He pulls the weight of the world down on his shoulders because that's his normal; that's how it's always been.
When he walks it's with forced confidence, a sham, and a mask. Beneath his feet the ground cracks and splinters, the weight he holds too much for him—too much for it to support him. Katsuki doesn't see it, or more he doesn't want to; it's not like anyone around him will know. He hides it well under denial and refusal because he is strong, and strength does not falter.
When they see him move they see it with grace, purpose, and unwavering resolve. When he sees himself move, it's one foot in front of the other.
When he smiles it never quite reaches his ears; it's always stretched uncomfortably, takes a number of times adjusting and re-adjusting until it feels normal, believable. His lips are chapped; he picks at them entirely too often when no one is looking, when even he doesn't see himself doing it. They split every time he smiles because the skins worn thin, nonexistent.
It stings. It burns.
Katsuki often licks his lips; he does it on instinct, a practiced motion when his mouth is inexplicably dry but when he tastes iron, sweet and sickly, it's no longer subconscious. It's now to hide the blood, hide the chap, and hide the idea that he's affected by something as trivial as split lips.
Katsuki smirks now; they see power, edge, and rebellion. All he sees is a way to hide the indefinite lines.
When he laughs it's hollow and empty. It doesn't come from the stomach, from the chest, from the heart. It's strained, forced, stuffed to the brim with the idea of laughter; it comes out as sound, wrapped in silence, wrapped in sound. It's often confused for mockery towards another when in truth it's only mocking him.
It's amusing, it's hysterical, it's comical, or is it? Is it what it seems on the surface? He can't tell anymore because his response is never indicative of honesty of feeling, instead always feigning truth. He sees the offense it causes to some. He doesn't mean it, it's just how it comes out.
Trying is annoying, more work than reward. Katsuki stops laughing, and the guilt stops with it.
He is strength; defined and definite. Absolute. It's what he wants them to see, because that's what he sees—power, perseverance, and vitality. It's what they will see, because it's all that's available to them, because they don't scratch the surface of diamond to find the rock it once was; they don't dig deep enough.
Nobody ever digs deep enough.
Diamond doesn't shatter, doesn't break, and doesn't crack. It's indestructible they say, he's indestructible they say. He can handle everything, anything. So they flock to him, are drawn to him like a moth to a flame. He handles the world for himself; he can help me to understand, to do the same. That's how it starts. He asks what's wrong once, in only a way he can, they think nothing of his tone, his harshness—its how he is. He's rough for the sake of being rough, for no other reason. They know he cares, otherwise he wouldn't ask.
Is he able to handle my problems? Is he ready? Is he okay? No one thinks to ask because he initiates it, he must be fine. They give him a look, of pity or unease he's not sure, he disarms them with a face of ice and stone before he can think to figure it out. So they unload, and unload and unload until they can't anymore. The weight is off of their shoulders and they feel free, revived. But it has to go somewhere right?
It does. On his shoulders.
He's trapped.
Katsuki doesn't show how he's chained down, the metal against his skin pulling tighter and tighter; he won't show it. That means they will see him weak, broken, incapable and unable. That's not me, he screams, I am strong. So he carries it—his weight, theirs, the worlds— on his shoulders and tries not to fall between the cracks growing beneath him.
It only continues. It's a new person, a new problem, a new need to unload and they see him, the picture of aptitude, of versatility and adaptability. He still stands tall despite everything; he can handle a bit more. So they come to him because nothing can break through the surface of a diamond. At least that's how they see it, that's all they know.
Because what they don't know hides behind the sanctity of isolation and four walls.
It's early in the morning, the far recesses of his mind ache with a pounding throb and he finds no relief. Sound, light, everything makes it worse. Katsuki sits on the floor, in a corner, in the dark and tries to hide from the pain. His knees are up, arms wrapped tightly around them, head ducked in between. It's still too loud. Still too bright.
It's too much, it's always been too much but he's let it build because he is strength, and strength has to thrive because there is always someone that will need it. There's a limit to the depths of strength though, before it can't hold the weight; it becomes forced—like his walk, his laugh, his smile.
Katsuki's pushes far past his limits, putting too much onto what was already deemed enough and it splinters and cracks—much like the ground he stands on.
When it breaks, he's surprised it lasted this long.
The floodgates open and he hears everything, sees everything; their problems, their voices, their woes. His hands move to his head and he holds tightly, nails digging into his hair, raking against his skull. There's no relief; there's only pain and suffering and fuck, he can't breathe, he can't think.
How do they make it stop, he asks himself as he teeters, the answer right in front of him when he glances up, his darkened reflection staring back. They go to me, and he realizes just how fucked up the situation really is.
