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Months before getting called back to Top Gun, Jake’s halfheartedly shopping in a department store close to where he’s stationed on a rare free afternoon. He doesn’t like shopping for civilian clothes, but he’s out of t-shirts, all of them ruined from the constant washing he’d put them through to get all the sweat out after wearing them under his flight suit.
That’s how he finds himself wandering around the store searching for the plain, basic t-shirts section. The store is huge, and nothing nowadays seems to be basic clothing anymore: everything has something printed on it or some kind of pattern, and the only t-shirts he’s found in his almost-hour of walking around once unfolded revealed themselves to be cut so high his entire midsection would have been exposed. Not really regulation clothing, that.
God, he hates this. He wears his uniform everywhere when he’s stationed, going out for a drink or for minor errands, and when he flies home he wears it until he’s in his childhood room, where all his hoodies and jeans and cringy band shirts are stored. He’s got a pair of jeans laying around his room, back at the base, but he never wears them. He hasn’t needed to go shopping in ages, years, probably, and the outing was made even more boring by the absence of some company.
He hasn’t managed to make many friends, this time around, and Javy isn’t stationed with him. He can’t wait to be transferred somewhere else, but it will be months before that, and he needs the t-shirts before.
Said t-shirts are still nowhere to be found, though, and Jake sighs in frustration. At this point he’s probably searched the whole store, even the women’s section, and he’s starting to go stir crazy from the commercial pop music playing way too loudly over the speakers, but he’s absolutely not going to ask someone working there for help. Even if nobody who knows him is there to witness it, he still has a dignity to preserve.
He can shoot enemy airplanes out of the sky but he can’t for the life of him find some fucking t-shirts. Yeah, that’s doing wonders for his ego.
His eyes catch something on a rack near a wall. They’re not t-shirts but shirts and he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s noticed them for, but he gets closer anyway. His instincts usually serve him well.
Except that they don’t, not in this case, not once he understands why exactly the shirts have caught his attention. They’re Hawaiian shirts, and he- he recognizes them. Or at least the pattern of one of them.
Rooster. Fucking Rooster.
They’re Rooster’s shirts. Jake hates that he knows that, hates that he still remembers them. He laughs out loud, bitterly, unable to help himself from feeling the absurdity of the situation. He can’t find some basic white t-shirts, but he can find the same exact brand of those awful things Rooster always wears.
Where Jake wears his uniform everywhere, Rooster discards it every time he can, taking every possible opportunity to walk around in shorts and those monstrosities he called shirts. He’d overheard him explaining that his father used to love them and that was why he wore them, but Jake simply thinks he wants to stand out.
God, Rooster. He hasn’t thought about him in a while. He hasn’t seen him since his last assignment had ended, a year or so before, their second one together. Their whole unit had gone out to a bar to say goodbye and Rooster had been wearing the same exact shirt Jake is looking at, pale white with some huge blue flowers printed all over it. Jake had been pleasantly drunk and he’d- stared. A lot. To the point where Rooster had noticed, asked him what the fuck his problem was, and then turned around without waiting for an answer, saying something about not wanting trouble.
Jake remembers that evening well. It was the first time he’d heard Rooster sing, the first time he’d seen him truly drunk. At ease. The first time he’d seen him and not just someone with flying skills that could rival his own but not enough fuel in his blood to actually beat him.
They hadn’t started on the right foot. Jake had won Top Gun on the course right after Rooster’s, and he’d been assigned on the same carrier the other was already stationed in. He remembers meeting him and recognising his name, the one he’d seen on the last plaque in the list of Top Gun winners. He’d been competing against that name during the entire competition, and there he was in front of him, suddenly, and really, their rivalry had started way before meeting each other.
He’d never believe their superiors hadn’t known what they were doing. You don’t put two Top Gun winners on the same ship for months and expect them to get along. They’d both basically just received the biggest ego boost of their lives, and Rooster had been there for long enough that he’d already won everyone’s favor and god, Jake had hated him. They hadn’t been able to stand each other since the very first instant.
And that was it. Except that Jake was still able to recognise a shirt he’d last seen a year before, apparently.
Fuck you, Rooster.
He’s probably been standing still in front of the clothing rack for way too long. Rooster had always had the talent to take root in his thoughts at the most inconvenient moments. He remembers briefings spent staring at the back of his head, not listening to a word, just trying to figure him out. He’d never managed.
