Archive of Our Own

1.

Jamie’s got more questions about Roy’s invitation to Bones & Honey than time or nerve to ask them, but the main thing he can’t make odds or ends of that evening is what to bloody wear.

After training, Jamie feels rather daunted, looking at the labyrinth of laundry that’s been piling since before their match in Manchester. He briefly considers cancelling when he’s sat with the array of empty hangers, shoe boxes and bumbags littering the floor of his closet, but he resolves that coming up with an empty excuse won’t quell his nerves. Convincing Roy that the threats posed by fashion emergencies and injury to ego are both critical and condemning has not been a fruitful venture yet.

Still, the situation probably doesn’t warrant an hour-long FaceTime call with Isaac, who doesn’t seem as interested in his dirty laundry tour as he does in figuring out why Jamie’s so wound up.

After popping his head through the neckline of his first hoodie option — Moncler, black, with an inky, embossed logo across the chest — Jamie tells Isaac, “Don’t know why caring about appearances means I’m overthinking. Used to just mean I was full of meself.”

“Because you always overthink about Roy and Keeley,” Isaac says, taking a long, noisy sip from his boba.

Instead of trying to explain himself, Jamie sighs at his reflection and moves that Moncler might not be the move, lest the two of them look like they’re in mourning. The only safe bet is Kent showing up in all black, boring and predictable as ever, so Jamie doesn’t wait for Isaac’s agreement before he tugs it back over his head.

But the thing is, Roy inviting Jamie to get a beer is neither boring or predictable, and the invitation alone feels needlessly complicated. They’re mates now, which is mad, but Roy’s not really got a habit of reaching out or making gestures. He’s not invited Jamie much of anywhere without training being involved. There isn't much sense to make of it, and Jamie's thoughts make even less sense in his own head, so he's left willfully sifting through his wayward wardrobe while his mates act as a sounding board. 

Fashion makes sense, at least. It looks good or it doesn’t. It fits nice or it doesn’t. It suits or it doesn’t. Old or new, taste or none. No question about it. Simple as. 

Sometimes, subjective feels straightforward.

“They’re the ones overthinking it about me,” Jamie insists while he’s reviewing his collection from Stone Island. “I mean, Roy is, probably. Keeley, I hope. Right, blue or grey?”

“Why d’you think Roy is overthinking?” says Isaac, the sceptic.

Jamie opts for his favourite hoodie and wrestles it over his arms, twisting it in the process. 

“Mostly 'cause Phoebe said Roy talks about me all the time,” he explains once he's pulled it over his torso. “And Roy looked fucking horrified by it, so you know it’s true.”

“You met Phoebe, bruv?”

“Yeah. He’s dead sweet with her, too.” Jamie smiles a bit at the memory and lifts the dog tags out of his neckline. “How’s this one?”

Isaac doesn’t start offering feedback until Jamie starts on his hair, but he does remind Jamie that he still hasn’t sat for his haircut this season, then promises to sort him before Brazil. He also reminds Jamie that this is a beer with his coach, not a date, and that he looks well fit in blue. Well, Jamie reminds them both of the last part, and Isaac hangs up without even saying goodbye, the prick.

Jamie arrives to Bones & Honey exactly one minute late, which is basically early, especially if he’s trying to make an entrance. It’s the sort of place that doesn’t really have a dress code, but it’s easy to feel underdressed, depending on the crowd. Jamie’s good at thinking about that kind of thing, unless he decides he doesn’t care, but he can’t help but care a little bit tonight.

It’s pretty empty on a weekday, so Jamie doesn’t have to poke around for long.

And there he is, in all his glory: clad in boring leather boots, the most predictable jacket, and a boring t-shirt underneath; all, of course, in black. 

Jamie might pay attention to clothes more than most, but attention to detail is a skill in its own right. Within moments of being next to Roy, Jamie notices what he’d failed to, upon first look: a lack of creases or patina on the jacket, and the distinctive smell of new leather.

Something about it piques Jamie’s curiosity. He’s not gonna overthink an outfit decision that Roy probably put zero thought into, especially since Roy’s worn leather jackets for forever, but it does look like he might've put in some effort. Sort of. Maybe Roy has a date lined up after this, or plans to find one. Maybe this is simply Roy’s first opportunity to wear this particular jacket, because, speaking as someone who spends every morning and many evenings and basically every day with Roy, the poor lad’s not got much of a social life, and spends most hours wearing coaching or training gear.

But it’s almost summer, and an odd time of year to buy a new leather jacket. That’s all Jamie’s saying.

“Probably thinks I’m here to start trouble,” Jamie says of the barkeep, who had given him an unnecessarily suspicious look when Roy ordered their beers a moment before. Roy raises a brow, so he gestures to his bicep and clarifies. “‘Cause of the badge and all.”

Roy glances at the Stone Island logo on his arm, then turns back to the bar.

“I doubt it.”

Then, another spanner in the works. Some old punk in leather and a hooligan in a hoodie, to the outsiders. In spirit, they're nothing but a couple of cavemen in cloth nappies, beating their chests and grumbling dully.

Jamie braces for the worst, puffing up his chest to protect his heart, ‘cause he loves Keeley, and Roy doesn’t understand the half of it, and Roy’s not to tell him what to do if it’s got nowt to do with fucking football. A minute into their escalating, Roy ends up sliding off his jacket to sit on the stool next to them. Curiosity killed the cat and all, so Jamie makes the fatal mistake of craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the label inside, and is suddenly caught off-guard by Roy’s skull landing right against his fucking nose.

Their wheels spin out pretty quickly, in that they are promptly dumped onto the pavement outside, gears left turning with nowhere to go.

Roy panics, full-on, about Jamie’s face and Keeley and getting kicked out and a bunch of other shit, and he doesn’t stop panicking until they’ve pieced together a plan that only makes the vaguest sort of sense and mostly serves to soothe their egos.

Jamie doesn’t much like this version of himself, even as he’s going through the motions, but Keeley’s the first woman he ever loved. Like love, love. Certainly didn’t appreciate her enough while they were together. Keeley probably thought he was more in love with making her come than anything, back then. They did have a lot of fucking sex.

Thing is, Jamie thought he was on borrowed time, because Keeley Jones is the girl of his fucking dreams. She’s sweet, and fit, and knows how to have a laugh. Keeps him on his toes, keeps him guessing. Sometimes when she talks, Jamie can’t understand a word of it, but she's good at answering his questions and repeating the important bits. Keeley knows so much, about everything and everyone, and she's into fashion and art and stuff he’s always liked, but didn’t understand why until she explained it to him. She’s just fucking clever like that, and taught Jamie how to pay more attention. To care about things he didn’t know even mattered.

They talked about serious shit together, and he’s trying to talk more about that sort of stuff, ‘cause he's trying to be better. She was important to him, even if he absolutely fucked it, but he fucking loves the woman, and he’ll tell anyone who asks. It’s like, they were hooking up for well over a year. Weren’t exclusive or nothing, that entire time, but still. That’s the longest Jamie has been with anyone.

Neither of them could ever remember when their anniversary was, though. 

Point is, Roy would be in love with Keeley, because who wouldn’t? And the truth of it is, a row with a mate over a bird ain’t ever gonna be the end of the world. Jamie wouldn’t bother Keeley again if she told him to fuck off forever, but she hasn’t yet, so.

Roy does nothing but agree with Jamie for like, ten minutes, while he explains all this. Jamie feels like he’s driven by a motor; the words keep flowing and Roy keeps nodding like he’s making good sense. And then it’s great, because they are fucking men about it, so they shake on it and everything.

It’s followed by a brief conversation that Jamie won’t recount or repeat, but it does accidentally make him a little horny.

What Jamie doesn’t admit to Roy is this: he likes the idea of Roy and Keeley. It was easy to get over feeling left out once he started focusing on fantasies about the three of them. He and Keeley had a third before, so it’s not totally impossible. Jamie gets distracted by the idea of Keeley watching the two of them wrestling, but it was much better than what happened at the bar, and they’re all getting really into it. And Jamie’s got Roy pinned as they wrestle, and they’re both shiny with sweat, and then Roy gives in, or maybe Jamie does, but the point is that it’s super fucking sexy so they all fuck about it forever, the end.

A lad can dream.

“It’s a good idea.”

Roy says it like he’s arguing, though they’re well past that.

“It’s fair,” Jamie agrees. He gets to keep them both in his life, this way. He’s not got an angle. Honest.

“No hurt feelings. We just want whatever she wants.”

“Right.” Jamie notes that they aren’t far from Keeley’s. “Can I say it one more time?”

Roy sighs, long-suffering. “Fine.”

Pausing in the middle of the empty street, Jamie shouts: “I loved her first!”

“Jesus.”

Jamie skips ahead to catch back up with Roy, sporting a cheeky grin on his face. “Cheers, mate,” he says, light on his feet. “No shame in loving her second, since we all know that’s just as good as first.”

Roy looks over at him, raising a brow.

“Think you might’ve loved both of us first.”

Jamie feels himself flush. “Alright, enough.”

Roy puts hands in his pockets, feigning deep thought. “Or, was it my poster that you had first?”

“Don’t remember,” Jamie mumbles, walking quicker now. “Was a long time ago.”

“Sure,” Roy says, and when Jamie turns to catch his eyes, he doesn’t even look teasing.

On Keeley’s doorstep, Jamie glances at his blood-stained hoodie and frowns. At least the last time he confessed his love, he was wearing a suit.

