Chapter Text
All in all, Uncle’s Day isn’t actually too bad of a holiday. Roy typically has to wear a stupid hat, eat colourful food, open a gift, and watch a performance of some kind. He thinks it’s an interpretive dance this year, which is fucking fine by him. Anything is better than the excruciating puppet show from two years prior. Roy still sees it in his dreams.
Anyway, the whole thing is way over the top, but it makes Phoebe happy, which makes his sister happy, which makes Roy doubly happy, despite what his grouchy exterior would suggest. Everyone wins, except Roy’s fucking dignity.
This year doesn’t appear to be any different. He doesn’t think twice about the doorbell ringing, or how eager Phoebe is to answer it. She’s friendly. She likes talking to strangers. She’s an old soul. Roy tells his sister as much, and they smile about it together. He can soldier through the next two hours of this celebration, easy. But then-
“Is that your Range Rover outside as well?”
Roy’s head whips around at the sound of the familiar voice.
“No, it’s my mum’s!” Phoebe explains patiently. She’s dragging the owner of the voice inside by their hand.
It’s Jamie fucking Tartt.
“Oh, right, alright,” he says, then spots Roy’s sister and gives her a friendly nod. “Hey, how you doin’, you alright?”
She gives him a little wave and nods back, like they know each other. Like her and Jamie fucking Tartt have exchanged similar pleasantries before. Roy’s blood runs cold. Phoebe is talking to Jamie too, gesturing to where he should sit, but all Roy can hear is a faint ringing in his ears as all the numerous horrors of this situation rain down upon him like an unexpected thunderstorm.
“Hello, Uncle Roy.”
Jamie fucking Tartt is sitting next to him, smiling.
Roy refuses to engage. He doesn’t greet Jamie back. In fact, he keeps his entire body facing forward, in the hopes that if he simply pretends that Jamie’s not there, he’ll disappear back into the void where he came from.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Roy asks, simmering with rage, and a fast-approaching, overwhelming sense of dread.
“I had to invite your boyfriend,” Phoebe says, like it’s the most obvious fucking thing in the world.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Roy snaps, all his worst fears about this interaction immediately coming true.
“He isn’t my boyfriend,” Jamie scoffs at the exact same time.
Roy hears his sister let out an extremely loud snort. She’s smiling behind a hand covering her mouth, her patented Kent eyebrows raised as she looks at him. She makes no move to correct her daughter. Roy considers fratricide.
Phoebe ignores her mother, choosing instead to look between Roy and Jamie thoughtfully.
“Well,” she starts, her head tilting to the side, “you talk about him a lot.”
He can see Jamie turning towards him out of the corner of his eye. He’s probably grinning, the smug little prick. Roy cannot believe Phoebe’s complete and utter betrayal. He hopes she can see every ounce of disappointment in his expression as he attempts to burn holes into her forehead with his mind.
“And you spend every day together,” she adds, not affected by Roy’s eye lasers in the slightest.
His sister is eating a cookie, enjoying the show.
“Well, he’s not,” Roy says slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable.
Clearly not getting the answer she’s looking for, Phoebe shrugs and sets her sights on Jamie instead.
“So, who are you dating, Jamie?” she asks cheerfully.
“Ah, no one at the moment,” Jamie says lightly. He places a hand over his heart. “I’m workin’ on meself.”
“Fuck off,” Roy says automatically. He must have broken his non-acknowledgment rule at some point, because he’s staring at Jamie in disbelief.
“That’s a pound, Uncle Roy,” Phoebe pipes up.
“Bill me,” Roy says, not taking his eyes off the bastard sitting next to him.
“It’s true,” Jamie says, his face scrunching up into the most patronizing expression of all time. “You should try it sometime, mate.”
Phoebe furrows her eyebrows and nods seriously. “Mum says you should always put yourself first.”
“She sounds like a smart lady,” Jamie says. “You should listen to her.”
Roy’s sister and Jamie exchange A Look. This is the worst day of Roy’s life.
“Okay, now open Jamie’s gift,” Phoebe says, the excitement in her voice obvious.
“Ah, it’s- it’s stupid,” Jamie stammers out. He’s now the one refusing to make eye contact. “It’s dumb. I dunno. Here.”
