OSC One-Shots

Trophy-Centric | Savages

Word Count: 662
Tags: Drabble, self-harm, self-hatred, toxic masculinity, emetophobia, angst, exercising.
Please read the tags before reading. Comments/kudos appreciated, thanks.
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Savages

Trophy felt utterly sick with himself.

Having dealt with a problem like that for so long, Trophy has just learned to accept that part of himself. After all, there wasn't much for him to do about sentimental, unnecessary feelings.

Sometimes the feeling was unbearable.

He couldn't help it, couldn't stomach it.

Shaking the protein powder in his drink yo make sure the water dissolved into his water evenly, Trophy duly noted that this was his second today. Typically, he drank it throughout his entire workout; yet today, Trophy felt like testing his limits.

(It will make him feel better, he convinced himself, despite knowing fully well that he'll wake up sore and achey in the morning.)

His routine was simple, ingrained in his habits, especially considering how he has done his routine today already.

A simple stretch, push-ups, the treadmill, and lifting some hefty weights. He also made sure to train his core, doing some planks among other things.

A part of Trophy was feeling better already, knowing that he had something to prove himself of some recognition- something worthy.

So, he continues to work out, sweaty and already achey from pushing himself more than usual. It almost looks like he's heaving with each lift of his weights, the dramatic up-and-down of his panting.

It hurts, Trophy feels distantly, but he knows he'll be able to improve. Knows he'll be able to improve. Knows he'll be able to do much, much more than what his body can handle.

He'll make his body take it, no matter what.

With a huff, he dropped the weight and felt himself go down with it, no doubt collapsing from the sheer amount of work he forced it to go through.

Like clockwork, Trophy forced himself to get up from the sweaty floor, taking a glance down at himself.

He's sure that he looks red in the face, considering how the pads of his fingers were sore- and God, he couldn't stop shaking. The aftershocks of adrenaline affecting him much more than he'd like to admit, exhaustion making this entire ordeal much more dramatic.

He couldn't stomach it, could not tolerate is body showing so much weakness.

It made Trophy stifle anything else he was feeling, internalizing it all just for himself to feel later- in the morning; before abandoning the weights he was using to instead jog on the treadmill.

If he could not lift any longer, then he might as well make himself useful by working on something else in order to make himself stronger- more durable- more tolerant

Thirty minutes pass until he starts feeling nauseous, a part of him glad that this was the hotel's private gum than somewhere public.

He doubts anyone would say anything, the only people viewing the cameras being Paper or OJ.

He had an image to uphold, he had a look to maintain.

(You'd figure that after you puke, you would feel better.)

It had the opposite effect on Trophy.

Trophy, who was hugging the sides of a toilet bowl, puking whatever he had consumed in the past twelve hours. Puking due to the excessive exercise until his body started failing himself.

(He doesn't feel better, no.)

The only thing he had consumed in the pasts hour was the two protein shakes and a measly breakfast that held more water than fruit.

Trophy did not feel good, not at all. As he liked the remnants of stomach bile from his lips and washed his mouth out with sink water, he couldn't imagine continuing his workout session any longer for today.

Sometime this week, he'll do the same thing and puke it all back up; sometime this week, he'll drink two protein shakes instead of one and feel his insides eat at each other until his brain was satisfied with his progress.

One day, he'll feel better and be able to fix this mess, fix himself, because the problem is Trophy.

But he couldn't face that right now.