#whumptober2021day3

[whumpinggrounds]

Insults

day 3 of @whumptober2021 coming to you a bit late - for the prompt “insults,” we are back to my superhero boy, august!

tagging @whumpy-writings, let me know if you’d like to be added or removed :)

CW: derogatory language, insults, emotional whump, predicament punishment, exhaustion, overworking, superhero whumper, sidekick whumpee

Every day, August gets stronger. He used to think he was already at the top of his game – that thanks to his natural ability, he was set for life. It sure seemed that way, until he started training and his strength and speed go through the roof. It’s the most satisfying thing he’s ever done, and also, without a doubt, the hardest. The workouts leave him exhausted every day and trying to absorb Beck’s lessons on strategy makes his brain feel like it’s melting out his ears. The medic, Valerie, is friendly enough, but August’s fellow apprentice hardly talks to anyone, and Beck is even more unreachable.

All of that, August could handle. It’s Donovan he still struggles with – and clearly, Don is still struggling with him, too. In the beginning, Beck and his second picked their apprentice because of their power affinity, or that’s what August and Mercer were told. Beck and Mercer both had more mental powers, and August and Don more physical. It makes sense. August really, really hopes it’s true, because lately, he’s started to doubt.

More accurately, Donovan is making him doubt. Solo training goes just fine, but as soon as he’s in a room with Don, August’s self-esteem tends to fall straight through the floor. Like, for instance, right now.

“No wonder Beck didn’t want to work with you,” Don growls, clicking the stopwatch in his hand.

Panting, August shakes his head. “Thought that was ‘bout…what powers…were most…” he flaps a hand, searching for the word as he tries to draw in more air. “…similar?”

Folding his arms across his broad chest, Donovan scowls down at August. “Your power is nothing like mine, runt.”

August shrugs, managing to straighten up now that he’s gotten some air back in his lungs. “Well, your power is nothing like mine.”

Eyes narrowing further, Donovan glares at August, and August stares back, hard as it is to meet those hard green eyes. “Good thing, too,” Donovan mutters. “Next set.”

Letting his eyes fall shut, August nods, bracing himself. Don seems convinced that with enough training, August should be able to do everything as quickly as running – including all the lifting he does in the weight room. No matter how hard he tries to convince Don it’s not the same, the information doesn’t penetrate that cement-thick skull.

Wincing even as he thinks it, August shakes his head, shaking off his irritation. Don’s his mentor. He’s a hard guy, but he’s training August, and working hard doing it. Getting pissy about a little hard work isn’t August’s style. Newly determined, he turns back to the racks.

Only to find that Donovan has slid another twenty-pound weight on each end of his barbell. Gulping, August stops to scratch at his head, his unruly strawberry blonde hair matting down with sweat.

“Hey, uh, Don?”

He winces at the slightly higher, uncertain note in his voice. When Donovan speaks, it sounds like a mountain rumbling. “What.”

“I, uh. Just, like, how many reps am I doing? Again?”

“Five sets, ten reps each.”

Resting one finger against the new weight, August swipes down and set the black circle spinning. “Yeah…I don’t know if I can, uh, do that.”

“Why not.”

Don’s voice is so flat that August would swear he’s not asking a question. It’s not that he’s a monotone guy, either, he has plenty of range when he talks to Beck, or even Valerie. When it comes to August, though, Donovan only seems to have the ability to sound annoyed.

“It’s just…it’s just a lot heavier than I’m used to lifting.”

When Don’s hand lands on the bar, August nearly jumps out of his skin. His mentor had approached deceptively quietly, and now, when his hand makes contact, the bar jumps in place, weight on either end rattling loudly against each other. “August!”

Don barks it, and August jumps all over again.

“Do you think you’re going to be attacked by a supervillain that keeps your pathetic maxes in mind?”

“Uh…” August swallows hard. “Probably…probably not.”

“Do you think disaster mitigation is going to be limited to shit you can comfortably handle?”

