Work Text:
"What the fuck is wrong with your face?"
Jamie frowns.
"Excuse me?"
Roy realizes that may have come out a bit harshly. He opts to rephrase and try again.
"Did your razor break or something?" He points to his upper lip. "What’s this fucking situation?"
It’s like— he hadn’t really given it any thought until just now, but Jamie is always meticulously clean-shaven. Roy is pretty sure the little twat shaves every single morning, and the slight five o’clock shadow he gets as the day goes on is hardly even worth noting. He’s never had a fucking spot of real facial hair on him.
But today, there’s a dusting of hair on his upper lip, getting slightly longer than stubble, which Roy hadn’t noticed until sitting down across from him with a kebab after an evening run.
"Oh," Jamie laughs. "Well, it’s November, innit?"
He says that like it’s supposed to explain why he looks completely fucking ridiculous.
Roy blinks at him.
"Mate," Jamie continues, exasperated. "Y’know, the moustache thing? Movember? It’s for, like, mental health."
"Whose fucking mental health?" Roy replies. "Because the thought of watching you try to grow a moustache sounds absolutely fucking terrible for mine."
Jamie rolls his eyes.
"I’m literally on day three, gimme a fucking break. It’ll fill out soon. I’m hairier than you’d expect, lad."
"Are you?"
"I mean, you’ve seen my dad." He gestures to his chin area, in reference to his shitstain of a father’s messy, long beard. "I’ve got the genes to grow a whole fucking forest, don’t I. Just the ‘stache for me right now, though."
"And this was your fucking bright idea?" Roy sighs. "What’s it got to do with mental health, anyway?"
"Do you live under a rock, Royo? C’mon, man. Movember is, like, a thing." He pulls out his phone. "Just read my Insta post. Here."
Roy’s eyes are immediately assaulted with a selfie of Jamie grinning at the camera and wearing a stupid fucking fake moustache.
@jamietartt9
Finding my inner @tedlasso!! 🥸 Happy #Movember!
I’m growing a (real) Mo this month to raise awareness for men’s mental health, in collaboration with @Movember_UK. My goal is not just to grow a great new look - I want to grow conversations, grow awareness, and grow support. Too many lads out there are struggling in silence, and too often this ends in tragedy. This month, I want to help make mental health a conversation, not a crisis.
Stay tuned for my moustache updates and some posts opening up about my own mental health journey 🧠 And please check out the Movember link in my bio to donate to a great cause!
There’s no fucking chance Jamie wrote that caption himself, considering nothing is spelled wrong— it was probably one of Keeley’s interns at KBPR— but they’ve done a decent job making it sound like him.
"That’s… nice. The mental health shit." Roy hands the device back. "Good on you."
"Cheers," Jamie grins, oddly bashful. He tucks his phone away. "It’ll be good. I think it’s, like… important to talk about it."
"It is. Definitely."
Roy can’t imagine doing the same, going online and telling millions of people about his mental health journey. He can’t help but admire the balls it takes for Jamie to not only do that, but also humiliate himself with what’s surely going to be a god awful insult to his upper lip.
"You could do the opposite," Jamie offers. "Shave the beard for the month, or summat. People would donate to that for sure."
Roy rolls his eyes.
"Not a fucking chance. Just show me how to donate to your thing, and I’ll do that."
"Boring."
"I know."
"Do you think Beard would do it? The reverse Movember?"
"His name is fucking Beard. We’d have to start calling him Chin. No way."
Jamie nearly spits out the sip he’d just taken of Diet Coke.
(There’s this unique sense of satisfaction Roy gets in his chest when he can make Jamie ugly-laugh with a dumb joke.)
"Okay, fair play," Jamie says, once he’s done sputtering. "Maybe that’s a poor idea all around. I’ll just convince the lads to grow moustaches with me."
"Christ," Roy grumbles. "A whole team of Lassos."
"I’ll start working on my accent."
"Please fucking don’t."
-
@jamietartt9
WEEK 1️⃣ UPDATE
It was a bit itchy at first, but I think I’m loving my new look 😛 Been getting loads of questions from people around me about why I look like I adopted a wee caterpillar and let it sit on my lip 🐛 but it’s made for great conversation !