Katsuki can't talk himself down because he's already holding in too much, he can't afford to break more than he already is. There's too much unpredictability in his actions, his mind too clouded and gazed. He doesn't need a setback.
More importantly he doesn't want one.
Maybe one of them can help? They've all come to him in their time of need; maybe he can do the same. It's a long shot he knows, reaching for his phone with shaky, unstable hands but he's run out of options and is spiraling fast. The light in his face makes his eyes screw shut; it's too bright in the dark, too much for his pulsing head. Katsuki squints through to the blinding screen as he scrolls through countless names and countless numbers.
Mina, Denki, Eijirou, Hanta, Ochako, Deku. The list goes on forever it seems, forward and backward scrolling, until his finger hovers over a name; Katsuki dials it without hesitation.
The ring is too loud, too repetitive and it grates on his already fracturing nerves. Has it been seconds, a minute, hours, days? He doesn't know, he's lost all semblances of sanity and time, hoping to reclaim it with their help. "Katsuki?" His voice is raspy, harsh, entirely too low for what he is used to, and it slams into him like a freight train over and over. "Wha—"
Katsuki panics and hangs up. Shit.
Fuck, fuck, FUCK.
He slides his phone far away from him and takes his fingers through his now dampened hair, pulling, ripping. He's fucked up; he knows he has and it pile drives him further and further to the point of no return. He pays no mind to the fact it's the early hours of the morning, him undoubtedly disturbing his slumber or the fact that he just doesn't call people to talk—it's a text here, a dm there (face to face always being the better option, falsity and truth are as clear as day when not hidden behind a screen).
No, there's only one thought running around and around in his mind and its fucked him up more than the weight of the world that keeps sinking him further and further into the darkness.
It hasn't even been 24 fucking hours.
In truth, Katsuki would be lucky if he'd made it 12.
In the throng of blurred faces, rushes words and broken tones, he remembers when he first noticed. It was a day of troubles, everyone seemingly having them, the chain around him tighter, the weight heavier. He was sick of it, suffocating by his façade of strength. I need to fucking breathe too, Katsuki wanted to scream, but didn't. He couldn't. So he ignored them.
He found Eijirou looking at him with caution, like he knew something everyone else didn't, but had something else weighing on him that blinded him nevertheless. The redhead approached him carefully and it was then he saw how defeated Eijirou really was. Katsuki was tired of helping, tired of slowing down because he couldn't hold everything upright, but for Eijirou?
He'd listen.
He hates how defeated Eijirou was when he came to him, how his voice cracked as he spun his tale, how he fought valiantly against the tears that welled in his eyes. Eijirou who was untroubled, unbreakable, was in shambles and Katsuki couldn't fucking stand it.
His phone rings, vibrating against the wooden floor and he freezes, head peeking up, eyes widened. It has to be him calling back, he decides, because who else would be? Everyone else knew better. Katsuki doesn't check, doesn't move; he lets the ring go on, the hardware moving gradually against the floor until it falls dead, his world silenced again.
It rings again. Katsuki panics.
His body starts convulsing, his lungs constricting, his vision blurring. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He made a mistake, should have never called in the first place. 12 hours ago Eijirou was in the same position as him, his world crumbling around him—he was there for it. What the hell kind of friend was he?
Was Eijirou okay? Was he stable? Was he any better than before? Did he still need help?
Katsuki didn't know because he didn't fucking ask; he bothers him at —fuck it's 3am?—, didn't send him a text, a simple 'you good?', nothing. He panicked and dialed because he couldn't fucking handle himself like usual, because he was weak. Katsuki pulls his hair tighter, shaking his head against the rhythm of his body trembling.
It's out of sync. He's out of sync and the phone keeps ringing.
Katsuki can't hear it through his screams.
He barely makes it out of his house five hours later. He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, and hasn't drunk. But when does he anyway? It's a vicious cycle, a wash, rinse, repeat that he needs to get out of but can't—there's always too much going on, too much need for the strength he no longer has (probably hasn't had in a long, long time) but pretends he does anyway.
It's evident by how they flock to him, no questions asked, ready to unload again. They're blind, and his facade holds; his walk continues to be forced, his smile uncomfortable, his laugh hollow.
He takes it in stride, one after the other. Some are petty, misunderstandings that boil the blood and start docile fires; others are intimate, a raging inferno, burning ashes and cinders flying and needing to be doused. The weight in his shoulders keeps getting heavier—he's sinking further.
When he feels himself being torn into, barriers crumbling, he looks beyond the person who's using him as their soundboard, and feels the panic that sent him spiraling bubbling in his core once more.
