Papercut
Despite the fact that he had a regular sleep schedule, the Prince of Saiyans felt that he must be missing a vital part of the night. Sitting up into the peppy sunlight he ignored a spinning in his head. Groggily he shed his sleepwear, showered quickly, and donned a training uniform. He lingered at the dresser.
A buzzing of sorts filled the back of his head. A quiet, troubling sensation that plagued him too often to be anything worth ignoring. Slowly his gaze turned from the polished wood to the mirror in front of him.
Dark eyes stared back into his own. They seemed to mock him.
"What are you looking at?" he asked so softly he barely heard it.
The capsule was cold from inactivity. He punched in some commands by rote and began a Kata, but his heart wasn't into it today. He longed for a restful bout of sleep and a clarity in his cranium. Maybe then this pressure would dissipate.
Every grueling day was preparation for an upcoming battle. Whether it was inner or outer turmoil made no difference. It took hardly any effort at all these days to convince himself he hadn't wasted his life on an obsession of lies.
So what if he felt as if he had no control of himself sometimes? No one else knew he felt that way. He snarled savagely, his arms snapping out to punch the air, his muscles stretching, his joints aching from the abuse. He stopped abruptly. Breathing sounded like a perfectly good and rational thing to do at the moment.
He slipped back into his routine, hiding behind the comfort of repetition and the familiar.
Vegeta, forced towards the future and bound by the past, wasn't aware that one of his problems was with pride.
He believed in the wrong kind.