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The basement of the fraternity house was a sensory nightmare—and yet another entry on the list of college parties Tom Ryder had dragged Ryland Grace to that semester. By now, their routine was almost perfected: Tom would promise a "quick one-hour reset," Grace would reluctantly agree just to escape his books, and within twenty minutes Tom would command the center of the room while Grace retreated to a smaller, less crowded area.
Tonight, the basement was lit almost entirely by the harsh, twitching glare of neon beer signs and cheap string lights taped along exposed water pipes. It smelled of spilled beer, wet concrete, and cheap cologne, the air so thick with humidity and vape smoke that it stung the back of the throat. Above them, the floorboards flexed rhythmically under the weight of dozens of people dancing in the living room, sending showers of dust drifting down.
At the center of the chaos, Tom Ryder had somehow managed to turn a scuffed ping-pong table into his personal stage. Surrounded by empty plastic cups, sticky floor patches, and a circle of underclassmen, needless to say that Tom was in his element.
Speaking of which, he had been leaning against the table with one arm, dynamic energy practically radiating off him as he regaled a group of underclassmen with a heavily exaggerated story about a stunt jump “he’d” pulled off earlier that week. Was he gonna tell them he didn’t actually do any of his own stunts? No. But someone asked him about it so why not tell just one tall tale?
He took a slow sip of his drink, waiting for the laughter to die down before his eyes flicked around the dark basement.
No Ryland.
Where the hell did Ry wander off to this time? Tom thought, scanning the crowd. Usually he’s standing near the coolers, or at least pretending to check his phone.
“Hey, anyone seen Grace?" Tom asked, interrupting his own fan club.
A few people shrugged, but Ryder’s arm was already leaving the edge of the table. Ryland had been complaining all week about his introductory organic chemistry labs and the mountain of complex lab reports he had to analyze. There was simply no way he would’ve left the party this early, and certainly not without telling him.
Tom wove through the crowded basement, dodging a group attempting a keg stand by the stairs and pushing past the line for the grimy basement bathroom. He finally found Grace tucked into the dark alcove near the back hallway, staring rigidly at the floorboards with his knuckles locked white-hot around his own knees.
“Ry?" Tom slowed his stride, taking in Grace’s rapid, shallow breathing and wide, unblinking eyes. He dropped down onto one knee right in front of him. "Hey, man. What's going on? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Grace didn't look up, his voice coming out in a tight, panicked breath. "Tom? Tom, I… I made a mistake."
His stomach dropped.
“What kind of mistake?" Tom asked, his tone shifting instantly from boisterous showman to quiet focus.
“I was standing by the kitchen. Someone handed me a red cup and a little blue tablet. They said it was just… something to help me take the edge off," Grace stammered, his eyes darting wildly across the dim room.
I am going to find whoever gave him that and throw them through a wall, Tom thought, a sharp, fierce heat blooming in his chest. But he kept his expression completely steady, knowing any spike in his own energy would send Grace spiraling further.
“I don’t know what it was but…” Grace continued, tears brimming in his eyes. “The floor is… the geometry of the room is bending. My heart is beating at a frequency that doesn't make physical sense. I can't calculate it. I can’t track it."
"Jesus Christ… what did they give you, Ry?" Tom reached out, gently grabbing Grace’s wrists to pull his trembling hands away from his knees.
“I don't know!" Grace repeated, a tear slipping down his cheek as the flashing strobe lights from the doorway sent disorienting trails across his vision. "I feel like I'm floating away from my own head. I can't ground myself. Make it stop, Tom, please.”
“Listen to me. You're grounded right here," Ryder said firmly, forcing Grace to make eye contact. "I've got you. You're having a bad trip, okay? It's just chemicals and stuff reacting in your brain. It feels real, but it's temporary. I'm getting you out of this basement right now."
“I don't think I can walk," Grace whispered, his knees shaking uncontrollably.
“You don't have to do it alone." Tom stood up, leaning over to sling Grace’s heavy, limp arm across his shoulders. He wrapped his own arm tightly around Grace’s waist, taking on almost all of his weight. "On three, buddy. One, two, up."
Grace leaned heavily against Tom’s side, his forehead pressing briefly into his neck as they navigated the crowded stairs. Tom steered him past the thumping speakers, the sticky living room carpet, and out through the screen door into the cool midnight air, ignoring the catcalls from drunk partygoers lounging on lawn chairs on the porch.
“Focus on the rhythm of my steps," Tom murmured as they reached his car. "Just count 'em. One, two, one, two."
“One… two…" Grace repeated weakly, letting Tom buckle him into the passenger seat.
During the drive back, Grace kept clutching the dashboard, convinced the car was moving at lightspeed. Tom kept one hand firmly on Grace's knee the entire time, talking him through every single turn until they reached the quiet curb outside Grace's off-campus apartment.
Tom helped him up the steps. Grace was practically dead weight now, hyper-fixated on the overwhelming sensory input of the universe.
“The key…” Grace mumbled, fumbling uselessly at his coat pockets. "I can't… the key isn't working."
“Relax, I've got mine," Tom said smoothly, pulling his own spare key out from his pocket—he’d had it on his keychain for months—and after a brief moment of finicking with the jammed deadbolt, the door clicked open.
He ushered Grace inside, kicking the door shut behind them and guiding him straight into the bedroom. The apartment was quiet and dark, a sanctuary away from the chaos of the party. Tom carefully lowered Grace onto the edge of the mattress, reaching down to unlace his converse.
“Okay, Ry. Shoes off. You're back in your room," Tom said softly.
Grace collapsed backward onto the pillows, pulling his knees up to his chest as the lingering paranoia of the trip swept over him again in the dark. Don't leave me alone in the dark with this, Grace pleaded internally, the chemical panic clawing at the edges of his mind. "Tom…? Are you—are you staying?"
Like I'd ever leave you like this, Tom thought to himself, feeling a sudden wave of protective affection for the brilliant, fragile mess lying on the bed.
“‘Course I am," Tom replied without hesitation.
He kicked off his own boots and climbed onto the bed, pulling the heavy comforter over both of them. Tom pulled Grace in close, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders and letting Grace rest his head directly against his chest.
"Listen to my heartbeat," Tom whispered into the quiet room, running a hand through Grace’s messy hair as Grace began to sob from sheer chemical exhaustion and relief. "It’s steady. Yours is going to match it soon. Just breathe, Ry. I’m right here."
Slowly, the frantic gasps slowed into rhythmic breaths, and Grace’s body finally went soft against Tom's chest as he cried himself into a deep, dreamless sleep.