Turns out how they're dressed doesn’t matter much, in the end. The two of 'em might as well be wearing shirts that say ‘I’m with stupid’.

The details of it are depressing, but it was pretty bad. 

“You two look terrible.”

The owner of the kebab shop greets them with a frown and an overfamiliar tone. 

“He’s fine,” Roy assures the stranger.

The owner appears unbothered, punching buttons on the cash register. Jamie turns around to find a framed photo of Roy hanging above them, and the expression he makes at it hurts his nose, still a bit tender.

When he turns back, the shop owner is looking at Jamie expectantly.

“Oh, chicken for me, please. Cheers.” Jamie raps his knuckles on the counter. “Have you got any ice?”

The receipt spits out of the machine, and the man sighs. “Let me get my first aid kit.”

Five minutes later, Roy is cleaning Jamie’s face in a dirty restroom. Actually, it’s decent, since it’s in the back of house for employee use, but it’s still probably some sort of health code violation to have two bloody and bruised footballers tending to their wounds so close to where the bread is baked. Jamie guesses there's about three employees, but Roy says he’s only ever met Hus.

Roy shoves the bin against the toilet, barely making space for himself between Jamie's open legs. Jamie leans against the sink best as he can so Roy can fuss over his face. For the third time this evening, mind.

“I’ve fucked it, haven’t I?” Roy frowns, thumb hooked under Jamie’s jaw. His face is so close, eyes so intent on Jamie that they almost cross.

“Mate, my nose ain’t broken. Stop freaking out.” Jamie shoves Roy’s hands away, indignant. “Your skull ain’t that thick.”

Roy turns to pick up the bag of ice. “I mean,” he says, pausing as he presses it gently to Jamie's nose. “This is my fault.” 

“A bit, yeah.” Jamie shrugs as much as one can, given their positions. He lifts an elbow to nudge against Roy. “Was kinda fun, though.”

A corner of Roy's mouth twitches. “Figures you’d like getting your arse kicked.”

Jamie does not take the bait, intent on building bridges.

“You wouldn’t be able to handle me in a real fight, though," Jamie says. "Since you made me faster and stronger and better.”

“No good deed.” A corner of Roy’s mouth tilts up. Almost.

“Y’know, with Lasso’s leaving, we could have a proper fight club.” Jamie lightly bumps Roy’s hips with his own. “Safe words and that. No punching, kicking or headers. Biting only if you mean it.”

“If I mean it?”

Roy sounds incredulous, jaw dropping and everything, but not quite put-off, and that alone sparks something in Jamie. He’s about to make another cheeky comment, but then Roy adjusts the ice and knocks into Jamie’s nose, the clumsy fucker. Jamie hisses in pain and bites his fucking tongue, then moans about that for a minute.

“Fuck. Sorry.” Roy’s voice is low and soothing, hand on his hip. “You’re alright.”

“I know,” Jamie says, a touch petulant. Roy's acting like his fucking mum now, and keeping track of the cycles of his more doting and daring moods is tiring him out.

Roy drops the bag of ice in the sink, looking defeated. “I thought tonight would go differently.”

As the sting fades, Jamie remembers he was taking the piss a minute ago.

“Yeah, for a second there, thought you might be leaning in for a snog." He shifts his hips against Roy's. "Not a bad idea for a Plan B.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Roy’s on the edge of a smile, Jamie can feel it.

Their knees touch, and Jamie feels a little surge of electricity at their continued proximity, how neither of them have moved away. Jamie presses his foot so it’s lined right up against Roy’s.

“You were right, earlier,” Jamie says, smirking as he lifts his chin. “Had your poster up for longer.”

“Thought so,” Roy says, not moving an inch. For a moment, it's almost like the same stare down they were in at the bar, but something different charging it now. “Does explain the crush you had on me when we met.”

Jamie’s jaw drops before he remembers himself. “Did not.”

Not the best comeback of his life.

“Did too,” Roy insists, not any better. Jamie’s fairly certain Roy's taking the piss, too, the way he keeps shifting his jaw, and his theory is confirmed when Roy adds: “Too bad I don’t kiss horny football fanboys.”

Jamie can’t hide his surprise, as close as they are, but he's soon wearing a wolfish grin. Without thinking much of it, his hands find Roy’s hips, and Jamie swings them a bit like they’re dancing. He might be enjoying this game a bit too much.

“That is too bad. Isaac thought I was getting ready for a date earlier,” Jamie fibs. Roy doesn’t lean away, letting Jamie lead this dance. “‘Cause I was so nervous.”

Roy looks oddly serious. “Are you — ”

“Out!”

And so, for the third time that night, they’re shoved out the door minutes after arriving. This time they’ve got a shop owner shaking his keys and grumbling his grievances about Roy and groupies, with a chorus of ‘never taking down that picture’.

As the two of them start their trek home, heads hung low and carrying soggy bags of cold takeaway, Jamie feels like they’ve lightened their load, somehow.

Not long into their walk, Roy starts talking and doesn’t stop. Jamie has never heard Roy say so many words in his life. Roy starts dismantling the puzzle of his life, piece by piece. Jamie learns about his childhood, being scouted, and trouble with the other lads when he was a kid. Roy says he still keeps clippings from old papers for years, and he tries to let go, but he's afraid the worst parts of himself will come back to haunt him. And Roy knew he'd fucked it with Keeley, too, but he was too busy deluding himself into a chance he didn’t deserve, and he hates himself for hurting the people he loves. Then, at once, Roy stops talking.

Jamie looks at him, grips the bag a little tighter, and swallows.

“I’m letting go of shit, too,” Jamie offers. “Didn’t even realise the shit I was carrying around, man.”

“How do you do it?”

Jamie chews on his lip, considering. “Apologise, I guess. Learn why whatever I was trying to do didn’t help, figure out what I should’ve done instead. Keep trying to do better so I need to apologise less.” He shrugs. “Not much else to do, is there?”

“No,” Roy admits. “There’s not.”

Jamie lives closer, so when he starts to fish out his keys, he’s got the invitation already signed and sealed. 

Before Jamie can open his mouth, Roy says, “I’ll do better by you. I’m sorry.”

And they shake on that, too.

Jamie takes advantage of their joined hands and pulls Roy in for a hug, and Roy goes willingly, tucking his chin against Jamie’s shoulder. They hold still for a minute, Jamie patting Roy’s back a good few times.

Roy quickly accepts the invitation to play a round of FIFA, walking to the door before Jamie even finishes asking, presumptuous prick. Twenty minutes later, the two of them are sitting on Jamie’s sofa, shirtless — Roy having binned his, and Jamie’s hoodie soaking in stain remover — and immersed in playing FIFA with the sound off.

“I think Phoebe was right,” Roy says, right when Jamie takes the lead.

“Probably.” Jamie breaks his eyes from the screen to check the time — Christ — then tunes back in. “Uh, about what, though?”

“You are…” Roy takes so long Jamie’s not sure he’s going to finish. Jamie chances a glance at Roy and finds he’s not even looking at the screen anymore, but right at him. “My best friend.”

“Yeah. You’re alright.”

They share a smile.

Finally.

Earned or not, Jamie notices that feeling again. The lightness. He doesn’t know why they’re even awake, or if they’re going to train in the morning, or why Roy hasn’t made plans to leave for home yet (especially since he’s losing at FIFA, and he's now and always a sore loser), but the space between them feels smaller now. Less like a bridge, more like a clear path forward.

Jamie shifts his knee to the side of Roy’s thigh and sighs at the contact. He gets cuddly when he’s tired, and he’s been feeling more affectionate in general lately. If it was Isaac, or Declan, or anyone else, he’d pull him in for a cuddle, but Roy’s skittish, and —

Moving closer to Jamie.

Roy reaches out and pats Jamie’s thigh, then holds it there, long enough that Jamie turns. He doesn’t mean to stare, but it’s late, and his eyes are tired. Roy’s chest hair and bare skin against the white couch makes him feel twitchy, craving something.

“Shut up,” Roy says, eyes on the screen.

“I didn’t say nothing!”

“You were fucking thinking it.” 

Roy gives Jamie’s thigh a final pat, ties the score, and Jamie feels more embarrassed than he has all night, which is saying something.

Thankfully, Roy can’t actually read his mind. 

2.

Next time they hang out, Jamie is greeted by that same bloody jacket.

“You’re going to be sweating in that, y’know,” Jamie says as he slides into the passenger seat of Roy’s G-wagon. 

“You’re wearing a hooded vest in June,” Roy retorts. Always gotta deflect, this one.

“Top half runs cold,” Jamie explains, propping his foot on the dash. “Still gotta get waxed for Brazil, or else I’d have my thighs out for ya.”

Jamie gives one a proud slap, and Roy huffs before hitting the gas.

There’s not much reason they’re carpooling together, other than Jamie does better getting places on time if he arrives with someone, and apparently, Roy has a vested interest in Jamie’s nutrition. There are several hours until they’re meant to arrive at Rebecca's, but they’re currently en route to breakfast.

“Tide Tables, then?”

“Sure.”

They discovered the cafe one evening back in January, tucked underneath an arch of the Richmond Bridge. After they made good on their promise to return the next morning, it sort of became their spot. Jamie made a habit of ordering an extra shot of espresso, and Roy made a habit of being extra stingy with his pastries. Lad’s unreasonably immune to pouting — weren’t even put off by the wrenching sounds after all them burpees he had Jamie doing, couple weeks back.