He hands the gift over to Roy with a self-deprecating little noise that Roy didn’t even know Jamie was capable of making. All of his cockiness seems to have completely disappeared. Roy examines the present, curious how such a small thing could alter fundamental aspects of Jamie’s personality so thoroughly in a matter of seconds. It’s wrapped nicely, in a pure black box with a matching ribbon tied in a little bow on the top. It could never have been mistaken for a gift for anyone other than Roy Kent.
He opens the box, revealing a neatly folded shirt inside.
“It’s your original England kit from the twenty-fourteen World Cup,” Jamie rushes to explain.
Roy stares at him. His sister's cookie munching abruptly stops. Jamie’s examining the tablecloth like it holds all the secrets of the universe. He briefly glances over at Roy and gestures to the kit.
“Your name’s on the back there,” he says, cutting himself off with a mumble like he wanted to say more but second guessed it.
Roy dutifully unfolds it to take a look.
“Uh, I got ‘em to change the E to a U,” Jamie says.
He gives Roy a small, hesitant smile. Roy gawks at him, completely lost for words. He swallows thickly, his eyebrows coming together of their own accord. Jamie’s smile slowly falls away the longer they continue this bizarre staring contest, his eyes getting wide like he might burst into tears. Shit. Jamie’s only cried in front of Roy once, at Wembley, and they never spoke about it again afterwards. Roy prefers it that way. It can’t happen again. Certainly not here.
Roy forces himself to nod. “I love it,” he says, his voice cracking.
Jamie smiles bashfully, looking back down at the table and fiddling with a piece of candy before popping it in his mouth.
What the fuck.
His sister, who is now eating a comically large slice of cake, smiles at him knowingly over a frosting-covered fork.
He doesn’t know what the fuck she’s getting at.
“Thank you for indulging her,” she tells him later, over the phone.
“Don’t mention it.”
“Can you thank Jamie, too, when you see him?”
Roy grunts.
“Was that an I’ll tell him grunt or a fuck off grunt?”
“I’ll tell him,” Roy says.
“Okay, great,” she says. “Y’know, it’s so nice to see you dipping your toe back in the dating pool-”
“Fuck off,” Roy says, and he hangs up to the sound of her laughter.
It’s 3:58am the next day, and Roy’s standing outside Jamie’s door. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, testing out his bad knee. It hasn’t given him any trouble recently, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Keeley used to always remind him- well, force him, really- to take it easy every once and a while. He tries to follow her advice, even now. Especially now. It’s a way to honour her or some shit.
Jesus. It was just a break up. She’s not fucking dead.
At four on the dot, Jamie opens the door.
“Alright, coach?” he asks cheerfully. He hands Roy a travel mug.
“The fuck is this?” Roy demands, holding the cup as far away from his body as he can.
“It’s coffee, dickhead.”
Roy blinks. He brings the mug closer and sniffs it cautiously. “You can’t drink coffee. Dietary restrictions.”
“Well, I didn’t make it for me, did I?”
Jamie is watching him expectantly. Roy sighs, lifting the cup in acknowledgement and taking a sip.
The coffee is incredibly bitter, and so hot that it nearly burns off half of Roy’s taste buds.
It’s perfect.
Roy gives Jamie a single, curt nod.
Jamie smiles, pleased. He starts bouncing on his heels.
“Usual route, then?” he asks.
“Fucking right.”
And he’s off.
Roy follows him from a distance, drinking his coffee and enjoying the stillness of the early morning. He’s always been a morning person, even when he was young. This time of day, there’s no obligations, and no one to bother him. It’s peaceful.
Usually.
Roy catches up to Jamie at the halfway point. He’s already started his stretches, his hands linked behind his back.
“There you are,” Jamie says. “You’re slower than me granddad.”
“Real fucking clever, Tartt,” Roy deadpans. He tips his cup at him. “Can’t drink this and run at the same time, can I?”
“Alright, fair play,” Jamie amends.
He falls gracefully into the grass, starting the deeper leg stretches. Jesus, the kid is limber. Roy would kill to be able to move like that again.
“Did you actually love it?” Jamie asks from the ground.
Roy grunts. There’s a question mark attached to the end of it.
“The gift. My gift, I mean,” Jamie clarifies. He shifts into a different position. “Or were you just bein’ nice?”
It's the stupidest shit Roy’s ever heard.
“Did you really just fucking ask me if I went out of my way?” Roy asks. “To be fucking nice? To you?”
“Well, you lied to Phoebs, didn’t ya?”
