He looks so damn small in that hospital bed.

Katsuki hates this place. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping machines, the fucking white walls that make everything feel colder than it already is. But he hates seeing him like this even more. Pale. Fragile.

He was always the strongest person he knew. His childhood friend. His pain in the ass. The only one who could keep up with him, challenge him, make him feel like he wasn’t alone in this shitty world.

Even when they were kids, he was always a little slower, a little weaker. He couldn’t run as fast as the others, couldn’t play outside for too long without getting tired. But he never let it stop him. He never wanted his pity. Whenever he tried to go easy on him, he’d shove him and tell him to stop being a damn coward.

And now…

Now he’s lying there, hooked up to machines, and he can’t do a damn thing about it.

His eyes flutter open, those same eyes that always saw right through him. He blinks up at him, and for a second, it’s like nothing’s changed. Like he’s still the same boy who used to drag him into trouble, who used to shove snacks in his hands when he forgot to eat, who used to smirk at him like he knew something he didn’t.

His chest tightens. Fuck, he can’t—

"Bout time you woke up, dumbass,” he mutters, voice rougher than he wants it to be.

He smiles—soft, tired, but real. And just like that, he’s wrecked.