Ryan moved through the day the way he always did when nothing was actively falling apart. He stuck to routine. Morning lectures, short breaks, familiar paths across campus. He checked the time often, kept his schedule tight, made sure he didn't linger too long in one place.
It wasn't a particularly good day or a bad one. Just steady. Manageable. The kind of day that asked for nothing more than showing up and getting through it.
He liked days like that. They didn't demand explanations or decisions. They didn't make him feel behind, or rushed, or like he was constantly reaching for something just out of sight. He followed the structure he'd built for himself and let it carry him forward.
By late afternoon, the campus had taken on that in-between feeling. Not busy, not quiet. Students sat on benches pretending to study. Others crossed the quad in small clusters, laughing too loudly, unbothered by deadlines, expectations, or the weight of unanswered things.
Ryan watched them from the library steps, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his phone heavy in his pocket.
He didn't check it.
That part was deliberate. If he checked and there was nothing, it would sting all over again. If he checked and there was something, it would mean he'd been waiting. And he refused to do that anymore.
He headed to work instead.
The café sat just off campus, all glass windows and muted music that tried too hard to be calming. Ryan tied his apron, clocked in, and let routine take over. Orders. Receipts. Polite smiles. The smell of espresso clinging to his clothes. Work was easy in a way emotions weren't. Cups didn't care if he was distracted. The register didn't notice his thoughts drifting.
Halfway through his shift, his phone buzzed.
A message from Ethan.
Ryan! I'm being serious. We're going shopping this evening. There's no way you're heading to BAD looking like a mug.
Despite the seriousness of the message, Ryan let out a low laugh, careful not to disturb the quiet of the café. Maybe it was Ethan's attempt at sounding stern that made it funny. He shook his head, still smiling.
And he still didn't feel the urge to buy extra clothes.
Earlier that morning, while Ryan was getting ready for lectures, Ethan had asked out of nowhere what he planned to wear to the party.
"What do you mean what I plan to wear?" Ryan had mumbled, toothbrush in his mouth, foam lining his lips. "Is there a theme or something?"
"Nah," Ethan said, eyeing him without a hint of humor. "But there are outfits for parties, and there are outfits you don't wear within two kilometers of a party."
Ryan ignored him and headed toward the bathroom. Just as he reached for the door, a hand caught the handle and forced it shut.
"What?" Ryan blurted, trying to calm the shock in his voice. "Wha… what is it?"
He stepped back, looking up at Ethan, who was clearly taller than him.
Ethan said nothing.
Reading the silence for what it was, Ryan sighed and walked to his wardrobe, rummaging through it slowly. He knew exactly the kind of outfits Ethan expected him to pull out. The problem was that, as someone who didn't go to parties, he had never felt the need to own any of them.
Well, he'd better accept whatever I show him, Ryan thought, exhaling quietly.
After what felt like forever, he pulled out what he considered his 'best option'.
"You plan on wearing this?" Ethan held up the clothes, scrutinizing them like he was searching for hidden defects. "Just this?" He raised an eyebrow.
They were a pair of sun-faded blue jeans and a plain black T-shirt, worn thin from too many washes.
"Is it bad?" Ryan asked, unsure how to name the feeling crawling up his chest. He wrapped one hand around his waist, flicking his fingers nervously with the other. "Is it… that bad?"
"Yes," Ethan snapped. "It is. It's that bad, Ryan." He ran a hand over his forehead, then continued more quietly. "You remember what happened when we went to The Elite? Even though you were dressed better than this, they didn't let us in. Well, BAD isn't as strict, but we're not taking chances."
He shoved the clothes back into Ryan's hands. "If you were going just to dance and mess around like me, I wouldn't care. But you're not. You're going to network, make friends, make connections. And you think anyone's going to take someone dressed in rags seriously?"
"My clothes aren't rags," Ryan snapped back, folding the scattered clothes and shoving them into the wardrobe.
"Whatever you say," Ethan scoffed. "This evening, we're hitting a clothing store. You'd better not disappear."
