs to shower - there's no way he's going to bed like this.

Cold water seems appealing until it's actually hitting his skin, so he settles for lukewarm. His skin feels sticky even after scrubbing at it, but the winter air is so dry that he doesn't dare wash himself again. He's in this nebulous state - a cornered in-between that makes him feel as if he can't get his balance, like he's constantly tilting, swaying, compensating left then right as he tries not to drop, but there's no steadiness to be found even in the centre.

He'd like for this feeling to pass. He'd like it very much.

Minho climbs out once he's done, half-assing his skincare routine with the lights now flicked off; the pain in his temples has spread behind his eyes, and he's beginning to worry if all of the general unwellness he's been feeling has a root cause.

His only want, and thought, left is to get to bed. And so he does just that.

He doesn't bother changing - instead lying down with his towel still wrapped around himself. His arm comes to rest over his forehead, sleep bouncing around him like a rather heavy balloon - not quite engulfing him entirely, enough of his own thoughts still present and coherent. The pain behind his eyes has worsened to a steady pulse, even with him blocking out what little light comes from under his door, and he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he already is sick.

Probably not, though.

Come morning, Minho's migraine has not abated; in fact, it seems to have gotten worse. His head thumps in tune with his heart, too much for him to just lie here, and far too quick from just lying here.

He gets up with a moan, head rush deciding to make an appearance. He grabs onto his bedframe and blinks away the stars, a permanent wince etched into his otherwise tired expression. He needs to take some medicine before work, otherwise there'll definitely be an untimely encore.

They don't have migraine medicine, but they do have extra strength acetaminophen, and if he has some coffee with that, it'll essentially be the same thing, right?

Right.

His alarm goes off while he's waiting for the coffee to brew, and he groans as he goes all the way back down the hall, into the now-loud room, crouches down, turns it off, and stands up for that encore he was trying to avoid.

Minho resigns himself to leaning against the wall as it passes, staring blankly at his covered window as it comes back into view. He doesn't mean to stay there for so long, but time is like sludge right now, and so is his brain, so he isn't too surprised when Seungmin comes knocking at his door. Irritated, yeah, but not surprised.

"I'm awake," he whines, "Who do you think made the coffee?"

Seungmin rolls his eyes at him, but doesn't fight back. Somehow that's more annoying.

He finds most of his beautiful, beautiful coffee has already been drank, and he scowls at the boys as he puts a new pot on.

"Greedy. You're all greedy," he grumbles, but there's not enough energy in his body for him to properly terrorise them. A shame. They deserve it.

He plops down at the counter with them anyway, deciding that his presence will be enough of a bother for now - he groans when Jeongin turns to him, and asks, "Should I cook breakfast?"

If we want to die, sure, he doesn't say, and instead goes with, "Hang on..."

Food doesn't sound too appetizing, but he's smart enough (and has learned enough, from last night) to know that he can't just run on fumes.

He finds four packages of leftovers, and gives them each a turn in the microwave. He slides the warm containers over to the boys, keeping the plain rice for himself. He stays in the kitchen, too worried about being questioned for his less-than-nutritious meal plan to go sit back down - instead looking longingly at his coffee from afar.

The rice feels heavy going down, and his migraine is really trying to bring back that nausea; he eats half before calling it as good as it's gonna get, and covers the container to be put away.

"How did your performance go, hyung?" Felix asks, mouth still full of fried rice.

"Fine," he shrugs, returning to his seat. His coffee isn't as hot as he'd like, but it hasn't cooled to the point of being gross, so he deals with it. "I didn't get a chance to monitor it, though."

"No?"

"We just did the one run-through," he explains, nursing the drink against his chest. His hand is shaking, and he places it onto the mug to try and stop it. "We didn't have a lot of time. But everyone else did well, so there's that."

"I'm sure you did great!" Felix comes over to drape himself across Minho's back, hugging him with a smile. "You worked hard. You always work hard. I'm proud of you."

"Aish," he scoffs, and hides his reddening face in his mug.

"We can watch it together," Felix decides, and Minho decides that that's probably a bad idea. He likes to watch his performances in the safety of his room, so that if he winds up upset it stays between him and whatever god might be giggling at him.

