The call came at 9:57 on a Sunday night, long after most of campus had gone still.
Clay’s voice was flat: ten minutes to pack, report to the house, bring your tokens.
That was all.
Ethan and Mark looked at each other across their desks. For a moment neither moved. Then the familiar scramble—drawers opening, books shoved aside, the panic of deciding what “for the week” even meant. A toothbrush. Deodorant. The quarter, the cigarette pack, the condom. When they stepped into the corridor pledges from the other houses were already there, the same stunned look on every face.
Outside, the night was unseasonably warm. Trucks idled along Fraternity Row, headlights cutting through mist that hung low over the lawns. Across the quad, the other houses were doing the same thing—lines of boys in coats and ties carrying duffels, moving in silence. From somewhere up the hill came laughter: Phi Rho pledges in orange jumpsuits marching two by two, wrists linked with novelty hand-cuffs. On the next lawn over, Sigma Epsilon’s newest class stood in nothing but white briefs and bow ties, shivering theatrically while upperclassmen filmed them on camcorders. The crowd that had gathered hooted like it was Homecoming. Ethan couldn’t help but stare.
Clay met them at the Delta Chi door clad in his black Fratagonia vest. “Keys,” he said, holding out a coffee can. The sound of metal hitting metal was steady, almost musical. When Ethan’s turn came, he hesitated a second longer than he meant to, then let his key ring drop. Clay smiled without warmth. “You belong to the house now.”
The basement smelled like Pine-Sol and damp carpet. Six thin mattresses were lined along one wall, blankets folded military-neat. A single fluorescent tube hummed overhead, turning skin sallow. “This is home ‘till initiation,” Clay said. “You leave only for class or meals. You move as one. You speak when spoken to. You keep your heads down. Understood?” No one answered quickly enough, so he made them shout it back until their voices echoed off concrete. Then he killed the light and left.
The rhythm of the week set in immediately.
By daylight, Westmore was a carnival of degradation. Every fraternity staged its own brand of tradition—boys in tighty-whities and ties jogging across the quad, others in tuxedo jackets and diapers singing school songs. Professors pretended not to notice. One history instructor paused mid-lecture, glanced at the line of bleary faces in the back row, and said only, “I hope ya’ll survive the Enlightenment.”
Laughter rippled through the class; no one asked for an explanation.
Between classes, pledges from different houses traded the same deadpan greetings:
“How’s your week?”
“Still vertical.”
“Drink water.”
It was a kind of code, proof they were all prisoners in the same joke.
Ethan drifted through it half-awake. Every doorway held a variation of the same scene—someone mopping a hallway in his underwear, someone else hauling trash to a cheering crowd. The entire campus smelled of bleach and stale beer. Even the professors’ dogs, brought to class for comfort, flinched at sudden shouting from the lawns.
Nights belonged to the basement.
They stumbled down the stairs together, ties loosened, voices low. Clay would appear just long enough to bark orders—push-ups, recitations, a few rounds of the creed—then vanish, leaving them with the hum of the furnace and the creak of the house settling above.
After the first two nights, the silence became companionable.
Connor filled it with stories about his high-school girlfriend; Teddy invented elaborate games that required no movement. Marco sang snatches of songs from home in a voice too good for the room. Tyler mostly listened, sitting with his back against the wall, eyes half-closed. When he did speak, everyone else went quiet.
On Tuesday night a storm rolled in. Rain hammered the tiny basement window, the glass clouded with condensation. The six of them sat cross-legged on the floor passing around a sleeve of crackers pilfered from the kitchen.
Teddy said, “You realize that other than when we’re in class, we’ve been breathing the same air for forty-eight hours?”
Connor: “Pretty sure Clay’s using us to test biological weapons.”
Laughter, genuine this time.
Ethan lay back on his mattress, watching the ceiling pipes quiver each time someone upstairs flushed a toilet.
For the first time since the call, he felt almost calm.
The storm had burned itself out hours ago. Upstairs the last door slammed, laughter muffled, then the house went still. Down in the basement, five of them slept in uneven rows, breath syncing with the hum of the furnace.
By mid-week the exhaustion had its own gravity.
They woke at dawn, went to class in wrinkled shirts, sat through lectures that blurred into static. At meals they ate mechanically, the six of them moving like a single exhausted organism. Everyone on campus recognized the look. Even the cafeteria staff served them with a kind of reverence, sliding extra biscuits onto their trays as if feeding soldiers.
On Wednesday afternoon Ethan passed a group of Waverly girls lounging under umbrellas outside the dining hall. One raised her camera, snapped a photo of the parade of pledges shuffling by, and called, “Smile, boys!”
