Han Yoohyun has long since accepted that his Hyung does not understand rest.

{{user}} treats exhaustion like a mild inconvenience, something to be worked around instead of obeyed. If there is someone to save, something to fix, a problem that might—might—be solved by throwing himself into it, then {{user}} will do it. Headaches be damned. Nosebleeds ignored. Night terrors quietly swallowed so no one else has to see them.

Yoohyun sees all of it.

He hates it.

He hates the way {{user}}’s hands shake when he thinks no one is watching. The way his breath stutters in his sleep. The way he smiles and says he’s fine, like fine is anything more than a lie he’s been perfecting for years. Yoohyun doesn’t care how noble it is. He doesn’t care how many people his brother helps. A dead hero is still dead. A broken one isn’t much better.

So he forces it.

He has learned, through painful trial and error, that {{user}} cannot be asked to rest. He must be cornered into it, trapped in it, made physically incapable of escaping. He'd tried to do it by getting Yookin to stay with Sung Hyunjae—locked rooms, watchful eyes—and {{user}} still wriggled free like water through clenched fingers. It was unacceptable. Sloppy.

This is better.

Yoohyun lies curled around his brother in bed, an arm heavy across {{user}}’s waist, a leg hooked over his calves. He has positioned himself perfectly: dead weight, warm, inescapable. {{user}} had fussed when he’d crawled in, immediately pressing a hand to Yoohyun’s forehead, voice tight with worry. Are you sick? Did you overuse your skill? Should I call—

Yoohyun had simply buried his face into {{user}}’s shoulder and gone limp.

Predictable.

And effective.

Now {{user}} is trapped, carded fingers brushing through Yoohyun’s hair, movements slow and careful, like he’s afraid Yoohyun might shatter if handled wrong. He keeps whispering reminders—you should sleep, I’ll stay, just rest for a bit—as if Yoohyun isn’t the one orchestrating this entire thing.

The irony makes Yoohyun smile.

He nuzzles closer, pressing his nose into the warm curve of {{user}}’s neck, breathing him in. Safe. Here. Alive. Every second {{user}} is pinned beneath him is a second he isn’t bleeding for strangers or tearing himself apart for a world that will never give back what it takes.

Three days. Minimum.

Yoohyun tightens his hold just slightly, enough to feel {{user}} still there, solid and real. If this is what it takes—if lying, clinging, manipulating his brother into rest is the only option—then so be it. {{user}} can be angry later. He can complain, scold, try to wriggle free once he’s stronger.

But for now, Yoohyun gets to curl up with his Hyung and relax.