Jamie is squinting at him like he just caught Roy in some sort of egregious act of dishonesty. Roy wonders when Jamie and Phoebe had gotten close enough to start using nicknames. He blows a puff of air out of his nose, not dissimilar to an angry bull.
“She’s nine,” he says.
“So?” Jamie asks.
From anyone else, Roy would assume that it was a bad joke. But Jamie’s eyebrows are drawn together and his mouth is slightly agape - both signs of genuine Tartt confusion.
Roy rolls his eyes so hard that he nearly sees stars.
“I’m not going to tell my niece, who’s fucking obsessed with me, that I don’t like her abomination of a shirt, because I’m not a fucking monster,” he grits out.
“Ah,” Jamie says.
“Get up,” Roy orders, officially tired of this conversation. “We’re running late.”
“Sure thing, coach,” Jamie replies, and he springs back up easily.
Roy downs the rest of his coffee in two giant gulps and takes off in a brisk jog.
Jamie catches up to him pretty much immediately, jogging right by his side. He doesn’t surpass Roy- even though he definitely can- instead choosing to match him step for step. Normally Roy would push him to go faster, but he lets it slide. He’s not sure why. It’s the coffee, probably. It made his insides all gooey. Maybe it was poisoned.
“Thanks for coming to Phoebe’s party, by the way,” Roy says, before the poison wears off. “She had a great time. Won’t shut up about you now.”
Jamie does surpass Roy, then, but only so he can jog backwards in front of him. Fucking show-off.
“Tell her it was my pleasure,” Jamie replies. “But it wasn’t her party, mate. It was yours.”
Jamie raises his eyebrows and grins before turning back around and picking up his pace.
He’s quieter than usual, after that. Roy would usually enjoy the absence of clever quips- or, much more likely, stupid comments- but right now it’s distracting, because it goes against everything Roy knows about Jamie fucking Tartt, which is unfortunately quite a lot at this point. As a general rule, Jamie doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up. It’s what always gets him into so much fucking trouble, and Roy would know, because he’s been dragged down with him on many occassions.
But right now, Jamie is just jogging. Happily. Smiling at the ground and smiling at the sky and smiling at the trees. It’s fucking unnerving. Along with his strangely heartfelt gift yesterday, Roy is starting to wonder if he really knows Jamie at all. The Jamie that lives in his head doesn’t celebrate made up holidays with children or enjoy waking up at the arsecrack of dawn to run around a park until he pukes.
Jamie’s still fucking smiling when they reach Nelson Road.
“What are you so fucking happy about?” Roy asks, once he catches his breath.
Jamie shrugs. He doesn’t appear to be winded in the slightest. His hands are stuffed in the front of his shirt, and he’s leaning back towards the sky, absorbing the rising sun’s rays like a plant.
“It’s just nice, innit?” he says.
“What is?”
“Dunno. Life.”
“Life?” Roy asks incredulously.
“Sorry, forgot life’s not goin’ so good for you at the moment,” Jamie says.
Fucking hell. If Jamie tries to comfort him about Keeley again, Roy doesn’t know what he’ll do.
“Past your prime and all,” Jamie continues. “How old are you, now? Eighty?”
“Fuck you,” Roy says, and he’s so relieved that he nearly cracks a smile. He stops it in the nick of time. That was a close one.
“But my life,” Jamie is saying, “is fuckin’ great. Me and the lads are killin’ it on the pitch, I’m in amazin’ shape, especially compared to you-”
“Shut it-”
“And I’m the fittest I’ve ever been, which is fuckin’ sayin’ something. You should’ve started training me sooner. It’s doin’ wonders for me body.”
Jamie grins, his tongue peeking out between his teeth.
It’s clearly bait. Roy doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a proper reply. He just growls.
It makes Jamie laugh, which is not the intended effect. His growls are clearly losing their effectiveness. Maybe he should switch over to snarls.
He knows what Jamie means, though. He remembers being twenty-five and feeling fucking invincible, like he was on the top of the fucking world and nothing could ever take him down. That’s what made his own body betraying him as he got older so fucking traumatizing.
Jamie doesn’t have to worry about that right now, though. He just has to worry about being the best.
“You were my hero growing up, you know that?” Jamie says suddenly. He’s looking off into the distance, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. Framed by the morning light, he’s practically glowing.
Yeah. Roy knows.
“When did you and Jamie first start to grow close?”
Trent Crimm is sitting at his desk, looking at Roy over his mug. Roy dumps his stuff onto his own desk.
