where your heart is

cinco

Like a Russian doll

It's so hard to tell

What goes on inside

Behind your painted shells

- Rialto, Russian Doll

Louis can't remember the last time he was this excited for something closely resembling a party. It was probably some time in high school, back when he was young and brash and naive and stupid, so he figures it may as well have never existed. This is a first for him.

He practically jogs his way out of chess club so he has enough time to get ready. He has never really been to a masquerade ball before, so he's not entirely sure what he's expecting.

There's one sentence rushing around his head, like a mantra-- don't overthink. Don't overthink.

He can't afford to overthink tonight. Doesn't want to. He has been in this position frequently enough to know where it leads if he thinks too hard about it, so, while he's getting ready, he works on distracting himself instead.

Distracts himself, by enjoying the new things the day has brought. Like his shape, that's new. Or, at least, the pronunciation of it. The suit he has currently slipping his curves in all the right places: a rental. It's Sam who made him go for the small one; he, himself, would have gone for the medium size, but he's silently grateful at the result-- pleasantly surprised.

The suit is also new. It's nice, too-- intricate, smooth folds of black fabric that shimmer spectacularly under Sam's surreal art lamps, decorated with fine silver embroidery patterns across the length of the lapel.

He's even wearing contacts, upon Sam's insistence. It made sense with the mask and all, so he didn't argue. Much.

This whole thing makes him feel...nice. Exquisite, even. Regardless of what's to come, he feels good, and would even go so far to say he looks good, too. He's just about to put on his gloves in front of the mirror, when--

"Wait!"

Louis turns, crooks an eyebrow in Sam's direction. She's wide eyed and holding her hands out towards him, still in shorts and a mottled tank top despite her hair and makeup being done.

"Would you mind showing me your hands?" She stammers.

Louis eyes her suspiciously. "Why?"

"No reason."

When her companion doesn't budge, Sam groans, taking one more step towards him. "Just show them to me. I promise I won't do anything."

He lets out a strained sigh, and extends his hands out to her.

Exposing them like this awakens what he thought to be dormant expressions of anxiety about his hands, as he has never particularly liked them. They're smaller than other people's, always have been, and a lot paler than he would like. Liam always used to compare them to moths when they

were younger-- the white ones, with the pale grey markings. He was such an ass.

Now, they're not so grey: scars fading, crisscrossed over the surface of his skin like distorted, blurred map lines. It's been ages since he had scars on his hands, thanks to the gloves, so they're probably one of the clearest parts of him. He wonders if Sam realizes it as she stares with laser eyes at them, almost as if she's trying to burn the sight into her memory.

Sam has a discernible frown planted on her face. "Could you turn them over, please."

He rotates his wrists so that his palms are facing upwards, exposing more skin. Some sudden nerve shakes the pale honey of his fingertips and leaves them trembling, which annoys him. Under her close scrutiny he's beginning to feel fidgety.