Archive of Our Own

He loved football, is the thing. Always had. He loved it back when he were just a wee gangly lad in a kit too big for him that he’d eventually grow into. He loved it in the prem, hearing thousands of fans chanting his name whenever he so much as breathed in their direction. 

Loved, though. As in past-tense. As in, things are different now. 

There’s a lot of things different now. 

Jamie pulls himself out of bed, feeling all wrong in his body. Like his skin has shrunk whilst sleeping but his bones have remained the same. He tries to stretch it out and succeeds only in pooling the discomfort into his chest where it coils and wraps around his ribs and leaves him a little too breathless for 3:45 in the morning. 

He brushes his teeth. Washes his face. Moisturises. Applies suncream even though it's cold out. Changes into his workout gear.

At 4am, one of the things that are different now announces itself with the jaunty trill of his doorbell and the solid thumping of a fist on his door. 

Roy Kent is maybe almost his friend. 

Fucking mental that. 

“Ready?” Roy grunts, as if Jamie isn’t already running on the spot in his doorway with his headlamp blinking out some indecipherable morse code.

“Gonna keep up this time?” Jamie quips, tongue sticking out as he hops past him. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, which is weird but Keeley told him once that you hear your own voice differently to how others do, so maybe he’s finally hearing it for real. It’s warbly and rough. He’s not a fan of it. 

Roy mustn't be either, cause he’s giving him a funny look as he catches up though he says nothing about it, which is nice. They’re maybe almost friends after all. Not immediately attacking each other is a requirement for such a tenuous relationship.

The running is easy. As is the first half of the workout Roy directs him through and it’s quiet enough in the early morning fog that his thoughts drift back to football, how it used to mean everything to him. How that between Zava showing him up every other day, his dad’s prolonged silence that never means anything good, and the weird, floaty feeling that trickles in and out of his life and has done ever since he were a lad, he’s just not got the capacity to care anymore. 

It would be weird to say it out loud though. He’s lived and breathed football for so long he might get institutionalised if he admits he’s not fussed if he ever plays again. It doesn’t even sound right in his own head. It’s not like he doesn't care about losing, even if that's mostly just cause’ it would make the lads sad and they’ve worked hard to get where they are and he wouldn’t want to take that from them. Growth, innit. So he shows up at 4am training like a bloodhound on the scent and he runs himself ragged on the pitch and he hopes it will all just sort of work itself out. That the floaty feeling will float away and take with it the exhaustion beginning to burrow in his bones and the piss-drunk voice in his head that's more than making up for his dad’s silence. 

Roy is looking at him again with the same expression he bears down sudoku’s with and it makes his skin itch. He sticks out his tongue and waggles it mid-burpee, earning him another three sets but at least melting the look into one of begrudging fondness. 

“You alright?” Roy asks later, shoveling a handful of berries into Jamie’s oats. He’s not looking at him, which is how Roy seems to prefer communicating anything more than tactics when it comes to Jamie. 

“Huh?” Jamie mumbles, half not wanting to answer and half not hearing him over the blender churning up his foul tasting protein shake. 

Roy’s silent for long enough that Jamie thinks he’s going to drop it, which would make sense. They’re maybe almost friends. Maybe almost friends don’t have to drop to anything below surface level ‘How are you’s’ and ‘Boy isn’t the weather weathering today.’ He’s pleased almost. His assessment of their relationship was bang on. 

“You just seem a bit off today.” Roy says, and Jamie’s world wobbles a little. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Roy speaks as though it’s physically painful for him to do so, but it’s enough to knock Jamie’s entire world off its axis. Enough for his response to sound almost truthful from the sheer bewilderment of it all. 

“Nah mate,” is what tumbles unbidden out of his mouth. “Just tired. I’ll be alright after brekkie.” 

His voice doesn’t sound like his own again, but Roy’s nodding like everything makes sense anyway. He’s glad for that. 

“Eat up then,” he grumbles, pushing the oats towards him and moving to wash his hands. He continues watching him though, like Jamie’s some creature in a zoo that he can’t figure out. Jamie finds himself trying so hard to act normal that he keeps accidentally doing weird things. Like saying goodbye to Roy at the door instead of the kitchen. Like holding the door open for far too long for Beard to cross the car park and enter Nelson Road. Like not bouncing from foot to foot on the pitch. Like bouncing too much from foot to foot on the pitch and dislodging his hairband and not bothering to put it back. 

By the end of training it’s not just Roy staring at him. Beard joined in early on after the door incident. Isaac and his freaky understanding of body language came next. And then Sam. Then Colin. Jeff and Jan at the same time. Dani, but he was always smiling and staring at everyone so nothing new there. Ted was last, narrowing his eyes at him and then shaking his head as if dismissing something. It didn’t stop his eyes drawing back to Jamie every so often. If his skin was itching before it’s searing now. He wants to take it off and dunk himself in an ice bath but that would both be impossible and weird so he sticks his chin out and bears it long enough to quickly change and jump into his car, unshowered, before anyone can stop him. 

დ

The mornings seem to be getting darker, and the early chill seeps through his closed windows and bristles against his skin. He’s out of toothpaste in the cup by the sink so he opens the cabinet and jumps back when the mismatched boxes of heavy duty painkillers prescribed to him over the years finally topple from their wonky tower and scatter into the sink. He breathes out, looking at them like he’s never seen them before. 

It never made sense why they kept giving them to him. It’s not like he was dying. Sprains and strains and tears and breaks but nothing world ending or anything. He never understood why he lied about taking them either, only that when he was sixteen and his dad broke his arm by accident he’d had the painkillers snapped out of his hand and told to not be so soft. 

He takes the time to restack the boxes, more carefully than before and retrieves the toothpaste. He brushes his teeth. Washes his face. Moisturises. Puts on suncream despite it being 4am and raining. Changes into his workout gear and waits by the door for the bell to ring. He opens it before a rain-bedraggled Roy can start knocking, and the frown he's greeted with tells him he's annoyed at missing the chance to hit something.

“You good?” Roy asks, something in his eyes burning holes in him.

“Grand,” his response comes easy, the accompanying smile doesn't. “Lovely morning, innit? Refreshing and all.” 

Roy answers him by opening up a brolly and barking for him to get a move on, and by the time he's running his smile has finally caught up to the rest of him. 