This week I learned that only 25% of men feel comfortable telling their friends they love them. Through my own mental health journey I’ve realized that it can be really isolating when you feel like you have no one to talk to or like no one loves you. I think that something as simple as telling your mates you care can be important because you never know who is struggling or feeling lonely ♥️
My mission this week was to take the time to say "I love you" to my friends every day and now I challenge you lot to do the same. @Movember_UK
The post consists of a photo showing off the patchy beginnings of a moustache— admittedly, already coming in thicker than Roy expected— and a handful of videos, shot in various places around the training grounds.
/
Jamie walks up to Isaac at the water cooler, leaving the camera on a nearby counter, probably tucked out of sight somehow.
"Alright, big man?"
"Hey, Jamie. I’m good, yeah. You?"
"I’m great. Chillin’. Excited for this weekend."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I feel good about it. Don’t you?"
"I think so. We’re in good form lately."
"Well, we’ve got a great captain leading the way, don’t we."
"Fucking hell. Shut up."
"I mean it." Jamie pauses, goes a little softer. "I love you, mate. You know that, yeah?"
Isaac blinks. He goes a little pink in the cheeks.
He says nothing.
"Too cool to say it back?" Jamie teases.
Isaac clears his throat, straightens up his posture, offers half a nod.
"Maybe. But you know I do."
Jamie laughs.
"Yeah, I know."
/
Jamie’s on the sideline of the training pitch, watching Dani shoot some extra penalties at the end of the day.
"Oi, muchacho!" he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth. "I love you!"
Dani waves at him, jumping up and down.
"I love you too, Jamie Tartt!"
/
Jamie is on the phone.
"Paddy! I miss you, mate."
He grins at whatever O’Gara says.
"Nah, just thought I’d call to say hi. It’s been a while. We always said we’d keep in touch if one of us moved away, but we’re piss poor at it, ain’t we."
Another pause. Jamie laughs.
"I love you, lad. I’m really grateful we’re still mates. Dunno what I woulda done without you back when I were younger; you really was there for me when I needed it."
He flushes a bit.
"Oh, come off it. You know I hate that nickname." He shakes his head. "Anyways, how are you?"
/
The camera is in Jamie’s hand as he jumps onto Sam’s back.
"Jamie!" Sam shouts, stumbling a little under his weight. "You are so heavy. Why do you do this to me?"
Jamie is laughing.
"Just wanted to see if you’d catch me."
"Of course I would. Always."
"Aw, I love you, Sammy."
"I love you too, very much, but please get off of me."
/
He’s walking down the hallway towards Roy.
"Morning, gaffer."
Roy simply nods at him.
"Love ya."
Roy cocks his head, giving Jamie a bit of a look, but then rolls his eyes, looking fond.
"Keep walking, Tartt. You’re running late."
Jamie brings the camera up to his face, whispering to it.
"That’s Roy-speak for ‘I love you too’."
-
Jamie is insufferably perky the next morning.
"Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?" Roy huffs.
"Like what?"
"All smiley and shit. It’s five AM."
Jamie rolls his eyes.
"What, a lad can’t just be in a good mood on a random Sunday?"
"It’s fucking weird."
They’re out for a jog, just for the fun of it. There’s a match this afternoon, but Jamie’s scheduled to be rested— Roy’s discovered that he likes playing with squad rotation, changing out his starters to make sure his key players aren’t burning out, now that their fixture schedule is heavier. Jamie played in a Champions League match on Wednesday, and he’s headed to St. George’s tomorrow for the international break, so he’s been afforded a day off today.
"Okay, fine," Jamie sighs, after a moment, breaking under absolutely no pressure to elaborate. "I’m in a good mood because Southgate wants me to start on Thursday."
Roy looks over at him.
"No shit?"
Jamie grins.
"No shit." He starts fucking skipping. "I get to wear the number ten shirt."
"Jesus Christ," Roy laughs, feeling genuinely giddy with how fucking proud he is. "Congratulations. That’s fucking awesome."
"Innit," Jamie beams. "You gonna come watch?"
Roy hadn’t been planning on going— he was probably going to attend the team watch party in the media room, as per usual— but it would be fun to be at Wembley for a moment like this. He hasn’t been in the stands for a match in… fucking forever.
"If you can sort out some tickets, I’ll bring Phoebe."