He has the insane temptation to take the shirt and buy it, take it home and store it in his wardrobe and- and then what? Fucking wear it? Yeah, right. Christ, this was getting ridiculous.
He makes to retract the hand he’s unconsciously brought up to the shirt in the moment he’d thought about buying it, and that’s when he notices just how soft the fabric feels under his fingertips.
He remembers thinking they must have been silk, to fall so gracefully on the curve of Rooster’s shoulders, and yeah, he’d been drunk, alright. It’s not silk, though. It doesn’t feel cold and sterile like Jake remembers silk being from some of his mom’s clothes. It feels warm and kind of fuzzy, and Jake bunches some of it in his hand. Suddenly, in a flash of thought, he desperately wishes he could feel the solid warmth of a tan shoulder under it, radiating under his palm and slightly dimmed by the fabric.
He retracts his hand like it’d been burnt.
He shakes his head, curses out loud and turns around, trying to get Bradley fucking Bradshaw out of his fucking mind. Those thoughts would never lead to anything good.
Swallowing his pride, he stops an assistant. Finally, after an hour in that cursed store, Jake walks out with a bag that contains five brand new white t-shirts and nothing else.
.
He gets called back to Top Gun for a special training assignment four months later.
On the ride there he wonders who’s been called with him. Javy’s already texted him that he’s happy to see him again, and he’s heard that Payback and Fanboy got the call as well. If they have, Natasha’s probably going to be there. He hasn’t seen her in a couple of years, and he’s secretly happy they’ll get to fly together again.
Then, obviously, his thoughts end up on Rooster. Last he’s heard, he isn’t even stateside, but Jake doesn’t trust his luck when it comes to him.
The thing is- they’d never had the chance to like each other, or, at the very least, to be friendly.
During their first assignment together, they'd both been high from the Top Gun victory, both insufferable with it (or, well, Jake was. Rooster was great with everyone else, but he answered tooth and nail to every single one of Jake’s taunts, effortlessly and without missing a beat in a way that just made Jake want to push him harder). They were constantly trying to one up each other in any way possible, creating a competition of their own because they both missed Top Gun too much. Jake understands now that that’s the closest they’ve come to collaboration.
On the second one, Jake had just shot an enemy airplane out of the sky. He'd been the celebrity of the base, bursting at the seams with ego and self satisfaction and glory. He had everyone's attention on that base except for Rooster's, and he remembers being so bothered by that that he made sure to catch him whenever he could, to taunt him, to remind him that now the problem they'd had on the carrier - who's the best one- had finally been solved. Jake was the best, and he made sure Rooster knew it. But Rooster- he wasn’t the same as the carrier. He’d mellowed out. He laughed at Jake’s taunts, like he didn’t care for them, like he was above them. Jake knew he was being childish, but he just couldn’t stop. He craved Rooster attention. He didn’t know why.
He thinks he remembers figuring it out that last evening at the bar, watching Rooster sing his heart out to some song he didn’t recognise. He also remembers shoving that thought as far away in his mind as possible.
Now, though, after this solitary, too-long assignment has softened him a bit, he’d like to get to know him better. To be friends with him. He’s had this fascination with him since the very beginning, and he’s only now ready to admit it. Maybe this means they will manage to be- friends, perhaps. He doesn’t know. He’s spiraling again.
.
Rooster’s there, obviously. He shows up after everyone else at the Hard Deck and he’s the only one not in uniform, and if Jake thought he was thrown off by the sight of him in his favourite bar in the world, the one where he’d celebrated winning Top Gun, the fact that he’s wearing the same exact shirt he’d last seen him in throws him for a loop.
As Jake watches him reach them and greet Natasha, he remembers the softness of the fabric, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He hates that he knows that, now. Hates that he looks at Rooster and knows, in some way, how it would feel to touch him.
Fuck the chance to be friends, he thinks as he sees him smirk like he’s seen him do too many times already. There’s this weird feeling in his ribcage, like he’s happy to see him, like he’s missed him, and he doesn’t know how to react to it, so he does the only thing he knows how to do when it comes to Rooster: push.
He pushes and pushes and what the fuck does it mean that he looks good, Jesus, and then he pushes more, until he’s way too close to Rooster’s face. Rooster smirks.
