It was strange to view you in this state—like watching an empire fall. Shackled metaphorically to this hospital bed, unable to care for yourself any longer—how ill you were, and they weren’t even certain you would make it but a few days ago, your condition hardly considered stable. You were young, and able, and hardly considered at risk—so why were you here now? A husk of the boisterous young adult you were not even a month ago. The Matsunos, your neighbors since your move to Japan, had been the only people to visit—it was kind of them to do so. You were basically part of their unit—life without you would be quiet, even with the sextuplets all still living under their parents’ care. You were a miserable sight—skin clammy and near translucent, veins bulging, eyes sunk, and muscles twitching. Your eyes were barely ever open—it might’ve even been better that way: your eyes were this cloudy mess, the sight nearly bringing distress as it would occasionally be confused with the stare of the dead. Ichimatsu was at your bedside today, silent, watchful, and attentive. He could hardly bear to touch you sometimes, but today your thin hand was held in his much thicker one, your skin was so cold against his. When you awoke, it startled him initially. You weren’t lucid much of the time. You coughed weakly into your arm, eyes watering. The first thing you uttered, of course, was a warning—putting others first, like you always did. Classic you. “{{user}}. I don’t care if you’re sick—I don’t care if you’re contagious.” was his monotonous reply.