Chapter Text
art by wistalia <3
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
October's arrival is marked by soft, golden haze, leaves that crunch underfoot in shades of burnt orange and burgundy red, and crisp autumnal air. Carved pumpkins line the quad—some intricate, others endearingly lopsided—while wispy strands of student-hung cobwebs cling lazily to the lampposts.
Chase and his friends have claimed their usual corner table near the windows of the student union, trays of half-eaten food scattered across it. Silver sits cross-legged beside Chase, gesturing with her fork like she’s holding court.
"I can’t believe how calm you are," Silver says, pinning Bronze with narrowed eyes. She tucks a strand of platinum blonde hair behind her ear, voice rising with each word. "What do you mean you still don’t know what you’re wearing tonight?"
Bronze, slouched forward with his elbows pressing into the table, only lifts one shoulder. "I don’t know," he says flatly. "I’ll find something."
At Keystone University, Halloween is serious business. Chase learned that his freshman year, when he found himself attending at least two or three Halloween events a week all October. And it’s the first Friday of October, which only means one thing at KSU: Kappa Epsilon Psi’s annual spooky season kick-off party.
KEΨ has been running Halloween since forever, but everyone agrees the tradition’s been on another level since Goldie took over as president three years ago.
The system works like this: KEΨ throws the kick-off on the first Friday of October, setting the tone for the month. Then, week after week, other frats and clubs try to top it with their own parties and events—costume contests, haunted houses, even a zombie fun run one time last year.
But no matter how good the others get, everyone knows the season begins and ends with KEΨ.
Because Goldie also owns the finale.
October 31st. The Halloween party. The sculpted coffin ice luge, the fog machines, the strobe lights. A priceless speaker setup that's worth more than Chase's tuition. Alcohol flowing endlessly. Perfect chaos. Costumes planned months ahead that become profile pictures until the next year. Students wake up the morning after in either glory, shame, or both.
Everyone at KSU knows it—it's undoubtedly and universally accepted as the party of the year, every single year.
Chase, naturally, wouldn’t dream of missing it. And he sure as shit isn’t going to miss the kick-off—the beginning of the countdown to the main event.
"You’ve had months to plan this!" Silver lifts her hands slightly in disbelief, dainty bracelets clinking around her wrists. "It’s a costume party, Bronze! You can’t just show up wearing the first shirt you find on your dorms floor!"
Across the table, Simon doesn’t even glance up from where he's splitting open the wrapper of his granola bar. "It’s not like it’s the costume party," he drawls. "It’s a taster."
Danielle grins around the straw of her iced coffee. "Yeah, he could probably just throw on some cat ears and be fine." She sits up suddenly, pointing at Bronze. "Oh! Actually, I think I have a spare pair."
"Cool. Thanks." Bronze nods once before turning back to Silver. He lifts his brows in the barest suggestion of triumph. "There. Problem solved."
Silver huffs, stabbing her fork into her pasta with a small, disapproving shake of her head. "Unbelievable."
"No," Bronze starts, "what’s unbelievable is Chase going as a vampire. Again."
A few murmurs of agreement ripple around the table.
Chase's jaw hangs, glaring around at them all as he crosses his arms defensively. "So what?"
Simon snorts. "Dude. This is, like, the twelfth time you’ve dressed up as a vampire for a Halloween party."
"Okay? I look good as a vampire," Chase protests, voice high with indignation. "What do you want me to do?"
"Be something else?" Danielle suggests.
Chase only scoffs as though the mere prospect of him being anything but a vampire is ridiculous. "No."
"Pay them no mind, Chase," Silver tells him softly, her tone almost motherly. "Do what makes you happy."
"Thank you, Silver," Chase replies pointedly, flashing the others a triumphant little ha-ha look.
"I mean," Simon muses, "at least he got rid of the cape."
The table erupts in another wave of agreement almost immediately—enthusiastic enough to suggest Simon has just voiced something they've all been thinking for years.
Chase frowns, whipping his head around. "What? You guys didn't like my cape? I was thinking about bringing it back this year!"
"Don't," Bronze objects. "It was dumb."
Chase turns to Silver, brown eyes blown wide as he desperately seeks validation from the fashion major. "Was it dumb?"
Silver, always the voice he trusts most, hesitates just a moment before sighing. "…I’m sorry."
Chase huffs, scowling childishly as he slumps in his seat. "Fine. Whatever."
Danielle giggles, reaching forward to pat his arm teasingly. "Aw, Chase. I liked the cape!"
"Did you actually?" Chase asks, brows raising hopefully.
She nods encouragingly. "Mhm! You always reminded me of my baby brother when you wear it because he has one just like—"
"Your six year old brother, Danielle? Seriously? I remind you of your six year old brother?"
"…Well, he's seven now, but—"
Chase cuts her off with a loud groan. "That's so not what I was going for."
Simon makes a face. "Well, what were you going for wearing a cape? Who over the age of nine wears a cape on Halloween?"
"Superman does!" Chase shoots back, sitting up straighter. "Superman is a popular costume, Simon. He wears a cape!"
"Move on, Chase," Bronze drawls. "Let go of the cape."
For a moment, it looks like Chase is about to argue, but instead he shuts his mouth with a childish huff.
"Whatever." He turns away, sulking. "You guys are so mean."
"Speaking of mean." Bronze finally lifts his gaze, tilting his head back as he takes a slow swig from his apple juice. His green eyes lock onto something over Chase’s shoulder. "Here they are."
Chase doesn't have to turn, because he knows who it is, but he looks anyway—Violet and Nox, making their way down the cobbled path that cuts between the two lawns.
Silver's roommate Violet struts with effortless poise, every inch the fashion student: creaseless plaid skirt over a pair of tights, knee-high boots, crisp blouse, not a hair out of place, and eyeliner sharp enough to kill.
Nox is equally striking in a long black wool coat, one hand buried in his pocket, the other curled around a coffee cup he probably wants everyone to think is filled with black coffee, and Chase can't prove it but he knows it's actually hot chocolate.