Eijirou.
He's just staring at him.
It unnerves Katsuki, puts him in a bind, because Eijirou is looking at him, somehow looking through him—through his façade, through his walls and he can't handle that. Katsuki can't decipher what lies in his eyes, what twists his face in the way that looks almost like concern, pity, perhaps all of the above.
Guilt rises, five hours prior lodging in his chest, the sinking feeling back for a vengeance. I shouldn't have fucking called him, but he did and he can't take it back. He fucked up, in more ways than one and has to live with that; it's another weight on his shoulder, another weight pushing him down.
Katsuki looks away, back at the person in front of him, and forgets he ever saw it— or he tries to. Even when he's not looking, he feels Eijirou looking at him, through him, and can't bring himself to remain intact.
The words, the sounds are becoming too much; there's too many voices, too many problems, too many people. It's encasing him, suffocating him, barbed wire constricting him and it hurts, it fucking hurts.
I can't fucking do this, not here.
Katsuki pushes past the people barricading him, pushes past the questions, the eye that are tearing him down and he flees, a sanctuary at the forefront of his mind. He finds the nearest isolation, the nearest wall and throws his fist into it, over and over and over again. His knuckles are burning, his skin torn and red but he doesn't care; it grounds him, tethers him into something real—real pain, physical pain.
"Why now?" He hisses through grit teeth, jaw too tight and muscles too tense. "Why am I so fucking weak now?!" It's too sudden; he's brought down by too simple of offenses, things that shouldn't affect him—nothing had thus far, or they had and he refused to see it. He keeps pounding the wall; he can't stop. It reaffirms his strength, his power, everything he's losing as he loses himself.
But it does nothing; Katsuki still feels weak.
He stands, head resting against the brick, hands resting above; he can feel the blood slowly trickling down from his wounded knuckles but does nothing to care for it because his mind is elsewhere, filtering through countless times and countless mistakes searching for where everything went to hell. It doesn't take long.
And fuck it's depressing.
"Shit," is all he can say, because it's always been hell for him—he realizes this now, accepts it. Katsuki plays the role of god but is only a mere mortal; he thinks he can handle anything, everything, the world throws at him because he's always had to, and he's never had that choice.
Fight and survive. He doesn't remember how many years he's told himself this, he only remembers when it started getting more often, more needed, when it became fight and survive and fight for others.
The weight has always been too much, but he's hidden behind too many facades, they a makeshift counterbalance.
"Katsuki…" He is amazed by how quickly he can pull himself together in the presence of another, how his spiral straightens and all traces of fracture suture themselves up again. He shoves his hands in his pockets, no doubt to hide the scrape. His eyes are still to the ground when he smiles. His lip splits. Of fucking course.
"What the fuck do you want?" He's colder than normal; he can hear it in his voice. There's no emotion whatsoever; it's as dry as ice and when Eijirou flinches he wants to shove his fist into the wall again, over and over. He doesn't deserve the hostility, but there's nothing he can do to stop it. The alternative is much worse. "You hung up," Eijirou starts, waiting for Katsuki to meet his gaze -he doesn't. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine." No I'm not.
He doesn't miss a beat in his answer, he never does. When he looks up, he knows Eijirou can read right past his lie, his façade, his supposed strength -he's probably the only one who can, or the only one who tries. Katsuki knows his eyes are puffy and he knows he can see it; they're as red as the blood still pulsing from his knuckles, as red as the blood slipping between the crack on his lip. He licks them as he always does; it's sickly sweet, the taste of iron strong on his tongue.
Eijirou takes a slow step forward, his body tensing the closer he gets. Katsuki watches him, how every step he braces himself more, treating him as if he's a frightened animal ready to flee; will he? Perhaps. Would Eijirou chase him?
"You're not fine." Of that he is almost certain.
Katsuki can feel the constriction and suddenly he's falling through the cracks again. It's not many problems this time, only his own. It's not many sounds caving in on him, it's not many faces watching him break; it's only one, Eijirou's, and it's one too many. He needs to get away. Now.
Katsuki turns away; his skin is hotter than normal, nausea climbing its way up through his gut and he's afraid he might finally lose it, literally and figuratively—neither of which he wants Eijirou to see. The weight is once again too much; it comes crashing down and he prays his voice doesn't crack. "I'm fi-"
"You're not." It's a statement that has him ready to run; far away from the judgment that's undoubtedly there, from the realization that haunts him, the pain as it claws away at whatever sanity he's got left. Katsuki knows he's not okay; he can feel it in the way his smile falters when he tries to bend it, when his walk away hesitates, how he can't laugh his anguish off because he's afraid of the sound that might come out. He's weak, now in more ways than one.
