The tingling in his arms has settled into a low, warm buzz. It makes him restless, almost jittery. His eyes scan the tiny studio until they land on the couch shoved against the far wall. It is nothing fancy, secondhand, sagging in the middle, but it is the heaviest thing he owns.
If the pen worked, he thinks, this should be easy.
He walks over, bare feet padding over the cold linoleum. The fabric smells faintly like old laundry detergent and dust. He crouches, slides his hands under the front edge, and takes a deep breath.
He lifts.
The couch does not budge.
He tightens his grip, fingers digging into the underside, and heaves harder. The tingling in his arms spikes, muscles straining, veins pushing up along his forearms. His shoulders scream, his lower back protests, but the couch stays rooted to the floor.
He grits his teeth, adjusts his stance, and tries again. The metal frame inside the couch groans faintly but it does not leave the floor. His forearms tremble, his knees start to shake, and his breath comes in harsh bursts.
The reality hits him all at once. He is not stronger. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
His grip slips and the couch thumps back down. He stumbles backward, chest heaving, arms burning in a way that feels humiliating instead of powerful. He looks at the thing like it has personally betrayed him.
Then he catches his reflection in the mirror by the wall. Same thin arms. Same sloped shoulders. Same narrow chest that makes every t-shirt hang loose and shapeless. His stomach knots.
He drops onto the bed hard, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His breathing is too quick, too shallow. The sting behind his eyes builds until he shoves the heels of his hands against them, willing the tears to stay in. They do not.
It is not just the couch. It is every failed attempt before it. Every time he has tried to change and ended up exactly where he started. Every thought of Levi telling him to just work out like it was that simple.
The empty injector pen sits on the counter under the warm ceiling light, looking small and innocent. He glares at it like it is mocking him for believing in it.
He wipes at his face with the back of his hand and lies back on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. The buzzing in his arms feels meaningless now, a cruel joke.
And for the first time since he picked up the pen, he wishes he had never touched it.
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