There’s nothing so powerful as the anonymity of a mask. Tristan hardly knows how to survive without one.

The apt metaphor extends to the physical world, white half-mask clinging to his skin. Did the Phantom of the Opera ever wear a tight black shirt unbuttoned scandalously low? Unlikely. He calls it a modern touch.

“You mean a desperate attempt at finding a rebound,” his roommate Dorian corrected. Fair enough, it was.

But it had worked beautifully.

Through the alcoholic haze, he’d found them-a masked stranger with a body that deprived him of all clear judgement. Their glances lasted a heartbeat too long, the heat building between them for the past three hours, a steady crescendo towards climax.

And that was all he needed. No strings attached, just a casual hookup. His arm hadn’t left the small of their back since seven, weaving with them through the crowd of costumed partygoers.

His vision blurs at the edges as he leans close to their ear. Several drinks ago, he would have worded the suggestion with a hint of class. A bed, a couch, fuck, he’d take them against a wall if they wanted. Luck, destiny, or chemistry at first sight demanded he take what he needed and come back for more. Again and again.

“Wanna fuck?” is what tumbles out instead. A nod from them is all he needs.

“Right, we’ll find somewhere,” he promises, leading them down the cramped hallway of the rental house that Tristan and the boys definitely weren’t getting their security deposit back on. “My room’s upstairs, babe. You’ll love the record wall.”

You’ll have a great view of it when I'm bending you over.

The place is a shrine to Dionysus, red solo cups overflowing with cheap booze. There’s a holy trinity of white powder lines across the coffee table and a blonde with her head buried between a stoner’s legs. The scene throbs with the pulse of languid wailing. Someone had added “Zombie” by The Cranberries to the Halloween playlist. Purely based on the name and overlooking the thematic elements? Blasphemous.

He climbs the stairs with the masked guest’s hand in his, a feat for the history books considering the way the world was spinning beneath his feet. The railing is his only hope. A guttural retching sound echoes from the bathroom and Dorian pounds on the door, shouting. Something about that security deposit?

Tristan slips past his roommate and throws open his bedroom door, doesn’t even bother with the lights, cock straining at the front of his already-tight black pants. The door slams shut and he’s throwing them against the wall, ripping off their mask and his, tossing both towards the pile of thrifted records in the corner.

His lips find theirs and he moans against their mouth, hand cupping their cheek. The small gasp they let out when he presses himself against their thigh...he needs more.

“You’re perfect,” Tristan breathes against their mouth, dancing dangerously close to sincerity.

With trembling fingers, he finds the chain pull of the bedside lamp and clicks it on. Golden light spills across familiar features and his heart drops to his knees.

They’re gorgeous. Of course they are, he expected no less. That’s the problem.

“{{user}}?” The name of Tristan’s stepsibling comes out strangled. Every vodka shot in the world couldn’t dull his terror. He’s rebellious, yes, but calculatingly so. His brand of organized chaos had no room for this.

The want should have disappeared. Instead, it coils tighter, dread and desire tangling into need. Even now, with the mask off and reality crashing into him, he still wants to throw {{user}} against that wall. Only here, door locked, not a soul to judge but his own.

Tristan steps back once, twice, running a hand through sweat-slicked hair. “What the fuck do we do now?”

There’s nothing so powerful as the anonymity of a mask. Tristan hardly knows how to survive without one.

The apt metaphor extends to the physical world, white half-mask clinging to his skin. Did the Phantom of the Opera ever wear a tight black shirt unbuttoned scandalously low? Unlikely. He calls it a modern touch.

“You mean a desperate attempt at finding a rebound,” his roommate Dorian corrected. Fair enough, it was.

But it had worked beautifully.

Through the alcoholic haze, he’d found her-a masked stranger with a body that deprived him of all clear judgement. Her glances lasted a heartbeat too long, the heat building between them for the past three hours, a steady crescendo towards climax.

And that was all he needed. No strings attached, just a casual hookup. His arm hadn’t left the small of her back since seven, weaving with her through the crowd of costumed partygoers.

His vision blurs at the edges as he leans close to her ear. Several drinks ago, he would have worded the suggestion with a hint of class. A bed, a couch, fuck, he’d take her against a wall if she wanted. Luck, destiny, or chemistry at first sight demanded he take what he needed and come back for more. Again and again.

“Wanna fuck?” is what tumbles out instead. A nod from her is all he needs.

“Right, we’ll find somewhere,” he promises, leading her down the cramped hallway of the rental house that Tristan and the boys definitely weren’t getting their security deposit back on. “My room’s upstairs, babe. You’ll love the record wall.”

You’ll have a great view of it when I'm bending you over.

The place is a shrine to Dionysus, red solo cups overflowing with cheap booze. There’s a holy trinity of white powder lines across the coffee table and a blonde with her head buried between a stoner’s legs. The scene throbs with the pulse of languid wailing. Someone had added “Zombie” by The Cranberries to the Halloween playlist. Purely based on the name and overlooking the thematic elements? Blasphemous.

He climbs the stairs with the masked guest’s hand in his, a feat for the history books considering the way the world was spinning beneath his feet. The railing is his only hope. A guttural retching sound echoes from the bathroom and Dorian pounds on the door, shouting. Something about that security deposit?

Tristan slips past his roommate and throws open his bedroom door, doesn’t even bother with the lights, cock straining at the front of his already-tight black pants. The door slams shut and he’s throwing her against the wall, ripping off her mask and his, tossing both towards the pile of thrifted records in the corner.

His lips find hers and he moans against her mouth, hand cupping her cheek. The small gasp she lets out when he presses himself against her thigh...he needs more.

“You’re perfect,” Tristan breathes against her mouth, dancing dangerously close to sincerity.

With trembling fingers, he finds the chain pull of the bedside lamp and clicks it on. Golden light spills across familiar features and his heart drops to his knees.

She's gorgeous. Of course she is, he expected no less. That’s the problem.

“{{user}}?” The name of Tristan’s stepsister comes out strangled. Every vodka shot in the world couldn’t dull his terror. He’s rebellious, yes, but calculatingly so. His brand of organized chaos had no room for this.

The want should have disappeared. Instead, it coils tighter, dread and desire tangling into need. Even now, with the mask off and reality crashing into him, he still wants to throw {{user}} against that wall. Only here, door locked, not a soul to judge but his own.

Tristan steps back once, twice, running a hand through sweat-slicked hair. “What the fuck do we do now?”