“The fuck?”
“So I can get the timeline right,” Trent says, tapping his notebook.
“We’re not fucking close.”
“Hm,” Trent says. He opens the notebook and starts writing.
Roy wanders over, trying to take a peek at what Trent is scribbling down. His handwriting is nearly impossible to read. Roy thinks he might see the word ‘reluctant’, next to what could possibly be ‘friendship’, or, more horrifyingly, ‘relationship’.
“You include any of that shit in your book, I’ll fucking kill you.”
Trent closes the notebook with a snap and sighs. “I only ask because you arrive together every morning.”
“Yeah, because I’m fucking training him.”
“Hm,” Trent says again. He opens the book.
Roy growls.
Trent closes it, holding his hands up in surrender. “You’ll kill me. Got it.”
Roy marches over to his own desk and sits down without another word. Trent continues to sip his coffee, looking at Roy with raised eyebrows.
Roy knows what the fuck he’s getting at, and he doesn’t like it one fucking bit.
“Uncle Roy, do you know when Jamie can come visit again?”
It’s later in the evening, and Roy is on his sister’s couch, holding out his hands as Phoebe carefully paints his nails black. He’ll wear the fucking clown shirt, but he draws the line at brightly coloured nails.
“Don’t know,” Roy says. “He’s very busy.”
“Well, I hope it’s soon,” Phoebe says. “I didn’t even get to give him the full tour. He only saw three of my favourite toys.”
“I'm sure he loved that,” Roy says.
Phoebe beams at him.
It was a joke, but Roy wouldn’t be surprised if Jamie actually did love it. He’s very good with children, probably because he still acts like a fucking child himself. Roy’s seen him effortlessly handle huge crowds of fans, signing football after football, making each and every kid feel like they’re the most important person in the entire fucking world. It’s a skill that Roy lacks. Kids either think he’s fucking hilarious, or they’re terrified of him, and he can never tell which one it’s going to be until they’re already giggling or sobbing in front of him and he’s forced to make awkward small talk with their sheepish parents.
“Phoebe, can I ask you something?”
“What is it?”
“What you said about me and Jamie yesterday,” Roy says. “Why did you think that?”
“I told you already,” Phoebe says. “You talk about him all the time.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re talking about him right now.”
“This doesn’t count.”
Phoebe looks up from her work to make a face at him.
“Okay. Fine,” Roy says. “I talk about him because I’m his coach. We work together.”
“You work with Sam, too. And I don’t know his favorite breakfast food.”
“I’m giving Jamie special training,” Roy says, desperate for Phoebe to understand. “We spend more time together because of it.”
“Okay, this hand is done!” Phoebe announces, holding it up so Roy can look.
“Are you listening to me?” Roy asks.
Phoebe groans. “It’s just that Jamie didn’t talk about you like you’re just his coach.”
Well, that’s fucking ominous.
“He talked to you about me?” Roy asks.
“When me and mum rang to invite him to Uncle’s Day,” Phoebe explains. She then fails to elaborate.
“Well, what the fuck did he say?” Roy prompts.
“That’s another pound.”
“I’ll stop by the bank later,” Roy says. “Phoebe, what did he say?”
Phoebe mimics zipping her mouth shut.
“Oi.”
“I’m sorry, Uncle Roy. It was a secret phone call.”
“Tell me,” he demands, leaning forward and growling for emphasis.
Phoebe shakes her head, unbothered. “You’re the one who told me that snitches get stitches.”
Roy doesn’t manage to get a single word about it out of her for the rest of the night, despite his various alternating threats and bribes. If it weren’t so fucking annoying, Roy would be incredibly proud of her. Honestly, he’s proud of her anyway. He’s trained her well.
Okay, so Roy talks about Jamie. Fine. He knows the true reasons why, even if Phoebe refuses to acknowledge them. She’s a child. She doesn’t understand that you can work with someone, even be friendly with them, without being friends- or fucking boyfriends, for that matter. He and Beard have had many a pleasant monosyllabic conversation, but Roy is under no illusions that they’re anything other than work acquaintances. Even Ted’s many attempts to get closer to him have failed, because Roy has very firm boundaries.
Boyfriends. Fucking ridiculous. Despite what Phoebe and her mum and fucking Trent Crimm seem to think, Roy can honestly still barely stand that little prick most days. And Roy’s clearly not adept at being a fucking boyfriend anyway, if his last relationship is anything to go by. He’s better off alone.