"Sort out some tickets," Jamie scoffs. "You’re football royalty, Mr. Hundred-and-Three Caps. They’ll roll out a red carpet and give you seats next to the King."
"Very funny."
"I’m dead serious, mate. Aren’t you getting, like, knighted someday or something?"
"No. I’m just an MBE." When Jamie stares blankly at him, he adds: "It means I’m posh and important, or whatever, but not enough for everyone to call me Sir Roy."
Jamie waggles his eyebrows.
"Kinky. I’ll call you Sir."
"Fuck you."
"Anyways, I’ll let someone in charge know you’re coming. They’ll pop you in the VIP box, it’ll be chill."
"Cheers."
-
Jamie makes two assists, and Roy cheers his fucking head off.
(He is, in fact, sat in a very posh VIP box, full of important people, including the Prince of Wales and his kids. Phoebe’s having some very adorable, polite conversation with Princess Charlotte, which is fucking insane to watch. God knows what she’ll tell her school friends tomorrow.)
(To be fair, Roy was at Will and Kate’s wedding, and still has the lad’s number saved from a charity thing they did together once. His life is fucking mad sometimes.)
"That’s my friend Jamie," Phoebe proudly tells the literal princess beside her, pointing to the screen showing a close-up of him. "Number ten!"
"The one with the moustache?" Charlotte giggles.
"Yes! He’s growing it for mental health."
"That’s lovely."
It’s going to blow Jamie’s mind, telling him about this later. Jesus Christ.
-
@jamietartt9
WEEK 2️⃣ UPDATE (warning: very long and sappy)
What a weeeeeeek !! 🏴 Was my mum thrilled that I had ridiculous facial hair in all the pics of my first time starting for @england? no lol but I had the best time anyway !!
Personally I was glad to rock the Mo for the match so that I can always look back and remember why I was doing this - you lot have smashed my fundraising goal for @Movember_UK already and I’m so greatfull.
Been doing some thinking this week about the fact that I nearly quit football for good when I was 23. I’ve avoided talking about it, but when I went back and looked at some photos from around that time, it kinda broke my heart. I was really really struggling mentally and didn’t want anyone to know - I couldn’t understand why I’d lost all the love I used to have for football. I could hardly get out of bed to go to training in the mornings. I didn’t want to do it anymore, and then one day I had this weird burst of energy and made the impulsive decision to break my contract and go on reality TV instead.
Turns out that was the start of a very severe manic episode, and it ended up being the scariest time of my life.
I’m finally ready to share that I have Bipolar I disorder. I didn’t know it back then, so my symptoms were getting worse but going completely untreated. I didn’t feel like I had anyone to talk to about what was going on inside my head. It took me until recently to get diagnosed, once I was finally seeing a psychiatrist and getting consistent therapy. I have people to talk to now, and I take mood stabilizers, and I am doing a lot better !
If you have a mate who starts going on benders or stops taking care of himself: drinking, using drugs, or just making really odd or crazy decisions, PLEASE reach out and try to be there for him. I’m lucky the stupidest thing I did was going on TV, because my head was in such a bad place that it could’ve been a lot worse. Thankfully, I had people to help me get my life back on track, and even though I’ll always be battling mental illness, I am able to live out my absolute dreams now xx ♥️
There’s another moustache update photo, this time in an England kit, followed by a collage of pictures from back in 2020, around the time of Lust Conquers All, where Jamie looks pale and ill and utterly broken. He’s forcing smiles and plastering on false confidence, but it’s so obvious, looking back, that something was wrong.
There’s a second collage, though, of recent photos— it’s thoughtfully curated (or as thoughtful as Jamie Tartt gets, having two brain cells and all), showing him absolutely radiating happiness, alongside some random shots of coffee and pastries, his medication organizer labelled Jamie’s Brain Pills, and various faces of people who’ve helped him along lately. Roy himself is even in there, scowling at the camera over a home-cooked meal.
-
(Is nothing fucking sacred anymore, Tartt? Put your fucking phone away at the dinner table.)
(Relax, grandad. Can’t I just take a picture of my best friend and the fancy-pants posh roast chicken he made, so I can remember it forever and ever? Smile.)
(Fuck you.)
(I’m sending it to Mum and Simon. What’s the recipe called? Rosemary-herb-something?)
