Fade {Harry Styles}

Prologue

The fierce green orbs rolled, annoyed, behind the thick plastic of Harry’s “glasses”. Every time he caught sight of a magazine with another headline about “One Direction taking a break from tour” or “Harry Styles: success or hot mess” his anger flared. Which was often. 

It was easy to catch sight of something, considering the fact he worked right next to a magazine stand. In a Walmart. At the checkout. Technically he wasn’t “Harry Styles” however. He was Marcel, the nerdy check out guy.

"Hello." Marcel uttered to his present customer. He hated talking to customers for the reason of his British accent. Obviously his undefined "r"s and formal way of speaking didn’t quite blend with the stretched "o"s and rhythmic swing of a Minnesotan accent.  "Did you find everything alright?" He asked, lacking even a note of interest in the lady withdrawing her checkbook from her purse. "Yes. Thank you."

Marcel wordlessly scanned the items with a growing pain in his chest. He’d been in disguise for barely a week but was eagerly awaiting the call management would send to tell him he had learned his lesson. 

He missed his old life with his fancy cars and sumptuous hotel rooms. He loved the way girls would run up to him on streets and practically throw their young, desperate bodies at him. He loved the attention he got when he walked into a restaurant or store. How he didn’t have to wait in line for anything; ever. 

He missed being Harry Styles from One Direction. 

But that was the point, he supposed. He got too caught up in being rich and famous as the boys would say. To them, he was rude, selfish, and cruel. To them he was no longer the boy fighting for a dream on the X-Factor. He had become the man with a famous face and bad reasons to use it. To them, he just needed to be Harry again. 

Marcel paused in mid scan, gazing at the object in his hands. It was like looking into a mirror. His face — Harry’s face — smiled up at him from the piece of fabric made into a little girl’s shirt. He hadn’t even noticed the girl hiding behind her mother’s leg, gazing at him with a look of sparked curiosity. A small urge pulled at the back of his mind as his fingers flexed slightly as if he were expecting a pen to sign something with to appear between his slender fingers. 

He wondered if she recognized him, even the slightest bit. But the way she ducked behind her mother once again after he glanced at her suggested otherwise. 

A feeling that greatly resembled hurt clenched Marcel’s chest and he hastily threw the shirt into a plastic bag with the rest of the items.

"33.86," he grumbled, taking the bills from the lady as quickly as possible. He didn’t thank her when she grabbed her bag. He didn’t smile at the little girl as they left his isle. He didn’t even glare at the magazine rack like he did most other times.

Instead, he closed his lane, almost happy that his shift was over. He wordlessly left the building and started up the shitty chevy that management so graciously gifted him with to help his disguise. The trip to his small, rented apartment was quick, for Marcel was lost in thought. With his shoulders, slumped and defeated, and lips casting down in a frown, Marcel trudged through his door, slamming it heartily behind him. 

He snatched the pair of plastic glasses from his nose only to cast them across the room into the darkness that consumed his apartment, not caring where they ended up. His heart drummed irregularly in his ears. He lost everything, even if it was only temporarily. Because of his attitude and lack of judgement he lost his friends, his family, his appeal, his life to a voice in his head that told him nothing mattered but money.

His slender fingers combed restlessly through his shortened, straight hair. His curls were gone, even if that was only temporary too. Everything that was once familiar to him was gone in a flash. He hated management for putting him in this position, and he hated how the boys had been the ones to come up with the idea. He hated the press for publicizing his story, he hated the headlines they tagged him with. He hated his stupid job and his stupid disguise. He hatedMarcel.

Most importantly, however, he hated Harry. He hated how he got so caught up in fame that he lost sight of what really mattered to him. He hated the fact that he still couldn’t force himself to be who he was before he was famous. He still wanted the money, the cars, the hotel rooms, the fame — and that’s what hurt the most. The fact he still wanted what made him become Marcel in the first place. 

He slunk to the ground with his back to the wall and eyes pressed harshly closed. Hands clenched at his sides as his head hung low in defeat.

What had he done to himself.