"Ethan, can't I just wear this? It feels like a waste of money to buy something I'll only wear once."
"You shouldn't think like that, my dear Ryan." Ethan rested a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't hurt to spend on yourself once in a while. Besides, you can just think of it as an investment. I promise you'll get a high ROI from this party."
He nodded confidently, like the matter was already settled. "Thank goodness I asked. Imagine the horror if tomorrow came and you showed up in this." He shuddered theatrically. "No. it's too grotesque to even think of."
Reluctantly, Ryan let it go. Continuing the argument was pointless. Not because Ethan was better with words, but because he simply wouldn't back down. Ryan was already running late for lectures. Ethan, meanwhile, was happily skipping the morning class.
By the time the day progressed, Ryan had almost forgotten about their earlier squabble.
"Perfect timing to ruin my mood," he muttered, slipping his phone into the green apron with MingMing Café printed across it.
Do people still name cafés after their child's nickname? he thought, trailing off as he picked up a tray holding an iced Americano and a slice of strawberry cake.
He carried it over to table three.
Evening came slowly, the kind of slow that makes the day stretch longer than it should. Ethan was already waiting at a corner, twenty minutes before Ryan's shift ended—maybe he thought Ryan would bolt the second he clocked out. Ryan caught his eye and signaled he was ready. Reluctantly, the two of them set off, hopping onto the bus that would take them to the nearest high-end clothing store. Ryan couldn't stop thinking about what he was losing—skipping a night gig for this party was one thing, but the cost of the clothes was another. He already knew it wouldn't be cheap, and mentally preparing for it felt exhausting.
The store was a little way from the café, and by the time they arrived, it was still early. Neon lights spilled across the wide glass façade, the polished metal and mirrors inside catching every reflection and making the space feel bigger. Racks were packed with edgy, Y2K-inspired streetwear: shiny vinyl jackets, cropped tops, oversized hoodies with bold prints, and sleek pants that promised to turn heads in any night crowd. The whole vibe screamed fashion, daring, and party-ready energy.
"This is cool," Ethan said, already halfway down the aisle. "I love it." He pulled a jacket off a rack and held it up in front of Ryan. Black, glossy, loaded with zippers and subtle hardware along the shoulders. The kind of thing that wanted attention whether you gave it or not.
"This will look good on you," Ethan said, holding the jacket up in front of Ryan. "Try it." Ryan eyed it skeptically.
"That's not happening."
"I said try it. Not marry it."
Ryan took the jacket anyway, weighing it in his hands. It felt heavier than it looked. Expensive. He held it up to his chest, studied the mirror, then shook his head. "It's… loud," he said.
"That's the point."
"It's your point," Ryan replied, handing it back. "Not mine."
Ethan hummed, unbothered, already reaching for something else. "Fine. We're experimenting. That's why we're here."
"Aren't you picking yours?" Ryan asked. he asked, trying to sound uninterested. "Not yet," Ethan brushed off, drifting towards a rack of electric-blue pants, patting them lightly. "You're the star of the day. After the star picks his outfit, the moon—which is me—can pick mine." He pointed at himself with a self-aware grin, clearly pleased with the metaphor
Ryan drifted away from Ethan not long after that, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders slightly slumped. He moved down a row slowly, like his legs were negotiating every step. The minutes blurred together. Too tight. Too shiny. Too dramatic. Too… whatever Ethan thought was "close."
They had already tried a few rounds, and neither of them looked satisfied.
Ryan would glance at his reflection, tug once at the fabric, then hand it back with a flat, "Too much."
Ethan, on the other hand, had an entire scale for disappointment. "Not enough," he'd say, head tilted, lips pursed. Or, "It's fine, but it doesn't do anything." Sometimes he wouldn't even finish the sentence.
They kept circling the racks anyway.
Ethan was relentless where Ryan was dragging. He moved fast, flipping hangers aside, scanning silhouettes, textures, colors. He looked energized by the excess. Ryan looked like he was being punished by it.
At some point, Ryan stopped actively judging.
He just reached.
