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Jake’s always hated being stationary. Something about stillness makes his skin itch.
He spent most of his twenties chasing noise—flights booked on impulse, miles burned through like gasoline, cities only half-remembered through hangovers and camera rolls. The point was never the destination. Just movement. Keep moving, and you don’t have to think too hard about what you’re running from.
So when he ended up in this coastal city—a place made of rain and crumbling sidewalks—it was supposed to be temporary. A layover. Three days, tops.
But that was before the voice.
It came like static through fog, somewhere between the curve of a back alley and the bitter slap of burnt coffee on his tongue. Low and rough, unspooling words that didn’t quite rhyme and didn’t have to. Jake stopped walking before he realized it.
“Get clobbered on by courtesy,
In love with love and lousy poetry.”
It wasn’t even the voice, at first. It was the tone. Like someone bleeding politely. A confession said sideways, like it wasn’t meant to be heard—except it was. Every word. Every fracture.
Jake turned the corner and saw him.
The guy didn’t look like much, not in a dramatic way. Not flashy or starving-artist theatrical. Just worn. Lived-in. Corduroy jacket, denim over flannel. Boots that had seen things. Guitar balanced across his knee like it belonged to him more than anything else in the world. He was sitting on a planter beneath a rust-flaked fire escape, eyes shaded by sunglasses despite the lack of sun.
And Jake—idiot that he is—just stood there. Camera forgotten, coffee cooling in his hand, lungs barely working.
“And I’m leaning on this broken fence,
Between past and present tense.”
He wasn’t trying to be profound. That’s what stuck with Jake. The guy wasn’t even trying. He just sang like it was the only way to talk to the world without setting it on fire.
Jake stayed for two songs and walked away like his knees didn’t feel like water.
_________________________
He pretended not to be looking the next time. That was the lie. He told himself he was just walking, wandering, letting the city guide him. Bullshit.
He found him again by a mural that had once been bright but now looked like someone tried to paint over grief with primary colors. Rooster—that’s what the sign said now. Just "Rooster," handwritten in red sharpie and taped to the thermos by his boot.
Same voice, different song. Jake didn’t know what it was called. Didn’t need to.
“Now that the last month’s rent is scheming,
With the damage deposit.
Take this moment to decide..”
Jake leaned against a cold brick wall and tried to breathe around it.
“Sun in an empty room,
If we meant it, if we tried.”
He almost took a photo. The framing was perfect—mid-verse, the blur of a pedestrian crossing behind him, the paint-flaked wall catching golden slantlight. But he didn’t raise the camera.
Some things aren’t meant to be captured.
_________________________
He doesn’t talk to him. Not the first day. Not the second. Or the third.
He just keeps running into him.
That’s what Jake tells himself.
Coincidence.
That’s all it is when he turns a corner in a district he hasn’t been to yet and there he is — that same voice spilling through the late morning air, low and scratchy and bruised like a secret held too long.
Same guy. Same beat-up guitar. Different street.
Jake doesn’t know why it pins him in place. Doesn’t know why he doesn’t walk on like he does with the other buskers. He tells himself it’s curiosity. Artistic appreciation. That’s what he says in his head when he stands awkwardly across the way, pretending to fiddle with the strap of his camera as the lyrics sink into him.
“My city’s still breathing, but barely, it’s true,
Through buildings gone missing like teeth…"
It’s not even the words that get him. Not really.
It’s the way he sings them like he isn’t trying to be heard. Like he’d sing the same way if he were alone. There’s no pitch-perfect smile, no hat angled to invite tips. The guy’s just... doing it. Open. Honest. Unselfconscious in a way Jake doesn’t understand and maybe never learned how to be.
He watches until the last chord fades, then walks away before the guy can catch him staring.
He does that for days.
Always from a distance.
Always before Rooster can look up and hold his gaze for longer than a second.
Jake keeps convincing himself he’s not coming back for him. That he’s just seeing the city. That the way his chest feels tight and echoing when he hears that voice again is just about the music. Or the lyrics. Or the strange, unbearable way the guy sings about leaving like he’s already done it a hundred times too many.
_________________________
By the time he sees him on the fifth day, Jake’s already halfway in.
He doesn’t realize it until Rooster’s not singing that morning.
