Why did I write this? I dunno. It just sort of happened because I can relate to Jaune's stupid man-baby "I DON'T WANT HELP" rant more than I'd like to. His dad ended up being meaner than he probably is in canon, but it needed to be done for the sake of the story. Partially inspired by the fact that I have exercise-induced asthma and other weaknesses, which fucking sucks, especially as a martial artist.
"Nothing comes easy. In life, you have to work for what you want."
He wonders how his teacher's words can be true. He wonders and doubts, because if it's so hard, why can his peers train and battle and win like it's nothing? Why can everyone else achieve greatness, but not him? It should come as naturally as breathing, especially with his lineage. He has greatness in his blood. It was passed down with the sword and the shield, and he's expected to take up this greatness with the weapons that have been the honor and glory of the Arc name for generations.
Surely anyone of his line should be able to carry the family legacy with no trouble.
But Jaune's hands are clumsy and his muscles are weak and he can't run more than a minute before his sides begin to ache. His is lungs constrict in his chest and his muscles burn, and the other children all run past him and laugh as he falls gasping to his knees, the bony things completely covered with scabs from similar spills he's taken.
How can he carry the glory of the Arc family when he can't even carry his own body? How can something come as easily as breathing when even breathing is too hard for him to achieve without help?
The doctor gives him an inhaler to assist with that shortness of breath, and says that his lungs won't be a problem as long as he uses it before any rigorous physical activity. He can see his father's mouth set in a hard line as the words "not a problem" are uttered.
Because clearly, this sorry excuse of an heir to the Arc legacy is a very big problem.
Jaune throws the inhaler in the trash as soon as he returns home, because no hero should need something like that.
He tearfully retrieves it from the bin one hour and a scream into his pillow later.
Breathing doesn't hurt him anymore, but he's still slow and weak, outclassed in physical prowess even by the lower grades.
Which is saying quite a bit, because he doesn't even attend a combat school.
No child who shames the Arc family name would be allowed to make a fool of himself in public. Better to let people believe that there was never such a disappointment to begin with. He tells the other students that the name Arc is just a coincidence. Plenty of other families with that name, after all.
So he gives up. What does his encyclopedic knowledge of group combat theory matter if he can't even keep himself safe in a game of dodgeball? Playing at "Huntsman and Grimm" is his only practice at fighting, and he forgets it all soon as the games of pretend become too childish for his peers.
He keeps himself afloat in school with barely passing grades, and no one bats an eye. He couldn't disappoint them any further if he tried. Why bother? These things should come easily to an Arc. If they don't, he clearly isn't meant to bear the name.
It's almost like the blank transcripts fall into his hands, he finds them so easily. He doesn't question it. He simply takes the family weapons that are rightfully his, and he leaves. He'll show them. He'll graduate from Beacon and become a warrior worthy of the Arc name.
Jaune will be the greatest Huntsman ever to bear the Arc banner.
He stays on the roof for nearly an hour after Cardin issues his ultimatum. The cold bites at his cheeks, but he can hardly bring himself to care. His words to Pyrrha hang bitter in his mouth while Cardin's threats ring in his ears. Every word ever spoken about him has proven itself true.
He isn't worthy of being team leader.
He isn't worthy of attending Beacon.
He isn't worthy of his own name.
Jaune pulls a familiar lump out of his pocket, and squeezes it until his knuckles are white and his veins are nearly popping out. With a shout of fury more akin to a beast than a man, he hurls the inhaler off the top of the building with all of his insignificant strength. He watches with satisfaction as it soars into the school gardens below him.
Arcs are heroes. Heroes don't need help.
Jaune returns exhausted and bleary-eyed to the dorm just as the sun begins to peek over the horizon, his uniform covered in burrs and grass stains. He collapses onto his bed with a soft groan, and the inhaler clatters to the floor as sleep takes him.
He doesn't question why he finds it back in his pocket when he shuffles out of the bathroom later that day, but he glares at it all the same, and chucks it into the trash bin.
He also doesn't see Pyrrha pull it back out with a sad smile.