He elbows Felix off of him, and the boy returns to his seat no less excited about his presumptuous plans.

"Car's gonna be here soon," Seungmin says, finally looking up from his phone. He puts his dishes in the sink and claims one of the bathrooms. The other two already have wet hair, so Minho doesn't necessarily have to rush, but he decides that it'd be better to go now and be able to take his time.

He chugs the rest of his coffee, fills the mug with water, and puts it beside the dirty dishes.

Minho doesn't particularly like his reflection, when he spots it. He's less pale than the night before, his eyebags having receded enough that he doesn't look so swollen. But he doesn't look well, and his eyes are somewhat bloodshot, so he's not so sure how much makeup he needs to apply to avoid Chan's wrath.

He washes his face, and settles for some light foundation, just to give some more colour to his cheeks. He leans against the sink while his moisturizer seeps in; swaying himself back and forth on his heels, eyes locked on his freshly trimmed nails.

There's a lingering sense of dread that been seated heavy at the base of his throat since he woke up; something he can't quite place. Nothing horrible happened. It wasn't pleasant, not at all, and he certainly embarrassed himself. But he was okay - the performance went well, they'll surely cut out him and Moonbin dropping. He didn't ruin anything.

But he still feels something churning about, something that doesn't have anything to do with his malease.

He fights off the feeling as he blends the foundation over his cheeks, huffing out a sigh when he's done.

Good enough.

At least he looks alive.

It's more than he could say about himself last night.

The medicine seems to do its job over the carride to the company. Well, mostly.

Minho's doesn't get migraines regularly, but he is more prone to them than the others (unless they hide it better than he does. Which he doubts, he's an excellent actor and even better friend. Probably.) which means he's used to the way these things go; medicine, followed by a strange in-between period of unease - where he is neither in pain nor out of it.

He was kind of hoping it had just been dehydration. But that would be far too easy, wouldn't it?

At least he can't be blamed for this - he can't give himself a migraine. Sure, he could give himself a headache, but migraines are unpredictable. It was just chance.

He rehearses those lines as they walk to the dance studio.

The others (barring Jisung, who's probably in the cafeteria getting himself a drink. He always forgets a water bottle.) are already inside, Hyunjin seemingly warmed up and stretching now, while Changbin and Chan talk near the speaker. Their car must've gotten there quicker, he supposes.

"Morning, hyung!" Felix and Jeongin call, Seungmin looking particularly annoyed today, and instead opting to wave at the older two. Were Minho a different man (perhaps a better one, he thinks) he might ask Seungmin if something or another were wrong. As it is, though, he just tucks that little bit of information into the back of his mind. Makes a mental note beside it to not be so much of an ass to him.

It'll be difficult. But he is a good hyung.

And as if Chan heard his thought, he looks toward him, something unreadable behind his eyes. Something close to concern - like how his head is something close to aching.

Minho smiles nervously at him - he hasn't seem him since the last stage, and even then, it wasn't like it was much more than a glance or two.

And suddenly the rotting in his throat makes much more sense.

He doesn't know how much Chan knows.

"Minho-yah..." Chan smiles at him once he's nice and close, stepping from side to side while Minho changes his shoes and puts his bag away. Chan glances at the clock, then back at Minho, "Come have lunch with me, today," he says, not really a suggestion, and he's kind enough to not pose it as one.

"Okay." There's something horrifying about being seen, about being known. It makes it all the more humiliating after the fact, though - because if Chan had saw him faint, had came over and been able to fuss over him in the moment, it'd be different. Because now he's gonna have to talk about it. And Minho doesn't like 'talking about it.'

"Let's warm up," he says, desperate to get rid of this vibe, and Chan thankfully just nods. He can't be that worried, then, right?

Minho sweats a lot, which is annoying, as a dancer, especially since it's not like his stamina is the problem. He just happens to have an incredibly sweaty face.

So it's inevitable that, after five hours of dance practice, he has to essentially re-wash his entire face before showing it in public - if not to the public.

His foundation is running, because apparently his setting powder is nothing compared to his athletic endeavours, and he heaves out a sigh as he struggles to get just water to do the job. He should've brought a cleanser. He didn't think to.

He usually doesn't wear makeup to dance practice for this exact reason.

