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The frat house usually smelled like stale keg foam and poor decisions, but tonight the room was also thick with fog-machine haze and cheap synthetic polyester.
Ryland Grace leaned against the sticky wall, clutching a red plastic cup filled with whatever was in the nearby punch bowl. He adjusted the cheap headband on his head, feeling the soft felt cat ears twitch slightly. He felt remarkably smart. His t-shirt had a giant, hand-drawn black question mark across the front, and taped firmly over his sternum was a laminated index card reading: “Until you check, I am both at this party and asleep in my apartment.”
It was a brilliant exercise in quantum superposition. It was intellectual. It was funny.
"Nice cat ears, Ry."
Grace blinked, turning his head. Standing beside him, leaning heavily against the drywall with one arm wrapped in cheap plastic gold bangles, was Tom Ryder.
Tom was wearing a knee-length, cheap white dress with a deep halter neck that shoved his hairy chest right into the spotlight. A jagged, uneven smudge of cherry-red lipstick was smeared across his mouth, and a black sharpie dot was aggressively drawn on his upper lip.
Grace stared. "Are you... supposed to be Marilyn Monroe?"
"I am the Marilyn Monroe, thank you," Tom corrected smoothly, tossing a completely non-existent hair over his shoulder. He flicked a pair of yellow-tinted aviators down his nose and squinted at Grace's forehead. "What are you supposed to be, a furry who lost his tail?"
"I am Schrödinger’s Cat," Grace said defensively, straightening his posture and tapping the index card taped to his chest. "It’s a classic physics thought experiment. The cat is simultaneously alive and dead inside a sealed box until observed. Ergo, until someone verifies my presence, I am both here and back in my bed."
Tom took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze dropping to the index card, then to the giant question mark, and finally back up to the felt ears.
"Yeah, sure, dude," Tom said, nodding with exaggerated, fake sympathy. "Seems like you just wanted to wear cat ears to me."
Grace’s face flushed instantly. "I did not just want to wear cat ears! It’s a conceptual costume! It requires a baseline understanding of quantum mechanics!"
"Right, right," Tom chuckled, flashing a dazzling, blinding smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Listen, man, it’s not like we’re in the Stone Age. You don't gotta hide behind quantum physics if you just wanna look cute. Own it."
"I am not trying to look—" Grace broke off, his eyes darting frantically down to the sheer white polyester straining against Tom's shoulders. "You are quite literally in drag! You’re wearing a backless dress and fake lipstick!"
"And I’m pulling it off," Tom snapped, smoothing down the front of the pleated skirt with both hands. "It’s high-concept cinema homage, alright? The Seven Year Itch. Classic film territory. Plus, the airflow in this thing is incredible. Meanwhile, you look like a TikTok cat boy.”
"It’s a thought experiment!" Grace insisted, his voice pitching higher as a group of passing freshmen gave them a wide berth. "Yours is a Spirit Halloween costume marked down to five dollars because the zipper is broken!"
"Hey," Tom raised a hand, pointing a manicured plastic nail at Grace's face. "The zipper isn't broken. It’s... customized for a broader silhouette. And at least people know who I am. You’ve had to explain your little card to four people tonight, haven't you?"
Grace opened his mouth to lie, but the sheer weight of Tom’s smug, lipstick-smeared grin crushed his spirit. "...Three people," Grace muttered into his red cup. "And they were all business majors, so it doesn't count."
"Right," Tom smirked, adjusting his halter strap. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go stand over the AC vent and see if I can get some theatrical lift on this skirt."
Ryland rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink, not bothering to respond to his ridiculous comment.
——
By 1:00 AM, the basement fog had settled into a dense haze, and the thought-experiment logic that Grace had held so dear had completely dissolved in cheap vodka and off-brand buzzballs.