(Simon knows. He sent it to me.)
(Oh, sound. I love that you two are mates.)
-
"How do you deal with the itchiness?"
Jamie has thrown himself lengthwise across Roy’s couch with the most dramatic groan of all time.
Roy, perfectly comfortable in one of his outrageously expensive recliners— the sort that even gives you a back massage— gives him a look.
"Do you have a fucking infection? What’s itchy? And why the fuck do you think I’d know how to help?"
Jamie sits up to level him a glare.
"My moustache is itchy, you fucking prick. My dick is fine, thank you very much." He pauses. "But you know— if I did have an STD, I would come to you, Captain Chlamydia. Reckon you’d have some wisdom for me."
A twenty year-old tabloid headline is a deep cut.
(CAPTAIN CHLAMYDIA: Chelsea Skipper’s Romp Around West London Spreads Legs AND Disease)
"I’m not even gonna ask how the fuck you know about that."
"The magazines in the checkout line at Asda were proper educational when I were learning how to read."
"Jesus fucking Christ."
"Anyways. Does your beard get itchy? ‘Cos this is fucking mental."
Roy rolls his eyes
(Such a child.)
"It itches when you first grow it out. Beard oil helps."
Jamie hops to his feet.
"Is it just by your sink, then?"
"What, you’re just fucking helping yourself to my stuff?"
"Why the fuck else would I be at your house?"
"Fucking hell. You’re insufferable."
(Roy can spot when Jamie’s manic— he doesn’t really have full-on highs and lows as much as he used to, now that he’s medicated properly, but there’s an energy to him today that’s a little out there. He’s buzzing, a little more frenetic and excitable than usual, and he’ll probably stay that way for at least a few days.)
"Roy!" Jamie calls from upstairs. "I’m using your moisturizer, too!"
Roy sighs and shakes his head.
"Use whatever you fucking want!"
"Love you!"
Fucking ridiculous.
"I love you too, you little prick!"
-
Saturday is a massive win that pushes them to the top of the table.
The top of the fucking table. It’s insane.
(It’s still early in the season— nothing to celebrate too hard just yet— but it’s still a fucking accomplishment.)
"You," Jamie says, barging into Roy’s office, "are coming to the club with us tonight."
Roy glances up at him.
"No."
"Yes."
"Not fucking happening."
"Why the fuck not?"
"Because I’m forty years old and fucking exhausted."
Jamie makes this stupid noise, like he’s a game show buzzer informing Roy that his answer hasn’t been accepted.
"Nope. Bad excuse, doesn’t count. Try again."
"Excuse me?"
"You go to the club with your yoga friends, and you’re the youngest of that lot. Being old won’t get you out of this, laddie."
"Jesus Christ. That’s different. Being forty and surrounded by footballers is different than being forty and surrounded by divorced mums."
Jamie rolls his eyes so hard Roy worries his retinas might detach.
"I’m just as fun as a divorced mum."
Roy’s not even sure how the fuck to answer that.
"Go enjoy your night out. We can do breakfast tomorrow if you want to hang out so bad."
"Coach," Jamie whines, long and drawn-out, while draping himself over Roy’s desk. "Just come have some fun for once. Please."
"I have fun all the time, you dickhead."
"Not with me."
"That’s a bit fucking offensive. You don’t think we have fun together?"
"We go for runs and eat healthy food. That’s nice, but it’s not, like— going out and partying. You need more of that in your life, yeah? It’s balance."
"I did enough of that when I was your age."
"I’m not giving this up, you know."
(Unstoppable force meets immovable object, is how Beard once described their arguments.)
"If I come out for one drink, will you leave me the fuck alone?"
(The object always gets nudged somehow. Fuck.)
Jamie grins.
"You’re good to drive me there, then?"
Roy scrubs his hands over his face.
"Fine."
-
Dressed in a mesh shirt and more jewelry than is probably reasonable, Jamie Tartt is stone-cold sober on the dance floor, and appears to be having a fantastic fucking time.
(I don’t drink anymore, Royo. You knew that.)
(Roy isn’t sure that he did know that, but it’s not that surprising, he decides. Jamie’s body is a temple, of course… and that temple has been on a few too many mania-induced benders and depression-induced doom spirals by now, so it makes some degree of sense that he’s cut that vice out completely. It’s probably part of how he’s managed to stabilise so well.)
