“You’re going to blow out your arms,” the villain observed. They watched as the hero merely grit their teeth, shoving themself through another pull-up. It looked painful, and if the sweat slicking the hero’s brow was any indication, it was.
They waited for the hero to let themself drop from the bar and accept the villain was stronger. But they didn’t.
Three more pull-ups, and the villain stepped in.
“Hero,” they said slowly. “You’re about to tear the ligaments in your arms. You need to stop.”
The hero blew out a shuddering breath. Struggled for purchase, fighting gravity—and let themself drop.
The hero’s hands were bleeding, calluses torn open by the bar. The hero didn’t seem bothered when their own hands shook so much that their blood began to splatter on the gym floor.
For a moment, the villain could only stare at them.
Shit.
They didn’t know how to handle this. They knew the hero was dedicated. They knew the hero was strong, and perpetually trying to be stronger, but they hadn’t thought…
They hadn’t thought the hero would be so willing to tear apart their own body for success.
It was supposed to be fun, the villain thought. They felt a little sick as the hero pressed their palms together to soothe the bleeding, an action that was practiced and familiar. As if they had done this before.
The hero reached for something in their bag, smearing blood on the side, and pulled out a roll of blue electrical tape. The villain didn’t understand why, until the hero tore a strip off and made to wrap their hands with it.
The hero would be the death of them.
They crouched in front of the hero, plucking the electrical tape out of their hands.
“What are you doing with this?”
The hero blinked at the villain like they were the strange one in this situation.
“Wrapping my hands?”
The villain hissed in a breath.
“With electrical tape?”
The hero flushed slightly, looking down at their bloody hands. They looked close to tears.
“It…sticks to skin, really well. And it doesn’t move, either, when you move your hands or wherever else, even if you’re fighting. Plus, blood doesn’t make it come off, at least, not for a while.”
The villain blinked at them.”
“Blood doesn’t make it come off,” the villain repeated, processing. The hero nodded, reaching for the electrical tape. The villain settled it out of reach.
“Not if you wrap it right.”
Dimly, the villain realized that meant the hero had done this enough times to have it down to a science.
“And you couldn’t use a bandaid?” The villain asked incredulously. The hero shrugged a shoulder, then winced at the motion.
Yeah, the hero had absolutely blown out their arms.
“Bandaids move—“
The villain hushed them.
“Be quiet for a second.”
The hero, wisely, went quiet.
The villain rubbed a hand over their face, then studied the hero for a moment. They took one of the hero’s hands into their own, studying the damage.
“Why did you do this to yourself,” the villain murmured.
“What do you mean, why,” the hero snapped. “It’s my job.”
“Your job is to save people,” the villain corrected. “Not destroy yourself.”
“I’m not destroying myself—“
“You are.”
“Shut up—“
“Hero.”
“I need to be better,” the hero snapped. Their voice rang out across the gym, echoing into the rafters, and they both froze. After a moment, the hero spoke again, voice soft. “I need to be better.”
They said it like they needed the villain to understand. The villain wondered who they were really saying it to—the villain, or themself.
“Better than who?”
“Everyone.” It was hushed, like a secret.
The villain watched them, waiting.
The hero took a shaky breath
“My whole thing is being the best. I have always been the best. That’s the only reason I matter. If I’m not strong enough, then I am nothing, so I need. to be. better.”
The hero had started crying, very quietly, like they were afraid to take up too much space.
The villain was not equipped to handle gifted kid burnout.
“There’s more to you than just being a good athlete,” the villain said hesitantly, and the hero shook their head.
“No. There isn’t.”
“Hero.”
“Can you give me back my electrical tape?” They hiccuped to contain a sob.
“No,” the villain said firmly, and then the hero really was sobbing.
“You don’t understand—“
The villain didn’t. Not really. They had never been the kind of talented that the hero was.
They wondered now if maybe that was a blessing.
“I don’t,” the villain agreed. “But I do understand that you’ve saved half the city, and you give everything you have to give, and you always do your best.”
“But I-“
“No.” The villain stopped them. “You are doing your best.” They tipped the hero’s chin up until they met the villain’s eyes. “And it is enough.”