He makes a mental note to ask his makeup artist for their setting powder brand, as he cleans himself up.

He hurries himself along, since Chan is waiting outside, and he really doesn't need to give him another excuse to fret - his migraine has abated, as much as a migraine will, and he's grateful. All that's left is his natural tiredness, and that same sort of dazed feeling that has haunted him since his collapse. He assumes (and hopes) it'll pass with the migraine.

That's a worry for later.

He comes out of the restroom, giving Chan an award-winning smile, and sets about his plan to annoy him as much as possible, so as to prove that he is, in fact, as the Aussies would say, A-Okay. Or maybe they don't say that. He's sure they don't not say that, so he counts it.

Chan leads the way, which is alright by Minho (who can never decide what to eat, and usually just resorts to the first thing that comes to mind. And if nothing comes to mind, he doesn't eat. It's a good system, if he says so himself. He never has to diet.).

He takes him to a barbecue place down the block, one Minho's been to a couple times, and thus doesn't have to guess the portion sizes. They get a booth in the far back, away from windows and the hostess station.

They order, get their drinks, wait, and then get their meat. It's only after they've started eating that Chan interrupts Minho's half-assed joking.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah." He did, all things considered. Migraines tend to conk him out pretty hard; the kind of sleep Hyunjin gets on the regular.

"Good. That's good." Chan's watching him with those leaderly eyes. Examining him. Minho's gotten more used to that gaze, over the years. It still doesn't feel completely natural - still makes him squirm a little, almost like he's being picked apart. But he knows it isn't malicious, and so he deals with it. He's gotten better at telling when things are and aren't malicious.

"Yeah. What about you? Did you go to bed after?" it'd be amusing, if it wasn't frustrating. Chan is a big hypocrite, one hundred percent of the time, and it'd be impossible not to worry back at him, knowing just how little he allows himself rest.

"Yeah, yeah. It was nice to have some extra hours," he chuckles a bit. Then he points his chopsticks at him, saying, faux-sternly, "I expect you to fully abuse our shorter schedules."

Minho holds back a laugh. Their schedules can go up until six in the morning, during busier times. Minho supposes Chan's right, though - he'd surely regret it, were he to go into comeback season with weeks worth of exhaustion weighing him down.

"Sir, yes sir," he salutes him, then looks back at his food. "Happy new year, by the way."

"Ah, right," Chan laughs a little, "I almost forgot."

"Not a lot of celebration once we were out of there." He's glad. If he had to take a single drink he would've collapsed again.

"We'll celebrate tonight," Chan says, which isn't exactly what Minho wanted, when he brought it up, but it's too late now. He'll just pretend to be the responsible one, tonight.

"As long as we order out. Our fridge is pretty empty, and I'm not eating unseasoned chicken breast. Ever."

"We season it!"

Minho tips his head to the side, and Chan rolls his eyes.

"I season it," he flips his meat on the grill, while Minho removes his pieces. "We'll order something." He placates, and they lull into silence for a little while.

Minho feels like the conversation isn't done - there's no way it is. Eventually, Chan proves him right. Though only once they've finished eating. Maybe it was a distraction to get Minho to eat.

The satisfaction of being right is overshadowed by the feeling of being tricked.

"Hyunjinnie said you weren't looking so good, toward the end of the night," he broaches, tapping on the table idly. The pattern is complex, probably the beat to some song he's writing. It almost distracts him. The loud sounds of the restaurant do a better job of that. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright. We didn't really see each other after you left for your cover song."

He shrugs a bit, "Yeah, I'm okay. I got a little overheated, is all. My clothes were really heavy, and the lights were turned up to a thousand."

"Yeah, yeah they were pretty bright, huh?" Chan looks like he's picking apart his words, trying to put together the puzzle that is Minho.

"Seriously, hyung, I'm fine. I promise." He stretches his arms out, tucking his lips into an almost-smile - putting himself on display, if only to let Chan look him over, ensure that he's not hiding something. (Not like he could show off a migraine if he tried.) 

Chan chuckles, and Minho drops the pose.

"Alright, alright. Clearly I was worried for nothing." He begins stacking his plates of banchan, then takes a sip of his soda. "I think I just didn't like not being able to see you, to tell for myself."