He drives home in a huff, and doesn’t think about Keeley.
Or Jamie.
Or dating either of them.
Roy doesn’t sleep well that night. He tosses and turns and gets tangled in his blanket and curses and thinks about how much he misses the weight of Keeley snuggled up next to him. Which is fucking rich, considering he’s the one who broke it off in the first place. Roy made his bed. Now he has to lie in it.
Literally and metaphorically.
Unsurprisingly, he wakes up the next day in a bad fucking mood. The whole ordeal has really gotten under his skin. He hated when everyone pitied him after Keeley, but finds that he hates people assuming that he’s moved on from Keeley even more. The fact that it’s Jamie fucking Tartt he’s apparently moved on to in their minds makes it infinitely fucking worse.
Roy manages to get through their one-on-one training without uttering a single word, which Jamie takes in stride, talking enough for the both of them. His constant good mood is really starting to piss Roy off. Why does this fucking bastard get to be on cloud nine while Roy has to shoulder the fucking torment of constantly defining their relationship to their nosy peers?
Roy’s mood only worsens once they get to Nelson Road and start training in earnest. He neglects his coaching duties, spending most of his time glaring at Jamie instead, but Jamie’s blissfully fucking unaware, too busy actually focusing on his technique and practicing new plays with the other lads. They all get along great these days, which is terrific fucking news for their chances to win the whole fucking league, and horrible fucking news for Roy, who’s waiting for an excuse to single Jamie out and yell at him until he feels better.
Jamie doesn’t give him a chance, so Roy has to wait until training is over to finally let loose the temper that’s been steadily building for hours. He stomps into the locker room where everyone is decompressing and lightheartedly chatting. They clearly have not gotten the memo about Roy’s current emotional state.
“Oi! Tartt!” Roy shouts.
Everyone quiets immediately, either averting their gaze to the ground or looking at Jamie sympathetically. Jamie is facing away from the door and has to turn to look at Roy over his shoulder, his mouth open in surprise. Sam is standing next to him, actively cringing.
“We need to talk,” Roy says.
“Alright?” Jamie says, turning around to face him. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist-”
“Now!”
Roy turns around without another word, marching down the hall to the first empty room he can find, which happens to be the boot room. He hears Jamie obediently scurry up behind him with a sigh.
“You need to tell me what the fuck you said to Phoebe,” Roy demands as soon as Jamie closes the door.
Jamie scoffs. “Losing your memory already, mate? You were there.”
“No, before that. Over the phone.”
Jamie blinks. “It was a private conversation, that.”
“Well, I’ve got fucking news for you,” Roy says, aggressively jabbing his finger into Jamie’s chest. “You don’t get the privilege of privacy when it involves my fucking family.”
“Jesus, man,” Jamie says, hitting Roy’s hand away. “What does it fuckin’ matter?”
“It matters, because whatever you told Phoebe gave her the impression that we’re fucking- seeing each other or some shit.”
“That’s what you’re on about?”
“I’m not in the fucking mood for your shit today, Tartt-”
“You’re so fuckin’ full of it, aren’t ya?” Jamie says, and it temporarily shocks Roy into silence. “I mean, come on. Would it really be so bad if we were?”
“If we were what?” Roy asks, dreading the answer.
“Seein’ each other,” Jamie confirms.
Roy gapes at him.
“Bein’ a thousand years old isn’t an excuse to be a homophobe, man.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Roy manages. “You know I don’t have a fucking problem with that.”
“So you’ve just got a problem with me?”
“Yeah,” Roy says. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Jamie barks out a laugh, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in disbelief. “What did I even fuckin’ do?”
“I- don’t fucking know,” Roy says honestly.
Besides misleading Phoebe, Jamie hasn’t done anything even remotely prickish in weeks. Roy’s on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the inevitable moment when Jamie does something unforgivable and Roy can wash his hands of him forever.
“Okay, you know what?” Jamie says, and he steps closer into Roy’s space, so that they’re practically nose to nose. “Fine. You really want to know?”
He continues before Roy has the chance to answer.
“When they called me up? I told ‘em that I’d love to come and celebrate. That I was really fuckin’ grateful for all the extra help you was givin’ me, and I wanted to show my- proper appreciation or summat.”
Shit. That other fucking shoe is never going to drop, is it?
