#is this an accurate depiction of overtraining syndrome? probably not

[cowboyemeritus]

Il Suo Campione (Copia/Reader)

Chapter 10

Series Masterlist

Summary: Training for the fight in Vegas does not go as well as you’d hoped.

Content Warning: graphic imagery (brief)

Read on AO3

Notes: Got a short little chapter for y’all, all the way from the middle of the desert (where I somehow have one bar of service). Consider it an interlude, if you will.

Not entirely happy with this, but I needed to get it out of the way before the next chapter, which I’m very excited about. So, take a little bit angst for now. Hope y’all enjoy anyway. :)

Also, I am so incredibly grateful for the response chapter 9 got. It means a lot that so many of you are excited this fic is back! Thanks, everyone. You guys rock. <3

You open up a can of whoop-ass the likes of which has never been seen by mortal eyes. And, oh boy, it does hurt like hell.

The guys at the gym are surprised to see you’re still alive. They know better than to bother you, but you really wish they wouldn’t stare. The first few days are a struggle not to shit yourself, throw up, or shit yourself and throw up; their unwanted attention only serves to make you more agitated.

You can tell by the way the room spins after very little effort that your head isn’t better yet. There’s no telling how this will affect your performance, or what will happen if you get your ass kicked that badly again, but it only serves as further motivation to push through. You have to win, and quickly.

Your routine has never failed you, so you stick to the familiar pattern: warm up, lift, then hit the bag until you can’t anymore. You go for as long as your body will allow, able to last a little longer, to push yourself a little harder, each day. When you’re not at the gym you’re thinking about how to optimize your next session, how you can reach your peak faster. It’s a nice change of pace, actually, to not be wallowing in your own misery, obsessing over whether or not Copia still wants you. It hurts so, so much, but you also think you’ve never felt better. Your arms may ache, screaming with each dish you scrub, but it’s worth it. You’ve been through worse pain, and the satisfaction that will come with delivering him a solid victory is more than enough to keep you going.

Then, on day seven, you wake up more exhausted than when you went to bed. The nightmares have stopped, but you didn’t dream either, teetering on the edge of deep sleep all night. Your muscles, all of them, are tight and achy, and there’s nothing you’d rather do less than go to the gym.

Nevertheless, you persist. You must. Copia may not care if you win, but you do.

Days eight to eleven are brutal. It’s like your limbs are made of lead. Every morning you’re more tired, and by the time your shift ends at night you’re barely able to stand on two feet. Suddenly, winning is no longer a goal, something you want, but a necessity, something you need . You can’t let Copia down again. After all, who bets on a horse that’s always in last place? The thought gnaws at you, burying itself in your chest and making a home there. Soon, not being at the gym, not doing everything you can to ensure your success, makes your heart race like you’re already in the ring, staring down your opponent. It’s hard to eat again, and though you know you need to do it to keep up your strength, you just can’t. But you carry on, dragging yourself through each day, through each workout, dead-set upon redeeming yourself.

Your mood oscillates like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings: one second you’re irritable, then full of despair, then so anxious you feel like you’re about to crawl out of your skin. There are moments when you’re completely fine, as normal as ever, and others when you’d do just about anything to stop feeling the way you do. You look at yourself, see that you’re still so weak-looking, and want to pull your hair out. You think that if you could just reach in, grip each side of your ribcage and pull, you could crack your chest open and release whatever demon is in there, making you like this. You hear the crunch of bone, envisioning your blood spraying across the bathroom mirror as the pressure is finally released. It would be messy, but a worthy tradeoff for a moment of fucking peace.

Maybe you’re overdoing it a little.

Mary never knows what he’s going to do with you, but right now, it’s particularly bad.

On the one hand, you’re active again. That’s a definitely a good thing. Ever since you were a kid, you’d needed to move; it’s your outlet, a way to keep your emotions in check. He can’t even begin to imagine the crazy shit that’s been ruminating in your head in the month-and-change since the incident, and is relieved, at first, that you seem to be working through it.

On the other, this definitely means you’re going to start fighting again. And if you’re fighting, he knows exactly who you’re fighting for. He tries so hard not to think this way, but Mary knows it’s only a matter of time before you cross the wrong person, get hurt so badly you’re out of commission for good, or worse. That thought, of course, terrifies him. You’ve got your own odd brand of resiliency, one he’s always sort of admired, but there’s only so much a person can take.

Then suddenly, Mary watches as you pivot from full of energy to sluggish, weighed down by fatigue. You skulk around the apartment like a troll, alternating between being withdrawn, pissy, and restless. Your eyes, for a fleeting moment full of fire, are glazed-over as you stand in the Boneyard’s dingy, gross kitchen and wash dishes. All this in only a week. You’ve always been moody, but never like this.

Copia is destroying you, physically, mentally, maybe spiritually.

He’d known that trying to keep the bastard away would prove a fruitless endeavor. He had to try, though. There’s so little he can do for you, with the weight of your past so heavy on your shoulders, the scars on your heart cutting deep like canyons. By the time you’d dropped out and moved in with him, your foster parents had deemed you a lost cause, but Mary could never give up on his baby sister. He’s all you’ve got.

Still, it’s hard not to feel completely useless, slowly watching you walk down a path towards your inevitable doom.

You finally hear from Copia on day twelve.