"I cannot believe Jamie dragged you here," a very inebriated Colin tells him, dropping down beside him in the booth. "I mean— fuck, the lads say I’m whipped."
Something stutters in Roy’s chest.
"It’s not— you know it’s not like that."
Colin raises his eyebrows.
"I’ve got, like… a fifth sense, you know." He drops his voice to a drunken whisper. "I can always tell when two people are secretly fucking."
Roy would stand up and leave, but he’s blocked in.
"Nope. I’m not fucking going there with you right now. Not up for discussion. Never bring that up again."
Colin fucking pouts.
"Coach. I’m trying to bond with you."
"Over what, exactly?"
"Well, when Jamie first came to Richmond, I was, like, dying to fuck him. Why do you think I went along with all his shit? I wanted his attention. He’s fucking fit. I understand what you’re going through."
That’s far more information than Roy can honestly say he ever needed to know about Colin Hughes.
"I don’t think you understand much of anything at all," Roy tells him. "And I think you should be less loud about saying you want to fuck your teammate in public."
"I don’t want to anymore," Colin sighs. "I have a boyfriend, and I’m not trying to step on toes, boyo. He’s yours."
"He’s not mine. We’re not— fuck this. I said I wasn’t talking about it. Let me out."
Colin scoots down the booth, but before actually giving Roy space to move, he pats his shoulder.
"Oh, I see how it is. He’ll come around, mate. I can tell he’s into you. Just shoot your shot, yeah?"
"Fuck you."
He heads for the exit, but stops to text Jamie.
I’m going now. Have a good rest of your night.
When he looks up, Jamie is making a beeline for him. Fuck.
"You’re going already?" Jamie whines. "It’s hardly even late!"
"I told you I was coming for one drink. I had it, and then Hughes started trying to bond with me, so I’m fucking done."
Jamie snorts.
"Fair, yeah. Let’s go, then."
Roy pulls a face at him.
"Let’s? You can fucking stay, you’re having fun. I know you can afford your fucking Uber later."
"Nah. I’m good. I could fancy, like, a stop at a chippy and an early night. Let’s bounce."
They start towards the door.
"So you think I’m taking you to a fucking chippy, then? On your training diet?"
"I had a proper recovery meal when I got home, and now I burned all these calories dancing. I’m famished. I won’t even get fish, honest, I just want the smallest order of chips and peas."
Roy sighs heavily.
"You’re expecting to come stay at my fucking house tonight too, aren’t you?"
Jamie shrugs.
"If you’ll have me. Or— you never sleep over at mine. That could be fun, we could switch it up."
Roy scrubs a hand over his face.
"This is exactly why Hughes is convinced we’re fucking."
The absolute delight that forms in Jamie’s expression at that tidbit of information, illuminated by a streetlight on the way to Roy’s car, is nothing short of fucking devious.
"Is he!?"
"I shouldn’t have fucking told you that."
-
@jamietartt9
WEEK 3️⃣ UPDATE
Things are getting a bit hairy here 😛 What do yous think of the Mo?? I feel dead sexy ngl
Been so grateful for the response to my last post ♥️ Appreciate you lot being understanding and supportive ! Bipolar ain’t an easy road but it’s better when you’ve got people around you to help you through it. I’ve had loads of great conversations about mental health this week, especially with other footballers !
I had a few people ask if I had any tips for supporting someone whose struggling with mental health. I had a chat with @Movember_UK and they suggested using a tool called ALEC:
A: Ask
- The biggest thing you can do if something seems off is just ask ! A bit like "you haven’t seemed like yourself lately, are you feeling OK?" can go a long way.
L: Listen
- Pay attention to what he tells you, and help him feel heard. You don’t have to be able to solve his problems yourself, but being a listening ear means more than you realise.
E: Encourage Action
- Help him focus on the small things. Getting enough sleep, doing some self care, or seeing his GP can be ways to start improving how he feels.
C: Check In
- See if you can call, text, or hang out regularly. Make him feel included and supported and loved.
Check out @Movember_UK’s website for more resources ! Stay sexy 🫶
This week’s pictures are mostly selfies, nothing particularly different or special.