Today's warmup is spent wondering what would happen if he told Roy. He's a fixer. Someone who looks at a problem and fucking glares and needles at it until it's fixed or fucked off. Exhibit A, Jamie Tartt until he weren't a prick no more. Exhibit B, Jamie Tartt getting sent packing back to Manchester. He's not exactly sure what it is he would say, or what exactly his problem is, but he knows it needs fixing, ideally. 

Ideally his chest wouldn't feel like a sandpit he's constantly choking on. Ideally he would be able to sleep when he closes his eyes at night. Ideally he'd have the appetite of a premier league football player, and the gumption to do something about it. Like eating at regular intervals. Like taking care of the temple he built for himself and handed the keys over to Roy. Like giving a shit. 

Jamie's never been much of an idealist anyway. 

“Phoebe's been asking about you.” Roy grunts during Jamie's cooldown. “Wants you to come over.”

“Is that how you get all the fit lads round eh?” Jamie winks, leaning into the hissing pain of his hamstring. 

“Only the annoying ones.” 

“Shoot me a text next time she's round yeah? I'll swing by.” 

Roy's answering silence is enough for Jamie to wonder if he said that internally like and not on the outside. He's always doing that lately, having these conversations in his head and not realising he hasn't said anything in minutes and now everyone else has moved on. He chances a glance up at Roy, who's staring at him as if he's just spoken in tongues. 

“What, just like that?” 

“That's how plans work mate. You know how to text right? I can make your phone text bigger if that helps your old man eyes. You got cataracts?"

“Prick. I mean how can you know you'll be free? I'm not getting her hopes up on an instant Jamie fucking Tartt button.”

Jamie shrugs, rolling out his shoulders. “It's not like I'll be doing much else.”

Roy scoffs at that, sketching a frown into Jamie's features. Fuck is he laughing for? What's he done wrong now?

Something must show on his face cause Roy echoes his scoff with an eye roll. “You. Jamie Tartt. Don't have any plans. Right, and I'm the Mona fucking Lisa.”

“You sure moan enough.” Jamie snaps. “What d’you have against my schedule?”

“You’re serious?” Roy stands. “You’re in your prime you fuck. You're always doing photoshoots or interviews or you’re with the lads or being obnoxious in public.”

Jamie considers, just for a moment, telling Roy. Telling him about cancelling on his shoots and fielding his agents calls. About skipping out on team days and FIFA nights. About not stepping foot in a club for months, though that last one might be more down to the two-drink policy that makes strangers thrusting around you in the neon-dark less appealing.

He considers it. Doesn't actually say nothing, obviously. There's nothing to say. He's tired, is all it is.

“Got a copy of my schedule do you?” He asks instead, cause being a prick will always be easier. “You're so obsessed with me.”

“Fuck no.” Roy snarls, lifting himself from the bench as a full stop to a conversation going nowhere good. “You're jogging home.”

დ

He’s staring at the reflection staring back at him. It’s definitely him. It has his eyes (and the bags underneath them). His bedhead marred hair. His cheekbones. His lips. He opens his mouth just to check and yep, there’s his tongue and teeth. He clacks it closed again, frowning. Mirror-him frowns back, and Jamie can’t help but feel like he’s looking at a stranger wearing his face. Like he’s disconnected somehow. 

He’s not looking at his reflection anymore, though he doesn’t know when that changed. He’s opened the cabinet without registering the movement and now he’s staring at those little stacked boxes. All names too long and too complicated for him to pronounce. He imagines, for a moment, taking some. Just enough to dull the pain. Painkillers, innit. Clue’s in the title and all that. It might help even if he’s not exactly sure where the pain is except internal. Except fucking everywhere. 

He imagines, for a longer moment, taking all of them. 

He shuts the cabinet with a bang. 

Brushes his teeth.

Washes his face.

Moisturises. 

Applies suncream.

Changes into his workout gear.

He looks at the stranger in the mirror one last time before the doorbell goes. Doesn’t recognise the empty expression looking back. 

Roy's distracted during morning training, swearing at his phone with almost as much vitriol as he swears at Jamie. Something about a scouting report. Something about Ted's moustache.

It's easy enough to ride the wave up until training where Beard greets him with a calculating glare outside the changing room. Arms crossed. Face impassive.

“Uh, you good mate?” Jamie's shuffles from foot to foot, shifting the weight of his bag on his shoulder. 

Beard's eyes narrow for a moment, and whether he finds what he's looking for or not Jamie has no idea. Beard steps out of the way, gaze following him as he ducks into the room and the swirling chaos that swallows him whole. He's there before Zava at least, that's gotta count for something.

His arms are full of Dani within seconds, who's jumping along to the discordant sounds of Colin attempting to rap along to a Bad Bunny song while Jan, mildly horrified, films it in landscape mode. 

Jan's eyes raise to meet his. “I refuse to film in portrait. I do not have the brain of a tiktok.”

It's that, of all things, that bubbles a laugh out of him. Dani takes his hands and prompts him to jump up and down and Jamie follows on instinct, the tight band wrapped around his chest loosening with every Welsh accented line battering around the room. 

The morning is a distant thing behind him, prickling in his periphery. It feels silly now, especially as he runs out onto the pitch, the sun peeking behind the clouds and promising to wrap the remainder of the day in warmth. What, exactly, was all the fuss about?

დ

His watch tells him he got eight hours of sleep, which is fucking stupid because he wakes feeling like he hasn't slept in days. His bones are dense and he can neither lift nor roll himself from the bed. 

He's not taken a day off since that first time around with Ted, and that was enough to scar him for life. Still, lying here now he can't particularly see the downside. Or rather, he can't see the alternative. 

With lazy fingers he unlocks his phone and stares for a long time at his home screen, Sam on his back after a win, both of them grinning. With a grimace he slides open his texts, shoots a quick one to Issac. 

“Hey 👑, soz to do this but dying today 🤮 think I ate somethin dodge. Can't come in today unless u want to paint the pitch pale yellow. Pls tell Ted it's real this time 🫡” it'll be several hours before Isaac wakes up, no use waiting around for the dots to appear.

Next he opens his chat with Roy, bites his lip as he realises he forgot to press send to his last message, the draft of a response he'd probably put far too much effort into making sure it sounded good. He sighs. Deletes it. Refills its space with a new message.

“Aight Royo, I can't do our powwow today 😭 don't come over, I'll get u sick and u'll get Phoebe sick and then both u and ur sister will kill me.”

