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The afterparty was loud in that particular way New York parties were loud: everyone trying to be seen, everyone trying to be heard, everyone pretending they weren't looking for something, or in Rocky's case, someone.
He leaned against the wall, blunt between his fingers, watching the room do its little dance.
He'd been to a thousand of these.
Would go to a thousand more.
Same faces, same conversations, same empty promises.
He was bored.
Absolutely and utterly bored.
That was the thing about boredom with Rocky, it made him dangerous.
Made him look too hard, notice too much, want things he shouldn't want.
The blunt had gone out. He didn't even notice.
Because across the room, by the makeshift bar, there was a boy.
No.
Not a boy.
A man.
Young, but a man.
Young in that way that made Rocky's teeth ache.
'Twenty-something, probably... he dresses like he's trying too hard,' were the first thoughts to cross his mind.
First of all, the chain was wrong: too thick, too shiny, too Houston.
The shirt was expensive but he didnt wear it like skin... like costume.
Rocky couldn't look away.
'Who the fuck is that?'
The nameless man was talking to someone: some producer, some A&R, some nobody Rocky wouldn't remember tomorrow, and he kept doing this thing with his hands.
This restless, almost frantic thing.
Like he was conducting music only he could hear.
Like his body couldn't contain whatever was inside it.
'Look at me.'
The thought came unbidden. Unwelcome.
'Look at me. Turn around. Look at me.'
The man laughed at something, head tipping back, and Rocky saw the line of his throat, the pulse jumping there, and something in his chest went tight.
'What the fuck.'
He pushed off the wall, intending to walk away, to find someone, anyone else to talk to, to shake whatever this was, but his feet didn't move. They stayed planted like they'd grown roots through the floor of this stranger's apartment.
'You don't even know him.'
True.
'You don't even know his name.'
Also true.
'You're standing here like a fucking weirdo watching some random dude drink shitty champagne.'
Absolutely true, and yet,
The man turned.
Not toward Rocky in particular, more so toward the room, scanning for something, someone, an exit maybe—just like all the others, but more... desperate.
Their eyes met across the crowded space.
Rocky's heart stopped.
No.
That's dramatic.
Waaaaay too dramatic.
That's the kind of shit he'd make fun of someone else for saying, but something did stop.
Something in his chest, his throat, the base of his spine.
Something stopped and then started again, wrong, different, ruined.
The man looked away first.
Didn't even register anything.
Didn't know either.
Rocky couldn't breathe.
'He's beautiful.'
No.
Wrong word.
Too soft.
Too romantic.
This wasn't beautiful.
This was something else.
Something that made Rocky's hands curl into fists at his sides.
Something that made him want to cross the room and—
'And what?' He found himself asking
'And touch him. And ruin him. And find out if he sounds like that when he—'
"Yo, Rocky!"
He blinked, then turned.
Some rapper, or a hype man? Whatever, it was some face he'd seen before, clapping him on the shoulder, talking about something, some collaboration, some opportunity.
Some bullshit.
Rocky nodded along, made appropriate talk— no, appropriate noise, to end the conversation faster, but when he looked back to the bar, the man was gone.
---
He found him again twenty minutes later. On the balcony.
Alone.
The city was doing its thing behind him, lights and noise, the particular ugliness of New York at night.
But Rocky didn't see any of it.
He saw the way the man's back curved as he leaned against the railing.
The way the cold air made his breath visible.
The way his fingers tapped against the metal like he couldn't stop moving even when he was still.
Rocky should've gone back inside.
Should've left, and forgotten this entire night ever even happened.
Instead, he stepped onto the balcony.
The man turned at the sound, and up close, he was worse.
So much worse.
Up close, Rocky could see the faint acne scars on his cheeks.
The slight asymmetry of his mouth.
The way his eyes were too big for his face, too dark.
It made Rocky want to swallow his own tongue.
"'Sup," the man said.
Casual.
Unaware.
Rocky leaned against the railing beside him, close enough to smell his cologne: cheap, too much, perfect.
"Nothing. Needed air."
The man nodded, then looked away.
Didn't recognize him.
Didn't know who he was talking to.
'He doesn't know me.'
The realization hit.... weird. Rocky was used to being known.
Used to eyes following him, to gossip and stares and that specific weight of fame.
This man looked at him like he looked at everyone: briefly, without interest, already moving on to the next thought.
'I want him to know me.'
'I want him to know me in ways he doesn't know anyone.'
'I want—'
"You from here?" The man asked, interrupting the spiral.
"New York."
