Insatiable [h.s]

45

Harry Styles
December 2, 2014 - age 16

"You hit like a pussy." I gritted out as I swung a swift blow to Nialls jaw.

We're suppose to use gloves when we're training, but there's something about feeling my bare fist connect with someone's skin that ignites a fire inside of me.

Unfortunately for me Niall doesn't feel the same way. He refuses to train with me unless we wear gloves. So, like I said before, he's a fucking pussy.

I like the sting of the contact when there's no gloved barrier. It keeps my adrenaline pumping and forces me to keep pushing forward with no pain, no emotion, nothing. It's how we've been trained after all.

Never show emotion.

Never give into the pain.

It's better to learn to shut that shit out as soon as possible. In this line of work there's no room for anything but the actual work.

"Fuck off, was tryin' not to hurt ya." Niall spit onto the padded floor, traces of blood mixed into it. "Never mind with that."

Niall's eyes flashed with anger and a satisfied grin loomed onto my lips. Fighting Niall when he's pissed off is better because it's more of a challenge.

When Niall is angry he doesn't let his conscience get into the way of things. When he's angry he's a true fighter and that's what I want. I want him not to hold back.

I prod at him daily and piss him off in away that I can so that when we come in here, just the two of us to train together, he'll be proper pissed.

Nialls a lot like me, though he'd never admit it. The pain in our training is something that drives him forward too. It's like an adrenaline junky searching for their high.

Niall and I train more than anyone. It's an easy tell just by seeing us preform. We strive for greatness, and we push ourselves past the limits we think humanly possible. We don't give in.

We're the sons of leaders. It's in our blood.

"Don't hold back." I sneered knowing it would add to Nialls fire.

Our movements are quick, each calculated and well thought out in a span of milliseconds. It also helps that we know each others fighting style. It makes it easier to react and counter react to each attempt of a blow.

Niall and I have been in here for over an hour now, both of us sweating profusely, my shaggy hair sticking to my forehead and base of my neck.

Fuck, I really need a haircut.

Niall and I had both ditched our shirts long ago given they were drenched within the first ten minutes of us working out.

The only problem with sweating this much is that my scars start to itch. They'll randomly itch through out the day, but they especially seem to flare up when I sweat excessively.

My scars aren't hidden in the slightest. They're very visible for anyone to see them down my bicep when I where a regular shirt. When I first got them I tried to hide them, I was ashamed of them. They hold more meaning than anyone could know from just a single glance but in my thirteen year old mind I was terrified that everyone knew the truth of them.

Back then I was terrified of them and what they meant. But my training helped change that.

I grew to hate them instead of being ashamed of them. They're my burden to carry for the rest of my life, but that doesn't allow me to hide them. The world doesn't know what they mean or what they're from.