The dots are instant, but Jamie closes out of the chat before a response can come through. Flopping his arm over his eyes he rolls back into the warm spot in his bed. When he pulls his arm away it comes back wet.

His phone buzzes as he closes his eyes, ready to spend the whole day under the covers he forgot to wash. What the everliving fuck, is the everliving point.

დ

It's easy enough to pretend he's still ill the next day. And the day after that. It's easy enough to leave his phone off charge so it eventually dies and takes with it the incessant buzzing. It's easy enough to look at his toothpaste and easy enough to walk away.

დ

Jamie Tartt loved football is the thing. Always had. Loved it when he was top of his game and loved it when he was a plane ride away coked out of his head on a show he barely remembers filming. He loved it when he was training at 4am and when he was training with the lads and when he was training by himself. Loved it when he was a kid. Loved it when he was grown. 

Loved, though, as in past tense. As in he's put his phone back on charge just to see if anything's changed. Fearing, or perhaps hoping to see an email from Ted or Rebecca cutting his contract after all. 

As in it's 4am again. He's not showered in a couple days, not washed his hair in more. As in he's staring at his reflection in the mirror that's staring back with a stranger's sunken eyes. A neighbour's door knocks somewhere far away from where he's both winning and losing the staring competition. 

He watches his lips quirk into a smile. The edges twist cruelly. Is this what it was all for? Every sweat-soaked sickening summer heatwave on the streets outside his house. Every gravel pitch with blown out lights. Every bad mark on a test. Every friend he's blown off to chase a far-flung dream as fast as his legs could carry him. Every lesson he's born from his dad. Every concern he's fielded from his mum. Every pundit declaring him the next best thing one day and ripping into him like carrion meat the next. The knocking outside gets louder. There's shouting now too. Man, he'd hate to be whichever neighbour has to open their door to that.

He opens the cabinet more to break off the staring competition than anything else and it's almost a relief to see the stacked boxes are where he left them. With someone else's shaking hands on someone else's arms he reaches out for one, feels the sharp corners of the box and listens to the rattling of the pill packets inside. He thumbs it open. Shakes the packet loose. Stares at it. 

This is what it was all for eh? There's something funny in that. 

He thinks his phone might be ringing. It vibrates in his pocket but he can’t hear it over the blood thrumming in his ears that's slowly drowned out by a warm wash of certainty. He can't even hear the knocking anymore. He pops the foil open on each pill, the sound satisfying something within him and soon he's opening another box, and another after that. He looks at the assortment, grimaces, and opens another. Closes the cabinet. It's good to be sure.

His hand isn’t even shaking anymore. With a nod to the Jamie in the mirror he tips his head and hand back, feeling the soft skin of his palm as it brushes his lips and then all of a sudden another hand is knocking it away. The pills scatter into the sink and onto the floor, skittering along the floorboards with a sound like rain. His eyes snap to the intruder even if his head is a little slow to follow, and all at once he takes in the form of Roy Kent, chest shuddering with uneven breaths, eyebrows knitted so closely together they’ve formed one mass. Anger and fear warring in his eyes that bear into him. Behind him, the door to his bathroom, flung open. An indent in the wall where the handle must have hit it.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Roy growls, he’s in Jamie’s space now, all puffed up and bristled like an alley-cat. 

Innit fucking obvious? Is what he wants to say. What does it fucking look like? Is another. None of your fucking business crosses his mind too. What comes out is vastly more pathetic. It starts out as a choked sob that bursts inside his chest and leaves him doubled over in search of the breath he’s rapidly losing. He can’t suck in enough air to quell it.

“Fuck.” Roy swears, suddenly in front of him on the floor he doesn't remember sitting on. His rough hands are on his face, fingers trembling. “Did you take any? Jamie. Listen to me, yeah? How many did you take?”

Jamie shakes his head, pushing Roy as he backs himself into a corner. He hears Roy's knee crunch as he loses his balance and topples backwards, each staring at the other like they were both the rabbit and the headlight. 

“Okay,” Roy breathes, hands outstretched like he’s corralling a wild animal. “Okay. I’m gonna stay over here, alright? I’m not gonna move. You hear me okay?”

Jamie nods, eyeing the door over Roy’s shoulder and calculating how quickly he’d need to run to get out. 

“Right. Did you take any Jamie? Before I got here?”

He shakes his head, fingers curling around the strands of his hair and tugging. Fuck. Fuck. If he lives past this, this is going to be the most embarrassing fucking thing he’s ever experienced. 

“Okay,” Roy breathes again. It sounds a little like relief. “Okay. Do you, have you. Fuck. I’m no fucking good at this. Do you want me to call someone?” 

Jamie shakes his head again. His hands find his eyes and he presses the heels against them hard enough to see stars. 

“You don’t have to fuckin’ worry about me or nothin’”

“I clearly fucking do. And I fucking will. So fucking deal with it.” Roy growls, eyes flashing and a wince stuttering through him like he regrets it.

“Why are you here?” Jamie blinks his eyes open. He watches a curious shade of red flush over Roy’s face. 

“You weren’t answering your phone.” He grunts.

“So you break into my house?” 

“Nobody could get hold of you.” 

“Yeah.” Jamie scoffs. “That was kind of the plan.” 

He’s still watching Roy, which means he sees the moment his face crumples. Sees the admirable attempt to school his features back together. Sees the moment he blows out a defeated breath. 

“Don’t matter anyway,” Jamie shrugs. “Can’t exactly face the lads after this can I? It’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Christ Jamie, I'm not going to tell them. Who the fuck do you take me for?”

Jamie’s wandering hands find one of the pills scattered on the floor. He picks it up between his fingers, and feels the chalky residue. He doesn’t have an answer for that. 

“You should talk to someone though,” Roy says, “Not the lads, obviously. They’re idiots. But Dr Sharon maybe. You still seeing her?”

“Haven’t been for a bit.” Jamie sniffs.

“Maybe let's start there, yeah?” Roy grunts. “Actually. Let's start with getting up off the floor. Think you can manage that?”

“I’m a fucking footballer. Of course I can stand up.”

“Won’t believe it till I see it.” Roy quirks an eyebrow at him, but his breath hitches like he’s testing the waters of a cold lake. 

“Fuckin’ feast your eyes then.” Jamie grumbles as he suffers himself to stand. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and thinks, frankly, if he does live past this, the face looking back at him is going to haunt him forever.

