Wild Side [h.s au]

Chapter 11

"I believe you've broken fifteen rules by now, and it's been only. . ." he glanced down at his wrist watch, "six minutes, Harry. Unbelievable, you've literally finished your punishment just now and the first thing you do is this?"

I shook my head, chuckling. "Forget the rules, brother, and come help me."

My eyes shoot open, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, burying my face into my palms. I haven't had a dream about him in over three months, why now? I feel the familiar pang in my chest, sadness slowly spreading through my chest, placing a heavy weight on it.

My eyes dart to the clock on the nightstand, reading five am. A deep sigh escapes my lips as I push myself up, slowly making my way to the bathroom. As I pass by the room I haven't opened in months, a shiver runs down my spine, causing me to quicken my pace.  My hand twists the handle of the bathroom door, my feet carrying me inside, my knees giving out. I lift the lid from the toilet seat, feeling the bile rising in my throat.

I've learnt it's a terrible thing, the guilt. Just when you think it's diminished, even for a bit, it comes back in full force, almost suffocating you.

"Stop it," I whisper to myself, refusing to give in to my weakness. "Pathetic. Get up." Anger soars through me as I prop my elbows against the toilet seat, managing to stand to my feet again. I quickly turn on the faucet to my right, letting the cold water run, cupping my palms underneath the stream.  I splash the water over my face a few times, trying to pull myself from that familiar vulnerable state I've started to drift in.

My hands tightly grip the edges of the sink, my head hung low while water droplets slide over my face, slowly dropping down. My eyes are screwed shut, my mouth silently chanting words of encouragement for myself.

When I'm done preparing myself for yet another day, I grab my black bandana, using it to push back the curls constantly spilling over my forehead. I make my way out of my flat, locking the door behind me, slipping the key into my pocket. I strut down the hallway, stopping in front of one particular flat, my lips curving in a devious smirk.

My palm pounds against the door a few times while I whistle a tune to myself. I don't have to wait for too long before I hear Niall shout, "fuck off, H!" and a thud, meaning he probably threw something at the door.

Despite my efforts to push the dream away, it keeps flashing before my eyes, making me more irritable than I usually am in the mornings. In order to avoid snapping at someone, I decide the best way to get rid of the negative energy is to train, to scrape the wounds on my knuckles again, and feel the burn in my muscles.

And that's exactly what I do. The moment I step inside my training room, my fingers lift the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head and tossing it carelessly on the floor, my rings following. My feet hastily carry me toward the punching bag, my bandaged hand curling itself into a fist before delivering a strong punch to it, causing it to swing from the impact. My lips pull in a smile at the small pang of satisfaction I felt as I continue my assault, each punch making me feel better.

As it always happens when I begin with my training, I completely lose the track of time, forgetting about hunger, thirst, about the world. I don't know how long it's been until I hear Niall's loud voice from the hallway, followed by the sound of the door opening and eventually footsteps, indicating he's approaching me.

"Styles," he says, throwing a towel and my shirt at me. "I have a feeling if it weren't for me, you'd never feed. Come on, it's breakfast time."

"You're like a walking alarm clock," I say, breathing heavily, still recovering from my session. I turn to face him, picking up the shirt and throwing it over my shoulder while using the towel to collect the sweat trickling down the sides of my face and my torso.