Noir

Vos mess, Mon mess (your mess, my mess)

"Dude, that is him."

"No, it's not. Stop staring at the guy, he's gonna think we're fucking weird."

Unbeknownst to them, Harry was fully aware of the two guys standing at a nearby weight bench, sneaking glances his way. Though his earbuds remained intact and the workout playlist played on, he always kept the volume low enough to remain aware of his surroundings. In other people's cases, it was paranoia but unfortunately, during one incident he didn't care to remember with as much clarity as he did, he'd learned that his guard was best upraised.

Besides, the men hadn't touched a weight for the past five minutes, were too busy trying to sneak pictures, despite the shorter one's insistence that the guy on the treadmill wasn't actually Harry Styles, he just looked like him. Harry grabbed his towel and wiped at his sweaty neck and forehead. He maintained pace, gaze drifting toward the treadmill's control board. Five minutes left. He could then hit the showers and go.

Harry missed, most of all, days of anonymity. Way back when, he'd taken for granted the ability to go outdoors knowing he wouldn't be looked at twice. His stance on his very own, hard-earned fame was wary, at best. He loved his life, genuinely, didn't have a whole lot to complain about. But everything had its pros and cons. While he was the first to admit that he loved attention and being doted on – always had, even prior to his celebrity – sometimes, like anyone else, he just wanted to be left alone.

Harry found himself strangely excited whenever someone asked his name, when that all too familiar flash of recognition never crossed their faces. Honestly, he didn't feel as if he'd actually met anyone, at least on a mutual level, for some time, despite the constant barrage of new faces he saw any given day. Being occasionally ignored, at this point, would be ideal.

Of course, he couldn't say any of this aloud, didn't want to seem like a thankless asshole. He never could articulate just how grateful he was, resorted to endless 'thank yous' and expressions of love for those who'd placed him in his current position; international recording artist, songwriter, model if you counted that Gucci thing, actor if you took Dunkirk into consideration.

Thankfully, Nicholas Grimshaw, one of Harry's best friends, sometimes appointed himself Harry's spokesperson, never hesitated to say the things Harry couldn't bring himself to. And sure, there were things Harry confided in those closest to him; everybody was entitled to the occasional bitching session, but Harry would generally rather grin and bear it. He'd have never made it through the past nine years, otherwise.

Harry 'Fearless Bastard' Styles. Would choose skydiving over facing conflict. He'd showered and dressed, but stalled in the locker room, ignoring the odd glances. His trainer was long gone, had left shaking his head. Against his advice, Harry had overworked himself, could feel it in his muscles already. Stress was better exerted than withheld, wasn't it?

Sighing, he grabbed his duffel bag and left before shit got weird. Luckily, he wasn't accosted upon emerging outside, blocking the California sun with sunglasses, the Kurt Cobains, as coined by Nick. Harry scanned the area, shot a glance at his car parked in the shade nearby. He could hop in and go, free and clear.

But he wanted a smoothie.

There was a small, family-owned shop down the opposite way. The owner was always thrilled when he visited and made haste to get him in and out. His shop was a celebrity favorite, he knew the drill. Harry could have done without the damned thing, but a good post workout smoothie worked wonders.

He poked his head through the shop's door a few minutes later, smoothie in hand, eyes darting from side to side. The coast was clear. In fact, it didn't seem anybody gave a damn who anyone was so, after ensuring his Nikes were tied, since he'd long ago accepted his clumsiness (which he couldn't really deny, not with all the video evidence out there), he made a break for it.