“Nailed it lad,” Roy nods. “Next step, what do you want for breakfast?”

Jamie must be looking at him like he’s mad, cause he’s certainly thinking it. 

“Can’t start the day on an empty stomach.” Roy ushers him towards the door, closing the scattered mess behind the both of them. “Plus, I’m hungry.” 

Roy's back is tense as he murders the eggs in the pan. He looks back at Jamie every few seconds or so like he's expecting him to disappear. Grips the spatula hard enough to dent it. 

“I'm sorry.” Roy says after the silence becomes too heavy to hold. 

“What for?”

Roy puts the spatula down, grips the edges of the kitchen counter and visibly counts his breaths. 

“You've been off for a bit, and I noticed it but didn't want to say anything cause I didn't want to seem fucking, overbearing or something. Convinced myself I was seeing things.”

“I wouldn't have admitted anything if you'd asked.” Jamie half shrugs. “Reckon we'd always end up here.”

“If I make you an appointment with Dr Fieldstone, will you go?”

Jamie thinks for a moment. He could say no, wants to even, but Roy is looking at him again. His forehead creased and fingers vibrating against the countertop. 

“Yeah alright,” he says, ducking his head to avoid seeing the reaction. He curls his hands into the fabric of his shirt. Rests his head against the cool kitchen table. Listens to the sizzling of eggs and tries to figure out how the fuck he got here. A broken front door and his childhood idol staring up at the closed bathroom with a faraway look. Roy's eyes flicker through the scene he's playing in his head, it doesn't seem a pleasant one. Jamie closes his eyes, thinks about not opening them again.

დ

Dr Fieldstone’s new office is slightly more homely than the previous one. There's a large plant by the window that has a name too scientific for Jamie to pronounce with any confidence.

It's an off day so Nelson Road is quiet apart from the clicking of keys as the admin teams do whatever the hell it is they do. The groundskeepers roll out the giant UV lights to combat the cloud-marred rain tinged sky. 

“Okay Jamie,” Dr Sharon says after the conversation lulls, ‘we’re going to come up with a plan.”

“I already had one of those.” He shrugs. “Didn’t work, s’why I’m still here innit’”

Her expression softens and she rests her notepad on her lap, folding her hands above it and leaning slightly forward. 

“Not that kind of plan, Jamie. The opposite, actually. It’s called a safety plan and it’s a tool we can use to help navigate those feelings and urges and ultimately to keep you safe.”

“Oh.” 

“What we want is to prevent you from escalating to that danger point again, not to cut the feelings out entirely. I do not believe that is either possible or healthy, but we can manage them. Do you understand?”

“Not really.”

Dr Sharon watches him for a moment, shifting in her seat and tapping her fingers against her notepad.

“Okay,” she nods, “let’s say for example you were feeling upset about something. If you told yourself to stop feeling upset, would that work?”

“Uh, no.” Jamie shakes his head.

“What would happen, if you told yourself to stop being upset and it didn't work?”

“Um. I’d be even more upset, I guess.” Jamie scratches the back of his neck. “Like I’d feel stupid for getting worked up and like, feel guilty or something.”

“Okay, and if you then told yourself to stop feeling guilty?”

“I’d feel even guiltier. And stupider.”

“Right,” She says, like her points been made. She watches him for a moment, perhaps waiting for it to land for him too. Right now he just feels guilty and stupid for not getting it and he’s not even allowed to tell himself to get a grip. 

“What we can do instead,” she continues, “Is recognise what we are feeling and why. If we know what we are feeling, we can work on specific ways to cope with it.”

“Like the pink elephant thing?”

“You might need to help me out a little there Jamie.”

“Y’know, like the sayin’ where if I told you not to think of a pink elephant, you’re gonna think of a pink elephant.”

She smiles then, rare and warm and it loosens something lodged inside him.

“Exactly.” She says. “Your feelings are that pink elephant. You can’t ignore him. You can’t avoid him. But once he’s there, you can figure out how to get him out of the house. Right?"

Jamie grins, actually grins at that. “Yeah.” He says. “I get it.”

Roy is waiting outside when Jamie leaves one safety plan later and with a doctor's appointment booked. He’s halfway out of the chair like he's been up and down and pacing since Jamie went in an hour ago. 

“How did it go? Not that you have to tell me, of course. There’s no like. Fuck. Expectation, or whatever. Or pressure. I was just checking in. It’s optional. Talking about it.”

Roy looks like he’s about to explode, and Jamie is feeling both very smart and very charitable right now. 

“Sound mate,” he says, clapping him on the shoulder briefly, “Gotta get the pink elephant out the house, innit.”

დ

It should be more surprising that Roy corrals him into the G-Wagon afterwards. He's not taken his eyes off him unless they're in different rooms and even then Jamie can feel his glare through the walls at Nelson Road. Plus there's the small matter of his latch still being broken after Roy battered his way into his house. The locksmith can't come out till tomorrow and he don't quite fancy going back there anyway. 

He doesn't complain, is the gist of it, when Roy lets him choose the radio station and change his mind half way through each song. Doesn't complain when Roy ushers him into his house. Doesn't complain when he's sat on Roy's comfy sofa, bracketed by cushions. 

He considers complaining when Roy tiptoes around him like he's something breakable, and this careful quiet is so not Roy it sets Jamie's teeth on edge. But he gets it, he thinks. If Jamie found Roy the way Roy found him, well, it don't bear thinking about. 

Roy puts a cup of tea down on the table in front of him, the steam curling up and out and dissipating in the pregnant air between them. 

“You can call me stupid now,” Jamie grumbles, sinking further into the cushions. “You must be biting your tongue off with restraint.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” 

“Cause this is all pretty stupid.” Jamie snorts, picking up the mug just for something to do with his hands. 

Roy takes a long breath that rattles. Here it comes, Jamie tries to brace himself. 

“You're not stupid.” Roy growls. “And I don't care what that prick voice of yours in your head is saying, you ain't soft either.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It's not, actually.” Roy isn't looking at him anymore. 

Something icy clicks into place and Jamie can't help but shudder bodily against it. His eyes snap to Roy's guarded expression. Jaw drops a little, enough for a soft “Fuck,” to escape. 

“When?” He asks, leaning forwards to get back into Roy's line of sight. The silence that follows is a reluctant one. 

“After I retired.” He grunts. “Didn't get round to it, obviously.”

