Tired of This Body

A/N: The crescendo I'm referring to begins at about 2:38 if you wanted to match the vibe of the story.

"Take my lungs, take them and run." 

He had listened to this song dozens of times before, but each time it always affected him differently. No matter how, the sound always shot through his heart in a pleasant way and washed a wave of emotions over him. Melancholy? A bit. Anger? Of course. Desperation? Sure, but with a hopeful undertone. The familiar crescendo increased and he closed his eyes to prepare for the emotional relief he desperately needed. He pushed the headphones around his ears, allowing his hearing to be engulfed by nothing but the sounds of guitar, drums, and lyrics. He grasped for dear life on either ear piece, feeling the vibrations from the loudness shooting through his fingers and straight to his heart. The repetitive slamming of sticks on canvas and the desperation in the singer's voice resonated with him to the point where he refused to let go of the familiarity. Familiarity? That's what it was; the feeling that someone knew how you felt, a sense of belonging and understanding. That's what he wanted, craved, no, needed. The singer was saying exactly what he felt and each musician played with the same amount of feeling that he so badly wanted to release. It wasn't even the fact that another person felt the same way he did, it was that there was a similar experience, that he wasn't a freak, that this struggle was real and natural. The words were so simple that it felt so stupid to cling onto them as he was, like a small child clinging to his mother's bosom, but as simple as they were, the words comforted him in ways that no person could.

"Tired of this body, cumbersome and heavy."

Time was passing as the music progressed and he knew that this small cloud would disappear and send him crashing back down to reality, where he had to deal with and endure rather than live. He bit his lip, grinding his teeth and squeezing his eyes harder in a physical effort to push away the melancholic thought and keep himself from screaming. It was two in the morning and there were people around him, people who would be bothered. Bothered. That's what he was, right? A bother? He pressed the earphones harder around his ears, using the heels of his palms as his whole body tensed in his effort to ignore the swarm of dark thoughts.

"Tired of this body, fall apart without me."

Two was the special number, two in the morning was when everything crumbled inside of him, two was the only place he would ever be in. Number one? That's a fucking joke. Oh, how he yearned for anyone, someone, to walk through his dorm door because they sensed something was wrong with him. That they cared enough for him that they just knew. Shitty Hair? Dunce Face? Deku, even? He winced at the crude names he had given his .... friends? The word left a harsh taste on his tongue, a poison, like he had no right to say it or even think it. Names, his name, Katuski. It means victory, but victory over what? A failure is what you are, a disappointment and you hide behind a mask of narcissism. People hate you. You're rude and inconsiderate. And then the music stopped -breaking his thoughts- just like all of the relationships he had eventually will. The atmosphere grew dark and large, too large, like someone could be watching him from any point and laugh. He relaxed his grip on the earphones and let the blood return to his ears; the blood throbbed through the sides of his head in protest. He hesitantly opened his watery eyes, scared of what he would be met with. But it was just his dorm room. Dimly lit and dull, a reminder that he was trapped in his head and reality was far different than how he felt. For a brief second it seemed he could throw away his mind and replace it with what was real, but something clawed on and held it in place. He dropped his arms in his lap and they fell limply. He stared at the darkened spots and lines that littered his arms, remnants of when he was learning to use his quirk. Proof that he failed time and time again. Number one. The phrase echoed through his mind until it lost its meaning.

"I've grown tired of this body, cumbersome and heavy body."

The song lyrics echoed in his mind, though not retaining the same emotion as they did coming through the earphones. He was so tired of not being able to work harder to be better because of his body. Lined with scars, weak with limitations. He couldn't work out very long because his muscles grew sore. He was always sore. Even now in a relaxed state, his spine ached from sitting hunched over for too long. What the fuck was the point then? What was the point of anything? Did he really have what it takes to be a hero, to save people, to be number one? Why did he want to be number one? To surpass Deku? Was he jealous or was it to satisfy his ego? Unanswered questions rattled through his mind and his hands ached for him to do something destructive. His palms spread upwards on his knees as sparks began to fly. Two in the morning, he had to remind himself. He closed his fists, digging his nails into his palms. He jolted around quickly and sent a fist shooting into his pillow with a low growl. "Just shut up, just stop," he grumbled under his breath. He sat on his knees, leaning forward with his fist pressed into soft linen. He sighed and relaxed his arm, letting the pillow return to its previous relaxed state. Except it wasn't totally how it was before, a circle of mussed fabric sat in the center. A reminder that everything he touched would get messed up, would get ruined eventually. A pit of magma bubbled in his stomach. It was always there but it only felt truly hot in specific moments, like this one. Suddenly the magma shot upwards and covered his heart in smoldering heat, his chest aching and knotting in protest. He reached forward, more sharply than before, and with a strangled whine that he didn't even recognize, he ripped the pillow in two with equal, small explosions shooting from his palms. The remnants of fabric and cotton spread around his mattress and on the floor. He glared at the mess as he fell backward, returning to his previous position. Water leaked from his eyes but he didn't bother wiping them away. It wasn't as if someone would see him because no one cared, no one understood, except for that stupid song that was growing increasingly dull the more he replayed it. That's what he did, surrounded himself with something comforting until he grew tired of it and then he would set it to the side and ignore it. The irony of it all irked him, how selfish he could be. That's what he was bound to do with his fri-. The poison taste returned to his tongue, making him want to scream even more. Here he was just sitting when he could be doing something productive. Productive, another word that was echoed until it was meaningless. Makeup for what you've destroyed, fix it by fixing or working on something else. He moved to grab the barbell from beside his bed, but instead, his body fell backward onto his mattress. "Damn it," he hissed aloud as his body succumbed to the cool sheets surrounding him. He felt the tension steadily leave his aching muscles as his eyelids felt heavy. But he wasn't tired. He couldn't sleep, sleep is for those who deserve it, he couldn't, he didn't want to sleep and wake up, only to repeat this mind-numbing cycle. He couldn't sleep because he wasn't tired. I'm not tired, don't go to sleep, sleep is for the weak, you need to you need to need to-

A/N: I tried to capture a lot of emotion here and I hope I did well! Let me know if you liked it or if it made you feel anything.