Chapter Text
He likes body heat, normally. Likes the feel of a girl – or guy – pressed up against him in the club, wrapped around him in bed. He likes the feel of his teammates piled on top of him after he’s scored a goal, or made an assist, or even just after a win.
It’s not a sexual thing. It’s just comforting, innit. He thinks that Dr. Sharon would tell him he wasn’t hugged enough as a child.
Unfortunately, she’s probably right. This just proves it.
“You bottled it – you absolutely bottled it!” James says, words lighthearted but coming down on Jamie like a tonne of bricks. His dad dances closer, beer making up more of his body than blood and water combined, making his steps wobble. It’s almost pitiful. “What were you thinking!?”
He can see Roy over his dad’s shoulder, through his dad’s disgusting body heat, but his face is unreadable. There’s a hint of a wince on his face and Jamie hates it.
He stays silent.
“Listen, er,” James says, overstaying his welcome for what’s definitely not the first time in his life. “Do us a favour ––” as if Jamie would ever do him a favour “–– and get Denbo and Bug past security. They wanna go on the pitch, take a few snaps and all that, yeah?”
The smell of beer on his breath is vile. He has no doubt Denbo and Bug won’t be in any fitter states.
“I’d rather ‘em not,” Jamie says, hates how quiet the words come out. Hates how his dad makes him feel, hates how he lets his dad make him feel.
“They just want to look around, it’ll only take a second,” James says, and then his fists are mock playfully grazing Jamie’s chest, his ribs. He can’t help but flinch away from the hand that comes up to his jaw, terror creeping in at the smile on his dad’s face.
He’s seen it before, so many times. More than he can count, actually, but who is counting?
Straightening his spine, he finds his voice again.
“I’d rather ‘em not,” he says, more firm this time. He thinks he sees a hint of appreciation in Roy’s face.
Go on, Tartt. Be a prick.
The noise James makes is not dignified.
“You’ve not gone all– little moody bitch just ‘cause you got your arse served to ya on a plate, have ya?” James sneers. He sways closer, and Jamie swerves out of his way.
Stands up straight again.
Looks at Roy over his dad’s shoulder, still watching intently.
He’s the only one that is. Everyone else has looked away. Disgust –– or maybe something worse, like pity.
What would Roy Kent do, he muses to himself. What would Roy fucking Kent do?
He takes a deep breath.
“Don’t speak to me like that,” he mutters. It doesn’t come out as strong as he intended, and he can’t quite bring himself to make eye contact. He gazes up at the ceiling for a second, then back down, back at Roy’s face. His cheeks are slightly pink. Jamie doesn’t know why – probably embarrassment.
James leans in closer, like he hasn’t heard.
Repeats, a little bit stronger this time, “don’t speak to me like that.”
Roy is still looking, like he’s driving past a crash on the M25 and morbid curiosity has gotten the better of him.
This time, his dad puts his ear right next to Jamie’s mouth. He doesn’t back away. Stands taller, stiller.
Won’t let himself be affected.
“Don’t speak to me like that,” he says. Means every word. The first time he’s ever managed to stand up for himself.
James has finally gotten the hint. Leans back, to look right in Jamie’s face.
“Okay, well let’s see if you can hear this,” he says, pointing his finger at Jamie’s temple. There’s nothing he wants more than to flinch away, but he doesn’t. He tunes the next words out. It’s easier that way.
There’s nothing but a boring, droning din as his dad keeps talking. His breath still smells like beer, his body heat is still too much.
The next part is harder to block out. He cares about this team more than he cares about half of his own family, present company included.
“Look where you are now,” James says, a disgusted sneer not even disguised in his voice. Jamie can feel his body heat even more, the anger radiating off him. It makes all the hairs on his body stand up, goosebumps scattering across his skin. Fight or flight. He wants to run. “Twoddling about with a bunch of amateurs!”
He tries to play it off as a joke. Jamie doesn’t dare look at his teammates, knows the disgusted bile will be rising in their throats.
Knows, because he feels it too.
Knows that he’s done now. Finally, he’s done.
He turns away, back to the family he knows.
“Don’t turn your back on me, you pussy!” James snarls, shoving at Jamie’s shoulders.
Fight or flight.
Instinctive, uncontrollable.
He turns, draws his fist back.
Connects with his dad’s nose.
Finally, you stood up to him.
That’s what Roy Kent would do.