Everything about him looks almost statuesque. He’s tall and slender, built like someone who should be leaning against the stone archway of a castle rather than crossing a college quad. Jet black hair falls across his forehead in artful disarray, sharp enough to cut but soft enough to touch—if Chase were ever suicidal enough to try. And then there are his eyes, a piercing ice-blue that scan the world with the detachment of someone permenantly unimpressed.
His features are sharply elegant: high cheekbones, straight nose, pink rose-tinted mouth that always looks like it’s on the verge of a smirk. The kind of face sculptors would carve out of marble centuries ago.
And it’s so fucking unfair, Chase thinks, that someone can look that attractive while also being the single most infuriating person alive.
Violet waves as they approach, her creamy wool scarf trailing dramatically in the wind. Nox doesn’t wave, because of course he doesn’t. He just stalks forward in that stupid coat like the campus is his runway.
Chase rolls his eyes, which is really just a coping mechanism to keep himself from staring. (Not that it would matter if Chase did stare, because it’s not like Nox ever looks at him anyway. Not directly. Not unless it’s to be an asshole.)
Because god help him, Nox is hot.
And, unfortunately, just his type.
He wouldn’t call it a crush, per se—because he kinda hates him just as much as he’s attracted to him. But he also wouldn’t not call it a crush. Because he is very, very attracted to him.
Silver gives Violet a quick once-over, frowning. "Is that my skirt?"
Violet tilts her head, raising one perfectly arched brow. "Is that my hairband?"
Silver doesn’t reply to that. Violet hums, smug and self-satisfied, and Silver grudgingly scoots over to let her sit.
Nox, on the other hand, doesn’t sit. He lingers at the edge of the table, sipping from his Not-Coffee as his gaze drifts lazily across the table, acknowledging everyone—Simon, Danielle, Bronze, Silver—before skipping right over Chase, like he doesn’t exist.
Irritation flares in his chest, sharp and familiar. His dismissal of Chase's existence is so blatant.
But still, Chase doesn’t say anything, because when he does, he sounds insane. But he knows it’s intentional. It has to be.
Violet shifts in her seat as she settles in, adjusting her bag on her lap. "What are we talking about?"
"What they always talk about," Bronze replies.
"Ah. Of course." Violet nods, turning to Silver. "I do hope you didn’t mention anything about our costumes for tonight? It’s supposed to be a surprise."
Silver waves a hand dismissively. "Of course not! What do you take me for?"
"Good." Violet’s expression smooths into satisfaction. "I don’t want any copycats. We have a record to uphold."
For the past three years, Violet and Silver have dominated the costume contest. This year, their fourth and final year, they intend to see it all the way through. The fashion society hosts the contest annually, judging every outfit worn throughout October and crowning the best-dressed students on the 31st. Every detail counts, every costume scrutinised.
They’re not about to let anyone steal their crown, not when they're so close to a record-breaking home run.
"Hey, maybe I might go for the crown this year," Chase chimes in, humour clear in his tone as he playfully nudges Silver's shoulder. "Shake things up a little, y'know?"
Violet scoffs, leaning forward to peer at him from behind Silver. "What, with your recycled vampire costume? I don’t think so."
Chase grins, ready to fire back—
"Don’t tell me you’re actually wearing another ridiculous vampire costume?" Nox cuts in, voice smooth and sharp all at once, and Chase's cheeky grin vanishes in an instant. "I thought music students were supposed to be creative."
Chase narrows his eyes. "Oh, yeah? And what are you going as, Mr. Creative? Nosferatool?"
"Don’t concern yourself with what I’m doing, Chase," Nox says flatly, gaze drifting somewhere off into the distance.
"Whatever," Chase snarls. "You have the wardrobe of a Victorian ghost anyway, so Halloween is easy for you."
A few snickers bubble around the table, but Nox doesn’t react. He merely adjusts the leather strap of his bag in its place over his shoulder before quickly checking his watch, then glances up again one last time at Chase—calm, composed, and insultingly uninterested.
Like Chase isn’t even worth the effort.
That's what pisses him off the most about Nox.
"Enjoy your rerun, Count," he says coolly, stepping back. "I’ve got class."
"See you later, Nox!" Silver calls brightly, joined by a couple of other goodbyes—none from Chase.
He’s already walking away when he lifts a hand in lazy acknowledgment, a half-wave tossed carelessly over his shoulder without looking back. The gesture is effortless, infuriatingly elegant. So quintessentially him.
Chase watches him as he goes, irritation simmering right alongside something much worse.
"Asshole," he hisses under his breath, brow furrowed as he ducks his head again, scowling at the table. His friends snicker at him.
"I dunno why you let him wind you up like that," Simon murmurs, muffled as he crunches on his granola bar.
"Yeah, seriously, Chase," Danielle chuckles breathlessly. "Just ignore him."
"I’ve tried that!" Chase snaps, whipping his head up.
"You’re an idiot," Simon says after a brief pause. He takes another bite of his granola bar.
Chase sighs dramatically, plopping his chin into his hand. "He’s just so hot."
The table collectively groans.
"What!" Chase looks around rapidly, moving to hold his hands up in surrender.
"Imbecile," Violet grumbles somewhere to his right, behind Silver.
They don’t even bother replying. The head shakes, groans, and eye rolls are enough. Chase slumps forward again, muttering angrily under his breath, internally rehashing every interaction he’s ever had with Nox.
He can’t help it—his mind drifts to Nox costume last year as the table resumes its chatter distantly.
Nox had gone as some kind of gothic devil, an outfit Violet had made for him, and he'd looked good enough that Chase had even tried to compliment him. But Nox had just blinked at him silently and said, dry as hot sand, "Your shoe laces are untied."
Chase had wanted the ground to swallow him whole. Still, the memory lingers—sharp horns nestled in his black hair, a low-cut gray jacket threaded with thorns and amethyst studs, and that effortless smugness that had no right to look that attractive on anyone.