“You happy now, you old fart?” Jamie asks, shoving Roy’s shoulders with both hands. Roy stumbles. “I really thought we were gettin’ somewhere. Like- real, proper mates. But you clearly still hate me guts, so-”
It’s not true. Roy realizes it in a flash. He wants to hate Jamie, but he doesn’t. He hates Jamie for making Roy not hate him. The fucking bastard.
“I don’t… hate you,” Roy grits out.
“Really? Sure seems like it, mate,” Jamie says. He cocks his head to the side. “Why else would Phoebe thinkin’ that about us bother you so much?”
Roy feels like everyone in the world has gone fucking mental except for him. Why is he the only one who can see how fucking absurd this is?
“Because it’s not fucking true,” Roy says.
“Well, it fuckin’ could be, if you weren’t bein’ such a pissy little baby about it.”
Roy stays silent as his brain reboots. Then: “Excuse me?”
“Admit it, Roy,” Jamie says. “You like me.”
“No, I fucking don’t,” Roy snaps.
“Oh, yes, you fuckin’ do,” Jamie says.
Roy growls. “Tartt-”
Jamie pats Roy’s shoulder. “Hey, look, it’s fine, man. You’re not special. Everyone wants a piece of me, yeah?”
Roy fists his hands into the front of Jamie’s shirt, lifting him just a tiny bit so he’s at eye level.
“Are you fucking sure about that?” Roy asks roughly.
“Pretty fuckin’ sure, yeah,” Jamie says. He smiles lazily, his gaze slowly traveling up Roy’s face.
It makes Roy furious. Everyone around him seems to think that they fucking understand Roy better than he understands himself, and he’s so fucking sick of their meaningful glances and their sneers and their fucking insinuations. Like they know something Roy doesn’t. It’s driving him fucking crazy, and he thought that out of everyone, Jamie would understand, be just as taken aback as he is. But no- he’s the fucking worst of them all, grinning so widely with his stupid fucking tongue poking out of his perfect fucking mouth that’s currently inches way from Roy’s own, and Roy needs to do something to wipe that smug fucking look off his face, immediately.
He wants to headbutt him.
He wants to break his nose.
He wants to-
Roy doesn’t realize what he’s about to do until his mouth is already firmly pressed against Jamie’s, and even then he can’t really fathom it. But it’s fucking happening, and Roy is maneuvering Jamie backwards until he’s pressing him against the closest wall, his hands still firmly gripping the front of Jamie’s shirt, their lips never parting. Jamie is holding on for dear life, his own hands clinging onto Roy’s shoulders. Roy can feel the collar of his shirt digging into the back of his neck as Jamie tries to pull him in even closer. It’s fucking hot.
Roy isn’t sure which one of them opens their mouth first, but it doesn’t matter, because now their tongues are pressing against each other and Jamie tastes like spearmint and smells like his fucking abhorrent leather and cookies body spray, and Roy is horrified to realize that he doesn’t fucking hate it. The opposite, actually. If he develops a horny Pavlovian response to this objectively repulsive scent he’s gonna be pissed.
Their noses knock together as Jamie comes in from a different angle, and he’s wasting no time before he’s licking into Roy’s mouth again, Roy fighting to keep up with the insane pace Jamie is setting. He lets out a grunt without meaning to, biting down hard on Jamie’s ridiculously sexy bottom lip to keep him in place, and the bastard gasps in response, slotting his leg in between Roy’s, and-
Roy pulls back, shoving Jamie back into the wall as he retreats a few steps. Jamie stays put, leaning against the wall and panting, staring at Roy with stars in his eyes.
“Fuuuuuuuuck,” Roy says.
Jamie raises a hand to his mouth and- almost reverently- touches the tip of his finger to a slightly swollen red spot on his lip. He laughs.
“I fuckin’ knew you’d be an angry kisser,” he says.
Roy’s head is spinning. He can’t catch his breath. Their ragged breathing sounds abnormally loud in the small room. For a few seconds they just look at each other.
“The fuck was that?” Roy finally asks.
“You tell me, man. You started it,” Jamie says, delighted. “You know you just satisfied, like, a dozen of me teenage fantasies?”
“Fuck!” Roy says again, more forcefully this time.
He starts to pace, his fists clenched at his sides. Jamie is completely nonplussed by this, remaining where Roy left him and grinning into the middle distance, shaking his head every so often like he can’t believe this happened. Roy can’t believe this happened, either, but for presumably different reasons.