The hero froze, eyes darting over the villain’s face. They wondered if anyone had ever said that to the hero, if whatever mentor they had was giving them anything other than orders to be stronger. Be better. Be more.
The villain had some new targets to take care of, it would seem.
For now, though, they had to take care of hero.
“We’re going to go wrap your hands,” they said softly. “And then we’re going to take care of your arms, and you’re going to take a nap.”
The hero nodded, watching them like they were some kind of good, selfless person.
“And if I ever catch you using electrical tape again, so help me, I will put you six feet under.”
That startled a laugh out of the hero, and they let the villain guide them to their feet.
“Fine.”
The villain turned to them. “Okay?”
Are you going to be alright?
The hero seemed to understand.
“Okay,” the hero agreed.
Yes.
And so, it was.
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Fluent Freshman - Part 23
PREVIOUS
There were a few reasons that Andrew and Neil could not get past reception to go see FF or get updates on his current condition.
The first reason was that visiting hours were long over by the time they had arrived a little after midnight.
The second reason was that hospitals, in general, don’t just give out information on their patients to any random person that walks in and asks for an update on their condition. They are ESPECIALLY hesitant to give out updates on patients when the people who are asking can’t give you anything other than a first name, general description, and the reason that the patient is in the hospital.
Somehow “Completely average looking guy with the last name Smith who was stabbed in the stomach” is not enough for the receptionist to go off of.
“There are multiple people here that fit that description. I would need at least a first and last name before I could even begin to start seeing if you were someone who we even could give updates to. No, I will not continue to play your fun little game of guess the first name.” She says when Andrew opens his mouth to start listing off names alphabetically again.
So now Andrew and Neil found themselves under the watchful eye of a security guard as they sat in the back corner of the front reception area.
“I can’t believe we still don’t know what Smith’s first name is.” Neil says his face is buried in his hands as he and Andrew sit in the uncomfortable chairs trying to figure out where to go from here.
“I think she knows exactly who we want to see.” Andrew scowls towards the receptionist who, long used to the ire of the public, pays him no mind. Andrew just refused to believe that there were that many brown haired, brown eyed, average height and weight guys who had suffered a stab wound to the stomach that would have been admitted in the last two hours.
“I just hope they actually are looking after him and that no one went and forgot about him in an hallway somewhere.” Neil says hands sliding up into his hair to grip.
“That wouldn’t happen.” Andrew dismisses despite knowing that Wymack had ABSOLUTELY forgotten FF at a stadium once during the period where FF had been low presence to keep his family from bothering him.
The U-turn he had pulled had definitely been illegal when FF called and asked where the bus was when they had been on the road for five minutes. Wymack had felt terrible about it but FF had just seemed relieved that the bus had come back for him.
Wymack.
Andrew pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number. Wymack, reliable as always, picks up on the fourth ring with the sound of cursing as he got the phone up to his ear. “What.” He asks and Andrew can hear the sounds of driving and Kevin’s infamously train-like snoring in the background.
“What’s Smith first name. You know it.” Andrew demands.
“Classified.” Wymack clips back immediately.
“I need to know it so that we can get updates.” Andrew hisses.
“He isn’t interested in people knowing it and you wouldn’t be able to get updates anyways.” Wymack dismisses.
“We want to be able to head back to see him.” Neil tries.
“Visiting hours are long over Josten. You know that I’m not settling that bet that you little fuckers have floating around about this.” Wymack responds back.
Andrew grits his teeth and then forces himself to relax his jaw, “It’s not about the bet.” Andrew shuts his eyes in irritation.
That stupid bet.
The betting culture within the Palmetto State Foxes Exy team that Reynold’s had cultivated held strong even after her graduation with the remaining Foxes. The Bet had started when one of the other freshmen had mentioned that it was funny that FF went around like Cher or Madonna. The realization that none of them knew FF’s first name was one that had them placing bets on a multitude of things. Things like: “Do you wanna bet it’s a super normal boring name?”, “Do you wanna bet that it’s a weird foreign name?”, and “Is FF intentionally not giving it out to people or since he goes by his last name normally he has no idea that anything is amiss?” Had lower pools since you were betting on a spectrum. The bet with the highest pool is: “What is FF’s first name”.