This morning, however, the two of them share in the view of the Thames and all the sounds of spring slipping into summer. It’s brilliant. The mammoth of a tree that sprawls over the outdoor seating area allows them a nice, meditative morning. The weather seems to put Roy in a good mood, offering to pay the bill and all, so Jamie dines like a king on porridge, quiche, and juice. 

While Roy’s distracted, Jamie steals part of his croissant, but after they finish their coffees, Roy doubles back to the cafe and returns with another for Jamie. He blows Roy a little kiss in thanks.

The wind is still, only a few boats on the harbour. Jamie doesn’t even feel tempted to scroll on his phone.

As the sun climbs higher, Roy sheds his jacket.

“Got time for a wardrobe change,” Jamie says, spreading his arms to lend them some sun. “Reckon your closet is just, like, fourteen of them jackets, though.”

“Could get you some proper fitting trousers,” Roy retorts, completely off-topic.

“I’ve got a big bum,” Jamie says by way of explanation, which makes Roy grumble nonsensically. “What about a white tee, underneath? Or some jewellery? Small changes make a big difference, I’m telling ya.”

“I am not interested in your fashion advice.”

“Wait, that’s good,” Jamie says, and then he’s off. “Giving styling advice, I mean. Could help old boring footballers like you get with the times. A bit of charity for the elderly would be good for the brand, you think?”

“Make everyone look like a colossal prick,” Roy says, wadding up his napkin in his fist. “Great branding strategy. Best of luck.”

“You ain’t got taste, mate.” Then, dangerously, Jamie plucks Roy’s jacket from the back of his chair. “Ah, what’s the label on this one, then?”

Roy stands abruptly, but doesn’t lunge for the jacket like Jamie expects.

“Leave it,” is the only warning Roy provides before he stalk over to the bins.

Naturally, Jamie pushes his arms through the sleeves and prepares his scowl. The jacket is a little snug, but Jamie can still comfortably fold his arms.

“Tartt — ”

Jamie reaches in the back of his throat for the most gravelly octave he can summon.

“‘Oi, get you some proper fitting trousers,’ ” Jamie rumbles. “I’m jealous of your strong, sexy legs. Fuck off, Tartt.’”

Then he growls, for good measure.

“You finished?” Roy says as he sits, mirroring Jamie’s posture. Or, is it Jamie who’s mirroring him? 

“Fuck.” Jamie clears his throat loudly, shaking his head. “Talking like that feels awful.”

“Not a bad impression,” Roy admits.

Jamie takes the badge of honour, putting a hand over his chest with a gracious nod.

“I might wear this to the barbecue,” Jamie says when they're climbing the steps up from the cafe. Somehow, Roy still hasn’t wrangled Jamie out of his jacket, but he’s holding Jamie’s vest, which he’d outright refused to wear.

Roy ignores his comment and the offer to be carried on piggyback, so Jamie bounds up the stairs two at a time and shouts, “Ask for help when you need it!”

“I don’t fucking need it,” Roy shouts back, leading with his good knee as he heads up the steps. When he’s reached to the top, he pops his knee back into place. Jamie winces until Roy straightens his spine, gaze steely. “Give me my jacket.”

“Nah, but I’ll take that,” Jamie says, managing to slip his vest from Roy’s arms. Roy lets it go easily, but holds his ground.

“Give it to me. Now.”

“You’re a big boy, come on, take what’s yours,” Jamie taunts, skipping back and tucking his vest under his arm.

Roy lunges, and the chase begins. It’s midday, so there are enough obstacles that it’s a proper game of cat-and-mouse. And while Roy may be slow, the sneaky fucker still knows how to attack, 'cause within moments he manages to intercept Jamie's path and spin him around a street lamp. He catches him by the collar, but Jamie slips out of his grasp, sprinting towards an unoccupied patch of green that calls to him.

Jamie leaps into the air like he’s just won the league, landing harshly against the grass, knees first. Roy, who hadn’t anticipated this, crashes into Jamie from behind, nearly leapfrogging over him. His hands inadvertently push Jamie’s shoulders forward and down to the earth. As they land, Roy groans in pain, and Jamie pops his head up.

“Fuck, are you okay?”

Suddenly, Roy’s laugh cuts through the air between them. Jamie’s eyes brighten, and he can’t help but giggle, too. Roy’s smile just shakes something loose in him, every time. Impulsively, Jamie leans over and plants a wild kiss on the side of Roy’s head. Roy’s still smiling even as he raises his shoulders and shrinks away from the affection.

“You’re such a fucking child.”

“And you’re more fun than you look, old man."

With a satisfied sigh, Jamie falls back against the grass and folds his arms behind his head, deciding it’s high time to rest his eyes.

It’s different between them — lately, but just in general. Compared to most of Jamie’s friendships, time spent with Roy is both more and less complicated. He hadn’t expected for Roy to want to be around him much outside of training. Hadn’t expected them to enjoy it this much, either.

After a minute, Jamie peeks an eye open to see Roy’s got his eyes closed as well. Jamie sits up, peels off the jacket, and dumps it on top of Roy’s head.

Roy grabs it with a scowl, then pauses, lifting it to his nose. He looks at Jamie like he’s committed unspeakable horrors.

“It smells like your shitty fucking cologne.”

“Oh, cheers,” Jamie says, then looks down at his grass-stained knees. “Agh. Better stop for some new trousers.”

After Jamie finds new jeans with zips that even Roy approves of, they pick up Phoebe and head to the barbecue. When they arrive, everyone keeps giving the two of them the strangest looks, but Jamie stops paying attention when Roy starts laughing at his jokes.

Later on, Jamie overhears Keeley ask Roy, “Are you wearing Lynx?”

3.

When Jamie’s plane lands in London, he’s got a text from Roy inviting him to Ola’s. Apparently, Roy’s already sorted the reservations.

They’ve been talking on the phone almost every day since Jamie left for Brazil, but something about reservations makes the dinner invitation feel weighty. Roy probably isn’t the kind to deliver truly bad news in public, but there’s no telling, really.

Jamie overthinks it.

If Roy tells him he’s getting back with Keeley, he'll keep his head. Onward and forward. The two of ‘em can go back and forth as they please, but Jamie’s staying out of it. And Richard’s birthday party is tonight, so in any case, Jamie will have plenty of sexy little distractions to remain unbothered.

So, Jamie dresses to pull. He puts on a printed blue and gold shirt, buttoned low to show off the wonders the Brazilian sun has done for his chest. He’s not on the books at his barber until tomorrow, so he skips a shave and slicks his hair back. He stacks bunch of rings as a finishing touch — ‘cause ain’t nothing sexier than a bird playing with his hands and jewellery, and he likes something to fidget with, anyhow — and decides with a nod to his mirror that he looks, for all intents and purposes, undeniably sexy.

A masterpiece takes time, so Jamie arrives at Ola's a tad late. He finds Roy at a table looking out the window as if he’s in deep thought, or in some sorta moody French film, like Mummy watches.

As Jamie gets closer, he notes Roy’s trainers. He’s also wearing grey trackies. 

“You train, or something?”

“I’m coming from yoga.”

Jamie raises a brow. Roy raises a brow.

Slowly, Jamie leans over and pretends to glance under the table. When he rises, Roy is already glaring.

Jamie quirks a brow. “Bit slutty, no?”

“I didn’t have time to — the fuck did you just say?”

“Oh, sorry.” Jamie leans his elbows on the table, maintaining eye contact with Roy, even as his glare is growing more intense by the minute. “What I mean to say is, everyone can see the outline of your willy in them trackies, mate.”

Roy shuffles in his seat. If Jamie didn’t know better, he’d say Roy Kent was blushing.

“Why are you looking at my dick?”

Jamie tuts. “Hate to be the one to tell ya, but everyone knows grey trackies are a thirst trap. Gonna be photos all over the bloody internet in the morning with a cheeky bit about your willy.”

“There’s already plenty out there about my dick,” Roy grumbles, shifting in his seat again. “At least my shirt isn’t see-through.”

Jamie adjusts his collar. “It’s Versace.” 

“It’s hideous,” Roy fires back. “This is a family restaurant.”

“Oi, my nips ain’t even out!”

“Good evening,” the server chimes, suddenly materialising at their table. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“Water’s grand. Cheers,” Jamie says brightly. “But first, if you don’t mind, and be honest: what do you think of this shirt?”

The server looks him over, considering. After a moment, she shrugs a shoulder. “You’re fit, so it works.”

Jamie grins in victory, sending her a wink before she departs.

“Point proven,” Roy says to his menu, ‘cause he’s a sore loser and all. “It’s ugly but she thinks you’re attractive. Big fucking deal.”

“Pretty privilege, they call it,” Jamie informs him, not missing Roy’s eye roll. “Means I’m fucking aces at modelling. Brazilian bloke didn’t know I was a footballer, right, gave me the number of a talent agency. Imagine.”

“I take it you had fun,” Roy says, as if he hadn’t heard from Jamie daily.

“Loads.” Jamie takes a minute to look at his menu and finds the first thing that catches his eye, and settles on that. He leans his forearms on the table again and clasps his hands. “We training tomorrow, then?”

“Do you want to train tomorrow?” Roy lowers his menu. “You just got back yesterday. Pre-season isn’t for weeks.”

“You don’t want to?”

Roy takes a breath, laying his menu flat. Not a good sign. He looks out the window in that broody way he’s been doing since Jamie arrived, which can't be good either. When he meets Jamie's eyes, sighing again, it sets off all the worst signals in Jamie’s brain.