"Yeah, you're weird like that," he hums.

"Yah."

He shrugs, smiles, and pushes his plates toward Chan, who stacks them without question.

Minho makes it through the rest of the day riding the high that is successfully lying to his one and only hyung - something similar to adrenaline compelling him to ignore the lingering ache in his bones.

His migraine returns slowly, as they wrap up for the day. They all (individually) had English lessons (Japanese, for Chan and Felix. Minho wants to be there instead.) an hour ago, and a few of them had regathered together in the dance studio for some more rinse and repeat (mostly just repeat, though) with him and Hyunjin.

It went fine, it went well, his coffee had worn off but the actual medicine in his system did its job just fine. But wiping the sweat off his forehead and packing his bag, he finds a familiar pang behind his eyes, pressing into his temples like a creature trying to push its way out.

And then he's leaning, heavy-weighted into a single arm, seated on the couch with his ears ringing and the distinct feeling that he's being stared at.

"You good?" Jisung asks, crouched in front of him. Minho blinks, nods hurriedly as his ears clear, vision only partially filled with stars. He's having déjà vu.

"Peachy."

"You don't look peachy," Hyunjin grumbles, but Minho doesn't have the energy to even spare him a look, let alone a glare, so he ignores him instead.

Jisung pats Minho's arm as he stands, a hand hovering at Minho's back as if expecting him to drop. It wouldn't be an incorrect assumption, but Minho takes offense to it - moreso, actually, due to its startling accuracy. How dare he see Minho in pain?

Jisung goes so far as to walk him to his vocal lesson, standing outside the studio looking like he's sending Minho off to war.

"I'm fine, Han-ah," Minho lies, "Just dehydrated."

"Then drink water," Jisung retorts, and Minho scowls.

"Fine. Go rhyme English words in a room to yourself."

"Hey." Jisung points at him, "That hurt."

Minho shrugs, uncaring (even a bit proud, actually), and slips into the studio.

Vocal practice, overall, is easier to survive, given that it's far less movement - still, though, Minho has a talent for disaster, and somehow manages to over-oxygenate his body during a breathing exercise, and promptly had to sit down.

His vocal coach doesn't seem too worried about it, though, telling him, simply, "it happens" and to practice more so that it doesn't happen. Effective.

Minho contemplates his life decisions, then, on his way back to the dance studio (they have to keep up their endurance somehow), a gimbap in his hand as he checks the corners, seeing if the others are back yet.

Thankfully, no. Just him, the speaker, and-

"Hi."

Hwang Hyunjin.

Minho startles enough to almost drop his gimbap, but catches it in the half-second it flies, scowling at Hyunjin.

"Hi," he replies, pushes past him. "Jumpscare much?"

Hyunjin laughs a little, but it's subdued.

Minho scowls, "What if I was Yongbok? You'd get a foot to the face. Now that I think about it, though..." He plops onto the couch, stretches his foot out in front of himself, measuring the distance in his head, "I have been working on my kicks..."

Hyunjin busies himself with the speaker, and Minho considers it a win.

He eats his gimbap in peace, until Hyunjin puts on music for real - but it's Minho's break, so he isn't legally obligated to do more than sit and stare. Which he can do quite well. Not that Hyunjin is making any mistakes, but, still - it's the principle.

The others file in eventually - Felix joining Hyunjin in his impromptu rehearsal, but Minho remains blissfully couchbound, shaking his head at every open-mouthed question that might wind up with him dancing more than strictly necessary. He already helped them earlier today; they can wait a few more minutes before harassing him during his minimal food break.

Passion be damned, his head hurts - and he's currently a flight risk (in the same sense a chicken, or perhaps a penguin, might be a flight risk).

He gets five solid minutes more of relaxation before 3RACHA comes in the door, and then Chan's marching over to him, looking less than pleased.

"Hyung," he greets, for good measure, but Chan is shoving his phone in his face then, Minho rapidly blinking to try and figure out what he is watching.

It's a video (of course), filmed from backstage (which is...strange) of his Tiger Inside stage (fuck). It ends with him dropping ungracefully into a crouch, grappling for the floor like it's his dearly beloved. Minho grimaces, looks away.