His eyes are still fixed on the back of Nox’s head when he blurts, without realizing he’s cutting someone off, "Does anyone know what Nox’s wearing tonight?"
The chatter dies instantly.
"Why?" Danielle asks after a beat, half-laughing.
Chase blinks, tearing his gaze away from where Nox is disappearing into a building.
"I wanna know," he says, trying for casual. Then, leaning forward toward Violet—currently perfecting her lip liner in a compact mirror—he adds, "Violet? Do you know?"
Violet glances at him briefly before snapping her focus back to the mirror. "I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you."
Chase’s face scrunches in disbelief. "What! Why not?!"
"Because—" she snaps the mirror shut with a satisfying click, "—I refuse to enable your behavior toward him. It's vile to me."
Chase scoffs, leaning back with a roll of his eyes. "Oh, whatever."
The conversation around him picks back up, drifting to something else entirely, but Chase doesn't hear it. His gaze lingers on the building Nox disappeared into, an unbothered silhouette in his mind.
He sighs, fingers drumming absently against the table.
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Just as it does every year, the KEΨ house looks like Halloween threw up on it.
Strings of orange and purple bulbs crisscross the porch, casting the whole front lawn in a pulsing glow. The lawn itself is littered with styrofoam tombstones, a plastic skeleton lounging in a sun chair with someones sunglasses hanging off its face, and giant inflatable pumpkins. Music pulses through the open windows, a steady, bone-shaking rhythm that bleeds into the chilly night air.
Chase pauses at the bottom of the steps. The house looms before him, all dark wood and ivy and fake cobwebs clinging to the columns. The front door is open, flashing with red and green light, silhouettes moving constantly behind the flimsy Halloween streamers.
The music gets even louder as he climbs the porch steps with Simon, Bronze, and Deacon.
Deacon leads the way, wearing a leather aviator jacket, a white scarf, and a pair of old flight goggles perched on his head. There’s even a map sticking out of his back pocket for "realism."
Bronze trails behind them, wearing a plain hoodie and sweatpants topped with Danielle's spare pair of cat ears. She had begged him to at least let her paint some whiskers on his face, but of course, he'd refused.
Simon, meanwhile, has gone full Matrix mode—long black trench coat, tiny sunglasses, slicked-back hair.
And then there’s Chase himself. Fake blood smudged artfully down his chin, faded clothes with frayed edges and ripped seams, a half-buttoned shirt he'd dirtied with tea bags, loose suspenders, and fangs that catch the light whenever he grins.
The second they step through the door, the sound hits—music so loud it rattles Chase’s ribs, laughter spilling over it like static. The air inside is hot, thick with fog, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of cheap alcohol. Coloured lights flash against walls draped with fake spiderwebs, and the smell of beer, sugar, and pumpkin-scented candles hangs in the air.
It’s not two steps in before a booming voice cuts through the noise—
"Friends!"
Goldie appears in front of them, massive, beaming from ear to ear, painted a shade of radioactive green. Bolts stick out from his neck at odd angles. His Frankenstein’s monster costume looks like it was made using scrap from the clearance shelf at a thrift store. Clearly the budget was spent entirely on the party.
"Welcome, brave souls!" he bellows, arms thrown open wide. "Bronze! Simon! Chase! Deacon! Deacon!" He does a double take at Deacon, sapphire eyes gleaming. "A time traveller! Magnificent!"
Deacon blinks. "I’m supposed to be Amelia Earhart, actually—"
"And you!" Goldie cuts him off, spinning toward Chase with flair. "My short friend… you are a homeless man!"
Chase splutters as Simon and Bronze snort somewhere behind him.
"What?! No, dude, I’m a vampire," he protests, gesturing dramatically to the blood on his chin and tugging back his lip to reveal his fangs. "See?"
Goldie peers closer, squinting. His eyes skitter over him once more, unconvinced. "Where’s your cape?"
Chase’s shoulders slump. "I knew I should’ve kept the fucking cape!"
Before Goldie can reply, Ross materialises beside him, dressed as Dr. Frankenstein—lab coat hanging open, plastic syringe in his pocket, and the half-sloshed grin of someone who’s already three drinks deep.
"Bro," he pants, thrusting a red cup at Goldie, "Stripes is trying to fill the bathtub with punch again."
Goldie’s eyes go wide with childlike glee. "Huzzah! The experiment continues!"
"Hell yeah!" Ross cheers loudly , jostling Goldie by the shoulder before his voice drops suddenly. "Seriously, though, we're gonna need a mop."
"Adventure always ends with a mop, my friend!" Goldie declares grandly, slinging an arm around Ross’s shoulder. He turns back to Chase and the group, voice booming once more. "Farewell, noble guests! May your night be filled with revelry and thrill!"
Then he’s gone, dragging Ross with him up the stairs, shouting, "Onwards! To the laboratory!"
Chase watches them disappear into the crowd of bodies and flashing lights.
Time slips by in a blur of flashing lights and bad remixes.
The house feels even more alive now—crowded, humid, every room pulsing with bass and laughter. Chase loses track of how many people he’s said hi to, or how many fake cobwebs he’s walked through.
Chase drifts through it all, cup in hand, feeling the pleasant buzz of cheap liquor in his chest. His friends have scattered—Simon’s doing shots with some guy dressed as Jesus, Bronze is somehow winning a beer pong game against a pair of cowboys, and Deacon has some poor, disinterested girl cornered and is currently ranting to her about his costume.
So now it’s just him—wandering the chaos, half-looking for familiar faces, half-looking for someone in particular.
He spots Violet and Silver, moving around like they own the place—which, in a way, they kind of do. They’re Cher and Dionne from Clueless tonight, head-to-toe in plaid and attitude, linked at the arms and already drawing a dozen heads and compliments.
Danielle passes by next, dressed in latex and eyeliner, cat ears on her head. Catwoman. He flashes her a grin when she winks at him before disappearing into the crowd.