“I didn’t do nothing, did I?” Jamie says. “Is this about Keeley? ‘Cause I’m not even — ”

“No,” Roy cuts in. “Fuck. Can we talk about work later?”

Jamie leans back in his seat, crossing his arms.

“Yeah, alright,” he relents. He watches Roy pretend to read his menu, like he wouldn’t have the thing memorised by now. Jamie allows another minute of silence before, “Suppose this isn’t a date either, then.”

Roy makes a bitter sound, mixed between a sigh and a growl. “I am really starting to regret this.”

“Listen, I’m just sayin'. I’m gettin' mixed signals,” Jamie teases. Roy glares over his menu. “I’m serious! Dunno what a lad’s meant to think. Seemed like a date with these nice dinner reservations and all, then you show up lookin' like that.”

“Time away from you was good for my health,” Roy says.

“Oh, come off it, you love me.”

Roy smiles. Jamie doesn’t get to see it, because Roy's hiding behind his menu, but the corners of his eyes certainly crease. A moment later, when he lowers his menu, Jamie can see the ghost of it still etched on his features.

After they order, Roy requests a bottle of wine.

Jamie raises a brow. “We celebrating something?”

“Maybe,” Roy says mysteriously. “You have somewhere to be?”

“Er, yeah, but one sec,” Jamie says, taking a moment to text Sam back, then takes a long drink of water. “Ah. Yeah, right, Richard’s birthday. Talk about models, mate. You goin'?”

Roy grunts. “Don’t think coaches get invites.”

“Pish posh,” Jamie says. “’Course you’re invited. Lemme text — ”

“Don’t,” Roy interrupts sourly. “I’m not in the mood.”

That becomes clear. As they wait for their food, Roy isn’t much for conversation, but Jamie’s skilled at filling silences and he’s got loads of new stories to share. When the wine arrives, Jamie isn’t sure he fancies it after a couple sips, but it’s much nicer with their meals. Roy starts to warm up, too, as he finishes his lamb, and starts asking him questions, even asks if Jamie likes coconut before putting in an order of shuku shuku.

As they wait for dessert, Roy finishes his second glass of wine and finally starts talking. Phoebe’s at sleep away camp, and Roy was so busy with the season he forgot to make plans for holiday, and says there isn’t anywhere he feels like going anyway. 

“But I do have some news,” Roy says eventually, leaning back and looking out the window again. Jamie looks, too, but finds nothing of note. When he looks back, Roy is looking right at him. “I want to tell you as my friend.”

Jamie tilts his head. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s about work,” Roy explains, messing with the straw in his ice water and starts clinking the ice cubes around. It's strange to see him fidgety. “But I don’t want to talk about it like we’re talking about work.”

“Alright...” Jamie says, now fussing with his straw, too. “That why you invited me to dinner, then?”

“Yes.” Roy leans back, crossing his arms. “But you can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. No one knows yet.”

“Aw,” Jamie coos, gently bumping the toe of his trainer to Roy’s ankle. “You wanted me to know first?”

The server interrupts to check on them, and after another sharp inhale, Roy picks it up again.

“Alright. So. There will be a formal announcement for the team.”

Jamie's heart sinks into his overpriced shoes. “Shit. What is it?”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Roy asserts. “I’m serious. You can’t get pissed out of your mind tonight and run your mouth to the lads, or anyone. Understand?”

“You’re not leaving, are you?” Jamie blurts.

“What? No.” Roy shakes his head and mumbles to himself.

“Am I captain?”

“Please stop guessing,” Roy begs, then pauses, all dramatic-like. “Alright. I’m the new manager.” 

“Fuck me, you’re serious?” Jamie half-shouts. He winces at the glare Roy gives him. Then, much lower: “Sorry, shit, my fault. You’re gonna be gaffer? Are you buzzin’? When’re you tellin’ everyone?”

The dessert hits the table as Roy rehashes the details of it all, and Jamie gushes a bit, because wine does that to him, but Roy seems well chuffed. His cheeks are a bit pink, and it’s definitely from the wine, but it suits him, anyhow.

When the bill is paid and their bellies are full, they chat with Simi and a few others from the restaurant, and Jamie tries to avoid looking at Roy like he’s got stars in his eyes, but it’s one of the best not-dates he’s ever had. Roy could’ve dressed up more for the occasion, but fortunately the memory isn’t tainted by the lad’s lack of fashion sensibilities.

“Next time is on me, yeah?” Jamie says when they’re outside.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Strangely, Roy squeezes Jamie’s shoulder. Jamie gives him a dubious look, pushes it off, and pulls Roy in for a hug. 

“Proud of you,” Jamie says, clapping him on the back. He still feels giddy, like secondhand excitement is tickling his fingertips, and decides to keep Roy close for as long as he’ll have him. “Thanks for sharing this with me, man.”

The hug goes on for longer than Jamie expects. He can hear Roy’s breath going a bit funny.

“Alright?” Jamie lifts his chin from where it’s been hooked on Roy’s shoulder.

Roy starts to pull away, but keeps close. “Don't take the piss, but...fuck. I think I’m fucking nervous.”

“Makes sense," Jamie reassures. "‘Cause it’s new, and it’s important, yeah?”

“What if I’m shit?”

The look in Roy's eyes surprises Jamie.

“Impossible.” Jamie reaches out again to squeeze Roy’s shoulder. “You're a great coach, and gonna be a great gaffer, too. Might be out of your comfort zone, but that’s where all the good stuff is, yeah?”

Roy hums, unconvinced.

Jamie goes on. “I mean, take tonight, for example. You showed up to a nice dinner in those slutty grey trackies, all uncomfortable about havin' your cock on show, but you still had a hot date with the face of Nike’s latest campaign.”

“You weren’t supposed to take the piss.”

The beginnings of a smile form, and it blooms in earnest when he meets Jamie’s eyes.

“Ah, c’mere.” Jamie pulls him in again, sliding his hand up to squeeze the back of his neck. “No one deserves it more. You’re an incredible coach. Spent my life learning from you, haven’t I?”

They don’t move for another minute. If Roy’s lips brush against Jamie’s neck, or his breath shudders, Jamie will take that to his grave.

“Thank you,” Roy says when they finally pull apart. “I didn’t hate this as much as I expected.”

“You can admit you enjoy my company, y'know,” Jamie reminds him.

"Go on," Roy says as Jamie walks backwards toward his rideshare.

“Lads would be happy to see you," Jamie offers as a last call. "Might make fun of your willy, though.”

Roy smiles, full-on. Again. Hat-trick.

"Piss off."

“I’ll keep your secret safe, promise!”

“Go on,” Roy says again. “Be good.”

Then, Roy turns on his heel and rushes away, leaving Jamie standing there, feeling seventeen different kinds of sentimental.

Oddly a bit horny, as well.

The driver honks the horn, and Jamie shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he climbs into the back seat. Fucking Kent.

Jamie doesn’t mean for Roy to stay spinning ‘round his brain all night, but it’s just huge news, isn’t it. He practically live texts the entire party to Roy, sending photos and selfies with anyone who will stop and pose. Jamie forgets he pre-gamed with wine, and by consequence, gets a little drunker than intended. Sometime around midnight he leaves a voicemail to Keeley, thanking her for being a good friend even though he’s a dickhead, and for Brazil, and for helping Roy and him become better friends, even though she probably knows nothing about that, really. Or that was the gist, but he ain’t listening to that back with a gun to the head.

He’ll text an apology in the morning, and send the most unromantic plant he can find to her office.

At the party, Jamie catches the attention of many, but chats the longest with a bird with short, dark curls who claims his lap is the best seat in the house. She’s a right sort, and does everything he likes: plays with his rings, runs her hands through his hair, says she likes his style. Her long nails scratch down his back when she invites him to follow her outside, but for some reason, Jamie feels more than content to climb into his rideshare alone.

4.

A week later, Jamie texts Roy and asks if he can ask a question about work. 

- Yes, we can train next week.

- Do you want to see a film tonight?

- thanks coach. 

- and yea im down! what time

- I’ll pick you up at 6.

Jamie blinks at his screen, registering the words. He types out the question itching against his brain, but deletes it as soon as he realises he’s being stupid. 

- ur a true gent, kent. x

Later, Jamie hops out of the shower and finds himself in a familiar pose as he considers his wardrobe options: arms crossed, head tilted as he studies patterns and silhouettes like a curator browsing an art gallery, or a world leader making a decision that will alter the course of history. He refrains from calling Isaac this time, since apparently real fashion emergencies are only meant for dates and other important shit, and Jamie’s sure this wouldn’t count.

In the end, Jamie grows tired of humming and hawing, and settles for dark chinos and a fresh, black tee, deciding after all that matching dead-on with Roy will be a laugh, and they'll be in the dark, anyhow. He layers a couple silver chains on his neck to prove a point about accessorising, and when he looks in the mirror, he nods approvingly to himself, and makes a mental note for future reference. He does look sharp enough to be heading for a date.

Obviously, Jamie knows this isn’t a date, and he doesn't need to ask or check with anyone, because that’s just a bit of banter between them. Still, going to see a film is not something they've done before. The cinema isn’t the place to talk something over or drop any more big news, so Jamie figures Roy might just be bored.

To his surprise, Roy arrives wearing a tie-dye shirt, Phoebe in tow. She is wearing rainbow fairy wings.

“Oh, hello,” Jamie says blithely, quick to match Phoebe’s sunny disposition. She drops Roy’s hand and rushes towards him, so he crouches to embrace her, arms crunching the wings a bit.

