Chapter Text
Good morning, sir!
I’m sorry this will be the first thing you see in the morning, but I thought the sooner I’d warn you, the better: you will be murdered. By the year’s end, to be more specific. This is non-negotiable, so I’d suggest you start making the best out of the time you have left right now!
All the love,
K. (as in Killer)
Harry blinked twice, reread the message, and put his phone back under his pillow. The last thing he needed on the third day of the new year was to deal with threats to his life. So, he didn’t—he rolled over, threw an arm over his girlfriend’s stomach, and breathed in the scent of her hair to lull him back to sleep.
Right before blissful unconsciousness took him, he wondered how the message author knew he’d check it first thing in the morning. By the time he woke up again, though, the thought had gone.
The message, however, hadn’t.
***
Believe it or not, that wasn’t the first time he had someone threaten to kill him. It came with the territory, all part of the package called “fame”—a word he despised ever since it was bestowed upon him.
The first time it had happened, he was just sixteen. His boy band hadn’t even taken off yet, and someone slid into his DMs to describe, in great detail, how they would slice his chest open and remove his organs while keeping him alive for the longest possible time. According to that person, he’d survive for three entire days. It was the first time he felt real fear. He didn’t sleep for weeks. He’d sneak into his roommate’s—and, at the time, bandmate’s—bed at night, which started a whole different wave of drama that, eventually, ended up overwriting the previous problem. By the second time it happened, he’d already developed thicker skin.
Over the 27, soon-to-be 28 years that he had been alive, Harry Styles had his life threatened a total of 32 times. Well, 33 now. Out of those, only two evolved to real concerns, and a part of him hated that he was the type of person who could say only two times people actually tried to kill me. But a part of him, a small part that was violently awakened by that first message all those years before, found it thrilling. It made him feel special. I mean, how many people, real-life people, could say they almost died for simply being who they are?
Thousands, if not millions. He knew that. He knew that countless people lived their lives at risk for simply being who they are—some of which shared his exact identities and preferences, just lacking the level of privilege his money and skin tone and fame brought him.
Still. Just because he didn’t dare saying it out loud, didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. That was why he kept the message a secret. Well that and because he didn’t want to cause a fuss. Not now, when everything was going how he wanted for the first time in a long time.
The surprise-drop of his third studio album was a total hit, straight to #1 in multiple countries, four and five-star reviews in several music outlets, all of the songs breaking records on streaming services. And he didn’t even have to promote it—it had been over two weeks and he still had to make an appearance at a late night show.
That part, though, wasn’t going according to his wishes—he would have liked to plan, to tease the fans, to release snippets and countdowns and whatnot. He would have liked to go on TV shows and played the new single and dropped little hints of what was to come. But, according to his label, that would be too Taylor Swift of him, and he wouldn’t want his name tied to her anymore than it already was. He wanted to argue that, if he didn’t, he would have stopped writing songs about her like ten years ago. He enjoyed riling up the fans, though, as did she—which was probably the only thing they had in common these days.
But no, the team and the label all voted for a surprise drop. Unexpected is the new expected from big artists like him. He wanted to argue that Taylor was the one to start that trend, and had done it so much more successfully than anyone ever would, but he didn’t. He’d learned a long time ago that some battles aren’t worth fighting for, and that was one of them. He’d focus on tour, which was his favorite part, anyway. This year, he was even co-designing his outfits, taking care to incorporate some fan suggestions. He hoped they’d notice it.
Another reason for him to let it slide was his personal life. His second big plan for the year, and definitely the biggest plan of his life, was finally becoming a dad. It was his Christmas present from his girlfriend. Well, not the baby, she was not currently pregnant, unfortunately, but she was willing to try.
Harry felt like he had been ready to be a father his whole life. The type of joy he felt around children had always been unmatched and, lately, being around Olivia’s kids had fanned that fire ferociously. He mentioned it to her as a joke—on a drunken night after one of the best concerts in his previous tour. The one her kids attended. She laughed, as expected, but brought the subject up again in the morning. And contrary to his last serious relationship, she didn’t end things because she wasn’t ready to take on such a responsibility. She actually liked the idea. He wants to knock her up by his birthday, although, out loud, he’d been trying to keep it chill.
“What time do you have to be at the office today?” Olivia asked now, between bites of the delicious food of his favorite restaurant.
“By three,” he said. He didn’t actually had to go, but he was afraid decisions would be made without him. The tour was his domain and he would not relinquish power there.
The tour had also been a topic of the baby conversations. Some people who they talked to, including his mother, thought the timing of this big life decision was a little off. In some other time, Harry would have agreed—touring was hectic, even though there was a lot of sitting around doing nothing. But there was so much traveling, so many people, not enough time alone. And Olivia wouldn’t always be there, so if—or rather, when—she got pregnant, he wouldn’t be there to witness every second of it as he would have liked.
No matter. By the end of the tour, he would have a baby, and that was what really mattered.
“Do you think we can stop home first?” Olivia asked, her eyes glistening as she leaned over and lowered her voice. “I’m ovulating.”
“That’s the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he answered, giving her a quick peck on the lips, making her smile.
That was his favorite part of her, her smile. In fact, that was often his favorite part on anyone—he could always tell when people were actually smiling or faking it, and one of his greatest secret pleasures in life was making people really smile. It had been a year and he was still able to make Olivia really smile. Ever since the 365 days mark, he had started to notice it more. He wished he didn’t, but that was usually the mark when things started to go wrong in his relationships. Yet, she was still smiling. He wished their child would inherit it.