A few mutuals wave at him from across the room, but still—no sign of Nox.
He tries not to care. He definitely doesn’t care. He’s just… curious. Just wondering what kind of pretentious, beautifully crafted costume Nox chose this year.
He’s still debating whether to text Silver for intel when someone barrels into him near the hallway arch, hard enough to make him slosh his drink.
"Whoa—hey!" Chase stumbles, steadying himself on the wall. "Watch where—"
He stops.
A Ghostface mask stares back at him.
The mask gleams under the strobe light—smooth, white, and expressionless. The figure’s tall and dressed head-to-toe in a black robe.
For a moment, Chase just laughs it off. "Nice costume," he says, brushing a bit of spilled punch off his sleeve.
Ghostface tilts his head slightly.
"Look at you. A vampire again," he purrs, smooth and distorted by the mask. Deep, quiet, but clearly amused.
Chase freezes, pulse jumping. "...Do I know you?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
The figure steps a little closer, close enough for Chase to smell the faintest trace of cologne beneath the plastic and fabric. Clean, a little intoxicating, and so strangely familiar in a way that makes something stir within him.
"You like scary movies, Chase?" Ghostface asks teasingly, voice low, curling around him like smoke.
Chase narrows his eyes, a crooked, playful grin tugging at his lips. "You know my name?"
"You’re hard to miss."
"Interesting," Chase says, folding his arms across his chest, trying to sound casual even as his heart rate quickens. "You a fan, or a stalker?"
"Mm… Bit of both."
That earns a laugh from him, quick and surprised. "Alright, seriously—how do you know my name?"
"I just do," he answers, infuriatingly vague.
Chase tilts his head, pretending to seem unimpressed, though a shiver runs down his spine. "Hm. Kinda creepy."
A soft scoff escapes the mask, and Chase swears he feels a spark of recognition shoot through him at the noise.
"Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this," the voice murmurs.
Chase frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"The attention," Ghostface clarifies, leaning ever so slightly closer. "You love it. You love this."
Chase pauses. Then, he laughs, a little breathless, brushing his hair back with a nervous hand. "Oh, yeah? You think you’ve got me allll figured out, huh?"
Ghostface slowly tilts his head again. "Am I wrong?"
Fire roars in Chase’s chest. He does love this—the mystery, the thrill, the way the voice swirls around him, blanketing him in intrigue.
"You ever gonna answer my question, buddy?" he asks, leaning forward a little as his confidence surges, daring, playful.
"I could," the mystery boy hums. "But that would be giving you exactly what you want."
"So?"
"So," Ghostface whispers, leaning closer still, so that Chase feels the faint brush of cloth against his arm, "that would be boring." He pauses, and despite the plastic shielding his face, Chase can feel the intensity in his stare. "Don’t start boring me now, Chase."
Electricity shoots down his spine. The way he speaks—every word, every pause, every tilt of the head feels intentional, intimate, heavy with knowing. Like he actually knows him.
The crowd vibrates around them, a sea of warm bodies and flashing red, green, and violet lights. Chase feels the world blur to a wash of noise and color, leaving only the presence in front of him, close enough that he can sense the rhythm of the other’s breathing. His chest tightens in a delicious, ridiculous way.
"Who are you?" Chase asks for the final time, squinting, scanning the mask as if he might burn holes through it if he stares hard enough.
Ghostface leans in, voice dropping to a teasing whisper, just barely audible over the voice of Michael Jackson thumping through the speakers. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Then, the sound of glass shattering cuts through the music. Someone nearby screams with laughter, and instinctively, Chase turns toward the noise.
When he looks back not even two seconds later, the stranger is gone.
The space beside him is empty, the crowd moving as if nothing ever happened.
Chase blinks once, twice, heart still racing as he whips his head in every direction, searching desperately for a gleam of white plastic, a flash of black fabric—anything.
But there’s nothing. Ghostface has vanished, dissipated into the chaos of the party like smoke into the night.
He stands there for another moment, motionless, drink in his hand forgotten while the phantom of a voice still echoes in his ear.
He starts asking around almost immediately, cutting through the crowd like a man on a mission.
"Hey—have you seen a Ghostface?" he shouts over the music at a guy in a toga. "Tall? All black? Kind of ominous?"
The guy just blinks at him, shrugs, and turns back to his beer pong table.
Chase moves on, trying again and again—each time getting the same confused look, the same useless "uh, no?" that makes him want to pull his hair out.
Nothing.
It’s as if the guy really was a ghost—appearing out of nowhere just to haunt Chase for four stupidly electrifying minutes before disappearing again.
And haunt him, he does. Because now, he’s all Chase can think about.
He made such a mark on him that Chase almost doesn’t notice Nox. Almost.
"Hey, guys," he calls as he weaves his way into the kitchen, dodging a couple who are practically inhaling each other against the fridge. "Have you guys seen—"
He halts.
Because leaning casually against the counter beside Violet and Silver—drink in hand, shirt completely undone—is Nox.
And Nox looks good.
Black blazer thrown carelessly over a crisp white shirt unbuttoned down to his chest, fake blood smeared across his mouth and dripping down the line of his throat to his abs—the crimson red liquid a stark contrast against his alabaster skin. He wears a pair of silver, dangly earrings with tiny crescent moons on the ends. His hair is perfectly messy, just this side of disheveled.
It isn't until Chase catches sight of pointed fangs does he realise precisely what he's looking at.
He blinks, catches himself, and immediately points. "Wait—hold the fuck on. Are you a vampire?"
Nox arches a brow, feigning mild confusion. "Obviously."
"You asshole!" Chase blurts, taking a step closer. "That’s my thing! You can’t steal my costume!"
Nox takes a slow sip of his drink, pale eyes glinting over the rim of the cup. "Didn’t realise you had a trademark on the undead, Chase."
"That’s not—I—ugh, you—!" Chase fumes, hands flying up, visibly battling the urge to strangle him. "Whatever. I’ll deal with you later." He turns sharply toward Silver and Violet instead. "Have either of you seen a Ghostface around here?"