“We’re going to see Jurassic World!”

Jamie raises his eyebrows, first at her, then her uncle. “Woah, mate, dinosaurs are scary.” 

“I’m brave,” Phoebe assures with a resolute nod. “It’s not scary if you know it isn’t real. Real-life monsters are always human.”

Jamie frowns. “Oh?"

“Her mum was on-call,” Roy explains, hand on top of Phoebe’s head. “Sorry.”

To Jamie’s delight, Roy does not handle the several jump-scares throughout the film well. He shouts in fear twice, and curses under his breath countless times. Jamie can’t control his giggling, and they’re shushed by the people next to them, then again by a much displeased Phoebe.

On the way out of the cinema, Jamie atones by giving Phoebe a piggyback ride, pretending her wings give him extra velocity. 

“Can we go for ice cream?” she asks sweetly.

“Eff no,” Roy says, which makes Jamie chuckle. “You need dinner.”

“What about dinner and then ice cream?” Jamie bargains.

This, Roy’s eyebrows seem to reluctantly approve, and Phoebe cheers. 

Minutes after they're served their meals, Jamie begins gently ribbing Roy about his reactions to the movie, poking him in the side as he grumbles. Then, Phoebe interrupts:

“Do best friends ever kiss?”

Jamie’s smile falls, giving Roy a sidelong glance that goes ignored.

“Sometimes,” Roy says, visibly tense. “If they want to.”

It’s a good answer. Jamie nods in approval, taking a sip of water before he starts back in on his chicken burger. 

Phoebe tilts her head, considering, then looks at Jamie as he takes a bite. “Does it mean they have to stop being best friends?” 

Jamie mouth falls open for a second, but he clamps it shut and finishes chewing. He swallows, looks back to Roy, who's eyes are stuck on his plate, then Phoebe, who looks as sweet and inquisitive as a little girl could ever be. Jamie shoves another bite in his mouth instead of even attempting a response.

After a beat of silence, Roy looks at Phoebe. “Not always. But sometimes that happens." He clears his throat and shifts away from Jamie slightly. "Are you having…feelings like that?”

Jamie feels, on the whole, horrified to be in this conversation. He looks around the room, locating the loo is, and gets ready to make a mad dash for it.

“No,” Phoebe asserts, scrunching her nose adorably. “Kissing is weird.”

The relief that washes over Roy is almost palpable.

“Fair that,” Jamie says with a shrug, stealing a chip from her plate. Roy elbows him. “What? It is weird!”

“But if they want to, friends should be allowed to kiss, even if I think it’s weird,” Phoebe reasons, then smiles. “And I want you two to stay best friends forever.”

Roy goes slack-jacked, while Jamie drops his burger and inhales sharply. “Listen, that’s n — ”

“Let’s get ice cream,” Roy interrupts, grabbing the dessert menu at the end of the table. “Brownie sundae? Banoffee sundae? Your pick, Phoebe.”

“Both?” Jamie suggests mildly. He doesn’t get a good look at Roy’s face, tilting away from him as he examines the menu with a sudden intensity, but Phoebe’s jovial cheer seals the deal on that, once again.

After the three of them have split two desserts, they scuttle back to Roy’s on a bit of a sugar high. Phoebe quickly enlists Jamie as Roy’s understudy in the second act of her play while Roy sorts the laundry. Phoebe manages a convincing princess costume for Jamie with her box of crafting supplies and a tiara that she insists, really and truly, belongs to her Uncle Roy.

“Can tell you’re not training,” Roy says when he enters the foyer, which has been effectively destroyed within ten minutes of their arrival. “‘Cause you can’t keep up with a fucking nine-year-old.”

“Oh, piss off.” Jamie re-adjusts his tiara, admittedly short of breath, but he’s just attempted nearly twenty bloody pirouettes on demand. 

“That’s a pound!” Phoebe shouts from across the room.

Roy corralls the dragon to get ready for bed, so the princess starts poking around for his shoes. Phoebe had taken to them as soon as he’d slipped them off at the door, and, once informed of their worth, decided they would represent a secret treasure that the dragon was bound to protect.

Jamie is digging for them under the sofa when he hears Roy re-enter the room.

“I’ve got Phoebe in the mornings next week,” Roy starts. “But we can get together in the evenings.”

Jamie grabs the tiara from the floor before letting Roy pull him to a standing position. There’s a itch in his fingers, suddenly.

“If you’ve got the time.”

“I’ll make time,” Roy says easily, warmth etched against his eyes. He's always more amiable when he’s been around Phoebe. Jamie decides to let himself enjoy it, this side of Roy not everyone gets to see, and places the tiara delicately on Roy’s head.

Jamie grins, unabashed. “Sweet.”

5.

A couple weeks before pre-season, Roy calls and asks Jamie if he has dinner plans.

“Was gonna ask you the same,” Jamie says, adjusting his phone on his shoulder so he can tie his laces. “Thought we could try that new Thai place.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says as he stands up, then tightens the drawstring at his waist. “Going for a run first, though. Want to join?”

“It’s pissing outside.”

Jamie heads over to the window and takes a look. “Cats and dogs, that.” He shrugs and heads to the kitchen to find his protein shake. “Guess I’ll head to Nelson Road. Want me to grab us some takeaway, after?”

He takes a couple long swigs while Roy debates this in silence.

“Or…” Roy starts. “You can come here, and let me take care of dinner.”

“Oh.” Jamie sits down his shake and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Alright, yeah. I’m in. Don’t need to bring anything, do I?”

“No, unless you have any special requests,” Roy says, sounding unusually accommodating. “I went to the shop, and I have some ideas.”

“Interesting,” Jamie says with a lilt. He opens and closes the lid on his shaker bottle absentmindedly. “Back to the special supplies, are we? Wanna tie me up again?”

“Christ, Jamie. I was talking about dinner.”

That earns a laugh from Jamie. “Nah, mate, you know I’ll eat anything.”

“Thai curry wouldn’t take long,” Roy says, like he’s thinking out loud.

Jamie hums his approval as he reaches back for his shake. “If you — oh, fuck me.”

He knocks the bottle over, cursing again as his shake pours out and rushes to the edge of the counter. He manages to leap backwards right as it splashes on his trackies, and Roy says something that Jamie misses in his fumbling. 

“Hold on, I’ve made a right fucking mess now.” Jamie quickly tosses his phone to the side and finds a towel. He grimaces while he soaks up the liquid, trying to avoid getting any more on his clothes or the floor.

After he rushes through cleaning up, he picks up his phone again. “Right, where we were?” Jamie says, winding through the house toward his bedroom. He kicks off his trainers along the way. “Oh, tying me up then feeding me Thai, think it was.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Roy sounds a bit cross with him, now.

“You always think I’m taking the piss,” Jamie protests as he pushes into his bedroom. He puts Roy on speaker and tosses his phone on the mattress. “I can be serious sometimes, too, y’know.”

“And you’re serious about this?”

Jamie rolls his eyes and starts shimmying his trackies off his hips, raising his voice a bit so it carries. “I mean, thought the rope was just a laugh, before, but I’ll take it serious, if it’s that important to you.”

“What’s important to me is that we’re on the same page.”

Jamie makes a face as his trackies pool at his ankles, then frowns at the dark stain on the material. He finds a bit of spot remover spray tucked near his hamper and has at it.

“Same page about what, now?”

“What this is going to be like between us. What you expect, and what I expect.”

Jamie leaves the remover to soak, considering this. He figured they’d just pick up where they left off, but now he isn’t so sure what Roy has in mind for their training, now.

“Didn’t think things would be that different, if I’m honest," Jamie says. He shifts his attention to his training gear, which is easily the least organised and most-used part of his closet. He’s not got many clean trackies that pair well with his new trainers — bright pink and white Nike Vaporfly’s — but he’s a man on a mission, now.

He misses part of what Roy says, but catches the end: “Doing right by you is important to me.”

“Oh, sick,” Jamie says to himself, right as he finds a viable option. They’re black shorts, but he’s fairly sure the swooshes are the right sort of pink. Then, he pauses, belatedly processing Roy’s words. “Wait, what’s the matter?”

“I don’t want to fuck things up between us.” Roy sounds like he's gearing up to have a proper fit. Jamie’s not sure what’s got him in such a shape over training. “I tend to do that.”

“Gaffer thing has your head all over the gaff, doesn’t it?”

“Well, it’s not making things fucking easier,” Roy mumbles.

Shorts in hand, Jamie takes a breath and sits on the edge of his bed. Roy’s overthinking things between them, which isn’t hard to do. He sympathises.

“Y’know, you're allowed to enjoy stuff, too,” Jamie reminds him, because in his opinion, Roy’s barely even treated this like the achievement it is. “No sense in spoiling things for yourself before they even start.”

“Fuck,” Roy says sharply, how he does when he’s on the precipice of something that’s usually only profound to him, or, more often lately, when Jamie’s right about something and he doesn’t want to admit it. “Fuck. You’re right.”

Jamie grins, satisfied, and rises from the bed proudly. “I know I am. But give me a minute, I need to change.” He tugs his shorts over his bum and snaps the waistband at the hips, then puts the phone to his ear once more. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Roy says, voice low. He clears his throat. “I’m not being funny, but, what are you wearing?”

“Shorts, and those trainers Phoebe was after.” Jamie turns to assess his bum in the mirror. “You taking notes on what I wear, now, too?”