"You wanna explain that to me, mister I'm fine?"

Minho can't wipe the grimace off his face, not even to look at Chan, so he just settles for staring up at the ceiling past his shoulder instead.

"I did four stages running on a cup ramen and some Spam, what do you want from me?" He asks, voice weaker than the quip he had intended it to be.

"Well for one thing, to properly feed yourself," Chan replies, too calm, "But also to tell me when things like this happen."

Minho looks at him, then, and hates the worry on his face immediately. But looking away isn't much better - not with the way the others are watching them, glancing amongst themselves as if asking, does anyone know?

"It wasn't a big deal," he tries, glances at Chan's raised eyebrows, splutters, "And I mean- I tried, okay? I went back to the green room, got changed- you weren't there, so what was I supposed to do? Wander around like a lost little duckling? Come on, hyung."

"I'm not mad you continued the performance," Chan argues, "I'm not mad you didn't search me out the second you were backstage. I'm disappointed that you lied to my face when I asked you if something had happened."

Minho resists the urge to roll his eyes, only because he hopes to die of natural causes, and not from being strangled to death by one (1) Christopher Bahng.

Still, he groans loudly and puts his face in his hands.

"What do you want me to say?"

Chan sighs, then, and his hand comes to rest on Minho's back. A part of Minho sings in relief at the touch, but he pushes that part far away, shoulders it into the wall for good measure.

"Nothing, Lino," he says, quietly. "I just want to know if you're okay."

"I'll live," he mumbles, drops his hands, rests them limply between his legs. His face burns as he feels the others' eyes on him, but he ignores it.

"Do you need to sit out today?"

"I made it this far, didn't I?" He retorts.

"That's not an answer," Chan sighs, rubs his back.

"I'm fine," he says, and Chan retracts his hand. His skin feels frigid without the touch.

He looks up, meets Chan's gaze; and there it is again - disappointment interlaced with an honest annoyance.

"Okay," Chan says, a bit sharper than usual.

Minho has the distinct feeling he's made a mistake.

They're watching him like he's a ticking time bomb. Eyes catch his in the mirror during pauses, and he scowls back and tells them to focus.

He can feel the hair on his neck stand up as he dances, as the pain leeches into his eyes and tendrils down his neck, tugs at his spine.

He drinks his water, forces himself forward. Felix looks like he wants to say something.

He doesn't.

It was inevitable, he thinks, with a sigh that works its way through his bones, turning them all to mush. Adrenaline gone, energy depleted, and head thoroughly ground to a pulp, Minho lets himself fall into the wall, slump down in several woozy intervals.

The timer must've ran out, he thinks, deliriously, with what little coherency is left between his last breath and now.

There's shouting, of course there is, but his vision is gone, and his ears have decided to play him the top screeching hits of the twenty-first century, so quite frankly, Minho doesn't think it's any of his business.

Eventually, though, it does become his business, as his senses return to him tenfold, while his consciousness remains lingering in the background, as if shy. He's okay with that.

"Hyung," someone urges, and Minho realises he's looking at someone's face.

"Lino, come on, mate," Chan breathes, somewhere beside him, however that may work with the wall and everything... "Look at me," he urges, and Minho winces as the other face moves, letting the overhead lights blind him.

"Turn off the lights," Changbin calls, and then someone's scurrying like their life depends on it - and then, blissful darkness.

Minho glances to his side, then, before letting his head drop down so he can actually look at Chan like he had requested maybe a week ago, or however long it's been. Someone hisses, though, and Chan's hand comes to his hair.

"Jesus, Lino," he breathes, and slips his hand down under his head, cushioning it from the floor. "Are you with me?"

He hums, and the noise aches his ears, upsets his dry throat.

"Are you alright? Do I need to take you to the hospital?"

And that gives Minho pause - he thinks, is he alright?

His skin feels cold, his sweat amplifying it and making the goosebumps on his arms feel like spikes. The rest of him, however, feels roughly the same temperature as a volcano's pulsating belly.

Not his favourite combination. But, that's fine, that's probably on account of the over-exertion he's been subjecting his body too. He's felt that before.

His head hurts, sure, and it's one of the worse migraines he's had, but those aren't uncommon, either.