(Though, Roy spends a bit too long looking at a sweaty, shirtless post-workout picture, while Colin’s words from last night ring through his head.)
-
"Ok wait, I’m snapping Colin, I want you in the background. Hold still."
Roy does hold still, but mostly because he’s stopped to give Jamie a look.
"What fucking mind games are you playing with that poor sod?"
Jamie doesn’t look up from his phone.
"Well, you’re shirtless in my living room on a Sunday morning, we left the club together last night, and he already thinks we’re having some sort of secret coach-player romance… I’m just messing with him."
"You are such a prick."
"Oh, this is perfect," Jamie giggles. "You’re just in the corner of the pic, he’ll totally catch it. Odds he says anything?"
"Zero. I told him never to bring it up again. He’ll pretend he didn’t notice, but he’ll be losing his mind."
Jamie laughs to himself and keeps playing on his phone.
"He told me he has a fifth sense," Roy says, after a moment. "That he can always tell when people are secretly fucking."
"Ooh, that’s fun." Jamie finally sets down his device. "If you had a fifth sense— like, a superpower— what would it be?"
Roy takes a very deep breath.
"We already have five senses, you fucking numpty."
"Do we?"
"Well, sometimes I question if all of yours are fucking intact, but yes."
Jamie sits there and counts quietly on his fingers, clearly trying to sort out the primary school tasks of naming his five senses.
"Okay," he says after a moment (during which he only made it to four.) "A sixth sense, then. What would yours be?"
"Knowing exactly how many burpees it takes for a little shithead footballer to lose the attitude."
"Jesus," Jamie huffs. "Mine was gonna be teleporting."
Roy stares for a moment, and ultimately decides it’s not worth his time to try and explain the concept of what a sense is.
"Sure. Where are you teleporting to, then?"
"Dunno. Just… around."
"Wow. Riveting stuff, that."
"Piss off. I’ll teleport far away from you."
Roy rolls his eyes.
"You’d miss me too much."
Jamie is silent, and Roy takes that as a win.
-
Jamie catches a cold, that week.
It’s nothing serious— doesn’t take him out of training, just has him darting to the sideline to blow his nose every now and then— but it does cause him to completely lose his voice for a day.
"This is the best day of my fucking life," Roy sighs, as they drive into work, after completing a morning training session in complete silence.
"I fucking hate you," Jamie whispers, barely audible.
"Sorry, what was that?" Roy teases. "I couldn’t hear you."
"You're a dick."
"Imagine how peaceful the dressing room’s gonna be today, without your carrying on. Imagine the quiet."
"Imagine me fucking headbutting you in your thick skull, you fucking—"
Jamie cuts himself off with a coughing fit.
Roy laughs.
They keep driving.
-
Jamie’s voice starts to come back the next day.
He comes into work a little later than Roy, after taking a morning off from extra training to get some extra sleep, and looks significantly better than the day before. He wanders over to Roy’s office, leans against the doorframe, and grins.
"Morning, gaffer."
And the problem is— his voice comes out so fucking deep and raspy.
(He’s standing there with a full-on moustache, longer hair than ever, a tight shirt that makes his chest look insane, and a voice like fucking velvet.)
(Roy’s mouth goes dry as a number of realizations click into place.)
(Hughes may have been onto something.)
"Morning. You look good— better. You look better than yesterday. You looked fine yesterday. You look— less ill. Fuck. You look good. Yeah."
Jamie makes a funny sort of face, but doesn’t comment on whatever the fuck just happened there.
"Cheers. Yeah, I feel loads better." He waggles his eyebrows. "So much for your peaceful dressing room."
(So much for Roy’s fucking tether to reality. His jeans are getting tight at the sight of Jamie fucking Tartt. This has to be an alternate universe of some kind.)
"Go get changed," he huffs. "And don’t fucking cough on anyone. I won’t have you taking out the whole team."
Jamie rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry. I’ll keep my germs to myself."
His gravelly, rumbling voice makes something twist, deep in Roy’s gut.
(He is so, so fucked.)
-
Jamie spends all day doing his best Roy impression, which makes the lads fall about laughing every time.
Roy desperately wants to kiss his stupid face— mostly to shut him up.
(He’d even risk catching the stupid cold. Fuck.)