He picked up something at random. Dark. Simple enough at first glance. He didn't inspect it closely, just looped it over his arm like it was a formality. Something to justify still being here.
Then he turned back.
Ethan was stepping out of the dressing room.
The outfit hit before the details did. Layers stacked deliberately, cropped brown hoodie sitting sharp against a black tee underneath. The jeans were absurdly wide, exaggerated in a way that shouldn't have worked but somehow did, the sand-washed gradient catching the light as he moved. White sneakers grounded everything, clean and chunky, keeping the look from tipping into costume. Silver chains rested against his chest, a metallic keychain swinging lightly at his hip when he took a step forward.
It looked intentional. Easy. Like he hadn't tried at all.
Ethan lifted his head and noticed Ryan hovering there.
"What's that?" he asked, nodding at the clothes draped over Ryan's arm.
Ryan shrugged. "Just something I picked up."
Ethan's eyes flicked over it once, quick but assessing. "You trying to bribe me into agreeing this time?"
"Just something I picked up," Ryan shrugged. "Hope you like it this time."
He didn't wait for an answer before disappearing into the dressing room.
The fitting area was narrow, mirrors lining the walls like they were daring him to look too closely. He chose a stall and shut the door, resting his forehead briefly against the cool surface.
He changed slowly.
When the door creaked open, the sound was barely noticeable.
Ethan still looked up instantly. The reaction was immediate.
He blinked. Once. Then again.
Ryan stood there in sharp contrast to the store's noise and color. The white compression tee fit him cleanly, almost severe in its precision, black curved paneling cutting across his torso like deliberate lines sketched with purpose. Against that restraint, the pants were all disruption. Black denim, distressed and reconstructed, panels stitched together at off angles, diagonal seams left raw and unapologetic. Like the jeans had been broken apart and reassembled without asking permission.
The belt caught the light next. Silver. Polished. Minimal, but impossible to ignore. The circular white accessory resting at his thin, almost invincible waist drew the eye without demanding it.
Ryan shifted under the stare. "What."
Ethan exhaled slowly.
"Well," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "That's… not bad."
Ryan waited.
"I'm proud of you," Ethan added, clearly exhausted now, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
Ryan's shoulders dropped a fraction. "We're going with this, right."
"Yes," Ethan said immediately. "Before you change your mind."
"Good." Ryan turned back toward the dressing room. "Let's pay. I'm fucking tired."
"Hey," Ethan protested weakly. "That's supposed to be my line."
"How," Ryan replied, already pulling the clothes off, "when you're the one who kept dragging this out."
Ethan scoffed, but didn't argue.
Their voices faded into the hum of the store as they headed for the counter, and minutes later, they were back outside, neon lights spilling onto the pavement as they made their way toward the bus stop
The dark night had finally fallen. Saturday. Party night.
Ryan's ears were ringing. Not from music, but from Ethan, who had spent the entire evening running commentary on everything. How to walk. How to nod. How to smile. How not to look like someone who'd wandered into club life by mistake. Every piece of advice, every critique, every half-joking warning stacked on top of the other until, by the time they left the hostel, Ryan felt like his brain had been kneaded, stretched, and left out to dry.
"Relax," Ethan said, slinging his jacket over the back of the taxi seat like he wasn't the problem. "Tonight's gonna go well as long as you don't tense up."
Ryan didn't answer. He just stared out the window, watching streetlights smear past like streaks of dull gold. He was tired. Too tired to argue. Too tired to reassure anyone, including himself.
The taxi pulled up near the club, neon cutting through the darkness like it was desperate to be noticed. The bass throbbed even from the sidewalk, low and persistent, vibrating through the air and straight into Ryan's chest. He took a slow breath. He'd worn the outfit. Let Ethan decide. Followed through. Now all that was left was going inside.
The doorman barely looked at them, nodding as Ethan flashed a smile that came way too easily. Ryan followed him in, swallowed almost immediately by noise and motion. The club was alive. Bodies moved in loose clusters, hands lifted, heads leaned in close. The air was thick with cologne and alcohol, conversations crashing into each other under the DJ's relentless sound.