“I’m overthinking it,” Roy says. It isn’t an understatement, if Roy’s actually worrying that much about Jamie’s training gear, right now. “Whatever you’re wearing is fine.” 

It does make Jamie wonder exactly how tortuous this unplanned pre-pre-season training is going to be, but then he pouts at his reflection for a minute and all is forgotten. He runs his hand over his jaw, deciding he needs to shave in the morning, and ponders when his last facial was. If he can’t remember, it’s been too long.

“Not sure what you’ve got in mind for me, but I’m sure my legs will be jelly afterwards,” Jamie says, extending his calves in the reflection. “In any case, my thighs are out and looking fit as ever.”

Roy hums in a pitch that surprises him. “Glad we’re staying in.”

“Are we just gonna have to do everything at yours from now, or summat?" Jamie asks, fussing with his hair, day-old and due for a deep condition. "So it don’t look like you’re playing favourites?"

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Roy says, perturbed. Another incomprehensible pivot that makes Jamie twist his face. “This isn’t helping me avoid stressing about it.”

“Right, sorry,” Jamie says, making his way to the ensuite to find a headband. “Well, I’m ready for you. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll give you everything I have, Coach.”

Roy exhales, sounding frustrated, but his tone is unexpectedly fond as he says, “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Think that’s up to you, isn’t it? How hard you go on me, I mean,” Jamie teases, then starts heading back down the hall again. “Been awhile, though. Could stretch now, if it helps, that way we can get right to it when I get there.”

It sounds like Roy is choking on air. Jamie’s about to call 999 when Roy starts speaking again. “Whatever — you normally do before, is fine. If that’s what — what you want to do tonight. I don’t know. You can — or, I can. If that’s — ”

“You want to stretch me?” Jamie interrupts. He’s suddenly struck by the idea of his ankle propped on Roy’s shoulder, and Roy leering over his torso to push Jamie’s hamstring against his chest. “That’d be new.”

“Is that what you want?”

Roy doesn’t sound quite right, but Jamie’s got other problems, at the minute. Spinning his head around, Jamie starts scanning his foyer for his trainers. He’d taken them off somewhere between his bedroom and the kitchen, but he’s not got a clue where.

“Is that what I want,” Jamie repeats as he shuffles his bar stools around, dipping his head underneath his island. He shrugs off the mental image and aims for indifference. “Dunno, really. Guess I’m just used to taking orders when it comes to this stuff.”

“I don’t know if this conversation would be easier had in person, or if it’d fucking kill me, to be honest.”

“Uh, not sure I follow,” Jamie says, craning his neck to see if the other ended up under the dining table, somehow.

“If you’re serious about this,” Roy explains, slowly. “We need to talk about it.”

Jamie pauses his search, frustrated. “Why wouldn’t I be serious? Said I meant it, didn’t I? As long as you’ve got time, I’m all in. Just weren’t sure with your promotion and all.”

“Of course I’ll make time for you,” Roy says, right as Jamie finds one of his trainers, and he makes a quiet noise of victory. “We already spend too much time together.”

“You know, there might be good reason for that,” Jamie says, smiling. He checks the pinks match as well as they did in his head — perfectly, since Jamie’s got a sixth sense about fashion and all — before he continues, “Think you’ve always liked me more than you let on.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Right again. He smiles. Then, miraculously, Jamie catches sight of his other trainer near the sideboard.

“Finally.”

Roy chuckles, but Jamie can’t find the joke he’s missed. Lad’s sure got some impressive mood swings when he’s stressed. Never the mind, Jamie sits down to slip on his trainers for a second time. 

The line stays silent.

“You alright?”

“I’m…” Roy trails off. “Having a feeling.”

Fucking endearing, that.

“Nervous, maybe?” Jamie says as he picks up his phone. There’s a noise that would only vaguely be interpreted as Roy’s assent, if Jamie wasn’t already an expert in decoding all his innocuous grunts and growls. “New makes people nervous. But, look, it’s not all new, is it? Bit out of your comfort zone, but that’s where we said all the good stuff is, remember?”

“You’re right.” Once in a day is unusual, twice is unheard of, but admitting Jamie is right thrice in a single conversation? Jamie should mark his calendar, today’s a bloody holiday. “Just get over here, will you?”

At once, Jamie plants his trainers on the floor and stands up. “Yes, Coach.”

There’s an unusual noise on Roy’s end of the line.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Roy says as Jamie fishes for his keys. “You’re going to make me do something very stupid. Just text me when you leave.”

Jamie’s not sure what Roy’s on about, and understands even less when he’s standing on Roy’s doorstep.

The moment Roy pulls the front door open, an amused smirk slips over Jamie’s face. Roy looks smart, wearing a black button-up, trousers, and black socks. They’re certainly tailored, hitting all his angles just right. Still could stand to add some colour here and there — just a chain or two, that’s all — but even Jamie has to admit, Roy looks dead fit in all black. Unquestionably.

Jamie nods his approval, even as he considers the accents he’d add if Roy ever decides to make the wise choice and commission his styling services. Then, Jamie discovers the faint horror on Roy’s face.

“You’re dressed for training,” Roy says to Jamie, who is, as planned, in his running gear. “You think we’re training.”

“Yeah…” Jamie says cautiously, taking a half step back and shoving his hand in his pocket. He tries to peer behind Roy, not sure what he could’ve been up to today to have him dressed as he is. “Did I miss something in the last twenty minutes, or?”

“Fuck.” Roy shakes his head, falling away from the door. He looks like he’s been blindsided, and Jamie becomes concerned about whatever the stress or old age is doing to his memory. “Fuck. No. Yes. Let’s go to my gym.”

Jamie’s not been to Roy’s too often, but turns out he has more than enough space and equipment than he'd expected. It almost gives Jamie a few ideas for his own space, but as a rule, he tries to get out of the house for his training.

“So, what are we doing, Coach?” Jamie asks after he’s taken a look around. He’s itching to do something more explosive, like box-jumps, but Roy sounded like he had it all planned out on the phone earlier. “Or did you want to talk, first?”

“No. Just — whatever you want.” Roy responds distantly, looking down at his phone as he crosses the room. “Warm up. I’m taking care of something.”

A bit stunned, Jamie stares after him. He looks down at his legs, tanned and waxed and lovely, if he's honest. Surely Jamie's thighs couldn't have ruined his training plans, or Roy would’ve certainly bitched about it in plainer terms.

Jamie goes through his usual warm-ups and drills, with some adjustments given the space they’re in. It quickly becomes their weirdest training session yet, and by a wide margin. Dragging Roy ‘round town on a bike was peaches to this. He isn’t even training him; he simply shrugs and agrees with whatever Jamie suggests, typing on his phone furiously all the while. He doesn’t keep count or pay any attention while Jamie does his lunges or squats or box-jumps. Jamie hops on the treadmill on his own accord and Roy doesn’t give him a goal or offer so much as a glance in his direction. Doesn’t tell Jamie that if he’s singing under his breath, he’s not working hard enough. Tells him nowt.

After an hour, Jamie punches the buttons rapidly so the treadmill slows, letting his feet pound heavily against the tread. Roy doesn’t look up from his phone or demand Jamie keep pushing to toward the next mile. He doesn’t even move.

“You get stood up or something?” That, of all things, makes Roy look up. Roy looks absolutely fuming, so Jamie gestures to Roy’s ensemble. “I mean, what is it you’re dressed up for?”

“Photos,” Roy says, clipped. He locks his phone and puts it in his back pocket. “Some kind of manager press thing Keeley organised.”

Jamie takes note of his metrics before hopping off the machine. As he approaches Roy, he lifts the hem of his shirt, wiping the sweat off his face in one long drag. When he drops it, he smirks, chest still heaving.

“See, I knew I’d be a good influence on ya.” Jamie would reach out if he wasn’t dripping in sweat at the minute, so he puts his hands on his hips and gives another approving nod towards Roy. “Definitely suited for a date.”

“Fucking hell,” Roy mutters, turning on his heel and heading towards the door. Jamie hovers, perplexed. Then, Roy shouts, “Shower is down the hall. Dinner will be done in thirty.”

“Oi, you got any of them sexy grey trackies that’ll fit me?”

After Jamie showers, he finds a black t-shirt and matching bottoms in the guest room. Bottoms are quite snug, but they’ll do the job. Jamie passes Roy working in the kitchen on his way to the laundry, then throws his gear in the washer along with some of Roy’s as a favour.

Jamie left his phone in the car, and he isn’t keen to run out into the rain when he’s already damp from his shower, so he watches as Roy cooks their dinner in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled at the cuffs. After a few minutes, Jamie catches a subtle, embossed detailing on the fabric and raises his brows, impressed. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“Meant what I said earlier,” Jamie says, balancing his chin on his palm. “You look well fit in that shirt.”

Roy glances at Jamie over his shoulder, opens his mouth, closes it. He turns back to start plating their dinners.

“Thanks.”

Jamie moves to help. Upon closer look, the shirt definitely looks familiar, and he reaches out to touch the material.

“Is this Versace?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Roy snaps, wriggling away from Jamie’s touch. “It’s a black shirt. How can you even tell?”

“Got an eye for detail, don’t I.” Since Roy doesn’t seem interested in any of his help or free compliments, Jamie crosses his arms and leans back on the counter. “Just check the label, mate. Can’t believe you pay and get ‘em tailored and all without knowing what you’re buying.”

Roy doesn’t have a response to that, intent on washing his hands. Jamie stares at the back of Roy’s head and realises something else. 