Rocky said it without thinking.
The man's head snapped toward him. "No way. Me too."
"Really?"
"Nah, I'm just fucking with you"
Rocky didn't say anything to that, his face painted with mild amusement. Like he was inspecting an alien.
"You're funny"
He wasn't funny.
The man shrugged after that, already losing interest.
"'Preciate it."
They stood in silence. The city hummed below them. Rocky's heart was trying to escape through his throat.
'Ask his name.'
'Ask his name, you idiot.'
"I'm Rocky, by the way."
The man looked at him again, and this time? This time there was something.
A flicker.
A pause.
Like maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see what Rocky saw in him.
"Travis," he said.
'Travis.'
The name settled into Rocky's chest like it had always been there.
Like he'd been waiting to hear it his whole life without knowing.
'Travis.'
"You produce?" Rocky asked, because he had to say something, because if he didn't keep talking he might do something insane like reach out and touch his face.
"And rap. Kinda. Trying to." Travis laughed, self-deprecating, uncomfortable in his own skin.
"Ain't nobody tryna hear me yet though."
"I'd hear you."
The words came out wrong.
Too intense.
Too serious.
And way, way too honest.
Travis looked at him strangely, and Rocky felt heat crawl up the back of his neck.
"I mean— whatever. I'm always looking for new shit. If you got anything, you know. Whatever."
'Smooth. Real smooth, Rocky.'
But Travis was already pulling out his phone, already searching for something, already leaning closer to show Rocky a screen.
That's when their shoulders touched, and Rocky forgot how to think.
---
An hour later, Rocky had heard three tracks on someone's cracked iPhone, learned that Travis was signed to G.O.O.D Music, and discovered that the now-not-so-mysterious man liked his alcohol cheap.
An hour later, Rocky was ruined.
They were back inside now, standing in a corner that felt private despite the crowd.
Travis was talking about something, and Rocky was watching his mouth move and thinking things he had no business thinking.
'I wonder what he sounds like when he—'
'I wonder if he knows how he moves—'
'I wonder if he'd let me—'
"You good?" Travis asked, interrupting.
"You look like you zoned out."
Rocky blinked, then forced a smile.
"Yeah. Just tired."
'Liar.'
'You're not tired. You're obsessed. You've known this man for an hour and you're already imagining—'
"I should probably head out anyway," Travis said, already pulling away, already leaving.
"Early studio tomorrow. Well. Today. You know."
"Yeah." Rocky's voice came out rough.
"Yeah, I know."
Travis nodded, offered a half-wave, and started walking away.
'Don't go.'
'Don't go don't go don't—'
"Yo," Rocky called out.
Travis turned.
Rocky's mind went blank.
He had nothing:
No reason to stop him.
No excuse to make him stay.
"Text me them tracks," he managed.
"For real. I'll listen."
Travis smiled, that small, uncertain, apologetic smile, and nodded.
"Bet."
And then he was gone.
Rocky stood in the corner for a long time after, the party swirling around him, the noise rising and falling like a tide he couldn't feel.
His phone was in his hand.
His thumb was hovering over the screen.
'You don't even have his number.'
'You didn't ask.'
'You let him walk away and you didn't ask.'
He should go home.
Should sleep.
Should forget this whole night ever happened.
Instead, he found the host, found someone who knew someone who knew someone, and by 4 AM, he had a name, a number, and a sickness growing in his chest that he didn't know how to name.
Travis.
Travis from Missouri City.
Travis with the braces and the cheap cologne and the stupid laugh.
Travis who looked at him and didn't see.
Rocky sat in the back of a car heading downtown, watching the city blur past, and let himself think the things he hadn't let himself think on that balcony.
'I want to know everything there is to know about him.'
'I want to know what he looks like when he wakes up.'
'I want to know what sounds he makes when he—'
'I want to be the reason he makes those sounds.'
'I want to take him apart.'
'I want to put him back together.'
'I want him to look at me the way he looked at that drink—like he needed it, like he didn't know he needed it until it was there.'
'I want him to need me.'
'I want—'
The car stopped.
His building.
His life.
Rocky went inside, then to bed and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
And when he finally slept, he dreamed of those eyes and hands and a laugh that sounded like... home.
A place he'd never been to until then.
---
Across the city, in a boujee hotel room, Travis lay awake too.
He was thinking about the party.
About the people.
About the guy on the balcony.
'What was his name again? Rocky. Something Rocky. Weird name. He'd been weird, that guy. Intense.'
'Probably just some homo, best to just not think about it.'