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Malcolm decided to wait until he’d parked the car to turn to Louis and say it. Louis had been minding his own business, fucking about with the window lever because he hadn’t seen a manual one in at least a decade and his hands were itching for a ciggy. Not every day he went on a second date, was it.
And Malcolm had been a perfectly fine first date, so he’d thought, why not?
The ‘why not’ in question came out of his mouth that very moment.
“Louis,” he said—a perfectly normal start to a sentence, nothing sketchy so far—”there’s something I didn’t tell you about this party.” Now that, in itself, wasn’t enough to raise suspicion, but Louis leaned away from him anyway, because there was something off in his eyes. Not quite ‘I’m about to murder you’ off, but still. “My friends and I, we’re into some stuff that certain people would find weird.”
Louis laughed. “It’s not a board game night, is it?”
He’d hoped to lighten the mood.
What Louis didn’t know yet was that a board game night was looking positively scintillating compared to the party he walked into not a minute later.
Malcolm hadn’t said anything else after his ominous warning. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, really; Louis still would have had a shock when Malcolm lead him round the back gate, past the side of the perfectly average-looking house and towards the sound of chatting (and other, more confusing noises).
Malcolm stepped out first, gesturing grandly to the scene. Louis smiled at him nervously, then rounded the corner.
He came to a complete stop.
Thirty or so people were gathered around the pool, lounging on chairs, chatting in groups of twos or threes. Not a single person was actually in the pool.
And all of them—every last one—was wearing a fursuit.
“Malcolm,” Louis said slowly. He tried to stay patient and calm, because maybe this was just a very funny second-date prank. “I thought you said this was a pool party.”
“It is!” Malcolm said.
He raised his hand in greeting as someone wearing a yellow fox costume walked past.
“ I brought my fucking swimmers,” Louis hissed. His next words came out harsher and louder than he meant them to, but really, could he be blamed? “I brought swimmers to a furry party!”
Malcolm had the good sense to look chastened.
“I thought if I told you what it was you wouldn’t come.”
Louis parked his hands on his hips. “Well, you got that right, sunshine. And by the way? This date is cancelled.”
He turned to storm away, but Malcolm followed close behind. “Louis, come on. Just stay for an hour and I’ll drive you home, okay? You might like it!”
Louis came to a stop. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Alright. But only because I hate getting ubers.”
Malcolm snorted. The fucker didn’t even pretend to hide his derision when Louis turned to glare at him.
“One. Hour.” Louis stormed past him and back towards the gathering of furries, because at least the furries had beer.
One beer turned into two, which turned into four. Louis passed the time alternating between staring at his phone and sneaking up to the esky to steal his next brew.
On Louis’ fifth visit—hand reaching towards an ice cold Stella, feeling a little unsteady on his feet, not one clue where Malcolm had fucked off to (though realistically he could have been any of the fursuit-adorned partygoers)—he stumbled into someone.
“Shit! Sorry,” he heard. The voice was rich and smooth, nothing at all like the beer Louis’ been chugging. The man’s hands were clasped around Louis’ shoulders, steadying him from tripping back into the pool. Louis looked up (and up, and up) past the cheaply made black-and-white-striped onesie and into a pair of concerned green eyes. The man’s expression turned sheepish, a frown wrinkling his handsome face. A handsome face that Louis could see— how had he managed to miss the one other person at this party without a fursuit?
“Oops?” the man said after Louis took too long to respond. He let go of Louis and backed away.
“Hi.” Louis looked him up and down. “What are you supposed to be?”
The man barked out a laugh—and it did sound like a bark, which was hardly out of place in the context of the party.
“I’m a zebra,” he said. He talked slowly and with very little purpose; Louis had no idea why he found it charming. Perhaps the situation he’d found himself in was breaking him—both the party itself and the fact that this was his fourth attempt at dating in as many weeks and he was sick of it. “See?” The man gestured to his onesie, then batted his eyelashes at Louis ridiculously.