It’s over in a second, the anger. The adrenaline. Suddenly his dad’s on the floor and his knuckles ache and he’s never punched anyone in his life, not even the kids on his estate who told him he’d never make it, the pricks at City who sneered at him when he got the news about his loan move –– not even Roy, the Roy who hated him, who looked at him with disdain and disappointment and didn’t say a word, even when Jamie was practically on his knees, looking for somethinganythingpleaseyou’remyhero.
He hates the way tears sting behind his eyelids, threaten to spill over his lashes. He scrunches his face up to try and stop them.
His dad turns back to him, barking out a laugh. Stumbles to his feet, the old good for nothing drunk. He looks furious.
Jamie isn’t scared anymore.
“Okay,” he spits, wiping at the blood that’s started to trickle out of his nose. Half of Jamie wants to apologise, promise he didn’t mean it. The other half thinks, good, you vicious old cunt. I hope it hurts for weeks. “You can have that one for free–”
He lunges towards Jamie again, but Beard is there in an instant, grabbing fistfuls of that jacket, the one that smells like stale fags and empty promises, shoving James out of the door while he shouts about big times and don’t forget where you came from.
As if Jamie ever could. He sees it every time he looks in the mirror.
The room falls silent. Nobody’s looking, eyes trained on the floor.
Except for Roy.
Roy Kent, here, there, everywhere.
Under Jamie’s skin, in his head.
He looks at Jamie, a stare that cuts through the silence.
He doesn’t look full of pity anymore. He doesn’t look embarrassed.
He just looks –– sad.
One beat. Two, then three.
Nobody says anything. Roy keeps looking.
He takes big strides across the room, but Jamie’s too numb to feel anything, to know what’s going on. Except — Roy stops in front of him, reaches out. Jamie flinches. Can’t stop it. Flinches so hard it makes the muscles in his shoulders ache, just faintly.
Roy’s arms are around him before he can even make sense of it, tight, holding the pieces together. Jamie doesn’t move, for a minute. Roy doesn’t let go.
Jamie half expects him to.
But he doesn’t, keeps his arms there, right round Jamie’s aching shoulders, until Jamie comes to his senses enough to hug back. His hands come up to clutch onto Roy’s jacket, high on his back. Curls his fingers into the material so tight it hurts. Buries his face into the soft skin between Roy’s shoulder and his jaw, the part that smells so intrinsically like him. The scent that lingers in the dressing room, on Jamie’s own kit sometimes, when the kitman’s piled their shirts together.
He feels safe, even though he has no right to. Roy isn’t safety. Roy is –– Roy is Roy Kent, Roy fucking Kent, who called Jamie a prick and an arsehole and the best player on this team, like it pained him to say it.
But Roy Kent is holding him like he knows it’s the only thing keeping him together.
The tears finally spill over, and he lets out a breathy little sob.
The gazes burning into his back don’t even matter.
Twenty years of why me, why couldn’t you just love me, be proud of me, be a fucking dad spills out, right there onto Roy’s Richmond jacket.
Roy’s fists move jerked little circles into his back, like he doesn’t know how to do comfort. Jamie thinks he’s doing it quite well.
He’s not sure how long they stay there. Minutes, or hours, maybe. Could even be days. There’s no windows in this room.
The sobs keep coming, and Jamie wants to pull back and apologise, wipe his face and move on, but Roy’s grip is tight and his body heat is comforting, safe, and he can’t. He can’t let this go. Not yet.
“Jamie,” Roy says softly. One of the few times his actual name has come from Roy’s mouth. It’s usually Tartt or arsehole or prick. He repeats it again, even softer, kinder, “Jamie.”
Jamie pulls back, but Roy doesn’t let him go very far. Relaxes his grip, but doesn’t release it.
“The–– the lads, the bus,” Jamie says, hiccuping on a sob. The dressing room has emptied out, but the silence is still there. James Tartt Sr’s ghost is still there, snarling at him.
“They’re gone, Jamie,” Roy says, in that gentle tone he only saves for Phoebe. Jamie’s only been round her a couple of times, at club events where the whole family’s invited, and he was jealous. Jealous of the kindness Roy showed her, and isn’t that just ridiculous? “I’ll get us a cab. Come on, pack your stuff.”
Roy releases his grip, but Jamie just stands there, swaying on the spot. Roy looks at him for a minute, and then turns to Jamie’s makeshift spot, packing his bag without even so much as a sigh.
