Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

6: Behind His Glasses

6: Behind His Glasses

   The other half of the day ran through my head even into the evening. Best Song Ever was truly living up to its title up until the worst part; when it ended. It had everything the One Direction fandom loved: Niall’s “Ow!” an amazingly high note from Zayn and a small inner explicit of randomness the fans would go crazy for.

   Aside from that, after the perfect final take of the day, I got to congratulate the boys, and they all hugged me, making my heart nearly explode. However, the beating series of chambers in my chest nearly stopped its motion all together as the boys continued to speak.

   “We’re going to start shooting the music video in a couple days,” Niall purred.

   “We can get you two off work if you want to come watch,” Harry added.

   Marcel and I both gladly accepted.

   Maybe I underestimated the thought of being friends with the loser. He was nice, admittedly, and, though I told Georgia Rose to refrain from using him, his friendship had benefits.

   Even now, the benefit was continuing, over at his sister’s house. Their sister, Gemma, had been the one to settle into LA, bringing the nerd along with her. Harry had just chosen to stay here while the video shoot was in progress.

   Marcel had been tutoring me for an hour before we’d taken a break for dinner. It was fairly hard to concentrate on the conversation – or the food – sitting juxtaposed to Harry Styles, who held his perfect, dimpled grin the entire time, but somehow I managed to clean my plate without fainting.

   When supper ended, I still had over half the page of math questions left and Marcel had plenty of work to do to help me like he promised. We returned to his room.

   It was a nice place – mostly still cluttered with unpacked boxes – and actually had few of the aspects I expected; few books, no weird Star Wars memorabilia. It was a large room actually for the small mansion Gemma had bought, painted white.

   My books and random sheets of paper still cluttered Marcel’s bed, and we resumed the positions we’d been in previous to our break, me closer to the pillows, and him closer to the end of the bed.

   We dove into the sixteenth problem, the one I’d been stuck on in the break room at lunch: (1/2)x2 + mx - 2 = 0, solve for x. Marcel gave me a scrap piece of lined paper and worked through it with me.

   “What’s the value of m?” I asked after nearly a minute of drawing a blank.

   “M d-doesn’t need a value,” he told me, “You’re s-solving for x.”

   “Then what’s m?”

   “Not imp-portant.”

   “Then why’s it in the equation?”

   Marcel only answered my serious question with a sigh. He reached for his glasses and pulled them from his face, rubbing his eyes with a small, barely visible bout of frustration. At that moment, I noticed something. Marcel’s face structure really was familiar, and his eyes were a beautiful shade of green typically hidden behind those loser glasses. Marcel was Harry’s brother, but I could swear he now showed it.

   When his glasses were back on his face, he turned to me, but my blank stare gave away my awe.

   “W-what?” he stuttered.

   My beating heart choked back any means I had of speaking. Instead, I changed position, moving my body so I was sitting up on my knees, facing the nerd. I reached over the piles of paper, notebooks and textbooks and slowly removed his glasses, causing him to blink before his orbs of beautiful green regained their blurry focus.

   “You know, you really look like your brother.”

   “I g-guess,” he muttered, “People always l-look different without their g-glasses. I imagine y-you being one of the m-most beautiful girls in the w-world.”

   Was it possible to hold back blushing? Think about something else, I told myself, change the topic.

   “Why don’t you have a British accent, like Harry and Gemma?” I ask him in place of any more flirtatious responses. He was just a loser; he was just my co-worker and my tutor, nothing more.

   “I h-have one,” the nerd confessed, “I just h-haven’t used it since we c-came here.”

   “I wanna hear it,” I begged sweetly. As a typical American girl, British accents were my weakness. They made me melt. Any accents for that matter were my kryptonite.

   Marcel seemed to ponder this for a moment, letting his teeth bit into his bottom lip. He surrendered to my wish with a sigh, and, continuing with a dimpled grin nearly matching his older brother’s, Marcel purred in an accent so deep and angelic, “How’s this?”

   “Beautiful,” I breathed in awe of this revelation. Marcel sounded just like Harry. Actually, forget “Marcel,” Harry Styles was the one sitting in front of me with slicked back hair and a dorky sweater vest.

   “Not as beautiful as you,” Marcel purred, without stuttering for once since I’d know him. Before I could change the subject this time, the nerd’s hands rose to my face and pulled off my glasses.

   When my eyes reopened, I expected to see the loser as only a blur, but that was not the case. Marcel’s face – a near mirror of Harry’s minus the dots of acne – was incredibly close to mine, wearing the perfect, crooked, and dimpled smirk.

   I don’t know what made me vulnerable. It could have been my racing heart, or my blushing cheeks, or the fact Harry Style’s dopple ganger was sitting there in front of me, but what was once a study session turned into a kiss, which soon enough turned into a make out session, and, as quickly as the flirting had begun, an arousal.