“Fuck Roy, why didn't you say anything?”

Roy's eyebrow quirks high enough Jamie fears for it falling off. The stare he's levied with is heavy enough to hurt. 

“Right, fair.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Good point well made and all that. Are you uh, good? Now?”

“Better.” Roy says, taking a slow drink from his own mug. “But we can talk about me later. How do you feel?”

Jamie deflates back into the sofa, he searches for a genuine answer. 

“Tired.”

“I'll order us in some food, go take a nap and I'll wake you when it gets here.”

Roy stands, probably to find his takeaway menu drawer like an ancient caveman instead of opening any of the many delivery apps out there. 

“Roy?” His voice is quiet and small. Roy turns at the doorway, patient.

“Uh, cheers. For everything. I know it's like, a lot.”

Roy's smile is small but genuine, warming something frozen within him. 

“It’s worth it.” He says, “You're worth it.”

Roy nods before ducking through the doorway and Jamie closes his eyes to the sound of a drawer opening, his stomach coiling and curdling as he digests those words. 

He thinks about the pink elephant. Wonders how the hell you get an elephant out of a house. 

დ

“How do you get an elephant out of a house?” He asks the next morning after a sleepless night. 

Roy looks up at him over his plate like Jamie is a complex maths problem. 

“The fuck?”

“Like, how would you get an elephant out of your house?”

“How would an elephant get into my house?”

“It's a, fucking, hippothetical or whatever. Just answer it.”

Roy frowns, his eyebrows doing that funny dance they do when he’s thinking hard. 

“Does it have to get out alive?” 

Jamie blinks at that. “I guess not? I think I'd rather it though.”

“Right.” Roy grunts. “Well I reckon the elephant doesn't wanna be in my house almost as much as I don't want it to be. It's gonna want the savanna or something. So I'd make sure the house was unlivable for an elephant and make the outside more appealing.”

“How's he gonna get out though? Can't exactly fit through the door can he?”

Roy shrugs, “walls can always be rebuilt.” He turns back to his breakfast. “Besides, I'm sure as fuck not doing it on my own, more hands to get him out and more hands to fix things up after.”

Jamie thinks he might be gawping at him. 

“What are you looking at?”

Jamie is definitely gawping at him.

დ

Part one of making his house unlivable for the elephant is getting back into his routine. He and Roy pick up 4am training again, and after a week of rest he's back at Nelson Road with daily Dr Sharon check ins. The lads are dead pleased to see him, which is nice. 

Part two is following through on his doctor's appointment and going with Roy to pick up his prescription of anti-depressants. Part two and a half is actually taking them. 

Part three is checking in with his safety plan on low days, and since most of them still are low days, he's doing that a lot.

Part four is scheduling things he's looking forward to. Coffee with Keeley. FIFA with Colin. Pottery class with Isaac and Sam. The Chelsea flower show with Dani and Jan. Part four and a half is spending all his other free time with Roy. 

Part five is letting people in. Just a few. Just enough to keep an eye on him so Roy doesn't become the first man to break an eyeball from staring so hard. 

Part five fucking sucks. 

დ

Ted and Beard are in the middle of an animated argument about the best High School Musical film, and whilst Beard might be right that it's the second one, Jamie can't afford to get distracted. He hovers at the doorway without knocking and feels like a lemon when they don't notice him straight away. He clears his throat, raps lightly on the doorframe. 

“Jamie Shark! Cool of you to swim on in here, what can we do you for?”

“I, uh, wanted to talk. If that's okay?’

“Is water wet?” Ted grins. 

“What?” Jamie asks at the same time as Beard shakes his head and says “Water isn't wet. It makes things wet.”

Ted swivels his chair back to face Beard, pointing a finger at him. “We are going to put a proverbial pin in that because I cannot wait to get up your caboose with all the reasons you are wrong.”

“It's science, can't be helped.”

“But what about -”

“-sorry,” Jamie interrupts, rolling his hands into the bottom of his shirt, “I um, don't have too long.”

“Right you are superstar!” Ted swivels back to face him. “Boy when me and Beard get going we're like a suburban dad and his lawnmower, there just ain't no stopping us. What can we do you for?”

The weight of both of their attentions is a lot less bearable than it is on the pitch. He counts his breaths. Thinks back to the words he's practiced. 

“I just needed to tell you somethin’ cause it'll show up on my medical file.”

“Oh crikey, you okay Jamie? Not hurt are you? I know you've been off sick this last week but I thought-”

“I'm not hurt.” Jamie interrupts again. “Not like, physically anyhow.”

Ted's eyebrows dive down at that, his moustache twitching. Beard, for his part, crosses his arms and levels Jamie with a knowing look. 

“I'm uh, on anti-depressants now. Still getting used to them so I'm all out of whack at the moment.”

“Jamie-” Ted starts, his features doing calculations that will eventually lead him somewhere complicated. Jamie holds up a hand to quiet him. 

“I don't wanna talk about it really.” He says. “It's enough to say I took some time off and the conclusion of that time off is I'm now on medication. I'm letting you know in case anything happens at the club, or if the meds have me acting all weird.”

Ted's hands shift from the tabletop to beneath it quickly, but not quick enough for Jamie to miss the tremors starting in them, nor the quick glance Beard shoots his way. Ted, surprisingly, is silent. 

Or rather, not so surprisingly. He was quiet enough when he saw his dad for the first time. Quiet enough at Wembley. Quiet enough when he was floundering back at Richmond. Quiet enough when he lets Zava get away with everything Jamie was attacked for. If anything Ted is an expert at ignoring Jamie Tartt and any of the troubles that come with him. 

Ted's a decent guy, Jamie knows that. But he's a flawed one. And if those flaws have made things harder for him, it's not really his place to say as a player. Besides, Jamie finally got his second chance. It's not too much of a problem for him to lend Ted another one. 

“Thank you for telling us Jamie.” Beard says, inclining his head. “That's no easy feat.”

“Yeah well,” Jamie scuffs his feet against the floor, “necessary innit.”

“Still,” Beard shrugs, “Doesn't make it any easier. I know you said you don't know how to talk to me, but our door is always open, okay? I understand if you don't want to speak with us though. Does Roy know?”

Jamie nods, and Beard nods back. 

“And there is of course Dr Sharon. Rebecca is intimidating but has good advice. You can also never go wrong with Higgins.”