Just sitting on the edge of a stone bench with his guitar in its case, watching the light creep over the sidewalk like it’s some kind of performance. And Jake realizes, with a sudden gut punch of surprise, that he misses it. Misses the voice. Misses that sad-ass warble and the way he sometimes sings with his eyes closed, like he’s trying to conjure something that’s not here anymore.
He hovers near a lamppost and tries to look like he’s waiting for someone.
He doesn’t sing.
He just lifts a paper cup to his mouth, takes a sip, and says without looking up:
“You’re following me.”
Jake flinches.
“Excuse me?”
Rooster finally looks at him. Up close, he looks even more tired than Jake expected. Like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks. Hair ruffled. Hoodie slightly too big on one side, like he borrowed it from someone and never gave it back.
“I’ve seen you,” Rooster says, nodding toward him. “You’ve been coming to watch me every day for a week.”
Jake scrambles to find the lie. Something casual. Something deflective.
Instead, he says:
“You have a really fucking sad voice.”
Rooster snorts.
“Thanks?”
Jake walks away after that. Doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t wait for a follow-up.
But he comes back the next day.
And the next.
They don’t talk again for three more days.
Just this push and pull — Jake circling closer and Rooster letting him, but only just.
Jake brings coffee once, hands it over without a word, and sits on the edge of the bench while Rooster tunes his guitar. They don’t speak. They don’t look at each other. But Jake stays until the last song is done and doesn’t pretend it’s for the atmosphere anymore.
Something about the silence between them feels full, not empty.
Something about Rooster’s voice makes Jake feel like he’s remembering something he never got to live.
_________________________
Jake learns the city by way of Rooster’s voice.
It’s there in the pale light before the streets fill up, when the damp smells sharper and the few who stir move like ghosts. Jake doesn’t map the usual tourist stops; he maps the places where he sings. The cracked steps outside the bakery, the bend in the street behind the bookstore, the hollow where the old fountain used to be.
He tells himself it’s because the music makes those places alive—but really, it’s because he’s following Rooster, and God, he hates himself a little for that.
He watches the way he leans into the guitar, eyes closed, head tilting as if to catch the notes before they fall. The way his fingers tremble when the song gets quiet, like holding his breath underwater.
Jake stands too far away to make a move. He’s a tourist with no plan, no roots, and a whole history of running fast and disappearing faster.
“Streets slow down and ice over,
Dusk comes on and I struggle,
Stop to stop to stop thinking of you…”
The words scrape against something inside Jake he hasn’t touched in years. The part that aches for more than just movement and distance.
He imagines what it would be like to say hello.
To ask for his name.
To hear his voice outside of the songs.
But he never does.
He just listens.
_________________________
Some days, Jake arrives early.
He waits around a corner, heart thrumming with the stupid hope that maybe this time, Rooster will notice.
Sometimes he does. Not with words. Just a glance. A flicker in his tired eyes.
Jake catches it like a secret.
Other times he looks right through him, the way someone looks through the rain — unwilling to get wet.
Jake wonders if Rooster feels it too.
That slow burn of recognition that isn’t quite confession.
That aching pull of something unspoken.
Jake’s afraid to cross the line between listener and presence.
Afraid that if he steps forward, Rooster will fold up like a broken paper airplane and disappear.
_________________________
One day, when the sky is bruised with storm clouds and the first drops are heavy enough to sting, Jake walks up the street faster than usual.
He finds Rooster packing up early, the guitar case cracked and battered, the rain already soaking through the cardboard cup with the few coins inside.
Jake wants to say something — anything — but the words stick in his throat like cold lead.
So he just stands there, drenched and silent.
Rooster meets his eyes for a long moment.
Then a small, almost imperceptible smile.
And suddenly, Jake feels less like a tourist in a strange city and more like someone who might belong.
Jake stands there, rain cold against his skin, watching fold his guitar case with careful hands. The droplets cling to his dark hair, soaking into the fabric of his jacket, tracing the faint scars etched along his knuckles. Jake’s breath fogs in the chill air, but it isn’t the cold that tightens his chest — it’s the weight of waiting.
Waiting for what? He doesn’t know.
The city hums around them: distant cars, muffled footsteps, the relentless rhythm of rain on stone. But here, right here, there’s only the fragile silence between them.
Rooster doesn’t rush. His movements are slow, deliberate, like every gesture is a memory he’s holding onto.
