Ignition [h.s]

16

HARRY STYLES

When I open my eyes, I'm confronted with a room that isn't usual to sleep in. It isn't a usual place to wake up in either, as I slowly lift my neck from the ground with a loud crack, rubbing the tender spot before glancing around my art studio in Texas.

I blink hard, letting my eyes scale the length of the white walls covered in my paintings. I look at each of them and feel not much of anything. They're more personal to me than the ones at the American Gothic—these ones are for my own private keeping. I've only ever painted them whilst down in Texas or if they weren't good enough for the display at the gallery.

Nobody's ever seen them apart from Elise. That's when I acknowledge her warm body against my own. I look downwards and see her, breathing quietly into my side as she remains asleep. One of my arms is still wrapped around her. My hand in her blonde hair, caressing her head. Her warmth radiates up into my fingertips, sending a weird feeling up into the muscles of my arm and whilst we definitely didn't fall asleep in this position, I'm not sure she'd appreciate my hands in her hair very much when she wakes up. So cautiously, I pull my fingers from her soft hair and shuffle backwards from her resting form, instantly feeling the cold air of the room against my body.

Elise looks oddly peaceful considering we were curled up on a rock-solid floor—one palm beneath her cheek, her lips fluttering in sync with her gentle breathing. Her eyelashes and eyelids move too, as they tend to when someone is dreaming. I wonder what she's dreaming about. We've spent so much time together and yet I hardly feel like I could guess her dreams, there's just so much I still don't know about her. What's her favourite colour? What's the first and last thing she thinks of before going to sleep or waking up?

The more I think about it, the more it becomes apparent to me that I'm not very close with many people. Sure, I know people. I know a shit ton of people in fact, you kind of have to have connections for jobs like owning art galleries which require a ridiculous amount of networking. But when it comes down to actually knowing people? Friends? I'm not so sure I have very many of them.

In fact, I've very nearly burned the bridges between the only guys I would consider friends. With the way I scolded them after they let Elise use guns at training, I'd be very surprised if there were any bridges left between us at all. Brief flashes in the form of a monotone movie reel flash behind my tired eyes—Louis storming off with his hands in the air, Liam with his head in his hands, Niall's cheeks puffy and red from the burn of my hostile words and Elise's pale face streaked with tears.

Yesterday was a lot—for all of us. Tensions were running too high and it was bound to end in explosion. This painting getaway was needed for me to debrief or I could've completely blown my top and I can't do that yet. I have so much left I have to take care of.

It's hard having a woman introduced into our mix. We're used to operating without feeling and Elise brought out the feeling in all of us yesterday. I don't want her exposed to weaponry without my oversight, but Niall thought it would be best for her to know how to shoot a gun. She makes us clash and whether that's a bad thing yet, I don't know. It's even harder that she isn't trained like we are. How disorientated she must feel to be uprooted from a privileged life in New York to galivant around the country with criminals.

Because that's what we are, at the end of the day. I might be easier on her lately but I'm still a man who has taken the lives of hundreds without remorse. Sometimes I even enjoy it, I realise, with a twist to my stomach. What does it really matter if I've gone out of my way to save Elise's life, when I've taken so many more?

It isn't like her life is much more perfect than mine apparently. She isn't a deliberate murderer like I am, but she lives with the guilt that her mum's death is her fault. I can't really compare being a mass murderer to that. The loss of a parent is something I've never and will never experience. But even if I was the reason for my parent's death, would I care? Probably not.