Jamie nods again, sparing a glance at Ted who is looking at him in a way that somehow isn't looking at him at all.

“What I mean to say,” Beard continues, “is people have your back here, and if you are uncomfortable with any of those options we will bring someone else in that you are comfortable with.”

“Right, uh, cheers. Can I - I've got to, you know-”

“You can go Jamie,” Beard nods. “And thank you again for telling us.”

“Mint yeah, no problem.”

Jamie backs out of the room like a burglar discovering a sleeping guard dog. He doesn't breathe again until the door is closed. The adrenaline leaves his body in a wave and he slumps back against the wall. 

Fuck, maybe it would have been better to kill the elephant. 

დ

Sam is waiting for him at the park, two takeaway boxes from Ola’s tucked under his arm. He's humming as Jamie approaches and a surge of guilt spikes through him at the prospect of ruining that peace. It dissipates when Sam turns to greet him, his friend's warm smile melting into the cracks and causing a genuine one to rise on his own features. 

“It is a lovely day.” Sam says, passing a box and fork over as Jamie settles in next to him. “Thank you for inviting me to spend the afternoon with you.”

“Yeah no worries mate.” The box creaks in Jamie's grip. “Cheers for coming and all that.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Sam tucks in and Jamie slowly picks his way through what can only be described as one of the most delicious things he's ever eaten.

“So,” Sam says, watching a mother chase after her child with a smile on his face. “How long do you want me to pretend I don't know you've got something difficult to say?”

If Jamie wasn't practicing his death grip on the takeaway box he'd probably have dropped it. “What?”

The look Sam shoots him is a fond one.

“You are doing that thing with your hands. And your face. And your whole body, really. You have a lot of tells my friend.”

“What's my body saying exactly?” Jamie cringes, glancing down as if expecting subtitles to appear on his bicep. How he's gone from an international man of prick mystery to an easy to read book is beyond him, but it certainly explains why Isaac has been hovering like an agitated hen all week.

“That you are experiencing something difficult, and you want to reach out to somebody but you don't know how to go about doing it.”

Jamie huffs, leaning back against the bench. “Yeah,” he sighs, “that's the gist of it.”

“I often find it helps to start at the beginning.”

Jamie bites his lip. It's hard to say when the beginning was. Was it when his dad came back into his life? Amsterdam? When he got loaned out? When he quit City? The show? The aftermath? Or has it always been there, hovering in the background of photos like a ghost in a bad horror film. 

“Or,” Sam continues, his full attention now on him, “from the moment you decided to speak to someone.”

Right, Jamie releases his lip. That's a lot easier to know.

“I um, wasn't sick last week.” Jamie puts the food down in favour of wrapping his hands in his shirt. “Or like, I was, but not like a physical thing. Though it became a physical thing I suppose, cause I was physically doing something. Or trying to. But then Roy, and you know what Roy's like. You know?”

“Not even slightly,” Sam tilts his head, “did he overtrain you? I have been worried about how much you're doing but I didn't want to say anything because-”

“-no, no, nothing like that.” Jamie looks dead ahead, imagining a giant pink elephant in the park. Imagining it chasing down the mother and child. Someone needs to do something about that.

“Last week I came as close as you could possibly come to making a really stupid, really permanent decision. I was uh, interrupted. It’s funny, actually. Roy really is here, there, and everywhere.”

Sam’s eyes widen to such a degree it would be comical in any other situation. Jamie looks down at his feet. 

“Broke my door and all. Twat.” He tacks on quietly. 

“Jamie-”

“I’m not telling you this for like, pity or anything. Or to worry you, cause I’m working on it and I’ve got all this shit in place now. But you’re-” Jamie pauses, swallows the bubble in his throat he’s starting to choke around, “one of my best mates. And I trust you, and I know I have no right to ask you to have my back in this or to like, look out for me or anything cause of everything we’ve been through and I know things are different now but I wouldn’t blame you, you know? If you didn’t have the time, or the capacity, or whatever.”

Sam bolts forwards, wrapping Jamie in a tight embrace and burying his face into the crook of his neck. 

“Oh Jamie,” Sam breathes, barely audible. “I am so sorry, my friend. That is awful. I am afraid I cannot join you in grief for your door. I hope Roy left it off its hinges.”

Jamie snorts, breathing in the safe warmth of Sam and returning the embrace.

“I suppose I can live with that.” Jamie says, “Roy’s the reason I’m here I spose’. He can have my door.”

Sam shakes his head, the movement jostling the both of them. “One of them.”

“Eh?”

“He is one of the reasons. Not the only one.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Roy interrupted you, yes?” Sam says, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “Which is something I will be forever grateful to him for. But has he spent every single minute, without rest or sleep, interrupting you from such an action?”

“He’s been trying to.” Jamie shrugs, “Can’t shake him. He’d live in my skin if he could, I reckon.”

“But has he?”

“No? I suppose? Like he’s slept obviously and I’m not always with him at the club. Or when I have therapy.”

Sam nods, smiling at him. “There you go then, Jamie Tartt. Roy Kent is one of the reasons my best friend is sat with me. You, my friend, are the other one.”

“Me?” Jamie asks, pointing at himself in confusion. 

“Yes. You are with yourself every second of every hour. You, despite things being hard, have kept yourself safe. Have reached out for help. Have accepted it when it comes to you. You are the reason you are alive. That is a very noble thing, in my opinion.”

Jamie’s thoughts still with all the sound and carnage of a car crash. He feels his eyes well up before words can tumble into his mouth. He doesn’t need them, thankfully, because Sam draws him into another hug, his hand rubbing smoothing circles on his back. 

Probably a good thing he didn’t kill that elephant. 

დ

Things don't exactly change. Zava is still a prick. His dad is still silent. His skin still feels too tight. Roy is still everywhere, and it would be annoying if it wasn't frustratingly endearing. 

Keeley figures it out on her own, cause she knows him inside out and all around. She clings to him like a limpet and fusses over his hair and reminds him, strangely, of his mummy. He calls her that night. Tells her he's back in therapy, she's dead proud of him. Simon too. He's sending treats in the post but he's worried the postman will eat them.

Issac figures it out too, takes him out on a day trip to London Zoo and lets Jamie talk his ear off about all the animals. They have a kick about as the sun sets. He doesn't mention the pink elephant in the room until they're sat side by side, knees knocking as they guzzle lucozade.

