He was never a morning person, especially— an all nighter person, he'd do cocaine, or later, just coffee and Sudafed, whenever he needed to shrug off sleep. Parkinson's made him cut much of that out, which sucked. Most of Parkinson's sucked, but having to finally cede to old man hours was especially galling after a lifetime of rolling with everything.

Morning looks like sunset, now, waking and doing cautious window checks before he attacks various inboxes. He's knocked out enough for work to have had a productive call with his real estate agent before the sun's all the way down; the one slender beam of light he leaves in for his own metrics has become a dull purple. Nearly free. Probably just an itch, if he were to reach out. He doesn't. Still busy. Contending with a worse itch of lost hours.

Keeps him from thinking, too. Rattled from the night before, even after decompressing. What are the other two doing tonight? Maybe nothing, maybe they have plans, and he can—

A little deliberate tug of his attention, something that's still a novelty. It makes him smile in his room, and he goes to the door and pulls it open.

"Morning," he says, and confirms to himself that it's still great to see Louis.