Fade {Harry Styles}

chapter 12

Marcel, back in his ragged, long sleeve sweaters, spent every waking moment at the airport texting his mum and sister. He let his fingers fly across the touch screen of his iPhone with what some, of the elder class, could classify as inhuman speed. It never had quite occurred to him just how out of touch he was with his family. 

And no matter how many texts he and his sister, Gemma, exchanged, he could tell she was still slightly reluctant about the whole situation. One could see, however, that Gemma was well aware of Harry's ability to manipulate and trick someone beyond comparison to another. He had used some of his tricks on her as a child, each growing with complexity and result the older the two siblings had gotten. 

And Gemma, Harry knew, wasn't one to put all her faith into something and expect it to go her way. It would be a process -- the mending of their family. But it was a process Harry was now ready to accomplish. 

Marcel ran a veined hand through his sleek hair as the monotone voice over the speakers announced the arrival of several flights. He was to be boarding soon. His flight would take him all the way to Minneapolis, Minnesota where he could hop into his car and go home; to his lousy apartment that is. 

How's Minnesota?

The strung letters made Marcel's phone buzz, igniting his sister's name along the phone screen. Marcel didn't notice it, but he made a small gesture of appreciation of his sister's efforts of reaching out to him once again; the corners of his mouth sloped into his cheeks, creating a dimple that not even he took notice of.

Cold. What about home?

What an awfully controlled conversation. People don't text their sisters like this, Marcel thought to himself. This is ridiculous.

It was a mere moment before the response came.

Good.

That's all it said. Marcel's sigh was labored yet barely audible above the racket of the airport. He clicked his phone off and shoveled it into his jeans pocket.

Marcel had been to many airports and at every single one of them he found himself intrigued with the people occupying it. He had a game he would play with himself out of downright boredom. He didn't have a name for it, really. He just...made up stories.

He would single someone out for a moment. He would study their posture, facial expressions, what they were occupying themselves with, and such. He would take note of what they were wearing, yet that played such a minor role in the game. He would watch how they interacted with their surroundings, as well as how they carried their self. And based off of those pure facts alone, he would create a story for them. 

In his mind he would build a fantasy for that specific person. If they were married, how many children they had, what their job was, where they were coming from and where they were headed. Never was a story the same for two people.

An entire round wouldn't take more than just a moment, and then he would move on to the next person, creating their life story as well. 

It was a pass-time. Maybe not a great one, but it passed the time.

He scanned the spacious airport for player number one. There was quite the diversity of people out and about. Many stood waiting for their luggage while others awaited the arrival of someone. There were also many there bidding their goodbyes to another. Marcel veered his gaze away from the people in motion, and instead settled on an older man sitting nearly just across from him reading a magazine. 

The man's eyes were cast down, moving slowly but steadily across the page. The skin around his eyes had given a tad, sagging in bags and creating wrinkles along his cheeks. His chapped, creased lips were pursed in concentration. There was a ring on his left hand.