Charcoal Grey [H.S.]

CHAPTER EIGHT - REMINISCENT

A month went by.

It was filled with a mountain of assignments, projects, classes, mental breakdowns, late night studying and caffeine. Lots of caffeine. Along with a dash of Harry Styles.

Lennon was growing more accustomed and comfortable in his presence, enjoying the few dates he would take her on and when he would surprise her at work with flowers. Harry was becoming more familiar with this whole 'dating' scene but there was still a sinister voice screaming inside his head, telling him that he is going to fuck up and leave her. He tried to ignore it and only focus on her.

He exited the ring, ignoring all the lewd and obnoxious shouts from beefy looking men to girls in short skirts who didn't know jack shit about boxing and only cared about his pretty face. As always, he came out undefeated and invincible.

Stepping into his locker room, he slammed the door behind him. Aggressively strolling across the worn out floor, he headed to stare at the rusty mirror. Splashes of blood painted his cheeks and jaw, a darkening bruise on his temple, his eyes bloodshot and half lidded, his hair sticking to his nape by the assistance of his sweaty skin.

"My hair's getting too fuckin' long," he hissed, grabbing a water bottle from the bench and drenching his skin with the colourless liquid. He relaxed a bit when the ice cold water cascaded down his blazing skin, easing the tension aching between his muscles.

Letting out a frustrated groan, he tossed the scrunched up plastic bottle away, the loud thud echoing throughout the room. He should feel relished, feel indestructible but he feels nothing. It's another win, great, now move on and focus on the next match.

He peeled the soaked thin tank top off his abdomen, he faced the mirror again, scowling at his reflection. A dim light bulb hung feebly in the centre of the room, illuminating his naked upper half. He was heavily tattooed. His left arm was practically covered in black ink ranging from random doodles to intricate artistic drawings. The most prominent ones were the elaborate navy ship, the heart muscle, the thorny rose, naked mermaid and the anchor. They all glistened under the layer of perspiration.

The one that brought him the most pain was the large butterfly located just above his abs. He clenched his jaw, observing the creature etched on his skin. Butterflies are delicate animals roaming freely in the wild, they are independent and significant. That was what the tattoo was supposed to represent. His freedom. Yet he didn't feel it.

He still felt like his demons chained him down, restricting him of his movements, a dark cloud loomed over his head, nightmares haunting him, panic attacks still raging in from time to time. Nobody knew, not even Callahan. Harry felt ashamed and angry, he confided only in him, not wanting to get close to anyone.

"Fucking stupid shit," he cursed shamelessly, violently running his hands through his hair, ignoring the sharp sparks of pain inflicted on his scalp. "Fuck it."

He turned around, heading to the bench, laying his back against the wall and closing his eyes. His chest heaved up and down rhythmically, the sound of his deep breaths only being present in the empty room.

The door creaked open, "Styles!"

Harry pinched his eyes tighter, dreading that voice. Coach James Holt was a short, hefty man with short grey hair and a wrinkled face. He used to be a terrifyingly amazing boxer during his time despite his unconventional appearance. He is a man who stared at death and merely laughed, the same man who drove all his opponents to the ICU back in his prime days. He was a legend in the boxing world, still is up to this day. Despite being in his early fifties, he still hasn't lost his ruthlessness.

"Coach," Harry finally opened his eyes, "Fancy seeing you here."

James didn't say anything, only closing the door. Once he had approached Harry, he stood a few inches away from him, towering over him, "Everything OK, son?"

Harry never wanted to admit it out loud but he always viewed James as a surrogate father. A better paternal figure than his own bloody father was. All that talk about blood being thicker than water is bullshit. Sometimes the family that isn't part of your flesh is better than the family that is.

"Yeah, Coach," Harry grunted. "Everything's fine."

James didn't seem entirely convinced or satisfied with that answer but he didn't pester any further. He knew Harry would downplay his feelings and keep everything to himself and if he was goaded, he would lose his shit. A pissed Harry is never a pretty sight.

"Right," James continued, "Congrats on the win. You did amazing."

Harry remained silent.

"Go home, take a break. You don't have any more matches for another week. You earned it, son," James said, his gaze ever so slightly softened as he shot Harry one of his rare smiles.

Harry sucked a sharp breath in, curtly nodding, "Right, OK. Thanks Coach."

James muttered something else, turning on his old sneakers and heading to the door. Once he left, the vast silence covered the room again.

Harry stood up, stretching his arms and flexing his fingers to soothe the aching tendons. He twisted his back, cracked his knuckles to hear the futile satisfying crunches as he shook his head to get rid of the excess sweat.

Walking to his locker, he carelessly reached his hand out, in the mood to wear the first thing he touches. He pulled out a tight blue T-shirt and some black shorts. After dressing up, he left the venue, heading up the stairs and into the parking lot. He strolled to his dark blue Ferrari and hastily opened the door. He wanted to get the hell out.

As he twisted the key in the ignition, the engine roared to life, curving his dry lips into a small smirk. That was probably his favourite sound ever, right after the voice of a certain brunette.

His smirk dropped and he shifted uncomfortably in the seat, the material of his shorts suddenly feeling tight all of the sudden. His jaw clenched, gripping the steering wheel harshly, he pulled out of the driveway and started to head into the road.

He pondered if he should pay her a surprise visit but then decided against it.

She's busy most likely.

He also had some unfinished business to take care of.