Tyler, walking just ahead, turned his head but didn’t smile. The camera clicked anyway.
That night, the image would appear on the campus bulletin board: “Westmore Men, Week of Tradition.”
In biology lab, Dr. Carroll handed Ethan back his paper without a word. Her eyes lingered a beat too long on his unshaven face, disheveled face, then moved on.
Back at the house, the basement grew warmer, air thick with sweat and BO. No one had showered since Sunday. Clay appeared less often now; the real punishment was monotony. Hours of waiting, the six of them half-asleep, half-starved, every sound upstairs magnified—the slam of a door, the laughter of brothers, the faint thud of music.
They started talking in whispers even when no one was there.
Marco confessed he missed his mom’s lasagna more than his girlfriend.
Teddy admitted he’d been faking half the chants since day one.
Connor said nothing at all for a long time, then murmured, “I’m scared of what comes next,” and everyone pretended not to hear him.
When the light finally flicked off, Ethan lay awake listening to Tyler’s breathing a few feet away, steady and even. The sound anchored him.
The next morning, they emerged into sunlight that felt unreal. The air smelled of wet leaves and red clay. All across the quad, the spectacle continued: Phi Rho’s chain gang dragging kegs; Kappa Tau pledges wearing trash bags as ponchos; faculty strolling past as though none of it existed. A freshman touring group stopped near the fountain, their guide chirping about “the bonds of brotherhood.”
Ethan caught Tyler’s eye and nearly laughed again, but he didn’t.
By afternoon the laughter had vanished. The fatigue was too heavy.
Only the rhythm remained: class, cafeteria, study hall, basement.
Breathing, surviving, waiting for whatever came next.
By Thursday the house had settled into a low, constant vibration—music bleeding faintly through the floorboards, rain whispering against the tiny basement window. The six of them barely moved unless called upstairs for some errand or tax. Someone was always half-asleep, someone always counting the hours aloud just to prove they still could.
When Clay did come down, it was almost a relief. He barked through another round of trivia and push-ups, clipboard tucked under his arm like a shield. Nobody even groaned. They moved on instinct, bodies remembering before minds did. When it was over, he dropped a case of yellow beer on the floor and left them one each. “Hydration,” he said.
They drank in silence, foam stinging cracked lips. Connor raised his can. “To freedom,” he said. Teddy snorted. “To Stockholm syndrome.” Laughter scattered around the room, weak but real. For a moment the basement felt almost like a choice.
Later, when the others drifted off, Ethan found Tyler sitting on the bottom step, cigarette balanced between his fingers. The glow lit his face from below, turning him into something carved from the dark.
“Thought we weren’t supposed to smoke,” Ethan said.
Tyler shrugged. “Everyone’s passed out, wanna go outside then?”
They slipped upstairs barefoot, shoes in hand, easing the door closed behind them. The back deck was slick with rain, the boards cold underfoot. The air smelled of wet leaves and something electric, like the world had just been rinsed clean.
Tyler dug in his pocket, pulled out his cigarette pack and shook out two joints, hidden inside. “Figured we earned it,” he said, cupping his hand around the lighter. The flame caught, painting his face in orange. Ethan watched him exhale into the night, the smoke curling up and vanishing.
“Whole campus feels asleep,” Ethan said.
Tyler shook his head. “They’re all awake. Just pretending not to be.”
The words hung there. They passed the joint between them, the tip glowing soft red. For once there was no noise from the house, no clipboard, no rules—just the steady chirp of frogs in the trees.
Tyler glanced over. “You ever get tired of pretending?”
Ethan met his eyes. “Sure.”
Tyler’s chuckle was quiet, almost shy. “Yeah. Me too.”
The porch light buzzed, and in the thin hum of it Ethan felt something ease inside him. He leaned in without thinking. Their foreheads touched first, then a small, uncertain kiss that tasted like smoke and rain. Neither spoke; the silence said everything it needed to.
When they finally pulled apart, Ethan put his arm around Tyler’s and rested his head on his shoulder. The distance felt safe, not fragile.
Tyler flicked the roach into the wet grass. “Do you want to talk about this?”.
Ethan nodded. “We don’t have to.”
He lit the second one and passed it over; Ethan took one drag and handed it back. The smoke made the air taste like outside.
“After this,” Tyler said quietly, “are you still gonna want it? The house, I mean.”
Ethan thought about the roar above them, the lineups, Eli’s silence. “I don’t know anymore.”
Tyler nodded, like he’d already decided. “Yeah. Me either.”They stayed there another minute, the lighter flame long gone, the night holding its breath. Then Tyler opened the door, and they slipped back into the dark.