Maybe he's dehydrated. Maybe. It's possible, given the aforementioned over-exertion, but still. He can work on that without doctoral intervention.

But (because there's always a but, isn't there?), as he lies there in the dark dance studio, looking at Chan's blurry, shadowed face, he feels that strange twisting feeling again that he did after his stage.

And a part of him breathes thank god, as Chan cradles his face. A part of him begs take me home and hold me until it goes away, please, god, please, and he's already feeling so weak, so tired, and so guilty for lying.

So, he whispers, as if a secret, "No," Then, "And...and no." Eloquent.

"Are you sure?" Chan moves closer, feels his head some more, as if checking for wounds. His hands brush over his bruised tendons, and Minho's reaction seems to tip him in the right direction. "Head hurts, huh? How long?"

"Ah, hyung..." He blinks, hears some shifting around the room from the others. Hears someone sniffle. Is Jisung getting sick? "Hurt yesterday. After...ah, you know...yeah..."

"You know what I'm going to say," Chan scolds, softly, moving closer and sitting on his haunches. He doesn't say it, though, and for that Minho's eternally grateful. "Come on, let's get you up..."

Minho tries to get a hand down, push himself up, but all that he succeeds in doing is twitching a finger.

Chan, however, has a different idea; his other arm coming around Minho's shoulders, cradling his neck as he gets his pulsing head into his lap. Minho groans as everything twinges in retaliation - his neck and eyes and forehead and jaw all so displeased with the sudden increase in altitude.

"I know, I know," Chan murmurs, and the voice in Minho's head cries out in relief. "Did you take anything for it?"

"Earlier...'s worn off."

"Does anyone have migraine medicine?" Chan asks, voice still soft, despite having turned to wherever the others might be scattered about.

"I do," Felix says, and there's some shuffling before he's hurrying over, offering his palm out like Minho's a horse. He tries not to laugh at the image, and instead just lifts a shaky hand to grasp dumbly at the pills.

"Sorry," he murmurs, as his fingers take a few tries to load properly.

"It's okay, hyung," Felix promises, and then takes the opportunity to pet his hair. "It's okay. Take your time."

"Can you get him some water?" Chan asks, and Minho whines at the sudden, impromptu English lesson.

And while Chan is genuinely apologising, Felix is chuckling, asking him, "Does your head hurt that much?"

"Yes," he whines, reaching out for wherever Felix finds his water bottle. Good luck, he thinks, he can't even remember where he put it, and that was with the lights on. Felix is a master detective, though, and is putting the bottle in his hands before either of them can realise how wobbly his limbs are, at the moment.

He's dropping it instantly, Felix lunging to catch it, cursing briefly before taking his spot beside him again.

"Alright, take two," he says, and Minho's glad he had the lack-of-forethought to keep the cap on (great for Minho's current clumsiness. Not great for instant, in-the-dark water drinking).

Chan does the heavy lifting of getting Minho properly upright - which is met with mild complaint - and then Felix is holding the water bottle for him, and Minho immediately hates it.

He swats at Felix's wrist quickly, turning his head into Chan's shoulder and panting. He feels gross.

"No, nope," he shakes his head, "not gonna happen..."

"Are you nauseous?" Chan asks, and Minho shrugs.

"Don't like it."

"It's water," Felix says, dumbly.

"Don't like it," he repeats.

"Alright, as long as you're not about to throw up, we'll head home, yeah?" Chan placates, and Minho nods quickly. "You okay to stand?"

"Sure," he murmurs, trying to wake up his limbs before Chan can do anything hasty like helping him up.

Chan, for his part, does lift him slowly, keeping an arm around his waist once he's up.

Minho sways, his head getting heavy as his vision begins to grey out again. He leans into Chan, breathes out, and finds his footing.

"Alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," he nods, "yeah- I wanna- wanna go home."

Chan chuckles, rubs his back, "We'll go home," he placates, and Minho can hear shuffling as the others take that as their collective cue to gather their things. Someone moves behind the pair, grabs Minho's bag from where he dropped it.

"It's gonna be bright," Chan warns, as he helps him to the translucent door.

"Ugh." He shuts his eyes, puts his hand over his face for good measure.