He doesn’t know why Rooster makes him like this. Then his bare arm brushes against the fabric of Rooster’s shirt as he walks away and the contact makes his skin burn and yeah, no, actually he knows why he’s like this. He just fucking hates it.
He watches Rooster perform at the piano like his life depends on it from afar, enjoying himself like Jake has rarely been able to in his life. His shirt clings to him like a second skin. Jake wants, and wants, and wants.
.
He turns the assignment into a competition. He wants the leader spot, needs the validation of it even if he’s never been a team person and he knows it. Mostly, he doesn’t know how to coexist with Rooster without fighting against him for something.
Because the thing is- Rooster could be better than Jake at flying. Jake knows this. He’s seen him pull off insane stunts that only someone with massive talent could actually manage to achieve. It only happens once in a while, sure, but it still makes Jake insecure in a way that has him acting out like a fucking teenager.
Jake isn’t insecure when it comes to anything or anyone else except for Rooster. He turns towards him during the lessons, hoping it looks like he’s trying to intimidate him or tease him, but in his head he’s thinking, and thinking, and thinking.
On the carrier, he’d wanted to be able to interact with the others the way Rooster did, effortlessly and charming and charismatic in a way Jake had never been: in a way that made people like him. Then on the base together he’d figured out that he actually wanted that attention on himself, for himself, but he hadn’t known what it meant.
He knows now, and he hates it, because it means that looking at Rooster makes his skin itch. He wants to touch. He wants the softness of that fabric under his palms, against his skin.
That’s probably the weirdest part. Jake likes sex. Sex is fun, a nice, easy way to get him in a good mood. He doesn’t have loads of it- he could if he wanted, but he does have it frequently and casually, with strangers he has no desire to see again. He loves skin on skin contact, to feel someone else’s clean or sweaty skin against him. It’s electrifying.
With Rooster, though, it’s different in a way he doesn’t want to analyze.
He wants something more. He wants, well- he wants the softness. The one he’s seen Rooster show others. It scares him.
.
He hears on the radio that Rooster has been shot down, and then he saves his life.
It changes things.
.
Five days later, they’re at the Hard Deck. They don’t know what’s going to happen, but they’ve all just been cleared by medical, and it’s clear they want to celebrate. Penny, who’s a saint, offers them a free round, and the atmosphere in the bar is like nothing he’s ever felt. It seems like the whole base is celebrating them, clapping their shoulders and offering them drinks. Even Bob stands tall as he enjoys his fair share of compliments.
Jake feels weirdly detached from it all. He’d played his part for a while, laughing, teasing, occupying as much space as he can. He’d gotten tired of it quickly, though, and he’d uncharacteristically retreated to a corner of the bar. Natasha had shot him a worried look, but she’s too preoccupied by the celebration to do more than that.
They’re all wearing civilian clothing, even Jake, in his white t-shirt and only pair of jeans, so Rooster and his shirt don’t stand out as much. Or, well, they shouldn’t, but Jake’s staring at him like he did at the end of their assignment a year and a half before.
He’s euphoric like Jake’s never seen him be, laughing and dancing and drinking beer after beer. Jake hates that he likes to watch him all smiling and happy as he and Natasha shimmy together to some obscure 80s sounding song.
He thinks they could have had some form of hate sex at a certain point, probably. The tension had been high enough, and Jake knows for a fact that Rooster likes men just as much as he likes women, exactly like him, and it could’ve worked. It was probably the part that was easiest to accept: Rooster was hot despite his fucking mustache and the awful shirts, and Jake would’ve liked to fuck him. They’d just never done it, for some reason, and now even that was gone. In the time it had taken Jake to realize what he wanted, he’d crossed too many limits.
Sure, they’d shaken hands on the carrier, afterwards, but even he’s not delusional enough to believe that saving someone’s life will make them like you if you’ve been an asshole to them the whole time you’ve known them. Be grateful? Yeah, sure. But like him, that was different.
Except that Rooster meets his eyes across the bar and smiles at him, bright and carefree, and that was probably the reason Jake was feeling out of it.
Rooster has been friendly to him ever since the carrier. Not just neutral or nice but- friendly. Jake remembers the joy he’d felt hearing Rooster’s stupid “You look good”, high up in the air, the way it had made him understand that he doesn’t want to be an asshole to him anymore. He’s not a child. He can deal with his fucking emotions. He can accept that Rooster’s not just hot, he’s beautiful, and he’s the good one out of the two of them, and Jake wants to tell him.