It’s so methodical, watching his hands move. He folds Jamie’s clothes neatly, packs his aftershave and moisturiser down the side. Places his boots on top, studs up, to avoid any stains on his clothes. So thoughtful. So considerate.
“Are you ready?” Roy asks, zipping the back and turning back to Jamie. He nods once, a short, jerky movement, and then there’s a warm hand on his back, leading him through the double doors.
He keeps his head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who might have heard, but the corridors are empty.
Hours, then.
He shivers as soon as they step outside. His jersey is still damp from the sweat and the tears, and the cold air feels like ice against his skin. There’s a cab already waiting - the Roy Kent effect. He bundles Jamie into it, clutching the bag that doesn’t belong to him like he’s protecting it with his life.
“Where to, mate?” The taxi driver asks casually, but there’s a dreamy look in his eyes. He’s a fan, then.
Roy gives an address that Jamie knows is three doors up from his house, and then puts his arm round Jamie’s shoulders when he notices he’s still shivering.
They sit in silence for the drive. Jamie keeps his eyes on the time beaming from the dashboard to stop the thoughts of his dad creeping in, watching the forty three minutes tick by.
It feels like a lifetime.
“Stay there,” Roy says, still gentle. Jamie’s always been good at following commands, so he stays still, not daring to move a muscle. He’s panicking, though, on the inside: is Roy going to tell Jamie to give the driver his address? Is Roy going to leave here and send him home?
A cold rush of air blasts through the back seats as Roy opens the door opposite to the one he climbed out of, and he holds a hand out for Jamie.
Steadying, calm.
“Cheers,” Roy says gruffly, leaning in through the open passenger side window to hand the driver a wad of notes. His hand is still in Jamie’s, the material of the bag strap between them, but he doesn’t let go.
He waits for the driver to exit the street and leads Jamie up to the house. He’s only ever been here once before, for a party after they’d beaten Arsenal and Roy was in a particular chipper mood – well, chipper for him – after scoring two of the goals.
But. It was obvious that he hadn’t wanted Jamie there, so he’d stuck to a corner in the kitchen, cradled a bottle of beer all night, and kept his head down against the glares that Roy kept sending his way.
Overstaying his welcome. He learnt it from the best.
Now, though.
Now, Roy unlocks the door and stands to the side, tilting his head in invitation. Jamie doesn’t let go of his hand as he steps over the threshold, however awkward it might be.
“You want a beer?” Roy asks, then winces when he sees the look on Jamie’s face. “Fuck. Fuck, sorry. I’ll get us both water.”
Jamie knows the meaning behind it. He’s touched.
Roy’s only gone for a few seconds and then he’s back, clutching two bottles of water so hard Jamie’s afraid they might burst. He sets them down on the table and his gaze follows a drop of condensation sliding down the plastic.
“What can I do?” Roy asks softly, sitting on the edge of the sofa and leaning forward. He’s so intense, determined. The same Roy Kent that had the world at his feet, that was on Jamie’s bedroom wall. “To help, I mean.”
He didn’t need to clarify. His helpfulness has been buzzing off his skin since he strode across the dressing room.
“Dunno,” Jamie says. He doesn’t have a clue. He’s just – numb.
Roy is silent for a few moments. Jamie doesn’t try and fill it.
“I’ll run you a bath,” the older man says suddenly, jumping to his feet. “Yeah, a bath. Fuck. A bath will do you some good.”
Jamie nods, and barely notices when Roy leaves the room.
“Come on, then,” Roy says, appearing suddenly and offering a hand again. Jamie didn’t realise he’d been gone that long. “Let’s get you in the bath, yeah?”
Jamie stumbles up the stairs and into Roy’s bathroom, looking around at all the bottles on the shelves.
Roy’s aftershave, the one that Jamie knows so well. The one that smells like wood and spice and something that makes Jamie’s belly curl with warmth.
Phoebe’s bubblegum pink bubble bath, swirling with glitter in the light.
Shower gel that’s in a sleek black bottle, so obviously Roy’s.
Roy’s shampoo and conditioner, with a hint of coconut. Beard oil, next to the mirror, alongside a little soft brush.
That one makes the corners of his mouth quirk up into a smile.
Then realisation sets in, hits heavy in his stomach.
This is Roy’s home, but it’s a family home. He doesn’t belong here. He’s ruining it. He’s forced his way in, out of pity and shame, and he doesn’t belong.
“Oi,” Roy says gruffly, shaking his fingers off after checking the temperature of the water and stepping in front of Jamie. “What’s that look for?”
