Chapter 9

Training Camp – Day 5

5.59AM. We were all standing to attention as usual as the hand on the clock flicked over to 6. 6AM. Like clockwork itself, Styles barges in.

"Rise and shine," Styles announces, his voice gruff but amused. "You're all off duty until 1800 hours."

"Wait sir... what?" Kelso asks confused.

"You're free until this evening. No drills. No training. No lectures." Styles folds his arms, glancing over us like he expects us to argue. "Use the time wisely—rest, eat, rethink your life choices." His gaze flicks to Kelso. "You especially."

"That actually sounds worse." Kelso groans, completely unfazed by Styles' dig.

"Speak for yourself." Hawkins, the forever enthusiast, quips. "But if I could ask sir, only so I can best prepare of course, why are we getting the time off?" She asks brazenly.

Styles' lips curl. "Because you'll need it. Tonight, we begin survival training. Rough sleeping, fire-starting, food, warmth. Everything you need to make it through a cold night in the wild without freezing your arses off."

A few recruits exchange wary glances.

"Sounds great," Jefferies mutters.

Styles grins, clapping his hands together once. "Mess halls open. Get moving."

____

We all head to the mess hall. It's a strange feeling to be heading for breakfast so early. We always train first thing with Styles, then head to the mess to eat later. As we sit down and begin to eat, it is definitely louder than normal, the rare luxury of free time putting everyone in a slightly better mood. There's not usually much energy left for idle chit-chat after a training session.

Kelso is stacking his tray like he hasn't eaten in weeks, while Fairley stirs her porridge, still looking half-asleep.

"You think we actually get to relax before this survival thing?" Kelso asks around a mouthful of food.

Jefferies scoffs. "Not a chance. There's got to be a catch."

Hawkins smirks. "Maybe Styles is feeling generous."

Fairley stares blankly at her. "Styles doesn't have that setting."

"Oh, come on, he's not that bad." Hawkins replies.

"You're just saying that because you want him to fuck you" Kelso chimes in from across the table. Hawkins laughs in response.

"That wasn't a denial Hawkins" Kelso prods.

"Yeah, well a denial would be a lie, and I'm not a liar." she fires back, smirking. Her response elicits a laugh from most of the group. I ponder the thought for a second. Hawkins and Styles? Yeah, I wouldn't stick around to watch that power struggle.

"Well, swiftly moving on and circling back-" Jefferies interjects, "How much of a short straw do you think we really drew, you know, getting Styles as our C.O?"

"Pft, the shortest" Fairley scoffs.

"You know, I'm not so sure about that" Langford pipes up, muffled through a mouthful of toast. "When I spent my rather unfortunate night in the medical wing, I got talking to some of the other recruits who were there from different camps. While Styles definitely wins the award for best resting bitch face, I think there's a part of him, admittedly small, which genuinely cares about our survival. I think to him, making us work within an inch of our lives here, is the best chance of survival he can give us out there."

"But why can't he work us hard without being such a dick all the time?" Fairley asks.

"Because if he was actually nice, hands up who genuinely believes they would work half as hard as they do now? I mean, take Holton for example-"

My head snaps up from my fruit as everybody's gaze lands on me. "What about me?"

"I don't mean to dig you out Holton, but I think its fair to say you were pretty abysmal in the armoury the other day, and you were clearly having some kind of panic attack. One of the Privates I was talking to in the infirmary had a similar experience. When she had the gun in her hands, she said everything started to crumble around her. Well, her C.O Michaels, she immediately sat her out, sending one of the other recruits to comfort her. While she thinks that was great coaching from her C.O, I see it differently. I mean, what did she actually learn? Nothing. If anything, her C.O has only reaffirmed her fears, and it will almost definitely be worse the next time she has to deal with a firearm." Langford has every single one of our attentions as he speaks. Even Hawkins has no snide remarks to make.

"But Styles? I don't know what he whispered in your ear that day. But, what I saw, was you give it another go. Did you hit the target? Fuck no" he laughs. "Not even close, but you got your adrenaline under control and you worked through a fear. To me, that was a much more valuable learning experience than a cuddle and a comforting word. But what do I know?" Langford concludes as he returns to his toast.

"I would love a cuddle and comforting word from Styles that's for sure" Hawkins says coyly, winking as she does so. She inherits a fit of laughter. Pretty generic conversation ensues after this, but I find myself pondering over Langford's words. I'm not sure I'm totally sold on the whole Styles 'caring about us' arc just yet, but it is definitely food for thought.