You’re asleep on the couch. Naps seem to be the only time you can get some decent shuteye, though they make your efforts to sleep at night even worse. Every time you lay your head down, you swear it’ll only be for a few minutes, just to rest your eyes a bit, only to wake up hours later, disoriented and even groggier than before.

You’ve been asleep for three hours. Today’s training session had been the worst one yet, your legs cramping so badly you’d nearly doubled over in front of all the guys. When the phone rings, you don’t stir at all. It rings again, and this time something tugs at your consciousness. You twitch a little, but remain firmly entrenched in slumber. It rings three more times before you finally wake up, the corner of your mouth adhered to an old throw pillow with drool. You groan, turning over in the hopes that whoever wants to talk so badly will give up. There’s a few more bursts of sound before the apartment goes quiet again, and you quickly slip back under.

Some time later, the phone starts ringing again. This time, you wake up almost immediately, your temper stirring at the disturbance. With a grunt, you pull yourself up from the couch, your legs protesting as you trudge over to the receiver and nearly pull the damn thing off the wall.

“What,” you demand, using every scrap of energy you have left to not fly off the handle.

“Bellissima!” There’s a pause. “Are you alright? You sound-”

“Yeah,” you interject, wanting more than anything to avoid the subject of how shitty you feel mere days before the fight. “What’s up?”

Copia begins to prattle on about the logistics of your upcoming “adventure.” The fight is on Friday night. It’s about a four hour drive to Vegas, so he’ll pick you up around noon. No doubt you’ll be sleeping for most of the ride. His point of contact is an associate of Terzo’s, and the fight is happening in another old gym on the city limits. He’s in the middle of saying something about a motel when the front door opens, and suddenly you and Mary are staring each other down. You must have a guilty look on your face, because he immediately scowls and gestures for you to hand him the phone. You shake your head at him.

“Are you still there, cara mia?” Mary takes a step closer. You turn your body away, getting between him and the receiver so he can’t mess with it.

“Yeah. I’m gonna need to call you ba- Hey!” Mary lunges around your other side, making a grab for the phone. You try to swat him away but you’re still waking up, your reflexes dulled, and he manages to get a hold of it. The two of you wrestle for the device, and very faintly you can hear Copia on the other end, asking what’s going on.

You’re leagues stronger than Mary, but he uses that to his advantage. If you still want the phone, he’s going to make you hurt him for it. Both of you know you wouldn’t dare do that.

“Let go,” he hisses, like he’s reprimanding a dog. Knowing you’ve already been caught, you growl, but nevertheless comply with his demand. Mary glares at you as he puts the receiver to his ear and you glower right back, hating the pathetic-looking thing you see reflected in his eyes.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing,” Mary asks. Copia says something through the phone, and your brother scoffs. “You think I give a shit?” Copia speaks again. He sounds angry. “I’m not scared of you, you old fuck. I already told you I’ll fucking kill you if I see you around my sister again.” You give Mary an incredulous look. Is that why Copia had stayed away for so long? “Why yes, that is a threat.”

“What the fuck did you do?” He’s distracted by what Copia is saying, but when his eyes flick in your direction, you can tell his confidence has been shaken.

“I don’t-” Suddenly, he’s on the defensive. “I just want what’s best for her, and that’s for you to fuck off. Bye, asshole.” Before you can stop him he hangs up the phone, then turns to you with a sour look. “Vegas? Really? You guys gonna get married or something?”

“What the fuck?” You’ve never been so angry with him. If he were anyone else, you’d have flung yourself at him by now. “You can’t just do that!”

“I absolutely can,” he says. “That guy is going to get you killed.”

“It’s just fighting, Mary.” It’s not like you’re running drugs or selling sex. There are much more dangerous things you could be doing for Copia.

“You’ve already had one close call.” He sighs. “What’s it gonna to take to get you to see he’s nothing but trouble?”

You cross your arms, feeling like a teenager again. “He said he’d protect me.” It’s not quite “but, Daddy, I love him,” but it sounds just as childish coming out of your mouth.

“He’s a criminal. You don’t know him.”

“I-” Do you really know Copia? “I don’t need you to make judgement calls for me. I’m an adult.”

“Then act like one!”

There’s a long, heavy silence. You know he’s right. If Mary didn’t take care of you, you’d be on the streets, in jail, or dead by now. And still…

You take a deep, steadying breath, forcing that roiling boil of anger to a simmer. Lifting your head, you look him dead in the eyes.

“I want to do this. I need to. I can’t explain why, I just…” It’s disarming, how much conviction is in your voice. You haven’t felt so strongly about anything in a long while, and it’s a little frightening. Even Mary seems taken aback by it, his khol-rimmed eyes widening a little. He’s doing the math as well, trying to remember the last time you were this motivated. “It’s going to be okay, I promise.”

He huffs out a bitter laugh, looking down at his boots. “What kind of brother am I, just letting you do this shit…” For a moment you worry he’s going to start crying. But then he looks back up at you and there’s the beginnings of acceptance written across his face. Finally, you’re getting somewhere. “This guy is really worth it to you?”

“It’s not him,” you mutter. At one point, that had been true. “This is the only thing I’m good at. I don’t know anything else.” The thought makes nerves stab around in your stomach. If you fail, what, then, are you still good for?

Mary’s mouth presses into a fine line. “That’s not true. You know that.” He tries to pull you in for a hug but you gently shove him away, still kind of mad and needing space.

“I’m going,” you assert, trying to ignore the hurt look in his eyes. “You can’t stop me.”