“Didn’t think I’d like the beard,” Jamie says, mostly to himself. “Scratchy, yeah? But it turns out I’m really fuckin’ into it-”
“Why the fuck aren’t you freaking out about this?” Roy interrupts.
“What’s there to freak out about?” Jamie replies, his face scrunching up in confusion, and he’s so goddamn sincere that Roy wants to punch him. Or kiss him again. The two urges feel very similar, and he doesn’t know how to distinguish between them yet.
“Are you fucking joking?”
“No?” Jamie says, and he somehow manages to appear even more baffled than before. His eyes suddenly widen. “Oh, unless- was that your first time kissin’ a bloke?”
Jamie has stopped prodding his lip with his fingers and has moved on to prodding it with his tongue instead. Roy has to rip his eyes away. Oh, he’s fucked.
“It’s not for you?” Roy asks weakly.
“Fuck no. I’m not gonna rob half the world the opportunity to be with me,” Jamie says. He shoves his hands into the front of his shirt and shrugs. “That’d be mad selfish.”
Of fucking course.
“It’s really not that big of a deal,” someone says.
Roy and Jamie lock eyes in a moment of panic before turning towards the source.
Will is tucked into the far corner of the room, behind a cubby full of dirty trainers. He’s holding up a shirt in front of his face, his eyes peeking out over the top. He slowly lowers it as they stare at him.
“I kissed a lad for the first time in Amsterdam,” he says. “It was very nice.”
“Good lad,” Jamie says, pointing to Will. “Listen to William. Wise beyond his years, that one.”
Will smiles brightly.
Roy can’t be here anymore.
“No one breathes a fucking word about this,” he says, pointing to each of them sternly.
Jamie rolls his eyes. “Roy-”
Roy slams the door behind him.
Jamie has his international match in three days, so Roy purposely avoids him for seventy-two full hours, turning off his recurring 3:30am alarm and ignoring Jamie’s numerous confused texts.
23:02: we still on for training tmrw?
23:03: u can come inside if u want. there’ll be more coffee in it for u
04:03: ??????
04:36: ok fuck u then
Ted and Beard definitely notice this change, so Roy avoids them too, or at least as well as he can. He spends most of his time locked in his office, which Trent has been temporarily banished from. He ignores yet another text, this time from Ted.
14:53: Hope nothing serious has gotten between you and Jamie. Y’all make one heck of a team!
Roy considers throwing his phone into the fucking ocean.
He doesn’t take a full, proper breath until Jamie is gone. He needs to think about this- really fucking think about it- and he can’t do that when Jamie is hovering around, aiming his giant sad puppy dog eyes in Roy’s direction. Roy needs time. Jamie can’t be here.
Jamie also can’t be here because Roy is scared that the second they’re alone, he won’t be able to stop himself from kissing him again.
Fuck.
He finds that, all things considered, the sexuality crisis doesn’t actually bother him that much. He’s too old for that, and he’s already successfully garnered a reputation that ensures that most people are afraid to talk to him, so he doubts he’ll get any shit for it. Keeley was always open about her sexuality, and Roy admired her for that. Maybe that’s part of what drew him to her in the first place.
No, it’s not the fact that he’s attracted to men that Roy has an issue with.
The issue is that he’s attracted to Jamie fucking Tartt.
His mind completely rejects it, flat out. There’s no fucking way. It goes against every true thing Roy knows about the universe. If he’s attracted to Jamie fucking Tartt, pigs may as well start sprouting fucking wings and soaring into the sky.
However.
You can’t be a professional athlete without being especially attuned to your body. You need to be aware of every limb, every muscle, every breath, every blink. This awareness is what enables you to successfully maneuver the ball, to avoid injury, to know your limits and surpass them.
Roy knows his body.
His body is attracted to Jamie fucking Tartt.
“Fuck!” Roy shouts, to no one. Ink starts to drip down his hands. He must’ve snapped the pen he was holding in half.
“You okay in there, Roy?” Ted calls through the window.
“Fuck off!” Roy yells.
Ted doesn’t ask again.
Roy stares at the mess of ink drying unevenly on his notepad. It feels like a metaphor for something. One of those tests that hack psychologists do so they can claim they know everything wrong with your fucking brain and charge you a million fucking pounds for the privilege of being analyzed.
He squints at the pattern. It’s nothing. Just blobs. Stupid misshapen dots on a blank background. Like a dalmatian. Or a cheetah.
Fuck.
He needs to talk to Keeley.