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It’s getting bad again.
“Big fucking deal,” Katsuki mumbles into his pillow and he grips at the sheets when he forces himself to get up. It’s getting bad again. It’s getting bad. He’s too aware of the mental list he’s forcing himself to check off. The fucking routine and the string of events he’s being tugged through every day. Labeled as living.
Katsuki stares at himself in the mirror. He stares and stares and stares. Taps his toothbrush against the edge of the sink and the thought of I don’t want to be here is something he tries to shy away from by turning away from his own reflection. He’s already noticed his own bags, though. And he’s already noticed the lack of desire he has to shower or leave the dark walls of his stupid fucking room. Or do anything today or be or live or exist.
And he already knows how this fucking goes. He doesn’t want to welcome it, but the door’s opening anyway. And it’s dark—holy shit is it dark. (And maybe Katsuki’s a little scared this time. Maybe he’s kinda terrified. Maybe he wonders how far he’s gonna fall this time around. Maybe he won’t be able to pick himself back up.)
He’s downstairs, and he doesn’t really know how he got there. His friends are laughing around him and Katsuki thinks he may be laughing, too. And there’s a hand holding another—Katsuki knows it’s his in Shouto’s but then again - is it? He’s tired. Fuck, is he tired. Shouto squeezes his hand and Katsuki doesn’t squeeze back. He thinks that he should but he doesn’t see the point. Finds that he can’t. And he thinks putting in energy to do it would make him more tired than he feels. Katsuki swallows. And he stays silent. And Shouto squeezes and squeezes his hand and Katsuki does not squeeze back.
He realizes the same thing every time he finds himself stepping back into this all-consuming hole. This void of nothingness eats at his skin and pushes him into a never-ending pit of all that he cannot touch so he is forever floating and forever feeling nothing. Non existent. Unreal. There is something clearly wrong with him.
Katsuki isn’t tasting the food when they’re eating lunch. And his mind’s flipped the off switch when he’s writing down the notes for every class. And he is so, so tired by the last bell. He isn’t sure what material they’ve just reviewed, he doesn’t know what’s been shelved in his mind, and he isn’t sure what he’s really talking about when he’s asked to explain some fucking function in a stupid equation that won’t even matter anyway - he is just fucking doing and switches keep having to flip for him to continue doing and moving and he’s on fucking autopilot and he wants out.
Fuck. He wants out.
Katsuki isn’t clawing, though. Not at the dirt, not digging his heels against walls to lift himself up, not bending his body to reach the light of the tunnel—is it even a fucking tunnel? Katsuki doesn’t think so. He doesn’t know what the fuck this is. A hole. A void. Space.
Fuck. He’s tired. And he wants out. He’s tired.
When Shouto asks him if he’s okay—Katsuki doesn’t catch it the first time, so Shouto’s gotta ask again. And maybe Katsuki should say no, but he doesn’t. Maybe he should tell Shouto that it’s getting bad again and he can feel the danger poking at him from all angles - should tell him right now that it is dangerously all he feels and terrifyingly all he cares to feel, all he thinks this room that he’s been thrown into is allowing him to feel. Because it’s either nothing or the switch is turned on open to only weights and rain and the things that make Katsuki feel like it’d be better to not feel. To just float. And float. And float.
“Fine,” Katsuki tells Shouto. “I’m fine.”
Because even if he tells Shouto he isn’t fine, then he doesn’t know what he’d say after that. What, that he’s tired? Cause Katsuki is. He’s so fucking tired, actually. But everyone’s tired. Everyone’s exhausted. And after that, he’s got nothing. He doesn’t know what to blame. Where to point—he doesn’t know what hurts or why or how to make it stop - he has nothing but the pit he’ll be falling down until this room decides to give him the keys to tug himself out like he’s done over and over and over and over and—
How does that work again? The pulling? The twisting of the keys, how does he get out, again? Because he does, doesn’t he? At least he has. He was out before this, before he was thrown back in—fuck, fuck, fuck—how the fuck does he get back out and how did he get tossed back in in the first place, anyway?
Katsuki doesn’t want to be here. It’s bad. Shouto’s kissing him and smiling into his cheek and there is nothing and Katsuki feels nothing and this is real fucking bad. Shut it off, Katsuki tells himself. Exist.
(He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.)
(“Same, man,” Denki tells him. He rubs his hand over his face, a rosy flush at the corners of his crinkled eyes. He grins with a croaky chuckle. “Didn’t even wanna get outta fuckin’ bed this morning - Izuku only managed to drag me out with his pancakes. You know, with the strawberry cheese sauce and the chocolate chunks with the—”
“I’m exhausted as shit, too. Life’s been kicking my ass!” Sero claps his hands against Katsuki’s shoulders. “Man, we should hang out, though? Take our mind off shit, you down?”)
(Everyone is tired. That isn’t a damn excuse - we’re all tired.)
Exist, Katsuki.
Exist, exist, exist.
“Big fucking deal,” he says to his reflection … some morning. Katsuki doesn’t know how many fucking days it’s been since he’s last stared at himself. Time is so unimportant, so fucking non-existent and days bleed like the stupid cuts he’s been giving himself from picking at his skin.
Big fucking deal, he stops saying out loud. Says it in his head over and over again. Repeats it. Reminds himself that it isn’t. It is not a big fucking deal so shut the fuck up and smile and exist, Katsuki, exist.