"Katsuki," Eijirou pleads, hoping to stop the blonde in his tracks. What was once a stride of grace and purpose, he sees now is one that is forced, the drag mark from his soles more defined than in the days, weeks, even months past.
How long it's truly been one foot in front of the other.
How, Eijirou muses as he reaches for Katsuki's arm in retreat, how have we both been so blind. "Please," he begs, forcing him to turn back, not at all expecting to see what he finds. Once in scarlet burned a uncontrollable fire, a force of nature not one man hoped to contain— he remembers it fondly, holding onto the memory tightly when faced with what stared back at him. Katsuki's eyes.
They're dull and lifeless, the fire since burned out.
It's completely and entirely wrong.
This is not the Katsuki he knows, the raging spitfire who took on the world in strides; it's only a shell of what once was, and it terrifies him because he doesn't know how much more he can take before there's nothing left. When Eijirou's eyes flicker to the arm he's holding, his wrist visible, he silently thanks every deity known that Katsuki hasn't fell that far. Yet. "Just. Just let me listen, okay? Please." He doesn't let him go, doesn't let him bury his pain because he knows it's there now; he can see it in his eyes and he wonders how long he had everyone fooled by his layers of falsity. "Let me be there for you like you've been there for me."
There's too much silence between them; Eijirou fears the blonde will run, his hold on his arm tightening. He watches Katsuki, waits for something, anything, that shows he's broken through to him. He doesn't have to wait long.
Tears.
They start small, pricking at the corner of his eyes, barely there. They may have been missed entirely had Katsuki's eyes not scrunched together, his lips parting as a silent breath in is taken—the only way to breathe to stop the tears before they fall, Eijirou decides. He breathes through his nose on impulse; it's loud, congested, a dead giveaway and there's no hiding now. "Shit," Katsuki whispers, and his walls break as the floor breaks beneath him.
His face twists into something indicative of anguish, of suffering, or heartbreak. He curls in on himself, unable to run and unable to withstand; he could fall any minute, and he'd hate the weakness that would blanket him in his descent. Eijirou pulls him into his embrace, holding tightly onto him and he feels his shoulder become saturated in tears. His tears.
Katsuki doesn't stop him, using the crook of his neck as a brace as he comes undone. His breathing becomes labored, short in spurts and his chest hurt the more he tries to hold it in but it proves useless all the same. Eijirou has his fingers sunk into him and he can't break free.
He doesn't want to, though he knows he should.
He feels safe here, entrapped by something other than the world caving in, by something warm. He wants to talk, to scream, to do something other than cry but he can't and he's thankful for Eijirou to shield him while he does because it's been far too long since he last had. "You don't have to be strong all the time, Katsuki." His voice is soft, tired; it's clear that Eijirou himself is still struggling, still mentally drained and once more he panics, trying to push him away.
He doesn't get far, Eijirou won't let him.
And maybe that's okay.
Because Eijirou is doing for him what he does for everyone else; Eijirou is burdening his woes despite his own because he cares enough to, because he would rather suffer with them, for them, than they suffer alone. It's why he holds Katsuki in his arms, tightening his hold when he tries to push away. It's why he just stands there, not saying a word, knowing Katsuki will talk when he's ready -or not at all, but the fact that he's broken through the barrier is enough for him.
It's also why he answers his phone, at something like 3am, despite the mental drain he suffered earlier that day.
Eijirou at times is weak, knows that he will likely be weak again soon but he embraces it; it's a part of him that he doesn't shut away behind a wall of stone and forced facades, but realizes as a different kind of strength. It's the kind that comes from letting yourself be vulnerable in a world that expects you to deal, to find a healthy way to unload so you can come back on top of anything thrown your way.
Katsuki sees this in him and wonders how he manages to let himself go, how he makes it look so easy. He feels it in the form of the warmth encasing him. You can be weak and help others, it says -only if taken in stride.
Weakness is a strength all its own, and it took Eijirou holding him in his arms, taking from him the world he forced onto his shoulders and splitting it in two for him to realize it.
Katsuki doesn't talk, likely won't but its okay, because he acknowledges his issue and that's a step in the right direction. There will be a day that he feels ready, a day where he realizes fully that despite his strength it's okay to break and he will be prepared, because he also knows there will be someone who will help him through the pain, like he's done for countless others, and that after he will be okay.
He holds onto Eijirou; he lets himself fall apart because he knows when all else fails, he will help to put it back together.
Thank you, Stephanie, McKay and Hanna, for being my Eijirou. 3