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Roy says when he turns, eyes narrowing.

“You got a new barber,” he says once he's solved the mystery. “That’s what’s different. Couldn’t place it.”

Jamie moves in Roy’s space to clean his own hands, but Roy slips away, tossing the tea towel on the counter in the process.

“Do you think you’re psychic, now?” Roy says, heading toward the dining area with their plates.

Jamie trails behind. “Can just tell. Looks different. Better, even.”

After Roy sets their dinners on the table, he takes a sharp inhale, avoiding Jamie's eyes. Jamie watches Roy settle in his seat before taking his own. The man doesn't even say thank you, doesn't look proud or happy. In fact, his face looks quite sour, even as he starts in on his dinner.

“I asked Isaac,” Roy says, after a minute.

“Did you?”

“Yes,” Roy says, shoving another bite in his mouth, then shakes his head as he swallows. 

“Must’ve been some important photos, then,” Jamie tries.

“I do not walk to talk about it.”

It’s beyond Jamie why Roy invited him over here for a silent training session followed by an equally silent dinner, but he's starved. He starts making a dent in his meal and decides to let Roy continue keeping up whatever vague air of mystery he thinks he’s maintaining by being cagey about haircuts and photos.

Jamie inhales his first several bites before he can pause long enough to ask, “What’d you say this is, again?”

“Coconut chicken curry,” Roy says to his plate.

“Well, I fucking love it.”

Roy seems pleased about that, at least.

They continue their dinner without saying anything else, because Jamie’s not trying to poke the bear, at this point. He finishes before Roy, staring at the unlit candle between them. He’s a breath away from offering to clear the table when the laundry chimes down the hall, so he heads back to load the dryer.

Jamie returns to find their dishes in the sink and Roy digging in the fridge.

“I’ll be out of your hair within the hour,” he promises Roy’s backside.

“You want a beer?”

Jamie accepts, and doesn’t hide his surprise when he's handed a Darsteiner. He blinks at the bottle, then up at Roy.

“Did you get these for me?”

Roy shrugs, apparently set on keeping up his grumbling streak as he tosses the cap of his own beer.

Jamie stands in place, perplexed, as Roy moves towards the foyer. They spend time together, sure, but Jamie is not here often enough for Roy to just keep his favourite beer stocked. He turns the bottle over in his hands like another angle of the label might explain what he’s missing here.

When he looks up again, Roy is sitting on the sofa and unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. Roy sighs again, seemingly discontented, and picks up his beer before spreading an arm out against the back of the sofa. Eventually, Roy must feel eyes on him, and looks over at Jamie, who is, admittedly, still staring at him. To tell you the truth, Jamie feels good as frozen.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Jamie shakes his head a bit, then looks at the beer again. Looks over to the dining table, the unlit candle. Looks back to Roy, who is absolutely, undoubtedly, dressed for a date. Fresh cut from Isaac. Wearing fucking Versace.

What the fuck is going on.

Roy seems to get bored of waiting on Jamie's reply, taking another long pull from his beer. Jamie studies the movement and tries to remember all the shit Isaac talks about body science. He gives up pretty quickly, because he can’t tell if Roy’s arse is clenched right now, and instead tries to remind himself what Roy was going on about on the phone earlier. Something about overthinking, and making time. Telling Jamie he was right. Roy asked what Jamie wants, which was odd. Jamie may have taken the opportunity to flirt a bit, but that was banter. That was for a laugh. Because it’s just a bit, between them — pretending they’re going on dates during the off-season, because they both know there’s not much reason to spend as much time together as they do, going to the cinema and cafes and chatting every day. But they’re closer now, they’re best friends, so it’s not like that. Unless, well, Roy wanted —

Suddenly, Jamie’s got Phoebe’s little voice in his head, back at the restaurant, and Roy fumbling through the interaction.

Then, he thinks of Roy saying to him earlier, “I don’t want to fuck things up between us.”

“Ohhhhhh.”

At the sound of Jamie’s noisy, but nonetheless profound, realisation, Roy turns. He’s mid-drink at the time, so a bit of beer spills on his shirt in the process. Jamie smiles as Roy wipes his shirt uselessly and swear under his breath, thinking of the mess he’d made earlier when they were chatting on he phone.

Quite good at making messes, they are.

Roy stands, still mumbling under his breath, and by god, he starts unbuttoning his shirt even lower.

“Shouldn’t have worn this, anyways,” Roy mutters.

Jamie sits down his beer and looks down at his own shirt, faded black and soft and Roy’s. Thinks, again, that the only shirt fitting for this situation would say I’m with stupid, bold and underlined. Suddenly, he remembers Roy saying, muffled and low through the speaker, "You’re going to make me do something very stupid."

Like a moth to a flame, Jamie moves forward. Or, like a horny footballer to a right sort, who’s now got his chest on full display. Jamie wants to bury his face in Roy's chest hair. Maybe he should be thinking about romance, at the minute, but. He’s only human.

Roy crosses the room, looking agitated and exasperated but still dead fucking fit.

God, Jamie’s an idiot.

“I’m going to — ”

“Wait,” Jamie interjects, catching Roy’s wrist. “Wait a minute. I figured it out.”

Roy looks at him with his brows narrowed and for a moment, Jamie doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s not used to sorting his thoughts in these moments, because he’s a fucking footballer, and courting ain’t all that complicated, especially starting out, but this is different. Something new. It’s ancient history. It’s a right mess, is what it is. And it’s not straightforward between them, and it never has been, but it’s always been fun, even when they were bickering and bitching and — 

“You can have a wank over the fucking label once I’ve taken it off,” Roy snaps, pulling Jamie from his thoughts. He starts to pull away, but Jamie’s grip tightens. “Are you trying to wrestle me out of it?”

Jamie’s face twists as he tries to keep from grinning, because this is serious, and it’s important that Roy knows that — but fuck, it's just fucking sweet, isn’t it. Always used to think Roy was skittish before, but when Jamie moves closer, Roy doesn’t even bat an eye.

“Don’t care about the shirt,” Jamie says, licking his lips as he looks rather plainly at Roy’s chest. “Bin it, for all I care.”

Roy wrenches his wrist free. “Don’t be a dick.” 

Jamie thinks himself a gent, and a romantic, too, when he wants to be, even if he’s pretty turned on, so he makes sure to meet Roy’s eyes when he says, “You didn’t tell me to dress for a date.”

The look on Roy’s face. Well, it’s priceless.

“What did you say?”

“This is a date,” Jamie says. He can't help but smile when Roy’s expression softens, when he can practically feel the shift in his mood. “Isn’t it?”

It feels surreal to see it firsthand, but it’s the god’s honest truth: Roy Kent’s cheeks turn the faintest pink, even though he’s not had a drop of a wine and only as much beer as there is on his shirt. He also doesn’t seem to be able to speak or move, but he doesn’t need to for Jamie to be able to read his mind now. Roy's eyes drop to his mouth, then he looks at Jamie like he’s not sure what allowed, or like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, bless him.

“You want to date me, proper, yeah?” Jamie emphasises. “Old-fashioned and shit. You’re trying to impress me, treat me. Wine and dine me. Yeah?”

Roy looks like — fuck. Like he’s having a feeling. Or, really, more like he's rapid-cycling through a million fucking feelings. Eventually, Roy lands on something that's quite sweet, honest and nervous, of all things.

Somewhat belatedly, Roy nods. Fucking cute. Jamie's smiling again when Roy asks, “Is that what you want?”

And fuck, it’s too much. Jamie starts giggling, full-on. Instinctively, he moves towards Roy in an attempt to soothe his frown. Fitting a hand against Roy’s hip seems to do the trick. Jamie drinks in the sight of Roy's bare chest again before meeting his eyes, warmer now, but his brow still drawn together.

“Yeah, I do.” Jamie bites down on his tongue. He is serious about this, but he’s also quite a bit giddy, too. This is the stuff of fantasies, not anything real.

Jamie takes a breath before he continues, “Roy. I mean it. I want all of it.”

“Fuck,” Roy says, practically an exhale. Relief seems to shed from his shoulders as he sways forward a bit, sighing, and Jamie sighs, too; a weight lifted. “Come here, you.”

So, Jamie tilts forward and kisses Roy, easy as anything. No dancing, no bits, no teasing. Simple as.

Objectively, it’s a perfect fucking kiss. Ain't no question about that.

Roy brings him closer, a hand on the back of his neck. After only a minute, Jamie is well and thoroughly kissed. When Roy breaks away, he feels something bubble up in his throat and shake loose inside him, and suddenly, they’re laughing. And it feels like netting a double hat-trick, or maybe like discovering something truly fucking life-changing that’s been hiding in his peripherals, and even after seeing and believing and touching, he still can’t wrap his brain all the way around.

Jamie slides a hand against Roy’s waist, the endorphins making him feel silly and safe. He bumps their noses a bit.

“Mm. Not bad for a horny football fanboy, am I?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Roy kisses him again, pulling his hair a bit as he licks into him, and Jamie feels his chest expand and swell. It’s discovery and it’s familiar, all at once: the smell of Roy, their bodies moving together, grabbing at one another to make the space between them impossibly smaller. Everything is unrestrained now, and more.