Friday morning the rain cleared. The campus looked scrubbed raw—lawns gouged by tire tracks, banners limp and stained. Pledges from other houses shuffled to class in their various uniforms of shame: orange jumpsuits, boxers, painted faces. The smell of cheap beer clung to everything.
Inside the lecture halls the professors pretended this was all normal. One English professor started to discuss Heart of Darkness and then stopped, looking over the room of glassy-eyed boys, and simply said, “You’re almost through it.” No one asked what “it” meant.
By nightfall exhaustion had burned through fear. When Clay opened the basement door and shouted “Inspection,” they didn’t even flinch. He looked almost disappointed. “You’re getting used to it,” he said, like that was the worst sin of all.
He made them polish the composite frames, scrub the concrete, line their mattresses by height order. At the end he tossed a handful of blindfolds on the floor. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
Saturday arrived heavy and bright, the kind of autumn day that feels too calm to trust. The cafeteria buzzed with anticipation—students placing bets on which fraternity would get written up this year, who would puke, who would pass out. Every few minutes another chant broke out somewhere across the quad, echoing off the red-brick buildings like thunder. They took their time heading back to the house, enjoying the sun and fall air. Finally Ethan broke the silence. “Teddy, what is under your jacket?” drawing everyone’s attention to the bulge under his Barbour coat. Teddy grinned “Bread, I grabbed a loaf for each of us.” “Why?” Connor asked. “To eat before the line-up. My cousin at UVA told me about it. It absorbs the cheap wine, keeps you from getting too sick.” Ethan, the only science major amongst them started to argue, but just grabbed his bag. He knew he had this, he would be fine the told himself.
Back at the house, they waited. Each minute stretched thin. Connor tried to tell a joke and forgot the punchline halfway through. Teddy paced. Marco sat with his head in his hands. Tyler leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, hands resting loosely on his knees. Ethan watched him and felt the world slow to the rhythm of that breathing.
Then came the boots on the stairs. Clay’s voice, cheerful now: “Rise and shine, gentlemen. Hell Night.”
Outside, the floodlights turned the yard into a stage. The other fraternities were already in motion: Phi Rho’s “chain gang” chanting in orange, Sigma Epsilon’s pledges kneeling in rows of white underwear, every house trying to outdo the others in spectacle. Upperclassmen shouted from porches, music collided in the air until it became one enormous heartbeat.
Delta Chi’s brothers formed a ring around the six pledges. Clay paced the center, whistle hanging from his neck. “Last test,” he said. “Give us everything.”
What followed came in flashes more than sequence:
— the sting of warm, cheap wine hitting the back of the throat;
— mud under fingernails; cuts on knees
— voices blending into thunder;
— Teddy stumbling, hands out, Connor hauling him up;
— Marco laughing until he cried;
— Tyler steady beside Ethan, a shadow of calm.
At one point Ethan’s knees buckled and someone shouted his name. He looked up through the lights and saw Eli at the edge of the circle, cigarette glowing like a small red star. Their eyes met for a breath. Eli didn’t move, didn’t speak. Ethan looked away, thinking of Tyler, willing this to be over.
When the whistle finally blew, Clay’s voice cracked through the dark. “That’s it. You’re still here. That’s the point.”
They staggered back inside as the first hint of dawn bruised the horizon. The house was wrecked—mud on the floor, the smell of smoke and bourbon hanging heavy. Jason was waiting at the top of the basement stairs, hair damp, tie loose. He looked at them and smiled, not unkindly. “Sleep,” he said. “Initiation at midnight.”
He set a folded towel on the rail for each of them, small mercies neatly stacked.
Downstairs, nobody spoke. They peeled off filthy clothes, wrapped in the towels, collapsed onto their mattresses. Pipes hissed overhead as the showers upstairs came on—brothers washing away the night. The sound was oddly soothing.
Ethan lay on his back staring at the ceiling, tracing the pattern of water stains. Tyler turned over on the next mattress, eyes open.
“We made it,” he whispered.
Ethan nodded. His throat hurt too much for words.
“Barely,” Tyler added.
“I don’t think I could have done it without you” Ethan managed.
Outside, the floodlights blinked off one by one until only the gray of morning remained. The house settled into silence. For the first time all week, Ethan felt weightless—emptied out, scrubbed raw, aware of nothing but the slow rhythm of breath beside him and the thin line of light creeping under the door.
He thought of the midnight kiss with Tyler, Eli’s glance earlier. His hand drifted to the quarter still in his pocket, pressed flat against his thigh. He left it there. He settled on his side, and reached out his hand slowly. Tyler’s fingers were there and they locked pinkies.
When sleep finally came, it was dreamless.
Further Reading
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Loved the interactions between Ethan and Tyler!