____

The winter sun begins to set about 5:30PM. Our day of rest had passed quickly. The others had taken advantage of the time by having particularly long naps. Although every part of my body was desperate to do the same, my mind just wouldn't settle. Instead, I had taken a walk around the compound, hoping to catch sight of my brother somewhere, but I had no such luck.

As the clock reached 6PM, we were all standing to attention in our dorm, just as we had this morning. With his usual punctuality, Styles arrives ready to lead us into whatever terrors awaited us in the darkness.

"Move out!" he commands as we follow him out of the barracks. We walk for about 15 minutes before almost reaching the very end of the bases fenced perimeter. We were stood facing a large forest-like patch of trees. It was already eery, and I was already cold as the sun begins to set.

It had been clear from the moment Styles laid out today's plan, that this wasn't just about learning survival skills—it was about enduring them. A full night outside, no proper shelter, no guaranteed warmth, and the bare minimum rations to keep us functional. As close to the real-war conditions as he could simulate.

Styles wastes no time in sending us off to collect fire wood as a priority. The instructions – collect drywood to bring back to the clearing, and light a fire before complete nightfall. Failure to do so means spending the night freezing.

The terrain is rough beneath me, and my fingers ache from the cold already. As I head back to the clearing, I stare at the sad little pile of twigs in front of me. It would be just about enough to sustain a fire. The only problem, I can't get it fucking started. I strike the flint again, watching as the spark fizzles out before it can catch. The others have already managed, faint glows flickering around the area as proof. But mine? Useless

"You planning on warming yourself up with disappointment, Holton? Or are you actually going to get that thing going?"

The voice is unmistakable. I don't look up, but I feel him behind me. I keep my focus on the flint and steel, grinding my teeth as I try again.

"I'm working on it, sir."

Styles makes a low sound, something unimpressed. Then, to my complete and utter dismay, he crouches down beside me. His presence is immediate, like a fire all on its own. He watches me for a few minutes, staying silent. After about 10 minutes, he huffs.

"Move," he orders.

I don't even get a chance to argue before his hands are on mine, adjusting my grip. His palms are rough, warm, a stark contrast to my ice-cold fingers. The shift is subtle—he guides my hands, steadies them, but I feel every single brush of contact.

"Your angle's off," he murmurs. "You're sparking, but you're not giving it anything to catch onto. You need to build it up—give it something to burn."

His hands move mine, repositioning the kindling, his touch deliberate. The heat of him against my chilled skin makes my stomach twist. He's too close. Too aware.

"You always this bad with your hands?" he teases, voice laced with amusement.

I scowl, shaking him off. "No."

He smirks, leaning back slightly but staying within reach.

I don't dignify that with a 'sir'. Instead, I focus on the fire. This time, the spark catches, the flame flickering to life. I exhale, relief washing through me as the warmth begins to spread.

Styles watches it for a moment before shifting his gaze back to me. "See? All it took was a little patience. And the right touch."

He leaves me to it, but I can still feel the imprint of his hands, the weight of his presence long after he's gone.

____

Hours later, the temperature has plummeted. My fire is still going, but it's doing little to fight off the cold that seeps into my bones. The thin layers we're wearing are useless. My fingers are stiff, my jaw aching from how hard I've been clenching it.

Across the small clearing, Kelso shivers violently, hugging himself as he mutters a string of curses. Jefferies and Hawkins sit close to their fire, their breath visible in the night air. I'm silently counting down the minutes until Styles decides it's time to call it, but then something catches my eye—Fairley, shivering uncontrollably, her fire nearly out, clearly struggling to keep it going.

Without thinking, I get up and move toward her, kneeling down beside her fire. My own hands are stiff and cold, but I grab a few more twigs from my pile and add them to the flame, trying to get it to catch again.

Fairley looks up at me, her face pale, her teeth chattering. "I can't... I just can't," she whispers, her voice strained.

Something inside me shifts. Maybe it's because I remember that panic from the armoury. How helpless I felt. How much I wanted to quit. But I didn't. Not completely. Maybe I can help her do the same.

"Fairley, you're not alone in this," I say quietly, my breath puffing out in visible clouds. I adjust the wood, making sure it's stacked properly, and then hold out my flint and steel. "Let's do this together."

She hesitates, but after a moment, she nods and reaches for the flint. I guide her hand, showing her how to strike it with the right pressure, the right speed – just as Styles had showed me earlier. It takes a few tries, but the spark catches. Slowly, steadily, the fire starts to grow.

