It's Fine To Fake It 'Til You Make It ('Til It's True) | L.S

Chapter 1

"One night, a few moons ago
I saw flecks of what could've been lights,
But it might just have been you,
Passing by unbeknownst to me."

Harry and Louis' paths cross by chance. Time stops for both of them.
_______

Alec_Cockett: 11 November 2022 💗

The best of birthday presents, the best of best friends, the best of forevers.

Good God.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Last night, as we got ready for my birthday dinner, my best friend in the world asked me to marry him. He promised to love me forever and I promised the same. I said yes.

Hmph.

Bradley, I love you so much. Even on the days you make me crazy and piss me off. Even during the lowest of low points, when we can't look at each other. I still like you then. It's hard, but it's you so it's worth it.

Fucking couples. Who let them be a thing?

I'm so happy I didn't end up with what I thought I wanted. I'm so happy it's you. Love you, fiancé. 💗

Not that Harry spares it a great deal of attention- and not that he cares- but he has reason to believe Alec hid the post's like count because that was by far the most underwhelming engagement announcement in the history of engagement announcements.

It wasn't a particularly well written caption (some may go so far as to call it cringey) and the pictures of the pair in front of the Cockett family's outdated fireplace look tacky. They have stockings hung and garland roped over a shelf filled to the brim with holiday stitching's. A Christmas tree hovers in the image's corner. Thanksgiving is still two weeks away.

Anyway. Whatever.

Stab. Stab. Stab.

Extra tang flavors today's teriyaki. The dish doesn't have enough broccoli. Harry cuts again at the chicken, imagining the spear of his fork can shred each piece until it's a pile of mush amid the rice and sparse vegetables.

Stab.

Stab, stab stab stab. Stab.

It doesn't matter. It really, really doesn't matter.

Harry is being foolish for wasting even a second of his precious break fretting over an engagement transpiring hundreds of miles away, in a town rift with forgotten memories. Harping on such trivial matters is fruitless. Lunch time is his golden hour; seconds of serenity that are impossible to come by during the work day. These stolen minutes belong to him. He literally owns the hour of noon o'clock. (Dear God. He meant twelve. Twelve o'clock. That's the title that makes colloquial sense).

((In Harry's defense, he is tired. His brain cells went on hiatus at ten in the morning. They have yet to return. And, worst of all, he still has hours of work ahead of him. Hours . Only a few precious minutes remain in his allotted time to recharge. Any brain power wasted on irrelevant musings like noon o'clock or the sappy, underwhelming announcement of an engagement between a stranger and another stranger Harry used to know is a disservice to his exhausted mind. They don't matter. Nothing matters)).

Alec's post doesn't matter. He doesn't need to read the comments. He certainly doesn't need to check Facebook for more insight into the wonderful news . He doesn't. And so it is settled. Harry turns his screen face down and reaches for his fork. Perhaps he can-

His traitorous, booming phone buzzes against the table just as Harry lifts a fork full of mutilated chicken.

Fucking. Hell.