“What look?” Jamie asks. He’s not trying to play dumb on purpose –– it’s just that his brain feels fuzzy around the edges, dazed from the adrenaline.
“That fucking look,” Roy growls. He reaches up and touches Jamie’s cheek gently, with his thumb, then snatches his hand back like he’s been burned. “Like you – like you want to fucking bolt.”
Oh.
That look.
“I –– I should go,” he manages to choke out, not looking at Phoebe’s glittery bubble bath. “I’ve kept you long enough.”
“What?” Roy asks. He looks confused in a way Jamie’s never seen him before.
“I’m intruding,” Jamie says gently, the same tone that he used to use to explain to his cousins why his dad was passed out snoring in the corner before Christmas dinner had even been served.
“No you’re fucking not,” Roy says instantly, circling his fingers around Jamie’s wrist so hard it hurts. “How can you be fucking intruding? I fucking invited you.”
Jamie’s head swims with all the f-bombs in that sentence. You’d think he’d be used to it by now.
“Coach,” Jamie says desperately, looking around at all of the items on the shelves. “Look at this place. You have a family, one that I don’t belong in. You have your sister and Phoebe and–– and Keeley. I don't have a place here.”
He thinks Roy might flinch when he says Keeley’s name, but it’s well guarded.
“Then I’ll fucking make a place,” Roy says firmly. He lets go of Jamie and reaches behind the shower screen, shoves his bottles to the side so there’s space. “Here. You can bring over some of that fancy fucking shower gel you use or your women’s conditioner or–– or whatever the fuck you want. This is your place now.”
Jamie looks at the ten centimetres of space Roy has left him.
That’s his place. An invitation.
He looks back at Roy, and can’t stop the tears from welling in his eyes.
“Your bath is going to get cold,” Roy says pointedly, but he does reach up and brush away the stray tear that makes its way down Jamie’s cheek.
He takes a step closer and tugs on the hem of Jamie’s jersey, grunting a noise that probably means thanks when Jamie lifts his arms. He kneels and moves down to Jamie’s socks, rolling them carefully down his calves. Jamie lifts his feet and Roy’s fingers curl round his ankles, keeping him steady. He throws the socks into the wash basket, along with his own dirty laundry.
Jamie wonders if it’s a metaphor.
“You good?” Roy asks softly, staying on his knees but thumbing at the hem of Jamie’s shorts. It’s permission. He’s asking for permission.
Jamie nods, just once, and Roy curls his fingers in the waistbands of his shorts. He shimmies them down Jamie’s thighs along with his boxers and then sits back on his heels, looking up at Jamie carefully.
If this was any other day, the sight of Roy on his knees would be making all his blood rush south.
Instead, he’s thinking about how Roy’s knee must be feeling.
“You need help getting in the bath?” Roy asks, taking Jamie’s hand and using it to stumble to his feet, no matter how much he tries to hide it. He winces when he straightens his knee, and Jamie’s got a whole litany of apologies ready to fall out of his mouth.
“I’m fine,” Jamie says. He can’t make his muscles move though, and Roy instantly puts his free hand on Jamie’s bare hip, guiding him through the three steps towards the bath. He’s so kind, so encouraging, and Jamie steps into the tub with only the hint of a wobble in his joints.
He sinks into the water, letting the heat seep into his muscles. He’s exhausted, suddenly, in a way that he wasn’t before. This is bone tired, can’t move, pure fatigue. Before, it was just numbness.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Roy asks quietly. He’s dropped himself to the floor, back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of him. Jamie looks at the long, harsh lines of him, and wonders how they softened so easily.
“Not really,” Jamie says, hates how honest it comes out.
“Alright,” Roy says gruffly. There’s a long silence. “I’m no good at small talk.”
“I don’t need it,” Jamie says, not dragging his gaze away from Roy’s face. “Knowing you’re here is enough.”
Roy smiles. Well, as close as he gets to it.
Jamie tilts his head back against the edge of the large tub and closes his eyes. He feels peace that he hasn’t felt in hours, days, probably months. Just from Roy fucking Kent sitting across the room.
“You’re gonna get cold,” Roy says. His voice is suddenly so close, kneeling right next to the tub, and he picks up the loofah and the black bottle of shower gel. “Your dick will be all shriveled and sad, and I know how you feel about your dick.”
Jamie can’t help but huff out a laugh, mostly out of surprise. “You ever realised how much you talk about dicks, Coach?” he asks, opening his eyes and dragging himself into a sitting position.