For a split second, I see a flicker of something in Fairley's eyes. It's not just the warmth of the flame. It's hope.

I give her a small, encouraging smile. "You did it."

"Thanks, Holton," she mutters, her voice now more confident, though still shaken.

Just then, Styles appears at the edge of our clearing. He watches us, his usual expression unreadable, but there's something in his eyes. Maybe it's approval, maybe it's the same coldness as before, but I can't quite tell. He doesn't speak, just nods once before moving on to the others.

But in that moment, I realize something. It's not just about surviving out here in the cold—it's about helping each other survive.

____

Everyone seems to have settled into their respective places around the flames, wrapped in their thin layers of gear, doing their best to ignore the biting cold. The only sounds now are the occasional rustle of someone adjusting their position and the low hum of wind in the trees.

Styles stands off to the side, his arms crossed, scanning the group. There's something about the way he moves—always alert, always watching. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't reassuring. After a moment, he clears his throat and looks around at us, breaking the silence.

"Listen up," he calls out, his voice firm. "We'll take shifts through the night. Some of you will rest, while others keep watch. It's critical. If one of us is caught off guard, we're all screwed."

He gestures toward Kelso and Jefferies. "You two will take the first watch. The rest of you, sleep when you can. Holton, you'll be next in line for the second watch," he adds. "So, get some rest now."

The others settle in, adjusting their positions to try to sleep. But even as I lie back on the cold, hard ground, my mind is racing. The fire's warmth isn't enough to dull the bite of the night air, and my eyes keep flicking open to check on everyone, even though I know I should be sleeping.

I glance over at Styles, who's still standing by the fire, watching. He looks calm, but I can sense the tension in his posture. Although it is Jefferies and Kelso on guard, he's always in control. Again, I take comfort in the reassurance that he is also on lookout.

Time passes, I'm not sure how long, when Style crouches down next to me. I am already awake, I haven't slept, but his presence is still enough to startle me.

"Always so jumpy. It's your turn for lookout, up you get." His voice is quiet and his tone is deep, doing his best not to disturb the others. As I drag myself off the ground, I feel a shred of jealousy as I look at their sleeping silhouettes. Why can't my mind find peace so easily.

I walk over to Jefferies and Kelso, whose eyes are heavy.

"Holton is here to put you out of your misery. Get some sleep. Good effort boys" Styles instructs.

I sit myself down, back leaning against the tree trunk were Kelso and Jefferies had just been.

Holton," Styles says suddenly, breaking my thoughts. His voice is quieter now, more personal. Not the usual sharp command, but something different. Something a little softer.

I turn my head to find him watching me, his eyes glowing faintly in the firelight.

"You good?" he asks, his gaze flicking over my face, then down to my hands. "I noticed you didn't sleep much during the day. You headed out instead?"

I shift uncomfortably, unsure of how to answer. I'm not sure I want to admit how cold I am or how the night's starting to wear on me.

"Sorry sir, I did try. Did I do something wrong by going out?" I ask quietly.

"No – no, that's your prerogative. I'm just surprised that's all. I would have thought you would have crashed out at the first chance given," he replies.

"I'm fine, sir," I answer, my voice steady even if my body's not.

He studies me for a moment, then nods as if he can see right through the lie.

"You're on your own for the second watch, then Hawkins and Fairley will take over. I'll be resting by my fire, but I'll be awake. If you need help keeping your head in the game, let me know."

I feel the weight of his gaze then, like he's actually paying attention. Not just to what I'm doing, but to how I'm handling it. I don't respond immediately. Instead, I simply nod.

Styles seems to sense that, and for once, he doesn't push. "Get some rest when you can," he adds quietly, glancing around at the group. "We need to stay sharp."

He turns to leave, but something holds him there. Maybe it's the way I'm watching him. Or maybe it's just the silence of the night between us. Without a word, he crouches down next to me, his presence looming over me like a shield against the cold.

"Holton," he murmurs, his voice lower, softer than I expected. "I'm not here to make this easy. But if you're going to survive, you'll need to learn when to push yourself... and when to ask for help."

His eyes meet mine, and I feel a strange mix of tension and understanding. Something unspoken passes between us in that moment, something heavier than the weight of the cold.

"I'll be here," he adds, almost to himself, before standing again, stepping away without another word.

I watch him go, the warmth of his brief presence still lingering in the air, before I close my eyes, trying to ignore the unsettling feeling that clings to my skin. There's no comfort to be found out here in the cold, but I realize something important: I'm not completely alone. Not really.