He was slumped on the saggy velvet couch in the corner, his cat ears lopsided and his giant question mark shirt stained with bad box wine. Tom Ryder—whose white halter dress had survived three separate attempts at a high-kicking dance number—flopped down next to him, sending a cloud of cheap floral perfume and stale lager into the air.
"You know," Tom slurred, leaning in way too close, his aviators pushed up onto his messy blonde hair. "Your face is... devoid of drama, Grace. It’s an empty canvas. A tragic misuse of facial structure."
"My face has... optimal symmetry," Grace corrected, thick-tongued, blinking heavily through his smudged glasses. "It’s efficient."
"It’s boring," Tom declared. He reached into the tiny white vinyl purse slung over his shoulder and pulled out the cherry-red lipstick tube. He uncapped it with a dramatic flourish. "Hold still. I’m giving you a pop of color."
"Absolutely not," Grace huffed, leaning back. "I am a serious academic. I don't need—"
"Hold still, scaredy-cat," Tom commanded, grabbing Grace’s chin with surprisingly firm fingers.
Grace grumbled, but between the alcohol and the sheer force of Tom’s theatrical vanity, he surrendered, closing his eyes as the waxy, cool tip smeared across his lips. Tom pressed his thumb to Grace's bottom lip, smudging it slightly to "soften the edges."
“Alright, open 'em," Tom whispered, holding up a small compact mirror. Where had he gotten it? God knows.
Grace opened his eyes. Tom was leaning back, the smug smirk slowly fading from his lipstick-smeared mouth. For a second, Ryder just stared. The red shade was loud and ridiculous, but against Grace’s pale skin, dirty blond hair, and flushed cheeks, it... actually worked. Combined with the slightly dazed look in Grace's eyes and the crooked cat ears, he looked unexpectedly, strike-you-in-the-chest pretty.
Tom cleared his throat loudly, breaking his own trance, and slapped his hands on his knees. "Yeah. Brilliant. You look like a ruined french poet. You owe me."
"I look like a clown," Grace mumbled, licking his lips and immediately wincing at the chemical cherry taste. "Let's play beer pong. I'm going to destroy you."
“Yeah right.”
Twenty minutes later, they were gathered around the sticky folding table in the kitchen.
"Stakes," Tom announced, leaning heavily against the table and pointing a finger at Grace. "If I win... I get to write 'Ryder was here' on your lower back. Permanent marker."
"That is wildly inappropriate," Grace protested, though he was holding a ping-pong ball with intense, drunken focus. "Fine. But when I win, you have to wear these cat ears for the rest of the night.”
"Deal," Tom grinned.
Ten minutes later, Grace missed his final cup by a full six inches.
Tom let out a triumphant roar, snatching a black Sharpie from the kitchen counter. Despite Grace's weak verbal protests, he found himself turned around, leaning over the back of a dining chair while Tom lifted the bottom of his question-mark t-shirt.
Tom wrote in sweeping, obnoxious cursive right across the small of Grace’s back: THE Tom Ryder was here, complete with a little drawn star at the end. Tom whipped out his phone, stood next to Grace’s turned form, and snapped a flash photo of his "work of art." All with a grin and a peace sign. Grace buried his glowing, red-lipsticked face in his arms, blushing so furiously his ears burned.
“Ssstop... stop taking pictures, Ryder, it’s evidence," Grace slurred weakly, trying to swat the phone away.
"Evidence of my artistic victory," Tom declared, stumbling backward into the kitchen to grab two bottles of water. "Come on, catboy, you're not making it back to your apartment in this state. You’ll wander into a bush."
Grace didn't have the energy to argue. The walk up to Tom’s fourth-floor apartment was a blur of fluorescent hallway lights, Grace tripping twice on his own shoelaces, and Tom attempting to sing "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" at a whisper that was definitely not a whisper. Once inside, Tom tossed a heavy fleece throw onto the leather sofa and dragged his own shoes off. Grace peeled off his wine-stained question-mark shirt—which smelled overwhelmingly of stale beer—and collapsed face-first into the couch cushions, completely out cold before his head even hit the throw pillow.