Silver shakes her head apologetically. "No, sorry. Not since we got here."
Violet, however, doesn’t answer. She just takes a calm sip of her drink, gaze flicking briefly to Nox.
Chase, oblivious, barrels on. "Okay. If you do see one, come find me and tell me immediately."
Nox sighs tiredly. "No one cares enough to do that."
Chase whirls back to him, finger raised like he’s ready to deliver divine retribution. "You are such a—" He stops himself, groaning. "You know what? Forget it. I don’t have time for this. I don't have time for you."
He storms off into the crowd again, muttering under his breath. "Unbelievable. He steals my brand, acts like I’m insane, and somehow I’m the villain. What kind of sick and twisted sociopath shows up as a hot vampire just to mess with me—"
He ducks under a fake spiderweb, weaving through glittering bodies and fog so thick it could count as a biohazard. Every inch of the KEΨ house is vibrating—lights strobing, bass pounding, floor sticky under his shoes. Someone dressed as Buzz Lightyear yells something incoherent in his ear. Chase ignores it all, his focus latched onto one thing and one thing only.
Still nothing.
He’s about to give up and accept defeat when he spots something across the room—an all-too-familiar hoodie slouched across a couch in the corner.
"Bronze?"
Chase pushes through a cluster of people until he reaches the couch. Bronze is lying horizontally across it, one arm draped over his eyes, the picture of serenity in the middle of chaos.
"Dude," Chase says, leaning over him, brows pinched together in concern. "Are you dead?"
Bronze doesn’t move. "Not yet."
"Are you drunk?"
"No."
"Why are you lying down?"
Bronze cracks one eye open, looks at him flatly. "Because it’s comfortable."
"You’re taking a nap?"
"Yes."
"At a frat party?"
"I was tired."
"You're so fucking weird."
"This conversation is lasting much longer than I'd like it to."
Chase rolls his eyes, turning to leave—
Then promptly stops.
Something white catches his attention, flung carelessly over the back of the couch, poking out from under someone's abandoned jacket.
Slowly, he reaches out and tugs it free.
His breath catches. The slick, gleaming plastic mask stares up at him, blank and knowing.
"Oh my god." He grips it tightly, nearly kneeling on top of Bronze in the process.
Bronze groans. "Why are you on me?"
"Bronze—look at this!" Chase hisses, shoving the mask toward him.
Bronze blinks, unimpressed. "A mask."
"It’s the mask."
"Right."
"Someone was wearing it!" Chase exclaims, gesturing wildly. "He was—he said stuff, like—he knew me, man. Then he disappeared!"
Bronze just blinks at him. "Sounds fake."
"It’s not fake!"
"Sure."
Chase glares at him. "Did you see who left this here?"
"No."
"Did you hear anyone? Someone in black, tall, maybe mysteriously hot?"
"I’ve had my eyes closed for twenty minutes."
"Ugh, you’re useless."
"That’s what I'm often told."
"Fine!" Chase stands up, mask clutched in hand like a priceless relic. "Sleep forever, see if I care!"
"Plan to," Bronze mutters, already resettling into his nap.
Chase barrels back into the crowd, shoving past a guy in a pumpkin hat, holding the mask up to anyone who’ll listen.
"Hey, have you seen who this belongs to?" he demands.
A witch giggles, her eyes bloodshot red. "Ghostface?"
"Yeah, no kidding."
"Could be like, ten people," someone else says, rather unhelpfully.
Chase groans, strands of golden hair falling into his eyes as he pushes through another knot of dancers. Every answer is the same—confused shrugs, drunken laughter, nobody fucking knowing anything. The air is hot and heavy, his head spinning from the noise and lights.
Finally, he stumbles out the front door, desperate for air.
The night hits him cold and sharp. Music thunders behind the walls, muffled but constant. The front yard is chaos—students scattered across the grass and steps, laughing, smoking, yelling. Indiana Jones is passed out in the grass while his friends doodle on him in Sharpie. Wonder Woman is puking in a bush while a girl in angel wings holds her hair back.
Chase stands at the top of the porch steps, breathing hard, mask dangling from his hand.
The strobe lights blink through the open windows, throwing flashes of red across the white plastic. It looks almost alive in his hand—mocking him, taunting him. Haunting him.
He stares at it for a long moment, thumb running over the smooth edge.
"Where did you go?" he mutters softly, more to himself than anything.
A gentle, cold breeze brushes against his face.
The mask just stares back, soundless.
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
It's Monday morning, two days since the party, and Chase is still being haunted by that stranger.
He's plagued his mind, taking over his every waking thought and sleeping thought as he's even wormed his way into his dreams.
The campus feels half-dead, everyone still seemingly hungover from the weekend. Chase walks across the quad with Deacon beside him, the two of them winding toward the student commons, a wide, glass-walled space full of couches, mismatched tables, and the constant hum of vending machines and the hiss of the espresso machine from the café corner.
Chase pushes through the doors with Deacon at his side, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. Deacon is in the middle of yet another rant regarding Aunt Beth.
"I’m telling you, she’s obsessed," Deacon says, scrolling furiously through his phone. "She’s sent me, like, eleven texts since breakfast. Eleven!"
"Maybe she just misses you," Chase says around a yawn.
"It's all AI shit from Facebook, Chase. I keep telling her—stop sending me this garbage, but she keeps saying she didn't know it was AI."
"Well, to be fair, it's getting hard to tell," Chase says. "And she's an old person on Facebook, so she's, like, the prime target demographic."
Deacon just grumbles in response, pocketing his phone.
The commons is its usual chaos: students sprawled over couches, laptops out, someone asleep using a pile of books as pillow. Chase spots their friends clustered near the windows—Silver, Violet, and Danielle squeezed together on one couch, coffees in hand; Simon and Ross sprawled out on the rug before them with their laptops and energy drinks; and Nox, in the armchair beside them, legs stretched out, a paperback open across his knee.