Except that it’s so fucking difficult to interact with Rooster without hostility as shield. He’s been unable to find his footing for five days now, and he isn’t getting any better. He doesn’t know what to say to not fuck it all up, and he’s terrified that Rooster’s just doing it out of gratitude.
Jake watches Bob and Rooster exchange words and then Rooster laughs, throwing his head backwards, and Jake wants to bask in that happiness in a way he isn’t allowed to, not like the others are. So when he loses sight of him in the crowd and then hears the first notes of a song on a piano (and it’s not Great Balls of Fire, thank fuck), he swallows the rest of his beer and heads out towards the beach, hoping no one sees him, for the sake of his reputation.
He doesn’t like feeling like this. Untethered and bitter. He should be inside, swallowing shot after shot, loudly proclaiming his heroics and taunting Rooster about the fact that he’s saved his life. Instead all he manages to feel is a longing for fabric under his fingertips.
He stays there for a while, sitting down on the edge of the wooden patio, regretting not buying another beer to at least have something to do with his hands. Listens to the waves and feels like the most embarassing protagonist of a fucking Jane Austen novel.
The music from inside is muffled and he can’t exactly hear Rooster’s voice, but he knows for a fact that he’s singing as loud as he can. He doesn’t really register the piano stopping and the juke box music resuming, but after a while he hears the sound of the doors opening behind him. He doesn’t turn to see who it is, until an ice cold beer is pressed into his hands.
“Didn’t take you for the angsty kind, Hangman.”
Of course. Of fucking course. He takes a long swig of the beer that’s been offered to him in unexpected kindness and doesn’t look up to meet Rooster’s eyes.
“Well, what can I say, I’m full of surprises like that.”
Rooster laughs softly. Now that’s a sound he’s never thought Rooster would make around him.
“What are you doing here all on your own? Don’t know if you noticed, but there’s a party inside.”
“Could ask the same of you.”
“Saw you leaving. Was worried you would, I don’t know, take a drunk midnight bath and drown.”
The idea that Rooster was worried about him is so foreign that he doesn’t know how to react to it, so of course he says the wrong thing.
“You’d be happy to get rid of me that easily, wouldn’t you?”
He hears Rooster sigh before he feels him sit down next to him, so close that he can almost feel his shirt against his bare arms but not quite, like it’s taunting him. He wants to press close to it. Press close to him. He finishes his beer instead, then puts the bottle down in the sand next to his feet.
“No, Jake. I wouldn’t.”
Jake’s stunned into silence by the use of his first name, the softness of his voice. They’ve always called each other with their callsigns, their surnames on rare occasions, and this- this is new.
He shivers, partly from the cold and partly from the intimacy of the gesture. He prays that Rooster doesn’t notice it, but of course he does, and then Jake watches, limbs frozen, as Rooster removes his shirt and puts it gently on his shoulders.
Rooster just- does shit like that. Stays in his undershirt to give someone a layer against the cold. Sacrifices himself to save the life of a man he’s been angry at for years.
The shirt is as soft as he remembers, laying so gently on his shoulders that it barely feels like it’s there. It’s so much worse than he could have ever imagined, though, because- because it smells like Rooster. It smells of sweat and of some sort of cologne, and Jake feels every single one of his defenses shattered by the intimate knowledge that this is what Rooster smells like.
He probably stays silent too long to play it off nonchalantly, so when he turns towards Rooster and meets his eyes what he finds in them is some kind of surprise, possibly amazement that he’s just accepted the gesture like he has.
Jake is amazed at himself, to be honest, but he has to save this somehow. They’re going to have more assignments together, and they've just started not hating each other; he can’t fuck it up already.
“Don’t know if you noticed, Roo-Roo, but I ain’t a girl you’re trying to bring home.”
“Roo-Roo? That’s new.”
Oh, fuck. That slipped.
“Yeah, well. Got to keep you on your toes somehow.”
“Trust me, you already do that without trying.”
Jake inhales deeply at that, and is hit by another wave of- Bradley.
“Jesus, do you bathe in cologne?” is the only thing he manages to say that doesn’t expose him raw.
“It’s perfume, actually. It’s stronger and it lasts longer.”
“I always knew you were the most vain of us all.”