Ethan nudged him once. Then again.
"I'm off, man," he said casually, hands already tucked into his jacket pockets as he drifted sideways.
Ryan reacted on instinct, grabbing Ethan's arm. "What do you mean you're off?" He leaned closer, voice low and tight. "Don't tell me you're leaving me here by myself."
Ethan slipped free easily. "Yeah," he said, almost gentle, but firm. "That's exactly what I'm doing."
He placed both hands on Ryan's shoulders, spun him around, and gave him a light push forward. "First step of tonight's mission," he added. "All man to himself."
"Tsk." A wink. A lazy two-finger salute.
And just like that, he was gone, already melting into the crowd before Ryan could even think of chasing him.
Ryan stood there for a second, staring at the space Ethan had been in. Then he sighed. The kind that meant giving up.
He scanned the room, instinctively looking for somewhere quiet. Somewhere small. A corner he could disappear into.
He shouldn't have come. The thought settled in quickly, comfortably, like it had been waiting. He told himself that as he made his way toward the bar at the far end of the room. He wasn't built for this. He didn't do easy conversations or effortless charm unless there was someone familiar nearby to anchor him.
Still.
"Well," he muttered under his breath, more resigned than hopeful, "people say alcohol helps in situations like this, right?"
Maybe just a little. Enough to take the edge off. Enough to loosen him up.
He pulled out a swivel bar stool with a small back and narrow armrests and dropped into it, slumping slightly as the noise washed over him again.
This was happening. Whether he liked it or not
The bartender wandered over, drying his hands on a rag.
"What'd you like?"
Ryan hesitated. "Just… something good for the mood," he said after a moment. "But not too strong."
The bartender studied him briefly, as though slotting him into a quiet mental category, then gave a small nod and turned away. Bottles clinked softly. Orange flashed, followed by ice and a lazy, practiced stir. When he returned, he slid the glass across the counter with an easy smile.
"Aperol spritz," he said. "Bright, light, and it won't knock you on your ass."
Ryan stared at the drink. Under the bar lights, it glowed a clean, vivid orange, bubbles racing upward as if they were in a hurry.
"Thanks," he murmured.
The bartender nodded once and moved on.
Ryan wrapped his fingers around the glass. His wrists looked thin and pale against the chilled surface, already slick with condensation. He took a cautious sip.
"Hello," a pleasant voice said from just above him, low and smooth without being intrusive.
Ryan glanced up. "Hello," he replied, offering a small smile as he watched the man settle onto the stool beside him.
"Aperol spritz," the stranger said, nodding toward Ryan's glass. "That's a good choice." He lifted a finger toward the bartender. "I'll have the same."
Ryan leaned back slightly on his stool, eyes narrowing into an appraising glance as he took the man in. He wondered who he was, and what exactly had brought him here.
The bartender returned with the drink. The stranger crossed his legs, took a sip, and gave a thoughtful nod. "It's been a while since I've had this," he said, setting the glass down before shifting his chair closer to Ryan.
"Hello again. I'm Chase." He extended his hand.
Ryan hesitated, then took it. "I'm Ryan."
Chase didn't release him right away. "Nice name," he said casually. "And soft hands. They fit your slender frame."
Ryan pulled his hand back sharply. "Uh—?"
"It's just a compliment," Chase said quickly, leaning away in retreat. "I see something good, I say something nice. No bad intentions."
"Um… thanks," Ryan muttered. He finished the rest of his drink in one go and slid the empty glass toward the bartender. "Another."
"You're a Business major? Or you were invited?" Chase went on.
"The former," Ryan replied, sounding half-interested. He wasn't used to conversing with strangers outside work, so he just wished this tall redhead with a careless posture would leave him the fuck alone, regardless of the reason behind him attending the party.
"That's nice. I was invited, though," Chase said. "And I'm a Studio Arts major..."
I didn't ask, he thought in his head, but his head and mouth didn't say the same thing. "That's nice," he forced a smile.