-
Jamie’s interpretation of Roy’s instruction to go home and get some more rest apparently involves showing up to Roy’s house.
"What’s more restful than the next few episodes of Love is Blind? I’m not gonna let you watch ‘em without me."
He’s sounding more like himself, his voice recovering throughout the day, but it’s still got an infuriatingly sexy sort of rumble to it that Roy can’t believe.
"Your voice gets deep when you’re sick," Roy blurts.
(What the actual fuck has happened to his brain today?)
(He’s convinced the moustache is part of the problem. The voice wouldn’t be doing all this to him without the added facial hair.)
"Right?" Jamie laughs. "Thierry told me I could be a phone sex operator. Like— yeah, go on and tell me what you want, love. Give me all your fantasies."
Roy carefully positions a throw pillow in his lap, for no reason at all, then grabs a second one and throws it at Jamie.
"Shut up. You’re fucking obnoxious."
Jamie catches the pillow, then flops down onto the couch.
"I’d be aces on Love is Blind if I just had a cold the whole time. They’d think I’m, like, some six-foot-seven lumberjack."
"They’d think you’re an annoying fucking prick who blows his nose every thirty seconds."
Jamie sniffles.
"Fair play, that. Toss me those tissues?"
Roy launches the box of Kleenex with more force than necessary.
Jamie catches it in one hand.
(Roy has never noticed how massive Jamie’s hands are. Fucking hell.)
"I’m so tired," Jamie announces, rearranging himself so he’s leaning into Roy’s side. "Guarantee I’m gonna fall asleep on you. Soz in advance."
Roy sighs, trying to seem hard done by it.
"You’re getting your germs all over me."
"We’re together, like, twenty-four-seven. If you ain’t caught the cold yet, I think you’re immune."
Roy grumbles at him.
Jamie echoes it right back.
"Put the show on, you grumpy old git."
"Fucking fine."
They start the next episode, and it takes Jamie all of twenty minutes to start snoring.
Roy settles an arm around him and decides to just enjoy it.
-
He catches the cold, and it hits him like a truck.
Jamie makes him soup.
When he tells Ruth about it, she asks if Roy’s sure they’re not dating.
Roy tells her, honestly, that he doesn’t fucking know at this point.
-
@jamietartt9
FINAL UPDATE 🥳
This Mo is officially @TedLasso approved ! Thanx coach !
Honestly I’m quite happy with it lol I never tried growing facial hair before and I think I suit it a bit. Been a heavy debate w the lads lately whether I shave it or stick with it 🤔
More than that, I’m so pleased with everything I got to do as an ambassador for @Movember_UK this month. Their support behind the scenes gave me the courage to share my bipolar diagnosis, advocate for mental health, AND try out a sick new look. I got to talk to so many amazing people about mental health, even on the news ! You lot smashed the fundraising goals and it was so lovely to hear people’s stories and see your campaigns online. Way to rock it everyone !! 🥸
A selfie of him FaceTiming Ted, both of them pointing to their moustaches; some behind the scenes pictures of the various TV appearances he managed to fit into his schedule this month to talk about his campaign; random photos of him and the lads, including Dani’s ridiculous handlebar moustache and Sam’s pubescent-looking attempt at facial hair; and a video of Isaac leading the lads in a very democratic voting process to decide the fate of Jamie’s face… ending in a draw, of course.
-
"Roy!"
Jamie’s charging into Roy’s office, long after the rest of the team has left.
"What the fuck are you still doing here?"
"Extra drills with Dani, then physio, then massage," Jamie lists off, "but whatever. You told me you didn’t know how to use Instagram."
Roy sighs.
"I don’t," he lies, as if he hasn’t been obsessively stalking Jamie’s posts lately.
Jamie folds his arms over his chest.
"You commented on my post."
(Roy had assumed it would be buried in the thousands of other comments and that Jamie wouldn’t even notice. Shit.)
(So fucking proud of you and your stupid fucking moustache 🖕)
"Did I?"
"Did you?" Jamie mocks. "I knew you were looking, dickhead! You’re obsessed with me."
Roy drops his head in his hands.
(There’s no use denying it, is there.)
"I am obsessed with you. It’s fucked."
Jamie hums, impressed.
"Ain’t thought you’d admit that so easy."
Roy shrugs.