Jake wants to ask if he can help, wants to say Don’t leave yet, but the words won’t come. They’re tangled in the ache of feeling seen, yet invisible all at once.
His eyes flick to the thin paper cup—wet and crumpled—with the handful of coins left inside. Not much. Not nearly enough for the days Rooster’s been here.
Jake’s fingers curl into fists at his sides. He’s no savior, but maybe he could be something. Maybe just a presence that doesn’t disappear.
Finally, he looks up.
For a moment, their eyes lock, and Jake sees a flicker of something unspoken — tiredness, hope, a crack in the armor.
Jake swallows hard and lets the rain wash over him.
“I could buy you coffee,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
Rooster’s smile is slow, real, fragile. “I’d like that.”
_________________________
They walk to the café just around the corner, boots splashing through puddles, shoulders brushing with quiet electricity.
Inside, the warmth hits Jake like a wave. The scent of roasted beans, cinnamon, and old books wrapping around them.
They sit opposite each other, steaming mugs between them, the hum of conversation like a soft background song.
Rooster stirs his coffee absently, eyes distant. Jake wonders what ghosts live behind them.
He wants to reach across the table and touch that guarded place, but he’s not sure how.
Instead, he says, “You’ve been singing the same songs a lot.”
Rooster’s gaze flicks up, then down.
“They’re stories I can live in. Sometimes it hurts less than the silence.”
Jake nods, knowing that feeling all too well.
He wants to say more — about running, about stopping, about the hollow spaces that fill up when you stop running.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
The café hums low around them, but for Jake, the world shrinks to the small space between their hands resting on the wooden table. He catches the faint tremble in Rooster’s fingers as he lifts his cup, and for a breath, wonders what that trembling might mean.
They don’t speak much. Words feel too loud, too heavy—like breaking the fragile spell closely.
His own heart thrums with the sting of wanting—wanting to reach out, to bridge the space, but also terrified of overstepping.
Jake swallows the lump in his throat and rests his palm just an inch from Rooster’s, fingers twitching as if aching to close the distance but frozen by fear.
Bradley glances down, then up, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat too long to be coincidence. A slow, almost imperceptible smile curves at the corners of his mouth.
The moment stretches, fragile and suspended.
He wanted to reach out. God, how badly.
But what if he was wrong? What if Rooster pulled away, like a shadow slipping through his fingers?
Instead, Jake let his hand rest just beside Rooster’s, not quite touching, but close enough that the heat from the other man’s skin seemed to pulse against his own.
Rooster’s gaze flicked down to Jake’s hand, then back up, eyes searching. In that instant, it was like Jake saw everything Rooster wasn’t saying — the loneliness folded into the corners of his mouth, the ghosts hiding beneath his calm.
A tremor passed through Rooster’s fingers, subtle, barely there. Like a silent invitation or a plea.
Jake swallowed hard, heart pounding so loud it felt like thunder in his ears.
He shifted forward just a fraction, closing the gap, letting the warmth of their almost-touch fill the space between them.
For a moment, the whole world seemed to hold its breath.
Then Rooster’s hand moved — slow, tentative — inching toward Jake’s.
Fingers brushed.
Electric.
Jake’s breath hitched, a fragile sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a confession. His fingers brushed against Rooster’s — barely, just a whisper of contact — but it felt like the whole world shifted beneath them.
Time slowed, the café’s low murmur fading into a distant hum as all his focus narrowed to the heat radiating through that tentative touch.
Rooster’s eyes searched Jake’s face, unguarded for the first time, raw and honest and aching in a way Jake didn’t quite know how to name.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then, slowly, Rooster’s hand curled just a little, fingers tracing the back of Jake’s palm, grounding them both in the fragile moment.
Jake closed his eyes, letting the feeling settle deep inside him — a quiet surrender to something he’d spent too long denying.
When he opened them, Rooster was smiling softly, a small curve that held the weight of everything unsaid.
No promises.
No grand declarations.
“So, what’s your name actually?” Jake asks, after finding the courage to finally speak.
“Bradley.” Rooster— Bradley, answers, fingers still tracing the back of Jake’s palm. “You?”
“Jake.” He answers, almost too quickly.
Bradley huffs out an amused chuckle, smiling at Jake, like he too was waiting for this moment.
Just two people leaning into the space between them, letting the silence speak louder than words ever could.
And somehow, that was enough.