“What, the mustache didn’t tip you off?”
It’s Jake’s turn to laugh. They’re still staring at each other, and the music from inside feels distant, and it’s always been effortless, this back and forth between them, but this is even better. This is easy and soft in a way it’s never been before and Jake feels emptied out, the shirt on his shoulder like the gentlest hug he’s ever felt.
He knows how to deal with adrenaline, the rush of it in his veins. It’s what he does for a living. This is worse, and he has no idea how to react to it. He brings his hands up to rub his face, and the movement almost makes the shirt slip off his shoulders. He’s quick to catch it, repositioning it without thinking.
He turns back towards Bradley -and god, it feels weird calling him that, but it would feel weirder not to, at this point- and only then realizes that the gesture revealed much more than he wanted it to. There’s the same spark in his eyes he had when they had first met, that impossible charm that had fascinated Jake so thoroughly he hadn’t even realized it, at the beginning. But there’s also this openness, the same one he’d seen on the carrier after the mission, when he’d only allowed himself to shake his hand in fear of doing something stupid. He wants to find out what that look means, but he has no idea how to.
“I’m glad it was you in that plane, you know?”
Jake can’t look him in the eyes anymore. He looks back to the sea.
“C’mon, Roo-Roo. It didn’t matter who was in there as long as they saved you.”
“True. But it meant something to me, hearing your voice, right then.”
“I imagined you'd be worried, actually. That I’d hold it over you for years.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t. It’s been five days and I’ve heard you tell the story only once, during the debriefing.”
It’s true. He doesn’t want to take credit for it. Jesus, he could, he knows he could, but it was one of the easiest shots of his career. The enemy was distracted. Anyone could have done it. It wouldn’t have felt right.
“Is this some kind of pity fest? Are you worried I’m not bragging enough?”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just wondering why you aren’t.”
“It’s- It’s- Jesus. You shouldn’t have been happy it was me. I’ve been an asshole to you ever since I’ve met you.”
Rooster says: “True”, and then he doesn’t add anything else. Jake dug his grave, and now he has to lie in it.
“Sometimes the only thing I know how to do is push. Maybe I got tired of it. So what?”
“I pushed back. At the beginning, I pushed back, so I appreciate you saying that, but you can’t dance the tango on your own.”
“Jesus, Roo-Roo. We were not doing the tango. If you wanted to, you just had to ask.”
Bradley laughs.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“Yeah, we’ve already established that.”
The conversation feels honest enough that Jake is privately reassured Bradley wasn’t being friendly to him just out of gratitude. He’s so relieved to find that he’s still able to push back, to never relent against what Jake’s constantly dishing out, that he turns towards him to meet his eyes again.
They’re the same as a few moments before, just a bit softer. And it’s so Bradley, the difference between what he’s telling Jake and what his eyes are saying, the contrast so stark that Jake has no idea what to believe. He sways towards him a bit, maybe unconsciously, maybe because of one beer too many, and he gasps quietly when he feels the warmth of Bradley’s palm, his fingertips, on the back of his neck.
Bradley guides him silently towards him, and it’s a testament to how much Jake is stripped raw by this moment that he goes willingly, rests his chin on Bradley’s naked shoulder and finds a bare knee with his right hand. The touch is grounding and revealing and Jake thinks he would shoot a hundred more enemy fighters not for the glory of it, but for this.
“Look at us, staring deep in the distance in silence. What is this, Wuthering Heights?”
Bradley laughs, and Jake feels him throw his head back by the movement of his neck where it’s pressed against the side of his face. He’s never felt touch like this, and he feels like a blushing virgin while he thinks it, despite the fact that there’s nothing sexual about it.
Only then, basking in the presence of a man who’s alive thanks to him, wrapped in a shirt he’s been obsessing about for months, Jake finally feels grounded again. The mission is over, they made it back in one piece, and this thing between them will settle, one way or another.
Bradley starts humming something, high pitched, and it takes Jake a while to recognise it.
“Roo-Roo, please tell me you’re not singing Wuthering Heights.”
“I knew my falsetto was good, but I didn’t think you’d recognise it.”
“Your falsetto is terrible, you’re just not the only one with the horrible music taste. My mom loves her.”
“You are full of surprises. And Kate Bush is a legend, thank you very much, sweetheart.”
Jake groans.
