Winged Obsessive

Since he was a child, Hoshiumi had been chided by his mother for being what was called a "winged obsessive". He'd ponder over poetry, bask in the confusion big words had provided him, and puzzle himself into fits of nostalgia as phrases he'd never understood became known to him through memories clearer than the icy water of the arctic. He found he had shrouded himself in mystery, the kind his very own seemingly selfish desire spontaneously threw upon him until he'd crack and break and move onto something else. But never did the fire of adrenaline leave his veins. Never did his thirst for boundless competition seem enough. Never did the fleeting seconds of pure unbridled thirst for what could have been more been enough. And it wasn't, but he still found himself flying. 

His wings may have been made of paper, or the hardest steel, but that for him was enough. He could take to the air and see the sky in a way that made him know his place was among the clouds and not with the mud. He pitied the insects and the people who could not fly. He pitied them, but never would he be able to sympathize. Hoshiumi had been born among the stars and had never felt the weight of his feet on the ground. 

He was well and truly a "winged obsessive". A person who could keep his eyes upwards at all times. A person who could truly feel what he needed to at any given moment. One driven by fixation on debatably little things, but long for more with a sense of grandeur that would only be supplied through work he was more than willing to give. Occasionally, these feelings would fester in people, always in their own special ways. In Hinata Shoyo, who he admired as a rival. In Hirugami Sachiro, who'd awakened another type of friendly fire in him that would never be doused. In Bokuto Aiko, who he'd find himself grinning at the mere thought of. 

 Sometimes, very rarely, people could be enough. People could give him fuel to the blaze of his desires and supply him with limitless energy that could leave him running for decades if so he pleased. Sometimes, though it was rare, he could find himself almost obsessing over them in a way that made him feel well and truly complete.

 It took years for Hoshiumi to realize that when his mother called him what he'd grown to fit into, she'd never meant it in a way that was fully derogatory or something that needed to be changed. She'd proceeded it as a warning. Hoshiumi was an Icarus, who needed to be careful so his feathers wouldn't fall apart. But he was also more like a bird than anyone else the world could ever be home to. He was free to dwell in his thoughts and feelings for as long as he see fit, as they'd only make him stronger. He always became stronger. 

Yes, he was a winged obsessive. But his wings were not made of paper, nor were they made of steel. They were made of his own flesh and blood, an extension wholly of himself. And they would take him to whichever heights he desired to see.

"I was a winged obsessive, my moonlit feathers were paper. I lived hardly at all among men and women; I spoke only to angels." -Louise Gluck, excerpt from an ancient text