Fighter (A Liam Payne Fanfiction)

Chapter Six - Trust Issues

Same man that you knew way back when,

You acting like it's somebody you don't know.

Tell me, how the fuck we supposed to stay friends

When you got a bunch of feelings that you don't show?

- "Trust Issues", Drake

......

HARRY POV

Duck.

Swing.

Punch.

Block.

Punch.

There was nothing in this world that could compare to the sound of my fist crunching against a person's face, and watching that person crumple and fall onto the ground. No weed can compare, no coke...no high will ever beat the sight of causing some fucker to draw blood. The echo of bones snapping in my ears was like fucking Mozart to me.

I felt powerful.

My scrimmage partner—some Asian guy named Damien—fell straight to the ground like a fucking fallen tree after I knocked him hard in the jaw, moaning in pain.

"Harry," my trainer, Leo, muttered quietly to me. I'm pretty sure he's terrified of me. "It's...it's, uh, just a scrimmage match, buddy... You don't need to hit so hard—"

I spat out blood and wiped sweat off my neck. "Again. Get the fuck up, Damien."

He just whimpered in response, his hands covering his face.

I sighed, rolling my eyes and wiping my curly hair off my forehead, and looking around my dirty, dim-lit gym. "Is there anybody here willing to train with me that is not a little bitch?" The eyes of everyone around the room darted nervously from the floor, to hands, to the walls — anywhere but at me.

Eli, my tall, ginger, dopey caveman of a yes-man, hurried over to help drag Damien's crying body out of the way. "That was beautiful, Styles."

"Not beautiful enough." I spat out some more blood. "I'm fucking bleeding—uh, hello? I said again!" I boomed the word so loud that every other fighter and coach training in there jumped about a foot in the air, and it was so quiet you could hear a hair drop to the floor.

"Hey, don't worry, buddy, I'll scrimmage with you," Eli said cheerfully, suddenly wrapping his hands up.

I studied Eli strangely. He was the closest thing a guy like me could have to a best friend, and I swear, he would eat a steaming bowl of dog shit and tap dance barefoot on nails if I wanted him to. He does whatever I want at the drop of a dime—and I do mean, literally whatever—and always seems like he's more than happy to do it. "Fine. Get over here. I'm in my zone."

Eli stood across from me, and lifted his arms.

I swung at him, cracking him about four times in the face. Eli wasn't much of a boxer, and it always seemed like he let me win. He's much better than a punching bag, because he actually makes noises of pain and bleeds. My two favorite things about opponents.

I crossed over, jabbing Eli in the chest. He stumbled back, but instantly moved back to where I'd punched him. 

"T-that was a good one," he gasped, his face already pale.

"Please don't break Eli's nose...again," Leo called warily from the sidelines, then shrunk back around the corner, staring at his phone. Leo never held eye contact with me for longer than eight seconds. I loved having that effect on people. Only Eli can actually look at me dead on.