The date was set. This leaves Louis lingering with his emotions, concerns, and excitement. That means he's tossing and turning in his sleep, imagining everything that could happen in his little rendezvous with the stranger on the Hookup app. Laying naked in his bed, covered up by layers of blankets, he's a ball of sweat and worries and of dreams of the most vivid sorts. This is to be expected, of course, to a man of his life experience.
Man…
What is a man?
He isn't a woman. Doesn't want to be.
He rejects his manhood as well, shaving his body and growing out his hair—what hair there is left.
Neither is he a femboy. That ship had sailed far before the trend took off, far before he knew it was an option.
The thoughts and the worries, no, anxieties, buzz about in his brain, keeping him awake for who knows how many hours, leaving him to fitfully fall asleep and awaken, fall asleep, and awaken.
It is often like this for him—overthinking, overanalyzing, overworrying. He knows he has anxiety, but he knows that won't matter in the wee hours of the morning.
So he pops a melatonin, grabs his phone, and tells his boss that he's not feeling well and won't make it to work tomorrow.
Of course, even that assurance isn't enough for him to have a fully rested night's sleep.
—
The following day begins with a blur of motion, running through the day's events on autopilot. He grabs his coffee. He eats the overnight oats he prepared the night before and crashes into his office seat, laying back and staring at the ceiling.
An injection of caffeine should be enough for him. After that, he should be good to tackle this day, stained with the fog of his tiredness.
There isn't much to do except sit back, take care of himself, and ensure he's happy. So, he pulls up his chat clients and looks to keep track of his friends. But as he loads things up, he notices the friend request on his favorite application.
Date: Hey, thanks for letting me know your contacts. Can we talk on here?
It's him. That potential date/hookup/fling.
And he's online.
Biting his lip, Louis clicks "accept" and responds.
Louis: How are you?
Date: Oh, hey! Doing fine.
Louis: I gave you my socials?
Date: Yeah. Last night.
Louis frowned and whipped out his phone, scrolling through that secret hookup application. There, he sees it, plain as day.
Louis: Wow, I don't remember that. Must have been really tired.
Date: And, really…
Date: Horny?
Louis bites his lip, squirming in his seat.
Louis: Yeah, I was. And you?
Date: I still am.
Date: Sorry if that's weird.
Louis: It is a little weird, to be sure. But we're both odd, aren't we?"
Date: Oh? How are you weird?
Louis: Well, I'm skipping work today. Couldn't get sleep.
There's a pause for a bit.
Louis fights the urge to tab over to something else—to get started on his day, listening to newsfeeds and doomscrolling on his socials.
A blip brings him back to the conversation.
Date: So you're free today?
Date: I'm free, too.
Louis's whole body goes cold. Then, just as suddenly, it gets very, very warm. He leans in, his glasses reflecting the screen's light, his fingers typing at the keyboard with a mad passion.
Louis: Yes!
Louis: Oh fuck!
Louis: Where can I meet you?
There's another silence. Louis rocks back and forth in his chair, swirling about what to do. What he should wear. Would he have time to shower? Would he be able to get rid of the bags in his eyes? Would any of that matter?
Date: I can't host today.
The heartbeat thumps louder and louder in Louis's chest. The calculations in his mind go wild. His sister is out, indeed, for most of the day. Mother is at the lab. That would mean he has hours, nay, nearly an entire day, to meet and clean up before everyone knows he had brought someone home.
Someone home to fuck.
Date: Sorry I didn't mention that.
Louis: You're lucky.
Date:?
Louis: I'm alone for the day.
Louis: I'll see you in an hour?
Date: Oh, fuck yes.
Louis gets off his seat, practically tripping over himself as he bounds from his office and up to his bedroom. There, he would quickly shed every last stitch of his thrown-together morning look (planned to make it look like he slept in it and not in the buff.
The room needs to be fixed. The whole house is a mess, but he can't worry about that now. He grabs his long socks and hops around, trying to get one on and then the other. He slips on his gloves and then haphazardly falls his bed back into shape.
Running his hands through his hair and kicking assorted notes and papers he had strewn about his room under his bed, he spins and looks at himself in the mirror.
His face is a mess. Pale and sullen and with a bit of stubble.
It's a comedy and a tragedy as he runs back and forth, dressed in boy socks and boy sleeves, stumbling and slipping about between room and wash closet. He can shave, and he does. He can clean a bit, which he does, but there's one thing he can only do with what he has in his room.
He tugs at the bags under his eyes and groans. This has got to be the riskiest move he's ever done this whole experiment, but he has to do it.
So, he goes to his sister's door. He takes a big breath and enters.
Hopefully, she doesn't care about some missing makeup.