Chapter Text
Several months later
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When Minho woke, there was a long moment of confusion. The wood ceiling was a different shade than he remembered, the mattress beneath him plush and warm, an assortment of blankets and pillows surrounding him like he’d stumbled into some over-grown birds nest. The morning light cut in differently, too.
He blinked, remembering in increments. They’d moved to the new residence, officially, the day before. One large enough to house them both and where they could do their work, should they not wish to go out.
Stretching, Minho bit down on a hiss as his side twinged. A few months on, and while the wound to his abdomen had healed over, the site still tugged uncomfortably if he wasn’t careful. His hand prodded blindly at the scar, angled perpendicular to the one he’d received a decade before. It had healed in a neat line, thanks to Seungmin’s precise stitching. Apparently, the field doctor’s stitching had been so atrocious that his friend had insisted on doing it himself.
Minho had, blessedly, been unconscious at the time.
He eased himself upright, breathing deep through his nose as he scanned the room. It wasn’t often that Jisung was up before him, especially considering how late they’d been awake the night before. They’d intended to break in the space, so to speak, and had certainly accomplished it.
Minho smiled softly, remembering Jisung’s whining gasps. Louder than he’d been before, without worry for shared walls or neighbors to overhear. Not that Minho would have cared if they had been heard.
Shifting to the edge of the bed, Minho took another deep breath, then reached for his walking cane, propped against the wall within easy reach. He knew he hadn’t left it there the night before—he distinctly remembered having dropped it in their rush to remove each other’s clothing, remembered Jisung’s hands at his hips, backing him up to the bed so he wouldn’t loose his balance.
Four months had gone by since he’d been brought home, and he was lucky to have a day that his leg didn’t give out on him. The new surgeon in residence had been working with him regularly to regain his strength, though she didn’t think he’d ever go without some discomfort or the occasional flare up of pain. The early weeks after the initial injury had been too brutal on the surrounding muscle and tissue.
There was a neat pile of freshly laundered clothes on the side table. Soft, warm fabrics in green and blue. another confirmation that Jisung had gone with intention, that he’d paused to consider Minho’s needs before departing. He pulled on the pants and the over-robe, leaving his chest bare for the time being as his stomach grumbled in hunger. With his cane in hand, Minho made his way to the door, stepping into the hall.
There were two other rooms on the upper level, though they’d not yet determined uses for them. There would be time for that, later. Minho rested his free hand on the bannister as he descended the stairs. The descent was slow, but Minho wouldn’t complain. It was the one thing he and Jisung had argued over, the only thing they’d argued over. Whether they’d even have stairs in their residence, or if they’d keep their bedroom on the second floor. Minho knew his limits, knew that a simple set of steps would not be the thing keeping him from having the home he wanted with his partner.
He paused at the bottom, looking around their receiving room with a frown. It was quiet. Alarmingly so. They’d elected not to have an attendant on hand, though it was never difficult to call for someone should they be needed. All that to say, there wasn’t another soul in the house.
Had Jisung gone out out? It was still somewhat early, so he wouldn’t be needed for a meeting until later in the morning at the earliest. Their late night made his absence all the stranger.
Minho moved to the kitchen, one of the spaces he’d insisted upon having in the residence. It doubled as his workspace, where he experimented with various ingredients for the joy of discovering something new. Developing new medicines and improving existing ones was the primary aim, yes. But his curiosity sometimes got the better of him, and he had plans for less-practical creations. Those were driven by the books he’d been reading throughout the winter, during his initial recovery. Journals and other writings by prestigious apothecaries from across the world. Recipes for so-called irreplicable medicines. Concoctions that promised immortality or resurrection.
These last he was doubtful of, but with nothing more pressing to fill his time, he was enjoying researching them to come up with the likely combination of ingredients.
Of course, having the space to work in was not his sole reason for wanting the kitchen. He’d missed the days of running his own little home while he was constantly on the move, and cooking for Jisung had the added bonus of the other man’s unfiltered joy at something Minho had made being placed before him.
He’d discovered that joy a month ago, when he’d first been permitted to resume something close to regular activities. With snow outside clinging to the ground in patches, he’d found himself in the palace kitchens just to have something to occupy himself with for a while.
With care, Minho got the kettle filled and on the stove, lighting the flame before turning to his stores to retrieve a thumb of ginger. He had it peeled and was cutting it into thin slices when a series of noises from the front of the residence alerted him to Jisung’s arrival: the fumbled handle, a muttered curse, and the door falling shut a little too hard, followed by a pause in which he imagined Jisung wincing.
“I’m in here, jagiya,” he called softly, knowing that Jisung would fret if he went up to their room and found him missing. It had happened twice, when Minho had risen to attend his appointments with the surgeon, only for Jisung to wake to an empty bed.
The first time, Minho had returned to find him in tears—only a few minutes after waking, not yet conscious enough to start tearing the palace apart in search of him.
The second, Jisung had appeared in the surgeon’s office, face taut and hair mussed from sleep. He’d at least dressed, though his feet had been bare in his urgency to locate Minho. To ensure he was safe and unhurt.
It would get better, over time. And, Minho understood the panic at not knowing where his partner was, the fear that he had been torn away without warning. It was why he appreciated the small gestures like his cane being left where he could reach it beside the bed or a fresh set of clothes being left out for him. Indications of intention.
A shuffle, then Jisung’s feet padding across the rugs and hardwood floors separating the common space from the kitchen.
His expression was brighter than the sun when his gaze found Minho. Stars in his eyes, his mouth curved into its endearing heart-shaped smile as he hurried across the kitchen to embrace Minho.
“Good morning, darling,” Jisung murmured, pressing a kiss to the soft, sensitive spot behind Minho’s ear, his arms snaking around Minho’s middle through the open robe.
Jisung’s hands were cold, and Minho yelped in protest, squirming to extract himself, only for Jisung’s hold to tighten. He gave up with a chuff of laughter, leaning fully into him.
“Where’d you get off to this morning, Sung-ah?” He asked. He set his knife aside, twisting to kiss Jisung’s cheek, his jaw, his lips. "I'd have thought you'd be sore, after last night."
He was damp. It hadn’t looked like rain when Minho had peered out the window, and it was just too warm for more snow. He leaned back against Jisung’s arms, cupping his face, running a thumb over the twin scars at his brow and temple on the left side.
“Were you with Binnie?”
Jisung nodded, eyes softening the longer he looked at Minho. “We’re working on new drills. Working to build more strength. I know I told you we started the new training approach a few weeks ago, but he wanted to try a few additional drills today that he had heard about from the visiting dignitary’s head guard.”
Minho’s gaze dropped to Jisung’s chest, hidden by his clothes, wondering what that sort of work would do for his muscles. He liked the idea of it, smiling to himself as he placed a hand firmly on Jisung’s pec through his clothing.
“Not to say you don’t need that, but what for?” Minho murmured, looking back up at his face.
Jisung didn’t immediately meet his gaze. “So I can carry you easier,” he said, quiet.
Minho melted. He surged forward, pulling Jisung’s lower lip into his mouth, holding his face between both hands. Jisung laughed into the kiss, hands bracketing Minho’s waist.
“I love you, Jisung,” he murmured against his mouth, easing back.
Jisung tipped his forehead against Minho’s, smiling. “I love you, too.”
If this is what forever looked like, Minho thought, then he was more than happy to have it.