“If it did, it probably wouldn’t be a disaster,” August tries weakly for a joke, but Don’s impassive face doesn’t shift. “So, uh, no, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Don shoves himself off the bar, setting everything clanging all over again. “No.” Taking a few steps back, he positions himself behind the bench, so he’ll be watching Augusts’ every move. “I changed my mind. It’s not five sets, ten reps. You’ll go to failure.”

Throat dry, August nods, first to his mentor, then to himself. He knows what Don means when he says to failure. He has bruises from working to failure – but Don is his mentor, and August doesn’t want to disappoint.

Stepping up to the bench, August rolls first one shoulder, then the other. Then, he slides into place beneath the bar. Setting his hands a shoulders-width apart, he pushes up, pressing the new weight upwards, off the rest.

The new weight is heavy. It’s a lot heavier than what August was doing before, when Donovan had him trying to pump out reps as fast as he could. Now, August just focuses on bringing the bar down to just tap his chest, and then pressing it back up. On the fourth rep, his biceps start to burn. By the tenth, both arms are on fire, from his wrists to his shoulders, spreading even into the webbing of muscles across his back.

August manages three more reps before he has to stop, the bar wavering in the air above his eyes. His breath is coming in harsh, hard pants, and it takes a second for him to get out the words forming in his head.

“Needa…break.”

“No breaks.” Don is implacable, impossible to argue with. “Keep going until you can’t.”

“What…what if I can’t?”

“That’s pathetic.”

Scowling up at the bar, at his shaking hands, August blows out a long breath. “Okay, then.”

Two more reps, and he’s letting them down much too fast, so fast they almost bounce off his sternum. It’s bad form, but giving into the weight is intoxicating, letting his muscles ease off the resistance and rest. The way back up is endless – a shaking, unsteady push, until all August’s muscles are stretched to their utmost. Then the cycle begins again.

On the third rep, August’s arms stop, half bent, halfway back up. For one heart-stopping moment, he thinks the bar is going to fall, going to come back down and break his ribs, but instead it just hovers there, not going any farther and not dropping, either. August is pushing as hard as he can, arms searing, aching, complaining. Absolutely nothing happens to the bar above him. It’s like his arms and the weight are locked in place, held there by something far stronger than him.

“Need…help…” he gasps, the bar shaking more and more as he fights to hold it in place. “Can’t…keep…going!”

There’s a long silence from behind him, and August glances up frantically, terrified that Don has left. No, there’s a big dark shape behind him, unmoving. The bar drops a fraction of an inch as August struggles to keep it aloft. “Huh-help!”

“No.” Don’s voice is cold and unforgiving. “You’re going to have to figure out how to help yourself.”

The denial felt like a physical push. All strength gone, August’s arms collapse, and the bar hits him hard in the chest, heavy and momentous. The impact punches the air out of him, leaves him gagging and gasping, twitching involuntarily around the bar pinning him to the bench. The weight of it pressing into his brand-new bruise makes August whine, panting desperately for breath and against the pain. His feet come off the ground, flailing and tapping uselessly against the gym floor. His burning arms press hard at the iron bar, straining to move it. Minutes pass, and August’s breath grows frantic, erratic, frightened. He can’t move the bar. He can’t move the bar. He –

After minutes of grunting, struggling, making undignified, high-pitched squeaks, August heaves just right. The bar teeters, and then tips to the right, crashing to the ground and freeing August’s left side. His right side is pinched hard against the bench, but at least he can scramble free, gasping, wide-eyed, staring.

He still can’t breathe right, so he just stares, bruised and fully stunned, at his mentor. Donovan watches levelly from his place against the wall as his sidekick wraps tentative arms around his aching middle. Don looks from the bar on the ground to his wide-eyed apprentice and wrinkles his nose.

“You’re an insult to this fucking team,” Donovan tells him. Before August can rely, Don is pushing off the wall and walking away.