The Rooftop Pact

The city buzzed below, a tangle of headlights and horns that never quit. Up on the roof, it was quieter—just the hum of a vent and the occasional pigeon flapping off into the dark. Ethan leaned against the ledge, his hoodie pulled tight against the wind. Beside him, Jay sprawled on an old lawn chair they’d dragged up months ago, its plastic creaking under his weight. The building was a crumbling six-story walk-up, but this spot was theirs.

“Think it’ll rain?” Ethan asked, squinting at the gray smear of clouds.

“Hope so,” Jay said, tipping his head back. “Wash some of this noise away.”

Ethan smirked, kicking a pebble across the tarred surface. It skittered into a puddle from last night’s drizzle. They’d been coming up here since they moved in—Ethan after dropping out of college, Jay after his barista gig became his only plan. Two years of sharing a shoebox apartment, splitting rent and ramen, had turned into something neither bothered to name.

Jay pulled a beat-up journal from his jacket, flipping it open. “Wrote something dumb last night.”

“Read it,” Ethan said, not looking over. He didn’t need to. Jay’s voice was enough.

Jay cleared his throat, dramatic-like. “‘Sky’s a mess, head’s worse. But we’re here, so screw it.’” He paused, grinning. “Poetry, right?”

“Deep,” Ethan deadpanned, but his lips twitched. “You’re a regular Shakespeare.”

“Shut up.” Jay chucked the journal at him. Ethan caught it one-handed, flipping through pages scrawled with half-thoughts and doodles—their lives in smudged ink. He stopped at a line from weeks back: We’re enough for each other, man. Jesus said so. Jay had scratched it out, then rewritten it darker.

“You believe that?” Ethan asked, voice low.

Jay shrugged, staring at the skyline. “Some days.”

Ethan nodded, handing the journal back. Some days was enough.

They’d met at a bus stop three years ago, both soaked from a storm, arguing over whose headphones were louder. Ethan was nineteen then, all sharp edges and no direction. Jay was twenty, cocky but steady, the kind of guy who’d share his last dollar without asking why you needed it. Now, at twenty-two and twenty-three, they were still a mess—just a mess together.

“Boss cut my hours again,” Ethan said, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Says I’m ‘unmotivated.’”

“You are,” Jay said, grinning when Ethan glared. “Kidding. You’ll bounce back.”

Ethan didn’t answer, just stared at the lights flickering below. He’d dropped out after one semester, burned out on lectures and loans. Now he stocked shelves at a corner store, each shift a reminder he was going nowhere. Jay, at least, had the coffee shop—low pay, but he liked the rhythm. Ethan envied that, though he’d never say it.

“Got an interview tomorrow,” Jay said, breaking the silence. “That new place by the park. Better tips, maybe.”

“Good for you,” Ethan muttered, then winced at how bitter it sounded. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Jay sat up, the chair groaning. “If I get it, I’ll cover rent ‘til you’re solid.”

Ethan shook his head. “Don’t need charity.”

“Not charity, dumbass. It’s us.” Jay’s tone was firm, like he’d already decided. Ethan didn’t argue. He never won those fights.

The wind picked up, tugging at their clothes. Ethan pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them. “Ever feel like you’re just… stuck?”

Jay didn’t answer right away. He stood, stretching, then walked to the ledge beside Ethan. “Yeah. But then I come up here. You’re here. It’s not so bad.”

Ethan looked up, meeting Jay’s eyes—steady, like always. He wanted to say something smart, brush it off, but the words stuck. Instead, he nodded, and Jay clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaving it there a beat too long.

That night, Ethan crashed on the couch, too wired to sleep. Jay’s snores drifted from the bedroom, a sound Ethan could set a clock to. He thought about the roof, the way Jay never pushed, just stayed. It wasn’t a fix for the mess in his head, but it was something.

Two days later, it all unraveled. Ethan came home from a shift—late, because the bus broke down—to find a note taped to their door. Rent’s due. Pay up or get out. They’d been late before, but this time the landlord meant it. Ethan’s stomach sank. His hours were cut, Jay’s interview hadn’t panned out yet, and their savings were a jar of quarters on the counter.

He didn’t tell Jay when he got home. Just grabbed a soda and headed for the roof. Jay followed, no questions, journal tucked under his arm. They settled into their spots—Ethan on the ledge, Jay in the chair—like nothing was wrong.

“Rough day?” Jay asked, flipping pages.

Ethan popped the can, the hiss loud in the quiet. “You could say that.”

“Spill.”

“Landlord’s done. We’re out if we don’t pay by Friday.” Ethan kept his eyes on the city, waiting for Jay to freak.

Jay didn’t. He scribbled something in the journal, then tore the page out and handed it over. Ethan took it, frowning. We’ll figure it out. Always do.

“You’re nuts,” Ethan said, but he folded the paper into his pocket.

“Probably.” Jay leaned back, hands behind his head. “Got a shift tomorrow. I’ll hustle. You?”

“Same.” Ethan paused, then added, “Thanks.”

Jay waved it off, but his grin said he got it.

They stayed up there ‘til the stars peeked through, talking about nothing—old movies, dumb customers, the pigeon that kept stealing Jay’s fries. When the cold drove them inside, Ethan felt lighter, like the weight wasn’t all his anymore.

Friday came fast. Jay picked up an extra shift; Ethan pawned a watch he didn’t need. They scraped the rent together, barely, and slid it under the landlord’s door with thirty minutes to spare. Back on the roof that night, exhausted, they didn’t say much. Jay scribbled in his journal, Ethan traced cracks in the ledge with his finger.

“We’re good,” Jay said finally, closing the book.

“Yeah,” Ethan agreed, and he meant it.

The city kept buzzing below, but up here, it was just them—two guys against the grind, holding on. Not a plan, not a fix, just a pact. And for now, it held.