"Hyung, why couldn't you have waited until we were home before you passed out?" Seungmin asks, too close for his own safety, and Minho risks it all to try and kick him. Jeongin squeaks, though, so he assumes he missed.

"Iyen-ah, kick Seungmin for me," Minho grumbles, and there's vague sounds of abuse before Chan's hushing them.

And then they're out the door, and Minho doesn't necessarily see the difference in lighting (what with his protective shields in place) but he feels it and grimaces anyway.

"Left," Chan mumbles, and Minho stumbles a bit as they turn into the elevator. He can feel it shake underneath them, and he clutches his abdomen in a rough attempt at bracing for the swoop. "I'm gonna drive Minho home, any volunteers for taking the other car?"

"I'll go," Seungmin says, with the voice of a man with a bruised calf.

"Good," Minho mumbles.

"You're lucky you're wounded," Seungmin retorts.

"So are you."

"You overestimate Jeonginnie's strength."

"Yah!"

Minho winces, and Jeongin's apologising, holding his arm gently. Then he's pursing his lips, trying to fight the wave of general unease that comes from the elevator dropping, and then a ding, and he has to grip Chan's shirt to stop him from immediately going.

He shakes his head, a whine pulling itself from the back of his throat.

"Go ahead," Chan says to the others, then rubs Minho's back, "You okay? Do you need to sit down?"

He groans, then tries to grit out, "Wanna go home."

"I know, Lino-ah, it's okay. We'll go home." Chan reassures, "But I'd like to get you to the car in one piece. So if you need a minute, let's take a minute."

"It's been a minute," he reasons.

"Not gonna throw up on my shoes?"

He shakes his head, because he's a liar. And while he's not confident in his ability to not throw up on Chan's shoes, he is confident that being at home would feel a lot better than curling up in a cold elevator, drowning in presyncope.

"Somehow I don't believe you," Chan murmurs, "But fine."

He guides him through the carpark, directing him as he blindly follows Chan's lead. And then he's fumbling into the passenger seat, immediately doubling over once he's in.

"Oh," he breathes, a dawning realisation, "this is what hell feels like."

"He's fine," Felix says, to Jeongin.

"Shut up," Minho groans.

"10 minutes," Chan says, and Minho's head spins from confusion, until he realises he's reading the GPS.

"Bright," he groans, and Chan shuts his phone off.

The drive goes painfully, and when they finally pull into the dorm building's parking garage, Minho's about ready to keel over.

He pushes his door open, kicks it when his arm's too weak. And then he turns himself out, grips the handle for dear life, and gags over the concrete. A heavy heat takes over his body, flooding his veins and taking his brain around the block; spinning his head on a pin-top in the process.

"Oh, oh god," Chan breathes, and he can hear him ushering the other two away, and then his hand is on Minho's back, "Easy, take it easy."

"Fuck," he gasps, "fuck, I can't- I can't-"

The nausea is the least of his problems - numbness spreads through him, until the only proof that his hand is still holding the door is the distance between his face and the concrete.

"Just breathe nice and slow," Chan tells him, and his hand feels like it's pressing on ten layers of fabric, his body somewhere else, or maybe his mind is just busy taking up residency on the other side of the building.

Stars invade his vision, and he has approximately ten seconds before he's going face-first into the concrete.

"Hyung, I think- I think I'm going down," he gasps, with the last of his breath. Thankfully, Chan reacts without hesitation - his hand twists into Minho's sweaty shirt, pulling him back fully into his seat, Minho groaning as his body's manhandled to face the dashboard.

He's going to complain, tell Chan to be gentle, but he's blinking through static, suddenly draped on the dash, head blank and vision white hot. When he comes to, Chan's suddenly on his other side, arms wrapping around his middle.

"Come on, come here, I've got you," he reassures, Minho's head flopping uselessly onto his shoulder. He squeezes his eyes shut, gives up on asking for much of anything; whatever happens, happens. And he's pretty much putty in Chan's hands as it is - he might as well trust him wholly to get him inside in one piece.

Chan lifts him up in a cradle, Minho's arms limply looping around his neck, but not really doing much in way of helping. The footsteps are jostling, and Minho pretends Chan can't hear the little whimpers of pain he lets out every few steps.