Wymack had categorically refused to answer it and all other attempts to discover FF’s first name had been met with frustration. There was a solemn agreement that no one could just go and outright ask him since that would ruin all of the fun. Andrew had agreed to not ask when the team had collectively filled his freezer with ice cream cake and he was a man of his word.
The general belief (after the revelation of his major and the number of languages FF spoke) was that FF’s name was just not easy to pronounce for English speakers.
Andrew hadn’t participated but he know that the Foxes do have a running list of names they know it’s not. (Greg, Will, Smith (again), Matt, Kevin, Neil, Andrew, Aaron, Nathaniel, Jack, Beyonce (Sheena’s drunken guess), Nicholas, John, Fred, Garfield, Frank, Alfred, Augustus, Adam, etc. (Andrew had been trying to guess with the receptionist for a while))
“You’re coming here aren’t you? We can get updates when you get them.” Neil says.
“He’s in emergency surgery right now and will remain there for the next few hours most likely. There’s not going to be any updates hopefully.” Wymack says with a sigh loud enough that they can hear it over Kevin’s snoring.
“Surgery? He needs surgery?” Neil asks sounding surprised s if FF hadn’t been stabbed to the hilt into his stomach with one of Andrew’s knives. He’s about to give Neil some shit for the question before remembering that if there was any person who would think that a stab wound to the stomach wouldn’t necessitate surgery it would be Neil “I’m Fine” Josten.
“Yes Josten, he needs surgery. They have to stitch up his stomach and the surgeons are also going to be dealing with some of the ulcers that were ruptured by the knife.” Wymack explains likely coming to the same conclusion that Andrew had on Neil’s stupid question. “They were a bit worried about him bleeding out but he stabilized before the surgery.” Wymack sighs.
“I’m going the hospital since I’m Smith’s medical proxy. If anything goes wrong with the surgery I want to be there so I can make an informed decision on his care.” Wymack says and… Andrew figured there’d be surgery but to hear it and the possibility that something could go wrong, that the last thing FF had said to him had been something non-sensical about “Gracie Hart wouldn’t have gotten stabbed. I’m Cheryl at best.”as he’d started succumbing to all the blood loss. “If you could stick around long enough for me to drop Kevin off with you I would appreciate it.” Wymack says.
“What if he needs a blood transfusion?” Andrew says.
“Smith is AB-, it’s the second easiest blood type to transfuse into. Go home Andrew.” Wymack repeats.
Andrew works his jaw irritated that there didn’t seem to be a path to getting his way.
“We’ll stay here until you get here.” Andrew agrees, “But you’ll get an update before we leave.” He adds.
Wymack sighs, “Fair enough.” He says before hanging up.
It’s 45 minutes of waiting and tossing a few more name possibilities at the receptionist who seems more amused than anything at their continued attempts to guess their friend’s first name (Neil goes through the entire list of names that he’s gone by and none of them get the thumbs up).
Wymack comes through the doors with a half awake Kevin Day following his steps. “I have another favor to ask you.” Wymack says instead of any form of greeting.
“I’m not going to leave Kevin in the car overnight again. It was just that one time.” Andrew says with a roll of his eyes and honestly he’d been punished enough listening to Kevin bitch, moan, and sneeze for the following week while talking about all the supplements he was taking.
“Not that,” Wymack pauses, “I have two favors to ask you. First don’t do that. Second, would you be able to pick up Smith’s grandma from the airport tomorrow?” He asks.
Andrew blinks.
“She’s coming here?” He asks.
“I updated her on my way here. She booked a flight and will be arriving around noon tomorrow.” Wymack says and Andrew doesn’t know why he’s confused by this. FF’s grandma got him two still warm pies to cheer him up on Thanksgiving.
He’d stabbed that woman’s grandson.
“I’ll pick her up.” He agrees.
Shorter one today
NEXT
MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU
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