He’s wearing his headphones, old and heavy-looking, and jotting tiny notes in the margins of his book, pen spinning idly between his fingers. His hair’s a little messy, shirt rumpled. Chase thinks, briefly, that it’s criminal how good he manages to look doing nothing.
"Morning," Chase greets.
Silver beams. "Hello! Glad to see you're alive."
"Barely," he drawls, dragging a chair over. "My blood is, like, ninety percent punch."
"Ew," Violet says, her nose wrinkling, not looking up from her phone.
Ross perks up. "Hey, Chase! Did you ever find that Ghostface guy?"
That earns an immediate groan from Simon and Deacon in unison.
"Oh my god, don’t," Simon warns. "Please. He hasn’t shut up about it for the last two days."
Chase ignores them entirely. "Funny you mention it," he says, unzipping his backpack dramatically. "Because—"
He whips out the Ghostface mask like it’s sacred.
Deacon stares. "You brought it with you?"
Nox hasn’t looked up once through the entire exchange, but at that, his pen stills against the page. He blinks, slowly, then finally glances up.
His eyes land on the mask. And for half a second, something odd flickers across his face—shock, recognition, something akin to panic—before it smooths back out into a mask of stoicism.
Chase looks at Deacon like it's obvious. "How else am I supposed to find the guy?"
Violet sighs, dropping her phone to her lap. "Chase, that’s the most common costume ever. There were about five different Ghostfaces at that party."
Danielle nods in agreement. "Yeah, how do you even know that mask belongs to to the guy you spoke to—"
"—Allegedly spoke to," Simon adds flatly, because Bronze has been spreading around to them all that it never happened, apparently.
"—and not some other random Ghostface's?"
"It's his," Chase insists without a trace of hesitation. Deacon sighs from beside him. "I can feel it. Trust me."
Silver claps her hands, delighted. "It’s like Cinderella! That’s your glass slipper!"
"Right?!" Chase exclaims with a wide grin, eyes bright. "That’s what I've been saying!"
"Oh, for the love of God." Violet's eyes raise to the heavens. "It's not a glass slipper, it's a piece of plastic from Spirit Halloween."
Nox finally pushes his headphones down to hang around his neck, voice steady but slightly too even when he speaks.
"You took that thing home with you?"
Chase stiffens. "Yes."
Nox blinks silently. "And now you're carrying it around with you?"
"Yeah. Obviously."
"Because you think it belongs to some random guy you met at the party."
Chase narrows his eyes. "Not some random guy. A hot and mysterious stranger. There’s a difference."
Silver squeals in delight. "It's like a romance movie!"
Nox’s mouth twitches—something between disbelief and a laugh he doesn’t let out. He clears his throat.
"Romance," he repeats flatly. "That’s what we’re calling this now?"
Chase huffs. "You wouldn’t get it, Nox."
Nox finally exhales, setting his book aside entirely. He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, trying and failing to look unimpressed.
"You’re walking around campus with a sweaty Halloween mask in your bag," he says slowly. "And you think that’s romantic."
"Yes?"
A quiet pause stretches between them. The noise of the common area hums around it—soft, distant chatter, the faint whir of the vending machine, the thud of sneakers on tile—but Chase can only focus on Nox’s silence.
Then, Nox’s jaw tightens, that glimpse of something—amusement? interest?—passing behind his eyes before he hides it
"Fascinating," he murmurs under his breath, sitting back again and sliding his headphones up over his ears again.
He doesn’t look at Chase when he says it, but there’s a slight, almost thoughtful curve at the corner of his mouth.
Chase frowns, thrown off. "What?"
Nox just shakes his head once, dismissive, seeming to refocus on his notes—but Chase swears he sees the ghost of a smirk before it disappears entirely.
Before he can press, Simon calls his name from the floor. "Chase, you got any spare change?"
"Huh?" Chase blinks at him.
"For the vending machine," he clarifies, tipping his chin toward the machine. "You got any change for a snack? I'm willing to share."
"Uhh." Chase looks back at Nox, distracted.
His attention is buried in his book again—calm, still, and impossible to read.
He tears his gaze back to Simon. "Yeah. Sure."
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Days pass, and nothing happens.
Chase finds nothing, hears nothing, discovers no one.
Ghostface begins to more or less slip into the back of his mind—not quite at the forefront anymore, but still lurking in the shadows. Of course he is.
He keeps the mask hidden in the locker he rented for the semester, shoved at the back, tucked away exactly the way his brain has done with the memory of him. Out of sight, never quite out of mind.
It’s a moody Wednesday morning, four days after the party, when something finally happens.
Chase is in the library, AirPods in, music playing softly in his ears—a calm barricade against the shuffling and muted whispers of other students. His backpack sits slouched by his feet, notebook peeking out. He tugs it free, flipping it open—and a folded piece of paper slips out, fluttering onto the table.
Frowning, he picks it up.
The handwriting is neat, careful:
You have something of mine.
I’d like it back.
For a fleeting moment, the room tilts.
For some reason, his first instinct is to whip off his AirPods—as if the note might make more sense to him if he can hear better.
He reads it again. And again. And again.
And then—a rush, sharp and thrilling—runs straight through him.
Ghostface.
It's him. It's got to be him.
He wonders if he's here—if he's watching him right now. Another firey thrill scurries its way down his spine at the thought.
He glances around, scanning the students nearby: a couple of heads bent over laptops, some flipping pages in thick textbooks.
None of them are familiar to him.
No. He can't be any of these people.
He's certain he knows him. Certain he's spoken to him before. He'd spoken to him as if he already knew him.
Chase swallows a thick lump in his throat as his heart hammers away.
He leans back in his chair, notebook clutched in his hands, and asks himself what's stranger: that someone snuck a note into his notebook… or the fact that he isn’t creeped out at all. That instead, his chest lifts a little with excitement.
He should tell someone. He should probably be freaked out. Someone got close enough to slide a note into his stuff without him even noticing—that’s objectively weird.