And then he's in the elevator, and there's another hand on his back, and Minho really, really wonders how he didn't notice someone else with them?

"Is he out?"

"He's awake, I think," Chan's hand thumbs over Minho's shoulder, and Minho moans as they go up. He's going to take the stairs from now on, god dammit, and his calves will show up for the event.

"Just a little longer, hyung," Changbin tells him, rubbing his back. Minho grunts in disagreement - no such thing. There's now and there's an eternity later.

The doors open, and Minho quickly realises Changbin's purpose - typing in the code for the dorm while Chan still holds Minho like a baby.

And then they're inside, and Minho really just wants to lie down - sweat and dirt and germs be damned. 

Chan follows his train of thought, getting him to his room and laying him down in bed right away. A moment later and Changbin's putting an icepack on his forehead.

"When'd you get here?" He slurs, pointing at Changbin only to drop his hand limply after.

"We got here first," Changbin replies, voice softer than he's ever heard it. "I came down after Yongbokkie and Iyennie said you got sick. Didn't expect you to let Channie hyung carry you."

"Didn't get sick," he mutters, drags the icepack over his eyes. "Didn't...didn't let him carry me...he just grabbed me...like a...like a doll."

"More like a big teddy bear," Chan replies, and someone's hand is in his hair. Then, "If you sit up for a minute, you can take some medicine."

"Just crush it into my mouth..."

"Not how that works," Changbin says, somehow grimacing with his voice. His hand grips Minho's shoulder, helps him upright. 

Minho pries the icepack off his face before it can drop, glowering at the two of them until the pills are in his hand, and then he's swallowing them dry, almost gagging them right back up. He hears Chan move, the rustling of what is more than likely a trashcan, but Minho holds his breath, keeps the pills down.

He rolls over anyway, when Chan tries to drag him by the shoulder.

"Hey," he says, patting his face. His normally warm hands feel cool against Minho's flushed face. "I'd rather you throw it up then choke."

Minho bites his cheek, lets out a long breath through his nose. Once confident he won't puke it back up, he argues right back, "I'd rather have you knock me out with a frying pan."

"I'll do it," Changbin volunteers, and there's the sound of skin on fabric, and then stumbling away. "Hey, he asked-"

Chan shushes him, then wiggles his fingers up into Minho's hair, massaging the sore muscles that have held up his poor, heavy skull the past forty-eight hours. Minho pretends he doesn't make the noise that passes his lips, pretends moreso that Changbin isn't there to bear witness.

On that note, he decides, "Go 'way, lights off..."

To his relief, Changbin doesn't argue. "Sir, yes sir," he says, pats his shoulder and switches the lamp off. Even with his eyes shut, the relief is palpable.

Chan extracts his hand, and Minho mourns the loss.

The door shuts, then, and he feels the bed dip.

"Can I take these off?" Chan asks, quietly, a hand on his ankle. Minho hums, and Chan pulls his shoes off for him, and Minho does enjoy having all of his legs on his bed. He finds, though, that the thought of proper blanket cover is- is too much. He curls up into himself as he is, kicking away the blankets that are around him- then accepts the icepack that's being pressed right back into his head.

Minho keeps it against his eyes, sighing deeply. It hasn't been long enough for the medicine to kick in, but he appreciates the psychosomatics all the same; the pain turning dull and warm, albeit still throbbing in tune with his disoriented heart, something strong even in his neck.

Chan lies down beside him, then, warm but not too warm behind him. His hand comes back up to Minho's head, resumes his ministrations from before. It's all he needs to relax fully - or as fully as he can, until the medicine takes hold.

He's sure he lies there for a long time, feeling the pain slip away as the seconds tick on, minutes like hours and hours like days. The voices from the rest of the dorm taper away, on and off until there's silence and the faint sound of the TV in the living room.

He's somewhere in between, as he feels Chan's breaths puff on his back, the way he shifts somewhat, hand moving up from his head down his neck, stilling occasionally. He's neither awake nor asleep when the icepack goes warm, drops from his grasp uselessly.

Minho knows he falls asleep eventually, though he's not sure if it happens now, or an eternity later.

He finds, for once, he doesn't mind either way.