Note To Self (Harry Styles AU)

Prologue

"Posture."

He straightened his back, standing tall while his mother smoothed her hands over his jacket and adjusted the cuffs. He kept his eyes over her head to make eye contact with himself in the long mirror hung on the wall. She tugged at the hem of his slacks and checked to make sure his dress shirt was properly tucked in on all sides, often sliding her hand in to push it down when she found spots to be unsatisfactory, mindless of her son's personal space. He didn't flinch or argue, far too used to being poked and prodded in this manner for it to seem unusual to him. It was normal. His necktie was tightened and pinned in place, his look finished with a silk violet handkerchief poking out of his breast pocket. The same color as his father's, and the same as his mother's dress.

"I really wish you would've cut your hair," she told him, looking up to his face while he continued to regard his own reflection. He watched as her hands came to comb through the stands that had grown longer than he was typically allowed to have. "Looks a mess."

Being honest with himself, he liked it. He always enjoyed having his hair longer, but was never able to keep the length for long before he was forced to cut it again. He just wasn't the type to argue with his mother. He did was she said and kept his mouth shut if he didn't like it. Disagreements between the two were quite common, but never something he voiced. He didn't see the point in trying to input his own opinions because mom was always right.

From birth that's what he'd been told. Mom was always right, he was wrong, and that's the way it always had been. It was the way things worked, and he believed it. He believed in following his mother's instructions and letting her guide him through life because it had worked in his favor for eighteen years. He knew were his life was headed, his future had been planned out for him from a young age. It took away the stress of not knowing where he'd be in ten years, which he liked. Sacrificing his individuality for a financially stable future seemed like a small price to pay. To him, at least. "I'm sorry."

She fiddled with the chestnut colored locks atop his head, trying to find a way to adjust the style enough to appease herself. "You'd be so handsome if you'd try a little harder."

The backhanded compliment stung, knocking his self confidence down a level for the night. You'd be so handsome. Would be, as if he wasn't already. Comments like that always hurt his feelings and caused the voices in his head, which ironically always sounded exactly like his mother, to pick on him. His self esteem was pretty low because of it, though he was adamant on never letting it show. Only when he was alone did he let his self consciousness beat him up, viewing it as a weakness in himself that needed to be hidden away from the world. It was his secret.

"Posture," his mother spoke up, reminding him for a second time to stand up straight. "What's do I always say?"

"No amount of high fashion can make up for a lifetime of poor posture," he recited the words that have been drilled into his head since he was a child. He always struggled with slouching, especially when he felt down about himself.

"How you carry yourself speaks volumes about how you feel about yourself," she told him patting his shoulders. "Keep your chin up, shoulders back, spine straight, and stand with confidence."

He nodded along with her words, forcing himself to follow her guidance. "Yes, mother."

"I'll make you a hair appointment tomorrow," she switched the subject back to the one prior.

"Okay," he agreed, putting aside his own feelings for the sake of his mother's.

"Breath check," she ordered, making him open his mouth to let her smell what he hoped wasn't bad, considering he'd just brushed his teeth before getting dressed. Apparently all was well and she took a step back to look at his overall appearance.

His suit had been tailored to fit his form perfectly. The hem of his slacks ended at his ankles, not too long and not too short, while the fabric itself hung down his long legs without appearing too loose. The fabric hugged the small curve of his rear just enough to show he had one, but not enough for it to seem obscene.

His broad shoulders were covered by the black blazer which was neatly buttoned down the middle, left open at the top to expose the white shirt and violet tie he wore underneath. With his polished dress shoes and the brass buttons that held his jacket from covering his hands, he looked exquisite. His suit was pressed and crease free while it accentuated the positive features his body possessed.

Just as she was ready to announce he was ready, his leg was bumped and his dog Winnie jumped up to lick his face, bringing him to smile.

He began to happily pet the dog, just as happy to see her as she was to see him until she was forced back down onto all fours. "No! Bad dog!" his mother scolded her, making her bow her head in shame. He frowned, taking pity on his pet and watched her walk away when instructed to leave.

He felt bad, knowing that Winnie had no idea what she did wrong because any other day it would've been fine for her to greet him so excitedly, but today was different. The dog walked off to lay in the corner to keep watch on her family while his mother huffed in annoyance before turning to shuffle through a drawer of the table nearby. She returned back to him and held a lint roller to his chest, rolling it across the front of his shirt. "You're covered in dog fur now."

He let her clean him off, eventually bending down to rid his slacks of the fur. He listened to her grumble angrily about his stupid dog, as she called her, for being such a pest, which in his mind he disagreed to. She wasn't stupid and wasn't a pest, she was his friend and she simply wanted to say hello. He didn't mind being jumped up on and having his face licked, even if it meant being covered in dog fur. He loved his dog.

He understood why she was so irritated, which is why he kept his mouth shut. That night was the twelfth annual charity ball to raise money to help children with potentially deadly illnesses pay for treatment and everyone had to look their best. Showing up in a mussed up suit covered in dog fur would reflect badly upon his parents and he knew better than to give the people of the town something to gossip about. He'd never been a subject of town talk other than the time he saved a woman from choking to death, and he liked to keep it that way.

He'd lived this structured lifestyle all his life. Everything was in order. Every day had a schedule. He had his responsibilities and was expected to fulfill them without question. He was a show piece, used to brag about the great things his parents were capable of, though he didn't realize it. He didn't realize it because this was the way things were for as long as he could remember. His parents had successfully fooled him into believing everything they did for him was to benefit him in the future.

He was clean cut, well behaved, kindhearted, and polite. He was what most would consider to be a model child. He was the type of kid parents aspired to have, but rarely ever got.

Only, he wasn't quite a kid anymore. He was eighteen, in his senior year of high school, just months away from graduation. He was at the stage in his life where he was beginning to be nudged out of the nest. Applications to universities were being sent out, all of them to prestigious schools to further his parents bragging rights when he received his acceptance letter from Harvard Medical School. Since the start of grade school he knew his future would be to attend Harvard, get a medical doctorate, and continue on to become a world renowned surgeon.

The problem was, the sight of blood made him woozy and he didn't have a steady enough hand to extract a shard of glass out of the bottom of his foot when he stepped on one. He was clumsy and the thought of seeing someone's insides made him feel queasy.

He could easily pass through medical school if he was taught how to do things. He was bright, his brain absorbed information like a sponge. When it came to actually performing a procedure, however, there was no hope. Getting his blood drawn at the doctors made him faint. The time his sister broke her leg, he couldn't be in the same room as her until she had a cast on and her injury was covered. Despite everything, he still had faith. After all, he only wanted to make his parents proud.

His name was Harry Styles, professional people pleaser and perfectionist. He strived to be everything he was made to believe he was set on the Earth to be, and that was perfect. He wanted to be perfect and, oh, he was. He was perfect, but not in the unrealistic way he was expected to be.