He had started dreaming about them lately. A small creature with Olivia's clear blue eyes and his wild curly hair. Other times, it would be her straight locks and his murky green eyes. But every time, they’d have a big, big mouth, like both their parents. A big mouth to swallow a big dick whole.
Harry blinked, startled by the intrusive thought. What a thing to think about your potential children. He shook his head, trying to not picture his angelic babies growing up to like eating dick as much as he did. Failing. Could it be a genetic trait? If both parents like dick, would the child like it, too?
“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his palms to his eyes.
“Are you okay?” Olivia’s hand found his shoulder, squeezing once. Twice.
“Yeah, yeah, just a bit of a headache,” he lied.
Her concerned eyes were on him when he opened his, and he gave her a sweet smile. She smiled back, going back to her food. She always ate so slowly. She ate everything slowly.
Fuck.
Harry took out his phone, intending to distract his dirty mind while he waited for her. On one hand, it was good that he was already turned on for their tryst. On the other, he should at least get to the car before getting a boner.
He unlocked the screen and started swiping away at the notifications, until one made him pause. He blinked, reading the unknown sender handle. It had been sent to his private Instagram account. It was the same person that sent him the threat weeks ago. Had he noticed then that it was sent to the account only his family knew about?
December 4th, New York, MSG. It will be the…
The message preview cut off there, but he didn’t need to open it to know what it was talking about. That would be the date and place of the last show on his upcoming tour. A tour he hadn’t announced yet. A date that wasn’t officially scheduled.
His heart beat on his throat as he opened the full message.
December 4th, New York, MSG. It will be the last day of your still unnamed tour (although I like the name you’re leaning towards, ‘Life on Tour’ would be a very fitting conclusion to your touring trilogy). You will probably be wearing that green, sparkly suit you’ve been trying to draw yourself because your little psychos like you in that color. I know you haven’t shown it to anyone yet, but I think you should—it’s decent enough. And, I mean, you’re Harry Styles. They will do anything you want.
Oh, that will also be the day you die.
“Fuck,” he said loudly now, making his girlfriend pause and frown.
“Is anything wrong?” she asked.
He couldn’t take his eyes off his phone, though. He reread the message, trying to make sense of the words, of the information. One thing was knowing the date and place, it wasn’t like it was a secret, anyone working on scheduling the tour would know that. The suit, though…
It could have been a wild guess. He knew the fact he would be co-designing his tour looks had already leaked to the press, even though nobody had talked about it yet. And the color, everyone knew his fans had a thing for him wearing green. And he had a thing for pleasing his fans.
Still.
“Honey?” Olivia’s warm hand rested on top of his, finally breaking his concentration.
“Sorry, I…” he shook his head, looking back to the phone when it buzzed. Another message from ‘@harrystyleswilldie2022’.
Don’t you think you care too much about other people’s opinion on you? I mean, you don’t even like green! Go rogue, my friend. Enjoy life. While you can.
“Harry,” Olivia scooted closer, true concern weighting on her tone.
“Sorry, it’s work,” Harry lied, so easily it startled him. “I… I’ll have to go in earlier.”
“What happened?” she frowned.
“One of the dates,” he said vaguely. “The MSG one. It’s… not working.”
“Oh, no,” she squeezed the wrist her hand was still holding. She knew how important the date—and the place—was for him. She didn't know why, though. “It’s okay. Do you think you’ll be home tonight?”
“Absolutely,” he assured her. “You can wait for me naked.”
She smiled before rolling her eyes.
Harry waited with her until a car came to pick her up and get her away. There were people hiding in some bushes at the corner and taking pictures, so he made sure to hold her extra tight and kiss her extra long. He knew no amount of PDA would prove his relationship was real, that he loved his girlfriend, but he still liked to try. He liked to hold and kiss Olivia, too. Win-win.
As soon as her car drove away, his heartbeat picked up. He walked to his own car, parked at the restaurant, trying to look casual and not at all frightened as he was. His phone burned a hole in his pocket all the short way there, and by the time he was safely in the driver’s seat, his hands were shaking like he’d gone too long without alcohol—an experience he actually had.
He opened the message again, now clicking on the profile. His own face smiled back at him, but there was no posts, no followers, no bio, no links. Following one single person—him. That is, his official profile.
This wouldn’t be the first time someone got a hold of his private account. Fans had speculated about it for years, and some of them were well aware he had one. These days, who didn’t?
He’d been hacked twice. He’d had to deal with fan messages countless times. He’d had blocked so many people, changed handles, deleted the accounts, started again. Finding him online wasn’t new. If he was being honest, threatening his life wasn’t new, either, but there was something about this one. Something real. Something that stirred that old fear inside of him. Something that nudged at that hidden part he’d been trying to, ironically, kill for so long.
Would you want to be buried in it?
His phone buzzes and he almost drops it.
The green suit, I mean.
He stares at it. Then he looks outside, around, at the other cars. Is this person here? Do they know he’s reading their message? If they do… what does it make them feel?
Without thinking, he starts to type back.
No. I think I’d like an orange one, it’s my favorite color. Also, it’d hide the blood better, don’t you think?
He hits send with numb fingers, his breathing heavy, his heart on his throat. He waits. He doesn’t have to wait long, though, because three dots appear, indicating his would-be murderer is typing back.
Oh, sweetie, there will be no blood. I’m better than that.
Despite himself, Harry smiles.