But all he can think about is the handwriting. The certainty in it. The way it feels personal. Familiar.
He traces the words with his thumb, mouth twitching.
You have something of mine.
I’d like it back.
A smile ghosts across his lips before he can stop it. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair.
He's so screwed.
He wants to sprint back to his dorm and tell Simon immediately, but he knows Simon won’t be there—he’s got class right now. But he’s got to tell someone. He can’t just sit on this all day.
A mysterious hot stranger is leaving him flirty notes!
He thinks about going to Deacon and Bronze’s dorm, but Deacon’s probably got class too—and if Bronze is there, there’s no way he’s getting up to let him in. Especially not for this.
Silver—his lovely, delightful, and most supportive friend in all of this by far—is the most logical option.
He nearly trips over his own two feet in his sudden decision to rush to her and Violet’s dorm.
He scrambles across campus, barrels up the stairs, calls out apologies over his shoulder to the strangers he brushes past—all while clutching a flimsy, now slightly crumpled piece of paper like it’s breakthrough evidence in an unsolvable crime.
He thuds his fist against the door, breathless. "Silver? Sil, open up! It’s me! Quick, I gotta show you—"
The door swings open.
Nox stands there, scowling. "Would you shut up?"
"Wha—" Chase blinks, chest heaving as he catches his breath. "What are you doing here?"
Before Nox can answer, Silver’s head pops into view from inside. "Is everything alright, Chase?"
Chase’s entire face lights up like a Christmas tree when he sees her. He wastes no time pushing past Nox and stumbling into the dorm.
"Watch it, tiny," Nox hisses, glaring uselessly at his back as he shuts the door behind him.
Violet is sitting on Silver's bed, eyes closed while Silver delicately paints some kind of detailed eyeshadow masterpiece across her lids. Makeup palettes, brushes, and glittering compacts are scattered everywhere.
"Whoa," Chase says when he his eyes land on the scene. "That looks sick!"
He hears the bedsprings creak behind him—Nox moving to sit back down on Violet’s bed across from them.
Silver beams at him. "Thank you! Though it’s not quite done."
"And it never will be if you don’t get on with it," Violet complains, lips barely moving, eyes still closed.
Silver huffs. "I’m going, I’m going." She grips Violet’s chin again and resumes blending with laser focus.
"I’m sorry—did you need something?" comes a bitchy voice from behind him.
Chase throws a glare over his shoulder. "I came for Silver."
Silver pauses mid-blend. "What is it?"
Chase whips out the crumpled note, presenting it like a trophy. "Look. Look!"
Silver turns her head curiously as Violet cracks one eye open.
"A piece of paper," Violet deadpans. "Wonderful, Chase. Thank you."
"No—read it."
They do.
Silver frowns. "I don’t understand."
Chase gestures excitedly. "It’s him! It’s Ghostface! He snuck this note into my bag!"
Silver gasps, a delighted smile splitting across her face. "Really!?"
Chase nods vigorously. "Yeah!"
Violet blinks. "Wait, what? How?"
"I have no idea!" Chase exclaims. "I was just in the library and found it tucked inside my notebook!"
Behind him, the bed creaks again, and Chase tenses in an instant as he feels movement approaching him.
"Let me see that," Nox says, aggressively snatching the note from Chase’s hands before he can react.
"Hey!" Chase growls, arms flailing as he tries to grab it back, but Nox simply pushes him away with his free hand.
And he barely even glances at the note—just gives it a quick once-over before his cold eyes lift back to Chase.
"How do you even know this is from him?" Nox asks flatly, hand still firm against Chase's chest as he holds him back. "This could mean anything."
Chase scoffs. "How do you know the sun rises in the east? How do you know the Earth is round? Because everyone says so, Nox! I just know it. This—" he finally surges forward and manages to snatch the note back, waving it in front of Nox's face triumphantly, "—is from him!"
Nox stares at him for a long beat, hands dropping to his sides. "You’re an idiot."
"And you’re jealous," Chase fires back.
Nox barks out a mean laugh. "Jealous? Of what?"
"That I have a secret admirer and you don’t," Chase says, grinning smugly. "That someone is outrageously down bad for me, and no one is for you."
Except me. Kinda.
But all the money in the world wouldn't get him to say that out loud.
Nox blinks at him. "Secret admirer," he repeats slowly. "You can’t be serious."
"I’m deadly serious!" Chase insists. "Look! Proof’s right here! This is a love note!"
"I promise you it is not."
"It is! Trust me."
Nox turns wordlessly to Silver and Violet for assistance.
Violet rolls her eyes. "It’s not a love note, Chase."
Silver, however, chimes in rather sheepishly, "I think it is."
"Ugh," Violet groans.
"Thank you, Silver!" Chase says happily.
Nox keeps his stare on him, open-mouthed, eyebrows drawn together in complete disbelief.
"Just so I have this right," he says slowly, genuine confusion lacing his words. "You actually like this?"
Chase blinks at him like he's just asked him the world's dumbest question. "Uh, yeah?"
"A stranger in a mask comes up to you at a party, implies he knows you, sneaks a note into your personal things—and you like it?"
"Yes!" Chase throws his arms up in exasperation. "What’s so hard to understand!"
"This isn’t scaring you?"
Chase laughs. "Why would it scare me!? This is everything I’ve ever wanted!"
Nox just stares at him.
Violet hums, arching a brow. "Why, Nox? Is it supposed to be scaring him?"
Nox shoots her a glare that could kill.
"No, Violet, obviously not," Chase maintains. "It’s not supposed to scare me—it’s supposed to entice me!"
"You think?" Violet muses, her lips twitching.
"Yes!" Chase nods, grinning. "Trust me, V-Money—"
"I told you not to call me that."
"—this guy wanted me. Like, he wasn’t even hiding it. I could smell the desire radiating off of him. It was pungent."
"That is completely ridiculous," Nox objects, the tips of his ears beginning to glow a hot pink.
