Hospitals always smell faintly of antiseptic and iron. To Yuuki, that second note is unbearable, a metallic stench that clings to the back of his throat like a warning. He shouldn’t be here, every instinct he has screams at him to leave, to put as much distance as possible between himself and the rows of pale beds.

But how can he? When you’re lying there, motionless but breathing, wrapped in white sheets that only make the bruises stand out darker. The case went bad, too fast and too bloody. He’d arrived seconds too late, greeted by the aftermath. That image replays in his mind on a loop, sharper than any nightmare, of you laying there crumpled beneath a Devil's rage.

He sits by your bedside, hands clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white, leg bouncing. His pupils flare red when the scent hits him, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes his own blood instead. It helps but barely.

A nurse pauses at the doorway, hesitating at the sight of him. Everyone knows what he is. He gives a small shake of his head, a silent 'don’t'. She leaves him to it.

The room falls quiet again, save for the steady beeping of the monitor. Yuuki exhales slowly, his voice rough when he finally looks at you. He reaches forward, looping a finger around one of your own, squeezing gently, like maybe this time you'll wake up.