“You good?” Issac asks, watching him like he's worth looking at. 

“Yeah,” Jamie says, returning the look. “Getting there.”

Isaac grunts. Nods. Gives his shoulder a squeeze. 

Ted's weird with him, but that's nothing new. He hovers like he wants to say something but chickens out every time. Jamie thinks Beard looks a little disappointed each time it happens, and it's odd having that look not directed at him. 

Things don't exactly change until they do. Until Zava’s retired and total football is reminding him of what he loved about the beautiful game. He's still living at Roy's. Still unwilling to see that bathroom again. Still playing football. Still winning and losing and getting applauded by Man City in a way that settles deep in his chest. Still not hearing from his dad, till that changes too and turns out he's in rehab of all things. It's not a new thing, exactly, but this time he checked himself in and that is new. He doesn't know what to feel about it, and Roy says that's okay through gritted teeth that suggests he wants to say something entirely different. 

Roy's invited him out for a drink at Bones and Honey, which is mint, but first Ted wants to speak with him in his office, which is less mint, but bearable. 

The first clue he has that this isn't an ordinary chat is Beard making himself scarce the second he enters the room, giving Ted a long look that speaks volumes but Jamie can't decipher. Ted nods back, turns to greet him with an uncertain smile. 

“Hey pup!” He says, then immediately grimaces, “No sorry, I heard myself that time and that was bad. Did you know pup is what a baby shark is called? I thought it might sound clever but that just sounded super weird and you know what, I apologise.”

“No problem?”

“What I wanted to say before I messed it all up right out of the gate, is, well, I'm sorry Jamie.”

“About the shark thing?”

“I wish that was all.” Ted shakes his head. “Thing is I regret what I said to you at the City game. Or rather, I don't regret what I said but I regret I didn't have longer to explain myself.”

“You've lost me.”

“Forgiveness is a powerful thing Jamie. The most powerful thing any man can hold over another, and it takes guts and bravery and a whole lot of strength to do it. But I've been thinking about what I said, and who I said it to, and what that young man has been through in his short life, and well, it didn't sit right with me.”

Jamie watches Ted's moustache twitch. Watches him gather himself.

“Your father didn't make you who you are, Jamie. And I'm sorry I ever said anything to the contrary. You are who you are despite his influence, not because of it. I fear my own issues with fatherhood have spilled out onto you over our time knowing each other, but it's important to me that you know this. Forgive your father, if that is your wish. But you do not have to accept, or forget, the things he has done to you over the years. You do not have to let him back in. Hell, if you kick him to the curb I'd ban him from the venue within a millisecond. I think what I really meant to say was to forgive yourself for the person you had to become to survive the life you lived. That person has got you here today, and kid? I'm a hell of a lot proud of him.”

Ted looks ready to burst into tears any moment, and Jamie, despite being all accountable and emotionally available and shit now, has no idea what to do about it. Ted takes a moment to gather himself. Swats at his eyes. Breathes deeply.

“My dad killed himself when I was sixteen.” He says, “and I was just the one to find him.”

“Ted I-”

“-I am not telling you this to excuse my behaviour. Or to garner sympathy or anything. Truthfully, I do not want the team to know, it is not their burden to bear, nor is it yours. But I owe you an explanation Jamie, that much is clear to me.”

Jamie nods, silent. 

“What I mean to say, what all of this is geared towards, is an apology. I think I saw myself in you, and I think that led to unhelpful assumptions about your life. I wasn't there for you when you needed me to be, not ever. That is a failure on my part, and whether you forgive me or not, know I will strive to make it up to you. The way I have handled your time here I will forever regret. I do not know how much you were hurting, but I do know I should have spotted the signs. I should have taken you aside. I should have been a safe person for you to talk to. I wasn't. I apologise for that.” 

“It's alright Ted,” Jamie says because he has nothing else he can say. He thinks his brain might be overheating.

“Now I appreciate that Jamie, but be that as it may, I am still sorry. I will endeavour to make it up to you, and if I fall short you have my full permission to call me out on it. And if you don't feel comfortable doing so, lord knows Beard or Roy will do it for you.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Ted says with a smile. “Whilst I've been womaning up enough to talk to you, I've had the both of them in my ear like twin angels on my shoulder, only with a lot more shouting, swearing, and glaring. Though that's mostly Roy, come to think of it.”

“Oh,” Jamie breathes. “I didn't know he spoke to you bout it.”

“Boy did he.” Ted chuckles. “And he was right to. He's a good man, that Roy Kent.”

“Yeah he is,” Jamie nods, and Ted's responding smile is a knowing one. 

“You are too, Jamie.” He says. “Hell, if you'd have told me when I first started here that the most powerful and awe inspiring duo of my team and staff would be you and Roy? Well, I'd have believed them.”

“You what?”

“Why do you think I sat you together at the Gala? Y'all think you're chalk and cheese but in reality you're just peanut butter and jelly. You make each other better, kid. Always have.” 

“I don't think he'd agree with that,” Jamie snorts. 

“No?” Ted tilts his head, “you don't think the young upstart who reminded him so much of him when he was a lad drove him to work harder on the pitch to prove he still could? And you don't think the young man with hero worship a mile wide wasn't working extra hard to force said hero to notice him?”

“I wasn't like a little fan boy or nothing,” Jamie grumbles, “Roy's just, Roy. You know?”

“I know, Jamie.” Ted smiles, “Now I've kept you too long and I do believe the man in question is outside waiting for you and probably snarling up a storm. I'll let you run along, but please remember I am here whenever and if ever you want to talk.”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, “cheers coach.”

“And Jamie?” Ted says as Jamie is halfway out the door. His eyes damn near sparkling. “You two have my blessing.”

The slow closer on the door interrupts Jamie from asking what Ted means, and besides, he's no stranger to not understanding the American. It's just another day, really, except for the small matter that everything is changing. 

Except for the small matter that Roy really is waiting for him. 

Except for the small matter that for the first time in a long time, he's starting to feel like himself again. 

დ

It's nice, this thing between them. Whatever that thing might be. It's easy to be with Roy, there's no pressure to be anyone other than who he is. No pressure to pretend that things aren't the way they are. Roy is just this solid, calming thing next to him. His strong hands cradling a bottle. His gaze drawn to Jamie's under the low lights of the bar. The music in the background, thrumming in his bones. 

“So Ted apologised?”