"Why lie?"
There’s a sudden tension here, making the air feel thick with it. Jamie is staring at him, and Roy wishes he were better at reading people’s faces.
(That’s part of what he likes about Jamie— the fact that he’s typically easy to read. He’s so expressive that there’s no room for error, he moves his face like a fucking cartoon.)
"Define obsessed," Jamie says, like it’s a challenge. Roy can’t get a read on his tone, either.
"Is this a fucking spelling bee?" Roy snipes, unable to hold it back. "No."
Jamie just keeps staring.
(Roy’s not sure the English language even has words to define how he feels about Jamie Tartt at this point.)
Roy sighs, long and drawn out.
"Fine. I think you’re fucking fit, and funny, and nice to be around, and I know we’re together ninety percent of the time, but I spend the other ten percent fucking thinking about you. I’m obsessed. When you walked in here the other morning with the fucking moustache and the fucking deep voice, I wanted to bend you over my fucking desk, and then take you out for a fucking romantic dinner and introduce you to my mum or something."
Jamie’s mouth has dropped into a little o.
"And I’m sorry if that’s fucking weird or creepy," Roy continues, "and I probably just fucked up our whole friendship, but I’ve been losing my fucking mind lately and I had to fucking say all this or I was gonna fucking explode."
It’s quiet for a second— Roy can practically see the little hamster wheel in Jamie’s brain spinning as he processes that.
Jamie blinks.
"What’s your mum’s name?"
Roy frowns.
"That’s your follow-up question?"
"You never talk about her! I weren’t even sure you had one." He pauses. "Would she rather flowers and wine, or like, some posh jewelry or something?"
"What?"
"For when you introduce me to her. Can’t just show up empty-handed, can I?"
"You— what?"
"You just said it. Is your old man brain slipping already? We’re gonna have really fucking hot crazy sex, go for dinner, and then I get to meet your mum. There’s my Monday night sorted."
It’s Roy’s turn to stare with his mouth hanging open.
"My parents winter in Malta, they left last week," he finally states. "You can’t meet her tonight."
Jamie pulls a face.
"God, you’re posh. Have you just used winter as a verb?"
"I bought them a house somewhere warm because dad’s arthritis gets bad in the winter, and mum’s had her fucking hip replaced so I don’t trust her walking on ice, so they leave every November to— why the fuck am I defending myself to you? We could be fucking right now?"
Jamie laughs.
"We should be fucking right now."
"You’re just— I mean, all that shit I said just now was okay?"
"More than okay." Jamie’s got this stupid fucking kissable smile on. "You used Instagram for me."
"To stare at your shirtless selfies, mostly."
"To be fair, everyone does that." He winks. "It’s why I post ‘em."
Roy rolls his eyes.
"Such a prick."
"Did you wank to any of my posts?"
"Tartt."
"Oh, you’re shy now? After you said you were gonna bend me over your desk?"
"We should get out of here before someone walks in. Nate might still be here."
Jamie strikes a stupid little pose.
"Gonna take me home and ravish me?"
Roy drops his head down on his desk.
(That should not be this attractive.)
"Fuck."
-
"Keep the moustache," Roy says, once they’re lying in bed that night. "You suit it."
Jamie grins up at him.
"Yeah? You’re a fan?" He scrunches up his lip. “Isaac hired a psychic off the internet to tell us if I should shave it or not— what’s better luck for the team, like. He’s revealing the answer tomorrow.”
Sometimes Roy questions his fucking decision to step up and be responsible for the lot of genuine idiots he calls a football team.
“It’s your face,” Roy sighs. “You should decide. What the fuck does an internet psychic know?”
“The future, apparently,” Jamie says, utterly serious. “I’ll do anything to stay at the top of the table, even if she says I need to shave my whole head and everything.”
Roy runs a hand through Jamie’s remarkably soft hair.
“Fuck no. I’ll have a fucking word with her, if that’s the case.”
“Big bad Roy Kent to the rescue,” Jamie giggles.
Roy kisses the top of his head. It feels right, just being able to do that. He can’t believe it took them this fucking long to fall into bed together.
“Always.”
“Aww,” Jamie coos, cuddling up to him. “My hero.”
They fall asleep like that, and Roy’s not sure there’s anywhere else he’d rather be.