——
When Grace finally opened his eyes, the morning sun was slicing through the blinds, hitting him straight in the eyes like a physical strike.
His head felt like it was being compressed in a hydraulic press. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he rolled onto his back. He was chilly; he realized pretty quickly that he was shirtless, wearing only his jeans, draped under a soft fleece blanket on an unfamiliar leather couch.
He sat up slowly, clutching his head, and looked around the sunlit living room. Expensive-looking movie posters framed on the walls, a pile of high-end sneakers by the door, and a lingering scent of laundry detergent and cologne. Tom’s apartment.
Feeling sticky, disoriented, and desperate for some water, Grace swung his legs over the side of the couch and walked quietly toward the bathroom at the end of the hall, taking care not to wake Tom, whose door was half-open—revealing Ryder sprawled star-shaped across a king-size bed, still somehow wearing the crumpled white Marilyn Monroe dress.
Grace pushed the bathroom door open and clicked on the light. The harsh white glare made him wince. He stepped up to the sink, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water over his face.
When he straightened up and looked in the mirror, he froze.
Red wax was smeared messily around his mouth, crusty and dried across his lips and chin. His brain, slow and foggy from the hangover, took a long, terrifying three seconds to make the connection.
Lipstick.
Tom was wearing lipstick.
Grace’s stomach dropped through the floorboards. His pulse spiked into a full panic rhythm as a dozen terrible, hazy possibilities flooded his mind. He spun around toward the full-length mirror behind the door, frantically checking himself over.
That’s when he saw it.
In bright, bold black Sharpie, swooping in obnoxious cursive right across the small of his lower back, was the unmistakable phrase: THE Tom Ryder was here—complete with a little star accent.
Grace gasped, his hands flying to his mouth. Oh God. Oh no. What did we—did we actually...?
He backed up until his thighs hit the edge of the tub, breathing heavily, his mind racing through every mistake he’d ever made in his life. He closed his eyes and forced himself to do a full, rational physical inventory. He stood completely still in the quiet bathroom, assessing his body.
His head was pounding, his throat was bone-dry, and his back had been vandalized—but... that was literally it. No weird aches, no physical soreness, no missing clothes other than the ruined t-shirt he'd taken off himself before collapsing. His jeans were still fully buttoned, belts zipped, socks intact.
Grace let out a massive, shaky breath, the sheer wave of relief washing over him so fast he almost felt dizzy.
We didn't sleep together, he realized, staring at his reflection again. He just treated my back like a high school bathroom stall.
The panic evaporated, immediately replaced by a surge of sheer irritation. He grabbed a hand towel, dampened it with warm water, and made a half-hearted attempt to scrub at the marker, but the Sharpie didn't even budge.
Sighing in defeat, Grace tossed the towel into the sink. Just before picking it back up again for future attempts. If he couldn’t figure it out, then Tom was going to.
He quietly walked back out to the living room, retrieved his throw blanket, and wrapped it around his bare shoulders. He flopped back down onto the leather couch, pulled his knees up, and stared at the bedroom door.
He wasn't going anywhere until Ryder woke up to face his actions—and come up with a way to get permanent ink off human skin.
——
The couch leather squeaked loudly as Grace shifted, still staring fixedly at the cracked bedroom door.
Around 11:30 AM, a groaning sound emerged from the dark bedroom, followed by the heavy, slumping thud of someone swinging their feet onto the floorboards.
Tom Ryder emerged a minute later, squinting viciously against the morning sun. He was still wearing the crumpled Marilyn Monroe halter dress, though the halter strap had slipped completely down his left shoulder. His blonde hair looked like an exploded bird's nest, the fake beauty mark was smudged across his cheek, and he was holding his head with both hands.
"Ugh," Tom groaned, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Did a bus hit me, or did I drink rum again?"