"Yeah. Thanks. I'm not much of a party-goer. I only attend once in a while if the vibe's hot, and I haven't really been to parties in a long while. Partly because I've been away and over there, it's been one thing or the other keeping me hella busy. I just got back last week, was told about this party, and decided to attend even though it isn't really hot, per se, I needed to cool my brain off," he chuckled at his own ironical actions. "So here I am." He exhaled and let his tone drop into a casual close. A few seconds passed, then he added, "I guess you don't attend parties."
"Why?" Ryan asked suddenly, sounding interested, slamming down the fourth shot of Aperol spritz.
"You look tensed up. And there's a saying that those who sit alone at a bar in a party either have something bothering them or it's their first time. I'm sure you ain't the former."
Ryan was starting to feel it. By the sixth shot, his movements were sluggish, and he frowned. "Why do you act like you know anything about me?
Chase chuckled, amused by the way he slurred the words in a cute way. "I don't," he said with a shrug, swirling his glass lazily. "I'm just… a little good at reading people.
"Why's that? You studying psychology or something?
"That kinda hurts, you know," he made a frown, which wasn't exactly real or fake.
"Why?" Ryan turned toward him, half-lidded and sluggish. "Why's that?
"You didn't have to show you were uninterested this way," Chase said, leaning forward slightly. "I already mentioned—I'm a Studio Arts major."
"Oh, my bad. I wasn't paying attention," Ryan mumbled, rubbing his temples.
Chase laughed, full and easy. "You're one funny kid," he said, and laughed again. "I guess you didn't come alone either. Your partner ditched you?"
"How'd you know that?" Ryan's voice cracked slightly, pitch a little high, drunkenly defensive.
"You know I really don't like Ethan. We came here together. No, we didn't. He basically forced me here. He pleaded with me all week long to attend this party. And when I finally agreed and came with him, guess what that jerk did? He left me all alone to myself." He cried, his words tumbling out, slurred and frustrated. "That's very bad of him, right?"
Chase watched him with his elbows on the bar, biting at his fingers as he fought back a laugh, like Ryan's behavior was doing something to him and he didn't quite know what to do with it. "Yeah… that's very bad of him," he said, voice soft and amused. "How could he…"
"I bet he ditched me to go talk to girls. After tonight, I'm never speaking to him again," Ryan said, leaning back against the bar stool. "I already have my fair share of bad luck. Adding a bad friend to it isn't what I'm doing."
"You have my full support. That isn't something a good friend should do. So even if you want to sue him, I can refer you to a good lawyer. Just…"
He was taken by surprise as the lean-framed kid beside him slumped slightly into his hands. He let out a scoff, half amusement, half exasperation. He knew this would happen sooner or later, given how Ryan had been gulping down the shots, rushing like he was trying to beat some invisible clock. Part of him had thought about stopping him, but then he didn't. He didn't want to halt all that cuteness—the way Ryan's head would tilt back slightly, the way his pale wrists flexed around the glass—and how it tugged at something stubborn inside him.
The night stretched on slowly. For some, the energy of the club was fading, the bass losing its edge. For others, it was just beginning. The DJ's mixes did their job, spinning the crowd into motion while the lights cut through the darkness, slicing everyone into color and shadow.
At a corner of the club, four guys had claimed their territory. Drinks in hand, they laughed, shouted over the music, and let their attention drift freely. Adrian arrived a little late, weaving through the crowd before joining them. He settled into the circle, leaning back slightly as he sipped, listening, nodding at points, but his eyes wandered.
They found Ryan.
He was unmistakable: thin-waisted, slender, words spilling out in a lazy, unstoppable torrent, gestures fluid even in the sway of the music. Adrian's eyes squinted, scanning the figure until recognition clicked. He remembered that night, the conversation, the small, strange things that had happened. He had pushed them aside back then, telling himself it was just one of Ryan's little games. No need to be bothered.