Everyone is tired. Katsuki is so tired—but everyone is tired. And apart from his exhaustion, he is nothing. His pain is in the weight of his limbs and the lack of ability to move from beneath the weights and he is tired, he’s tired, he’s tired, he’s tired, he wants to go home, he wants home, he wants to lay down—no - exist, Katsuki.
Everyone is tired, Katsuki. Everyone is tired. Exist.
(It’s getting bad again.)
Katsuki’s forgotten the day. He thinks maybe Shouto’s touching him - Katsuki doesn’t really feel it until he forces himself to and when he does he hates it. He hates it so fucking much. He’s tired. He’s tired.
How does he get out, again?
Is there getting out — does Katsuki get to get out?
He’s tired. He wants to go home.
“Do you want to stop?”
Katsuki thinks the fact that he isn’t even hard anymore is what gives him away. He asked to do it under the sheets, but Shouto argued he couldn’t see all of Katsuki that way. Katsuki’s throat hurts and - it isn’t from Shouto, they haven’t really done anything yet. They haven’t done anything the past few weeks, though, and that’s Katsuki’s fault. Shouto’s just patient with him. He’s good to him.
It’s why he’s able to nod a response to Shouto’s question.
He huffs and pushes back lightly on Shouto’s shoulders, doesn’t even realize the tears pooling at his ears until Shouto is wiping them away, shifting himself off of Katsuki at the same time.
“Oh, honey … What’s wrong?” Shouto asks.
He’s quickly dressing himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead, pushing his hair back, rushing to Katsuki’s defense. Katsuki doesn’t say anything. His throat hurts and his chest is tight and he’s staring and staring at the ceiling. His throat fucking hurts and this fucking sucks and he doesn’t want to fucking be here and he fucking hates everything.
Shouto’s over him again, running his hands up and down his arms. Says, “Katsuki. Hey. What’s wrong?” Katsuki’s throat hurts. He huffs again, swallows with an ache that runs to his chest and Shouto’s wiping away more tears. His thumbs are rough against Katsuki’s cheeks, over the corner of his eyes. His shushes are gentler. He holds Katsuki’s face, holds him, holds him. “It’s alright. It’s fine, you’re fine.”
“‘M just,” Katsuki starts a mumble. Stops it. He doesn’t know. Everyone’s tired. Everyone is fucking exhausted, they are tired they are tired—Katsuki is so fucking tired.
Shouto wipes his thumb over his cheek again. “Hmm?” Katsuki lies there, sniffling. His throat is aching, pulsing, and his face burns hot and tears are wetting his neck and his ears and his everything and he can’t stop fucking crying. He doesn’t even know what’s wrong. He’s tired, but after that he has nothing. Shouto is still shushing him, holding him. “Is it … Does it have to do with your eating?”
“What? No,” Katsuki shakes his head, sniffles as his face scrunches in irritation. “Seriously? Fuck you, that’s not even—”
“I just needed to get that possibility out of the way,” Shouto says in his annoying calm ass fucking voice. “I know you’ve been doing fine, but still. If it’s not that, then what’s—”
“Fuck, I don’t fucking know! How the fuck would I know if—”
“Please don’t get angry with me about this.”
“‘M not. Not angry - not at you, it’s just. Shit - I don’t even know what’s fucking wrong,” Katsuki says. “It’s not eating that’s fucking with me, I just …. Fuck. everything just feels like too much and it’s too fucking intense and I can’t - can’t even process what’s happening most days and I’m losing my fucking mind trying to keep myself together. But I don’t - I don’t even fucking. Like - shit. Shit.”
Shouto clicks his tongue patiently. And then kisses Katsuki. Holds his face in his hands and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.
“Katsuki,” Shouto says. “What’s wrong?”
His throat aches until his face is wet and he’s sniffling through the choppy hiccups in his breath.
“I’m fucking tired,” Katsuki whispers. He breathes in again and again and his cries fall out around his words when he says, “I’m so tired, Shouto.”
“ … You’re tired?” Shouto asks.
Katsuki nods. His shoulders hiccup, and it’s all tumbling out of him. He’s sobbing. He’s tired. Katsuki is so, so tired.
“Yeah. ‘M so tired. I don’t even wanna get out of this fucking bed half the time and I hate it. I wake up and we do the same fucking thing and it suddenly feels pointless and I hate goddamn routines and I don’t wanna train or eat or hang out or do stuff, I’m exhausted and I know we’re all fucking tired and I should try to fix this shit but I’ve been trying and even thinking of—”
Shouto presses a kiss to Katsuki’s mouth. Soft and chaste.
“You’re tired,” Shouto whispers to him. “That sounds so exhausting. Maybe you should rest for a while. It’s okay to get tired sometimes.”
Katsuki’s lashes flutter. Tears wet his ears again and quiet sobs rack his body as he pushes his face into Shouto’s neck. He gets it. Shouto gets it right. He always fucking does, though, doesn’t he.
“I can?” Katsuki asks into his neck. “I can rest for a while?”
Shouto nods his head against Katsuki. “You can be tired for as long as you want,” he says. “The world will still be here to take on when you’re rested and ready.”
“Promise?”
When Shouto says he promises, Katsuki believes him.
He closes his eyes and in Shouto’s arms, he rests. Maybe he’ll talk to Aizawa about it. Ask to take on the world when he’s ready again. Not yet though, not now.
Katsuki’s tired.