— he didn’t often dream. not in ways that he remembered, anyway. he only remembered how it felt to wake up, drenched in his own sweat, his heart half falling out of his mouth, his hands not quite his own when he looked down at them clinging to his duvet. there’d be snippets, of course. the whites of eyes, the sounds of voices, camera flashes against the concrete. harsh mementos of a past he’d ran from but never escaped. when he shut his eyes he felt their skin on his and suddenly he was drowning all over again. since he’d turned 15, his trauma had been public, but his suffering had been private. people saw his rage and they took away the simple parts, cut away his hurt with a knife and a laugh - silly boy, so quick to anger. who cared what else there was to see, right? it would only damage their ratings to show what was ugly. convenience was prettier than this scene. this teenager, misted in his own sweat, salt searing his eyes, unable to think in the heaviness of silence, was an unnecessary byproduct of the hero society they thrived in. it was quiet when he awoke with a jolt, air catching in his throat. quiet like 4am and the world was all asleep but him. and he was so alone. katsuki couldn’t tell anyone what this felt like, how he’d run to the bathroom and vomit, how he’d sob until his throat was raw, how he hurt himself, hit himself, slam his head against the walls. his suffering was a private affair. maybe that was why no one understood why he wouldn’t smile for the camera? but that would be easy, wouldn’t it? to pretend, to put on a show: he saw others do it, felt repulsed by their pathetic display of strength. because liars weren’t strong, they were simply hiding. but he wasn’t strong either, not like this, clutching the sides of his ceramic sink like it was the only thing rooting him into the ground. the cold was a wash of sanity; his tears were hot reminders of shame. his pride was the only thing that kept him going - it was cruel really, and it chewed upon his bones. made him feel ancient. it throbbed in his brain like an illness, burnt like a fire in the night. he’d been angry for as long as he’d been proud and he’d been sad for as long as he could remember. that feeling of disconnect - different, from the very start. that extra bit taller, that extra bit smarter, that infamous quirk of his: he’d become mythologised, idolised, before he’d even been a person. no one loved a statue, a monument, not like they loved their friends and family. so no one had loved him. his mother had noticed, but gentle words weren’t her speciality. she dealt with him using the only love she knew. she’d hit him to make him quiet down. maybe that’s why he was proud - he’d be proud of himself first, alone, not needing anyone else. but he wanted his mum. really he did - after all, her love language was all he’d known and he craved it like the earth craves the wash of the moon or something equally romantic but not so pretty. because right now, in the dorms, with the ghosts of his nightmare clinging to his mind, he wanted to be held. wanted someone to touch him and murmur pointless kindness into his ears until he fell asleep again. not that they would: he had a way of driving tenderness away. something about his volatility made him hard to love. as if god had created something delicate and then thought ‘i wonder what these teeth can do.’
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