"You drank half a bottle of spiced rum," Grace said flatly from the couch.
Tom flinched at the sound of Grace's voice, slowly turning his head. He blinked through bleary, bloodshot eyes, taking in the sight of Ryland sitting upright, shirtless under the fleece blanket, clutching a damp, black-stained hand towel in his lap like a weapon.
"Oh," Tom said, a faint, slow smirk attempting to form through his hangover haze. "Hey, Schrödinger. You're... still here."
"Yup. I’m here," Grace said, standing up with absolute, deliberate composure. He let the fleece blanket drop to his waist, turned his back to Tom, and pointed an accusing thumb over his shoulder at his lower back. "And this is here.”
Tom leaned forward, squinting. The bold, sweeping cursive stared right back at him, the ink crisp and dark against Grace’s pale skin.
Tom’s smirk broke through full-force. "Ah. A masterpiece. The line work is surprisingly clean given my motor skills at 2:00 AM."
"It's permanent marker, Ryder!" Grace spun around, his face flushing crimson. "I have spent twenty minutes in your bathroom trying to scrub it off with hand soap! It’s not coming out!”
"Calm down, Ry. Rubbing alcohol or hand sanitizer breaks down Sharpie ink. It’s basic science—I thought you were supposed to be the genius." Tom went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He pulled out a carton of orange juice and took a long swig straight from the spout.
Grace crossed his arms over his bare chest, tracing a finger over his own bottom lip where the dried red wax was still sitting. "I know it's non-polar, Tom. I was focused on the sheer disrespect. Though, to be fair, your handwriting on my back is significantly better than your aim at beer pong."
Tom paused mid-sip, lowering the carton with an amused tilt of his head. "Excuse me? I beat you."
"You sank one lucky shot after missing four in a row," Grace countered, stepping a bit closer into the kitchen light, his eyes flicking down Tom's disheveled outfit with a slow, mock-critical appraisal. "And for someone who spent all night boasting about 'method acting,' you look less like Marilyn Monroe and more like a bleached blond pirate who lost a knife fight."
Tom let out a raspy laugh, leaning his hip against the counter. "Careful, Grace. You're awfully bold for a guy wearing my throw blanket with my name stamped on his spine."
"Oh, please. You just wanted an excuse to touch my lower back and write your name on me," Grace shot back, a sudden, surprising flash of confidence cutting through his hangover as a small, sharp smile tugged at his lips. "Admit it, Ryder. You were looking for a souvenir."
Tom’s eyes widened just a fraction, taken aback by the shift, before his golden-boy grin clicked back into place. He reached into his bag on the counter, pulled out a bottle of hand sanitizer, and tossed it to Grace, who caught it neatly with one hand.
"Maybe I was," Tom purred smoothly, taking a step toward him. "Can you blame me? Red lipstick suits you. You should lose games more often."
Grace felt his chest warm, but he didn't back down. He popped the cap on the hand sanitizer, squirted a dollop onto the hand towel, and locked eyes with Tom. "Keep dreaming, Marilyn. Next time we play, you're the one wearing the cat ears. And I'm bringing a Sharpie."
"I'd like to see you try," Tom chuckled, though his eyes lingered on Grace's chest for a second too long before he winced, reaching back to tug uselessly at his ruined dress. "Alright, as much as I love this banter... I need a favor. The zipper really is stuck, and I've been trapped in Monroe's body for fourteen hours. Help a girl out?"
Grace rolled his eyes, a fond, helpless chuckle escaping him as he set the towel down. "Only if you lend me a shirt that doesn't smell like a brewery."
"Of course," Tom smirked, turning around to present his back. "Just don't get any ideas while you're back there, Ry-ry the science guy."
"Trust me, Ryder," Grace muttered, reaching up to pinch the stuck zipper tab, his fingers brushing against Tom's bare shoulder, "you're not my type. You wear way too much makeup."
Oh was he ever the liar.