“Yeah,” Jamie picks at the label of his bottle, “dead weird. But dead nice. Wasn't expecting it like.”

“About time.” Roy grumbles, taking another drink. 

It gets quiet, for a bit. Occasional chatter about the new Chelsea ownership being batshit and all the drama with Villa. Something about Roy's neighbour. A story about a cat on Jamie's street. 

“Ted thinks we make each other better.” Jamie says after things get quiet again. He hates himself for saying it, it's cringe and weird and sits wrong in his mouth, but Roy smiles at him. Takes another drink.

“He's said a similar thing to me. Ages back. I reckon he's right.”

“You do?”

“Sure,” Roy nods, “pissed me right off when I first heard it but I've had a lot of time to think about it. He's right. You make me want to be a better person, Jamie.”

“Like, in football?”

Roy shakes his head, “Sure. At the beginning, but every day I learn a new horrible thing about your fucked up life, and every day I make a new vow to myself to be a better person so as not to do that to you, or to anyone in my life.”

Jamie bristles, an alley cat against a stray dog. 

“I'm not-”

“-soft? Yeah, I know you ain't.” Roy interrupts. “You're the hardest motherfucker I know.”

“It ain't nice to make fun, Roy.”

“Who says I am?” Roy grunts. “Now I've spent the last month working on this script in my head, are you going to let me finish it?”

Jamie waves his hand in the space between them, leaning back with a cautious and appraising look. 

“The thing is Jamie, you make me a better person. You make me want to be a better person. For a long time I thought that was because I did just feel sorry for you, and then I thought I was doing it on Keeley's behalf, but then I had no choice but to open my fucking eyes and see the truth of things.”

“Careful Royo,” Jamie scoffs, his neck reddening. “Keep going like this and you're gonna make me think you're in love with me or somethin’.”

Roy is silent. It's enough for Jamie to look up from the table, enough to see the stubborn redness taken over Roy's face. Enough for his mouth to fall open.

“Holy fuck Roy, I just-”.

“Can you shut up for just one minute and let me say this? Then I promise I'll never fucking speak on it again and I'll give you your space and we'll all just move the fuck on.”

Jamie mimes zipping his mouth shut, sits all patient like even though his bones are vibrating. 

“There was a time,” Roy continues, eyeing him wearily, “that I thought I was jealous because of Keeley. Because you were still friends, good friends. Because you're this incredible person, and incredible player, and you've grown into yourself in a way that's frankly unfair to the rest of us. I thought she'd choose you and you'd have these ridiculously beautiful children and be named couple of the year every year for the rest of your natural lives. But then I thought for two seconds about it, and I wasn't jealous of you.” Roy shifts uncomfortably in his seat, breaks eye contact, growls at a napkin. “I was, I am jealous of her.”

Jamie blinks owlishly at him, his neck nearly snaps clean off with the force he whips his head around, wide eyes scanning for the prank patrol camera that's sure to be set up somewhere.

“I can't stop thinking about that day.” Roy continues. “What if I got there too late? What if I couldn't get through the door? What if you didn't stop? What if it didn't help? Every dream I've had since has been one about losing someone I love… and, much as it grieves me to say it, it… it might be that the people I love is, in fact…you. I know exactly what I'm risking here, but I promise you I can be normal about this. I can be your coach. I can be your friend. If it's too much for you I will back the fuck off and you won't hear from me again unless it's about your play. But I can't live with that image of you in my head and not tell you how I feel.”

“How do you feel?” Jamie asks, a giddy, bubbly feeling rising up in his chest. He feels himself smiling, feels himself taking off like a fucking helicopter. 

“Like I really want to fucking kiss you.”

Jamie doesn't know enough words in the English language to convey his response, but he doesn't need to. The bar is quiet, it's just them and the bartender who's gone to change the taps. He surges forward, slotting his knee in between Roy's and cradling his jaw as their lips meet. Roy growls something fierce, one hand gripping Jamie's thigh and the other coming up to cup the back of his neck, pulling him into the hungry kiss and breathing hot and heavy against him. 

The jangle of keys from the approaching bartender pulls them apart, Jamie's chin and cheek scratchy from the imprint of Roy's beard. 

Jamie tries his best to act normal about it, but then Roy is glancing at the exit and suddenly they're overpaying for their drinks and suddenly Jamie is pressed up against the wall in the alley outside, Roy crowding into his space and kissing him breathless. Suddenly they're in a car on the way home, hands held under their jackets. Suddenly they're back, Roy cupping Jamie's jaw in his hand and tilting his head up, kissing him softly. Like they've got all the time in the world. 

“Can't believe you actually quoted Love Actually back there mate.” Jamie laughs, leaning into Roy's hand as he pulls it back.

“Ted and his romcom bullshit got into my head.” Roy growls, his ears burning. He kisses Jamie again, and it serves as a fantastic distraction from him taking the piss.

“Is this, are we, I mean it's, what are we?” Jamie finally splutters, getting his breath and his senses back all at once. 

Roy releases his jaw, gazes searchingly at Jamie, his lips twitching uncertainly. 

“I fucked up my confession didn't I?” He asks, “I had so much more I wanted to say but fuck Jamie, you should have seen yourself under those lights.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie rolls his eyes, “I’m the hottest thing known to man. Now answer my question.”

“I like you Jamie. A lot. I know it's going to be difficult with our positions and with everything that's happened this year, but I want to be with you.”

“Like, be with me, be with me?” Jamie bites his lip.

Roy huffs a laugh, hands resting on Jamie's hips. “Yes.” He says. “Be with you, be with you. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Jamie grins, “that's grand.”

დ

Jamie Tartt loves football, is the thing. Always has. He loved it back when he were just a wee gangly lad in a kit too big for him that he’d eventually grow into. He loves it in the prem, hearing thousands of fans chanting his name whenever he so much as breathes in their direction. 

Loves. As in present-tense. As in, things are better now.

There are a lot of things better now. 

Jamie jumps up out of bed, stretching the sleep out from his bones and bouncing to the bathroom a little too eagerly for 3:45 in the morning.

He brushes his teeth. Washes his face. Moisturises. Applies suncream even though it's cold out. Changes into his workout gear.

At 3:50am, one of the things that is better now announces itself with the soft footfall and low grumble of “Morning” as Roy ambles into the bathroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes and grabbing his toothbrush.

Roy Kent is his boyfriend.

Fucking mental that.