Seconds passed. Minutes. Adrian tried to focus on the banter in his own circle, tried to give his full attention to the conversation in front of him. But his gaze kept drifting. Still not allowing the little discomfort to get to him, he let himself sink into the lively, puppy-like energy Ryan gave off. He hadn't been like this that night at his apartment—tight, quiet, tense—but now, even drunk, he was freer, chatty, smiling, bold in a way that made Adrian's chest tighten. Deep down, he knew he liked both versions of him.
The reserved version from that night had made him want to have his way with Ryan, to bend him, to do things he wouldn't admit aloud. The Ryan in front of him now—loose, careless, laughing—stirred the same urge, but in a lighter, more dangerous way, and Adrian couldn't decide which pull was stronger.
He let out a sharp, fast laugh at himself, shaking his head at how wired it all felt, how completely ridiculous and inevitable it was that he was thinking this about someone else in a crowded club.
"What was it again?" he muttered to himself, brushing at his eyebrows, trying to recall the reason for talking to Ryan in the first place. "He said he wanted tutoring… should I just give it a go?"
He watched him further. The hand gestures, the slurred, nearly inaudible words, and then that one moment—falling into the redhead's shoulder…
The smile on Adrian's face vanished almost immediately, and he jerked up to his feet, instinctive, sudden, as if pulled by the force of it
"What's wrong, bro?" Dylan asked, tilting his head, curious.
"Umm… nothing. I'm heading out for a bit," Adrian muttered, and without waiting, strode toward the bar, eyes locked on Ryan the entire way.
Ryan didn't realize how fast he'd been drinking. One sip had been casual, the second deliberate—but by the tenth shot, the bright orange liquid burned down too quickly, chased by the insistence of conversation, the weight of Chase beside him. He had wanted alcohol to loosen up, to settle the edge in his chest, but he hadn't expected to be gulping it like this, forced along by the unrelenting chatter of the tall blond.
A dizzy, floaty kind of lightheadedness crept over him. The room tilted just a fraction, then a fraction more. The edges of the bar started to blur, the neon lights melting into streaks. Chase's voice became distant, warbled, like it was underwater. Ryan's head lolled, and before he knew it, he collapsed forward into Chase's shoulder.
Chase caught him instinctively, arms steadying him against the bar. "Whoa," he muttered, one brow raised, "how the hell did you—over this?" His voice carried the faint incredulity of someone watching a person get drunk on Aperol spritz, a drink hardly known to knock anyone off their feet.
Ryan blinked up at him, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face. "Ummm… sorry about that," he slurred, waving his hand lazily, swinging it like it had a mind of its own. "Seems like I'm getting tipsy." He tapped the side of his head, laughter bubbling up unsteadily.
Chase sneered, the corner of his lips lifting in amusement. "You're not tipsy, Ryan. You're heavily drunk."
"Am I?" Ryan forced the words out, his tongue thick, his eyes half-closed, vision swinging like a pendulum. "I… I should find Ethan…" He tried to push himself upright, only to swerve dangerously. Chase caught him again before he could topple completely.
"I don't think you can find him in this state," Chase said, steadying him with a firm hand. "You can't even get on your two feet. You should just stay here. I'll find Ethan for you. What does he look like? What's he—" He reached to grab Ryan's shoulder again, only to be interrupted by a large, slender hand blocking him.
"Sorry, can you get your hands off him? I came with this guy," the man said, brows furrowed, his tone sharp. Chase froze for a second, surprised, wondering why the man seemed so angry.
"Oh… you must be Ethan?" Chase said, retreating slightly, hands raised in a mix of caution and amusement.
The man didn't reply. He grabbed Ryan's hand with surprising firmness, yanking him upright. Ryan's legs wobbled uncontrollably, swerving as he tried to stay balanced, but Ethan pulled him along like he weighed nothing.
Chase stayed back and watched silently as Ryan staggered, leaning left, then right, his body swaying with every step. Ryan didn't look back.
He clicked his tongue softly, more annoyed with himself than anyone else.
"I should've gotten his number," he muttered, lifting his glass again, eyes lingering on the space Ryan had just left.