“Really, Bradley. Not the pet names. Give a girl a kiss before, at least.”
He doesn’t even regret saying that. He’s comfortable, and embarrassingly sleepy, and it barely registers.
As soon as he feels Bradley guide him away from his shoulder with the hand on his neck, though, he’s wide awake. Bradley’s smiling as he looks him in the eyes, smirking like he did that first evening back at the Hard Deck when Jake got in his face, but kinder and more playful. He did save his life in the meantime, though, so he feels like it’s a rightful development.
“Thought you said you weren’t a girl.”
“The sentiment still stands.”
“Well, who am I to say no to my saviour?”
It’s a breathless moment, and there are probably a million comparisons to flying in a fighter jet to be made, but Jake’s not really thinking about that.
He’s thinking about how Bradley’s lips are as soft as the fabric of his shirts, and then suddenly he’s not thinking at all. All he feels is Bradley’s hand moving from his neck to his cheek, holding the side of his face. His own hand moves from his knee to his side, over the undershirt, and it’s not as soft as the damned shirt but it still feels more intimate than touching bare skin, the warmth radiating from under the fabric, the knowledge that this is not just a step towards sex, but something different.
There’s barely any tongue at all, just the light swipe of it on the outline of a lip; it’s languid and sweet, and there’s one kiss after that and then another one, until they’ve probably spent minutes at it, their lips wet in a way that makes them pop lightly when they separate only to come back again. Jake’s lips feel tacky and sticky as he pushes them against Bradley’s once more, slotting between the other’s, nipping lightly at the plump curve of the bottom one. He can feel Bradley’s lips curving in a smile against his and he adores it, adores the playfulness of what they’re doing. It’s deep not in practice, but in sensation, and it’s hard to kiss while smiling, so Jake moves to the corner of Bradley’s lips, then his cheekbones, the outline of his jaw.
Bradley’s forehead comes to rest in the crook of his neck. The hand on his cheek moves upwards, treading lightly through his hair.
“Are you going soft on me, Jake?”
“You’re the one that called me sweetheart, Roo-Roo.”
Bradley only hums, content.
Sometimes Jake thinks he doesn’t know how to be anything else than an asshole. But this, this moment, this Bradley that’s basically resting in his arms, the same man who had let him rest in his just moments before, gives him hope than he can learn how to be softer. Part of him is always going to be a bit of an asshole, what with the massive ego and all that, but there’s hope.
It’s a good start.
“You do know we’re probably not going to get assigned together. Not immediately, at least.”
“True, but they’ll give us some leave. We’ll start from there. For now-“ he stops as he stands up, and Jake misses his warmth immediately, but then he stands as well, accepting the hand Bradley offers him. “For now, let’s go inside. I know the notes to half of Kate Bush's discography.”
“Next time I’ll think twice about saving your ass.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t like my ass, Jake.”
And that’s the thing about Bradley: Jake will say something just on the precipice of too much, and he’ll answer right back. He never starts it, but he knows how to take it, how to tell him when he crosses a line.
“Not when you’re singing Kate Bush, I don’t.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
Before heading inside, Jake shakes off Bradley’s shirt (one handed, because the sneaky bastard still hasn’t let go of his other one). He holds it up and hands it back to him.
“Take back this monstrosity, Roo-Roo.”
Bradley takes it, letting go of his hand.
“Help me put it back on?”
Jake groans, but he does exactly that. Holds it open and waits for him to put his arms inside. Bradley turns around and they find each other face to face, and it kind of looks like he’s beaming, so Jake kisses him. It’s nothing more than a peck, but it’s so light it makes him giddy. He's honestly never even imagined that was an emotion he was capable of feeling.
“Jesus, Bradley. Leave it to you to turn me into a sap.”
Bradley laughs and leads him back inside after taking hold of his hand again.
Five minutes later, their whole unit is crowded against the piano. Bradley’s playing like he’s ascending to the heavens, and the whole bar is singing Wuthering Heights in a terrible falsetto, Jake included. He can’t take his eyes off Bradley, who keeps meeting his whenever he’s not looking at the keys, and yeah, alright. Jake’s only a man.
“You look good, Roo-Roo”, he almost screams over the roar of the crowd once the song is finished.
Bradley shakes his head at the familiar phrase, now reversed. He winks.
“I am good, sweetheart. I’m very good.”