"Shut up, Nox! You weren’t there!"
Silver looks between them with wide eyes. "I believe you, Chase."
"You get me, Sil."
"Mhm! Follow your heart, I say. And if your heart is calling out for this stranger, then—" She stops suddenly, frowning, eyes flicking to the side. "Nox? Are you alright?"
Nox is staring at the floor. Hard. Like it personally offended him.
"I’m fine," he murmurs, snapping his gaze up again. "I have to go. I’ve got—got an assignment to start. Long essay. Gotta go."
"Oh! Alright, then," Silver says softly. "See you tomorrow?"
He’s already at the door, shrugging into his stupid long black coat. "Yeah. Tomorrow. See you."
"Goodbye," Violet drawls.
"Yeah, bye, jackass," Chase spits, folding his arms.
Nox gives him one last hard glare in response, something else unreadable swimming behind it, before slamming the door behind him.
Chase immediately spins back around, face bright.
"Anyway! As I was saying—regarding the love of my life…"
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Nox hadn’t been lying about having an assignment to start. He does have an essay on gothic literature to do—he just failed to mention that it isn’t due for another month.
He just needed to get out of that room.
The cold air outside hits him like a slap. He walks aimlessly across campus, steps brisk, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets.
He’s not scared.
He likes it.
The words loop in his mind, over and over, chasing each other until they start to blur.
He can still see Chase’s face, lit up with that ridiculous, sparkling excitement, practically bouncing in his shoes like a kid on Christmas morning.
Nox had meant to scare him.
That had been the whole point. Chase was supposed to be freaked out, and Nox was supposed to be laughing at him for it.
Instead, the little idiot finds it romantic.
Does he have zero survival instincts whatsoever?
It was supposed to be a joke. The Ghostface costume wasn’t even his—it was Stripes’.
The plan had been simple: Stripes would lure Copper into a room, and then Nox, wearing the mask and robe over his own costume, would jump out and scare the shit out of him. Classic dumb party prank.
Except Stripes got distracted trying to fill the fucking bathtub with punch, so the plan fizzled out. Nox had been heading back to ditch the costume when he saw Chase—and in that moment, something in his brain short-circuited.
It had been the perfect setup. Chase alone, unsuspecting, easy to spook. So he’d gone for it.
He’d wanted to freak him out. Maybe embarrass him a little. Then he’d pull off the mask, laugh, and call it a night.
But that’s not what happened.
Because somehow Nox found he had started to flirt.
He hadn’t meant to. It just slipped out—like instinct. For one dizzy second, he even worried he was coming off like some sleazy creep in a mask. But then Chase had laughed—laughed—and flirted right back, and Nox was done for.
And suddenly, he couldn’t take the mask off. He couldn’t ruin it. He couldn’t let him know it was him—Nox, the guy he's openly hated for the last three years.
Then Chase went and found the damn mask he'd tossed aside like trash and carried it around campus like it was some kind of prize.
And when Silver called it romantic and Chase agreed? That was the final straw.
Sure, the interaction had been… slightly flirtier than Nox intended, fine. But still—he should at least be unnerved! Maybe a little freaked out! Not treating it like some timeless cosmic love story.
The note was supposed to fix it. The note was supposed to make Chase realise, hey, this is weird, this stranger knows where your stuff is.
Then Nox would step in, reveal the prank, laugh in his face, and make fun of him for being so oblivious.
But instead, Chase had held the note like it was a love letter. Like he was thrilled by it. Like he wanted more.
That moron. That hopeless, deliriously romantic moron.
He’s enjoying this.
And—god help him—Nox realises, with a kind of slow, reluctant horror, that he is too.
Because watching Chase light up like that—seeing the way he grinned, the excitement sparking in his eyes, the knowledge it was him who caused that smile—it did something to him. Something Nox can’t quite name.
…Maybe it is fine.
Maybe it’s harmless.
If Chase is having fun, and he’s having fun, then where’s the harm in leaning into it a little?
It was supposed to be fun, after all.
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
Rain batters against the windows, steady and relentless, drumming a rhythm that syncs almost perfectly with Chase’s footsteps echoing down the empty hallway.
It’s early Thursday morning—still quite dark outside, the beginning of another short, cozy October day—and the building feels drowsy. Chase hums softly to himself as he rounds the corner, juggling his laptop in one arm and the strap of his backpack in the other.
He stops at his locker, twisting the dial without really looking, the combination muscle memory by now. The door creaks open with its usual whine.
Inside, his folders are stacked in organised chaos. A rolled-up sheet of music peeks from between his textbooks. He reaches for it absently, mind elsewhere—until something tugs at his attention.
The space in the back corner looks emptier than it should.
He blinks, looking again.
The Ghostface mask—the one he’s kept tucked behind his books all week—is gone.
Chase just stares at the spot for a long, still moment, his reflection warped across the glossy metal back wall.
And then he sees it.
A sticky note, slapped neatly against the back wall of the locker, yellow against the dark gray.
His throat goes dry. Slowly, he reaches for it, peeling the corner free with trembling fingers.
You shouldn’t steal, Chase.
That’s all it says—handwriting precise and familiar.
For a quiet moment, he just stands there, rain hissing outside, fluorescent lights humming overhead. Then, the smile breaks across his face—slow at first, then wide and uncontrollable.
It’s pathetic, it’s ridiculous, he knows it.
But he can’t help it.
He presses the note between his fingers like it’s something precious, grinning down at it as he slams the locker shut.
The metallic clang echoes down the hall as he turns away, practically buzzing, that stupid, dreamy smile still fixed in place. His steps are lighter now, almost bouncy, as he speeds off—eyes never leaving the tiny square of paper he keeps rereading over and over.
He doesn’t see the figure watching him from the far end of the hall.
Leaning casually against the wall, hands in pockets, head tilted ever so slightly as he watches Chase disappear around the corner.
☽ ₊ ˚.⋆ 𓆩𓆪 ⋆⁺ ₊ ✩
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