“Of course, yeah,” Louis said, letting his skepticism shine through. “With the benefit of hindsight, and all that.”
The man nodded sagely. “Oh, hey! Did you want this?”
He retrieved the Stella Artois Louis had been reaching for and offered it with a grin.
Louis accepted it with narrowed eyes. “So….”
“Harry,” the man supplied.
“Harry. You into all this–” he waved vaguely around at the scene, particularly to the group of men dressed as dogs on all fours in the garden doing God Knows What, “–bestiality shit? Because I’ve learned today that I can’t fucking tell.” He cracked open the beer with his keys and took a swig.
Harry looked understanding, if offended. “Um. Well...not really? I more come for the vibe.”
Louis raised his eyebrows. “Sorry?”
Harry shrugged. “‘S nice sometimes, to support the community. I’ve got a few friends that are involved.”
“Do these friends take issue with your shit attempts at dressup?” Louis asked pointedly. “Or is your fursona a coffee-stained headless zebra?”
Harry seemed put out. “I found this in a Salvos. I think she’s got personality.” He wrapped his arms around his stomach as if to protect the onesie from Louis’ wrath.
“She’s definitely got something,” Louis said, then he felt bad when Harry’s face went blank. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, love. I’m not in the best mood. I might not look it, but I’m currently on the worst second date of my entire life.”
“That’s terrible.” Harry placed his hand on Louis shoulder as if to comfort him. “Which one is he?”
Louis looked around. “Honestly, I haven’t a fucking clue—hey, how’d you know it’s a bloke?”
He had his defences raised—he really wasn’t in the mood to hear about camp stereotypes and any of that ‘gaydar’ nonsense, thank you very much—but Harry surprised him by simply stating, “All furries are gay men,” as if that made any fucking sense.
“Um, no, I don’t think that’s–” Louis started to argue.
Harry ignored him, grabbing his free hand and jumping off towards the garden. “C’mon, let’s find this dickhead.”
Louis couldn’t help but laugh as he was pulled along, beer sloshing out of the bottle and onto his hand. Harry took him from group to group, asking each person quite politely if they’d “Seen this man? This handsome one here? He’s been abandoned by his date—no? Alright, thank you. Excuse me–” on and on until Louis’ beer was finished and he was laughing so much his stomach hurt.
Finally, Harry came to a stop. He looked back at Louis with a groove in his brow. “I’m sorry, I think you might’ve been ditched.”
Louis didn’t say, I’m pretty sure there’s thirty more people inside.
What he did say was, “D’you wanna be my date instead?” The question was accompanied by a hopeful grin and the confidence of a man who knew that his day couldn’t get any worse.
“Me?” Harry’s eyes widened, and his grip on Louis’ hand went slack.
“No, a different zebra,” Louis sassed. “Yes, you. Of course. I think you’re proper funny and well fit and I promise I’ve only had five beers.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but before he could a voice interrupted them. “Louis!”
Louis turned, eyes scanning. He caught sight of someone in a bright pink cat-like fursuit waving at him.
“Come on, I’ll take you home now!” he called. The waving turned impatient as Louis stood there mutely.
“Uhh…”
“Oi!” Louis jumped. Harry’d cupped his mouth with his hands and he was shouting across the pool at Louis’ date. “He’s my date now!”
Louis let out a loud laugh.
“What?” Malcolm called back.
“You heard him!”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Shit,” Louis grumbled. He made a move to walk closer when a hand snagged his elbow.
“D’you wanna get out of here?” Harry asked, dimpling like a zebra-printed cherub.
“Fuck it,” Louis announced. “Yes.”
“Cool,” Harry nodded. “I’ll race you.”
He took off before Louis could say another word, zooming past the pool and towards the street. Louis followed, laughing as he went. He paid no mind to Malcolm’s shouting behind him. He also pointedly ignored the disturbing images he saw through the windows as he raced past.
Louis kept his eye on the black and white stripes, hoping against hope that tonight would be his last first date in a good long while.