Rather quickly, Jamie figures out that Roy likes to take his time kissing, and he’s quite good at it, too, which makes the two of them a great match, as far as Jamie's concerned. It’s always fun to kiss someone who gets really into it, who kisses deep and long and purposeful, bruising. At one point, Roy practically dips him, or maybe Jamie’s knees buckle, he’s not sure. All that matters is Roy keeps him upright, keeps him close, holding their bodies together. Honestly, Jamie has half a mind to drag Roy down to the floor and crawl on top of him, covering his body with his own. But for now, Jamie's hands are busy roaming all over Roy’s chest and abs, eventually coming towards the small of his back. 

Soon, Roy guides Jamie backwards, and Jamie doesn’t know what direction they’re heading, or why, but truthfully, he doesn’t care, happy to stay lost inside Roy’s kiss. He feels the rushing in his ears before he even hears the sound, and then his world tilts on its axis and they’re horizontal. They only break when they start gasping into each other's mouths, the cool rush of air against their lips, hot and slick.

Jamie realises that they’ve ended up on the sofa when Roy shifts, kissing down the side of his face and neck. Fucking mint. He starts pushing Roy’s shirt off of his shoulders, rather tired of looking at it now, considering it nothing but an annoying barrier to all of Roy’s inviting warmth. Roy shifts back to finish the job, tossing it to the floor, but the inside catches Jamie’s eye.

“Wait a minute,” Jamie says, sitting up so Roy will lean back. Jamie retrieves the shirt, fumbling for the label. “Knew it.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Roy says, sliding his hands up Jamie’s torso until his shirt is bunched around Jamie’s armpits

“Only 'cause it’s fucking hot," Jamie says, then gives Roy's shirt a whiff. Earthy and woodsy and sexy as hell; but really, just Roy. He bites his lip against his own smile. "You got dressed up for me. Asked me what I was wearing, fucking hell, I would’ve — ”

Jamie breaks off with a moan. Roy’s mouth is on his chest now, robbing him of all words and coherent thought. 

After a minute, and a million more breathy gasps and moans, Roy drops his forehead to Jamie’s shoulder.

“You look good in my clothes,” Roy says.

“Gimme an old kit,” Jamie says, delighting in the familiar sound of Roy's growl, except now, it's soaked in sensuality. It's pure fucking sex. Jamie is about to lean in again when he realises he's still holding Roy’s shirt, so takes a pause to smell it again, considering. “Is that Tom Ford?”

“You’re an idiot.” Roy plucks the shirt from Jamie's hands and tosses it over the back of the sofa. “And a label whore, at that.”

Jamie's eyes brighten, pulling Roy forward by his belt loops until he falls against him. Roy seems intent on moving his mouth all over Jamie's chest, so Jamie lets him have at it, winding his hand in Roy's hair. There's a soft, nearly silent moan from Roy, so Jamie scratches it generously with his dull nails, surely messing up all Isaac’s work. He doesn't care, and cares even less when Roy grazes his teeth against his collarbones, grasping for purchase.

“You know, I like being called names, sometimes,” Jamie says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile when it comes out all breathy.

“Figures,” Roy says, then kisses him on the chin. “Prick.”

“Not what I meant.” Jamie pouts a bit until Roy kisses it away. It’s rather telling, how Jamie just melts into it. Roy must notice, too, ‘cause he does it again. And again.

After a couple more digressions, they manage to get Jamie’s shirt all the way off, mouths and tongues all over each other. Jamie revels in the feeling of their skin together, warm and lovely, going almost dizzy with it. That lightness keeps breaking through, that weightless thing between them Jamie kept noticing all summer, and it's making every touch feel fucking heavenly. The feeling expands in Jamie's chest until he’s just air, floating and unbound, even with Roy solid and sure on top of him.

“Gonna tell me what names you like, then?” Roy says, voice low and gruff.

Jamie rakes his fingers up and down Roy’s back, indulgent, digging his nails in a bit around his shoulder blades. “Mmm, yeah. I need to earn them, I think.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, eyes slipping shut when Roy starts moving his mouth against his neck again. “Mm, can tell me if I’m being a brat sometimes, or a slut, or — ” Roy groans against his jaw, and again when Jamie slides his hand down to just feel how hard Roy is in these ridiculous, tailored, sexy trousers of his. Jamie licks his lips, looking him in the eye as he finishes, "Or a good boy.”

“Fuck, Jamie," Roy rasps, looking down at Jamie's hand against him. "You’re — ”

Roy growls again, and if that ain't the sexiest sound on earth.

“Hm?” Jamie prompts,

“Definitely a brat,” Roy says, then kisses him again sharply before he adds, in his ear, “Bit of a princess, too.”

Jamie’s mouth falls open, then his eyes. That’s new.

“Is that — ”

Then, Jamie's scrambling and pushing so he can climb on top of Roy.

“Fucking hot, yes. Yes,” Jamie sputters once he’s in Roy’s lap. He kisses him hard, holding his face. He knocks their foreheads gently when they part. “Why’s everything you do drive me fucking mad?”

“Old habits,” Roy says and then chuckles, a glint in his eye.

Impulsively, Jamie bends down and digs his teeth into Roy’s shoulder, not gently. Roy hisses a breath, and Jamie pulls back to check the temperature to find Roy’s eyes darkened, his mouth parted.

“Do that again.”

“Love to," Jamie says with a smile, then leans down to bite down the tender skin near Roy’s collarbone. Roy moans louder this time, and then shudders a bit when Jamie lavishes the area with his tongue. It's hot as hell.

Before long, they start grinding in earnest, and Jamie is more than bothered by all the material separating them now.

“Help me, will you,” Jamie complains, shifting his hips this way and that as he tries to tug down the waistband without success. Roy’s trackies went on much easier than they’re coming off, which is unfortunate and beyond frustrating, given the situation. “Can’t get them over my — ”

“Huge fucking arse, I know.”

Roy fits his hand inside the material from behind, resting against Jamie’s bare arse, but doesn’t make any effort to actually help get the bloody things off him. Feeling impatient, Jamie starts to shift back so he can stand up and take care of the job himself, but Roy keeps him anchored, fingers digging in possessively. He's about to gripe when Roy kisses against his jaw, the side of his face, and Jamie can feel Roy's smile bloom against his skin. The sound of Roy’s chuckle, especially like this, is unfairly sexy.

“Roy,” Jamie whines, even if he can't stop smiling, either. He’ll beg all day if he’s got to, and honestly, he doesn’t mind to do it, but fuck. He’s not been this turned on in a minute.

“Look at you,” Roy purrs, voice like honey, and it makes Jamie flush, the feeling melting down his chest. He’s not feeling shy, but he’s covered in so many layers of affection and horniness and too many fucking clothes, and it's getting to him. “A mess for me, already.”

Jamie nods, 'cause he is. Roy removes his hand from Jamie’s arse and seems to surrender the worthy cause of getting their dicks out, but then, he gives Jamie’s bum a slap, earning a high-pitched moan in return.

“Again,” Jamie manages, eyes hooded.

“When you’ve earned it,” Roy promises.

Jamie's dick is fucking throbbing at the minute, and the waistband of Roy’s unfairly small trackies are pressing right against it, but Roy’s arms have a vice grip on his hips, now, and it doesn’t seem like he’ll be letting Jamie move away anytime soon. 

So, Jamie takes matters into his own hands. He grabs at his bulge, relieving some of the pressure. He likes the way Roy’s eyes follow, the way Roy's tongue darts out to lick his lips, the way he watches Jamie touch himself over the material. He likes having Roy’s attention —always has, more than he could admit — and he's got all of it now; Roy appears to be quite invested in this turn of events, breathing harder as watches Jamie palm himself through the material, captivated.

Truthfully, Jamie would love nothing more than to put on a show for Roy, but he warns, “I’ll be making a mess of these bottoms if we don’t do something soon.”

Roy smiles. The weirdest things make him do that, now. 

“Maybe that’s what I want.”

Jamie moans softly, 'cause that's unfairly fucking sexy, too, and whines a bit when Roy's hand replaces his against his crotch. He quickly accepts that it’s not gonna be difficult to get off now, clothes or not, with how keyed up Roy’s already gotten him. With Roy's eyes on him. The added friction, the desperation, doing what Roy asks and wants — being what Roy wants — that’s enough to do Jamie's head in. That’s enough to have him coming untouched. 

Will have to try that, sometime.

Jamie leans in to kiss him, because it’s been too many seconds since their last. His lips brush against Roy’s when he says, “As long as it’s your clothes we’re ruining.”

“Wanna see you ruined,” Roy responds, and gives his bum another slap. Jamie whimpers, moaning louder when Roy does it again. “Wanna see you begging for it. And all mine.”

Jamie thinks he definitely could come just with Roy speaking to him like this. He tries to spread his thighs a bit wider, best as he can with the trackies low on his hips. The material will surely either rip or be rid of before long, in the moment or the aftermath.

They haven’t even gotten into the best of it, Jamie realises, and finds himself saying, “We're gonna have fun, ain't we."

“Yeah,” Roy agrees easily before bumping their noses, then their mouths, again.

When they break, Jamie almost asks what Roy wants to do with him, waiting for Roy to do or request something else. Instead, they just sit there, staring at each other, hard and horny and breathless. They’re a mess already: shirtless, bite marks and lovebites blooming, pre-cum staining their trousers, hair in a right state. And they’ve got no clue what they’re doing yet, but somehow, it feels like a sure thing.

Jamie takes Roy’s face in his hands again, nails scratching against his beard.

“Can’t say I expected tonight to go anything like this.”

Roy’s eyes crease as he kisses the bridge of his nose, then his forehead. “Yeah. Me either.”