Roy is quiet for a minute, busying himself squirting shower gel onto the loofah and lathering it up. The scent of it fills the bathroom, so comforting.
“You can call me Roy,” he says gruffly, like it’s hard to get the words out. “I’d prefer it if you called me Roy.”
Oh.
That’s like a punch to the chest –– but warm, spreading across the cage of his ribs, coating his lungs.
“Okay, Roy,” Jamie whispers. He doesn’t flinch away when the loofah touches his skin, Roy washing his shoulders gently. He lets it happen, watching the older man’s face intently as he frowns like he wants to get this right.
He takes Jamie’s wet hand in his own and glides the loofah under his arm, down his side, and then lower, over his thighs. Respectful around his dick, gentle on his feet. Washes every inch of Jamie’s skin like he’s worshipping something special, even abandons the loofah to wet Jamie’s face with his thumbs, careful not to get any water in his eyes. His face wash smells like lavender –– Keeley’s influence, no doubt –– and he massages tiny little circles there.
“You good?” He asks again, sitting back when he’s done. Jamie feels clean but on the inside too. He thinks this might be the feeling Keeley used to talk about after she’d been to her weekly therapy sessions.
Jamie nods, and Roy offers both of his hands to help him to his feet.
He lets go only to start draining the tub and then grabs a towel – black, obviously. Holds it by the corners and waits for Jamie to step out, wrapping it around him like a whisper of the hug he had earlier.
Jamie sinks into it, ridiculously fucking soft and warm. Stands there for a minute, surrounded by Roy’s towels and Roy’s scent and Roy’s body heat.
This is what has been missing from his life.
“Come on, you can borrow some clothes,” Roy says, using his grip on the towel to lead Jamie into his bedroom like some lost little puppy. He pushes on Jamie’s shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed, then turns to his drawers.
Jamie watches the muscles of his back shift under his t-shirt and wants to put his mouth there. It’s not a new feeling.
“Here,” Roy grunts, thrusting the clothes at him. Black t-shirt, grey joggers, a pair of boxers on top.
“Dress me?” Jamie asks quietly. It’s the exhaustion but it’s also just something that he likes, being looked after. He’d only told Keeley, but even she doesn’t know the half of it.
“Yeah,” Roy says, tilting his head. “Okay.”
He uses the corner of the towel to wipe away a few stray drops of water that have stayed on Jamie’s skin, then pulls it away entirely. Jamie doesn’t feel exposed.
The way Roy dresses him is careful, calculated. Lifts his feet to put his legs in the boxers then helps him lift, for a second, to pull them over his hips. Does the same with the joggers, and then gently manhandles him into the t-shirt, smoothing a hand down Jamie’s chest when he’s done.
“Feel better?” He asks, joints popping as he stands.
“Yeah,” Jamie says. The truth. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Roy says simply, like he means it.
Roy turns back to the drawers to get his own clothes out and changes, not caring one bit that Jamie’s eyes are trailing over every inch of bared skin when it appears. He looks even softer afterwards, socked feet curling into the thick carpet, and he looks at Jamie.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, glancing back towards the stairs.
“I’d rather just go to bed,” Jamie admits. He is hungry but he feels like if he eats then he’ll just be sick, and that bone deep exhaustion hasn’t shifted from his bath. “Is the spare room made up?”
Roy growls under his breath, fingers flexing into fists at his sides.
“You can sleep in here,” he mutters. Jamie watches in awe, he’s never seen someone who struggles so much to express their feelings before. “I want you to sleep in here. If you want to, I mean.”
“Yeah, alright,” Jamie says, tilting his head. “Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”
“Left,” Roy says, and that’s all Jamie needs to be getting up and going round to the other side.
He hesitates, though. Waits for Roy to slide under the covers and turn the right corner down, patting the mattress expectantly, and that’s all he needs to finally join him.
“I’m sorry you’ve had such a shitty day,” Roy says quietly, eyes glinting in the darkness. He leaves his hand stretched out between them, palm up – an invitation.
Jamie gladly takes it.
“Hasn’t been all bad,” he mumbles. This is pretty much perfect.
“Try and get some sleep, yeah?” Roy whispers into the night, rubbing his thumb over the bumps on Jamie’s knuckles. “You need to recover.”
Jamie closes his eyes, but the image of Roy across the mattress is burnt into his eyelids.
Sleep has never come so easy.