Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So here’s the fucking thing. Jamie’s dad didn’t know Jamie’s mum had a freebie. That’s the thing with passives, yeah, unless you outright tell someone, or unless they dig through your government files or whatever, no one can really tell that you actually have a freebie. That’s why they’re called passives, for fuck’s sake.

That ain’t even considering that passives barely get registered in the first place. How’re you supposed to know you’ve got a freebie if that freebie is just something shitty, like, every time you put your hand in your pocket, you find a pound? Or one of Jamie’s mates, yeah, Josie from middle school. Every time he shakes someone’s hand, they get clear skin for a week. Like, how the fuck are you supposed to notice that?

So it weren’t like his dad could just blame his mum for never telling her ‘bout her passive, ‘cause she’d never been fully sure she’d actually had one. That’s one of the issues with ‘em, yeah, that people don’t know when they’ve got a passive freebie or when they’re just looking too much into something. But that ain’t the point, though. The point is: Jamie’s mum ain’t to blame for not registering, and Jamie’s dad shouldn’t’ve gotten in a fucking fit about it and left her when she told him, already five months pregnant.

But his dad did leave, so his mum had to work on her own to raise him. She worked her fucking arse off to make sure they survived, yeah. Just her working two jobs and always taking extra shifts. Just Jamie going to school and trying to keep good grades but always getting drawn to the football pitch instead.

Every day was just that. Tryna figure out what to do to get dinner that night, or tryna convince the teachers to stay a bit longer ‘cause his mum were just running late, promise, she’d definitely make it to the parent-teacher conference.

Living with nothing to worry bout ‘cept what was right in front of you meant that Jamie’s mum hadn’t gotten around to telling him about her passive until he were fourteen and tryna figure out how to fit his dad into his life.

She’d made him swear he’d never bring it up with his dad, yeah, ‘cause it’d only make him mad if he did. So he figured that were sound advice, ‘specially since that’s all he were focusing on at the moment, just how to make his dad happy enough with him to stick around for a while.

They’d been sat down on the couch, his head on her shoulder and their knees bumping against each other, the TV playing some show that neither of them were really paying any attention to. They were sharing a blanket, even though his mum insisted they didn’t have to, but Jamie liked it, ‘cause it meant she’d wrap her arms around him so that they were both fully covered in it.

“Jaybaby,” she’d said that night, after she’d kicked his dad out rambling after his beer, and Jamie had watched from the middle platform of the stairs. “I think you might have a freebie.”

He couldn’t help but tilt his head to look up at her, yeah, ‘cause her voice were all quiet like, and Jamie’d gone fourteen years thinking that he just didn’t have a freebie at all.

See, they were passed down, they were. The chances of ‘em actually manifesting and everything used to be pretty low, but ever since the sudden influx of ‘em a few years ago, sometime ‘fore he were born, more and more kids started getting registered as wielders. So he’d been a bit sad, yeah, that he didn’t have a freebie, but his mum had seemed fine with it, and after a few weeks of teasing, the kids at school eventually got it out of their systems, and Jamie’d been fine knowing he weren’t gifted in that way.

The only reason for her to bring it up now, yeah, the chance that he actually might be a wielder, isn’t ‘cause of her, no, but ‘cause of his dad. Makes sense, don’t it, for her to mention it now that he’s tryna get back in their lives. He shows up outta the blue ‘cause Jamie’s playing footy, then suddenly his mum wants to talk about freebies? Jamie’s not stupid all the time, yeah, just when it comes to tests and grades and shit. Not when it comes to his mum.

“Dad have one?” Jamie’d asked her.

“No, actually,” she’d said. “I do.”

Two kicks, no miss, for her. Kept it secret from his dad for years, only let it slip when Jamie came ‘round in her belly. Kept it secret from Jamie for years, only let it slip when his dad came ‘round for footy. The only thing different from Jamie and his dad were that Jamie weren’t scared of her, not like his dad were. He weren’t scared enough to run away for fourteen years, not that he’d ever tell his dad that. Can’t say something rude to someone you want to keep around. Even if it’s true.

“Active or passive?” Jamie’d asked her, still looking up so he could see her face.

Could be either, if she’d kept it secret for so long. Could be that she’s active, ‘cept she’s got such mad control over it that she’s never slipped. Or could be that she’s passive, and her freebie’s just so unnoticeable that he ain’t ever caught it happening.

“Passive, yeah,” she’d said, “and indirect, I think.”

Jamie’d looked up at her some more, just to let his eyes flicker over her face. Then he’d given a small hm and tucked his head under her armpit, shifting closer. He’d mumbled, words caught in her shirt so they came out thick, “Tell me ‘bout it?”

Apparently, her and her dad, and her dad’s dad, and her dad’s dad’s mum, and so on, had all had it. Generations of it, and not a one of ‘em registered, she’d said. Dead lucky that they’d even managed to keep the freebie going through so many people, dead lucky Jamie’d have to be to get it too. And he wouldn’t even know if he had it until it happened, yeah. It were a one-time thing, his mum had said.

“I were pregnant with you when it happened for me, actually,” she’d told him. “Scared the shit outta me.”

How it works, apparently, is that each of them people in Jamie’s family that’ve ever had it, they only get it once. Don’t know when, don’t know why, don’t know much at all. Do know, though, that once in their life, with no known input at all, a mini version of them just pops into existence, wanders around for a few days, then disappears.

“The fuck d’you mean?” Jamie’d managed to ask her in between all the laughing he were doing. Could you imagine? A mini mum appearing outta nowhere, looking at his actual mum, then just hanging ‘round for a week and then disappearing again? Some kinda weird freebie that is.

And she’d answered him, her own laughter quieting down faster than his, but still there as she’d explained, “It’s true, swear it! Was just making pickles on toast for me breakfast, yeah, ‘cause of the fucking cravings you gave me, and then bam! Right there in the kitchen, eight-year-old me is watching eighteen-year-old me dribble pickle juice down my chin!”

So Jamie’s known since then, yeah, that he might have a freebie and he might not. He’s known that one day, when he’s playing footy or on the couch or at a club, that a five-year-old or ten-year-old or eighteen-year-old Jamie could pop up out of nowhere and say, Oh, hello! Wow, this is so weird! I’m talking to me, but I’m old! And normal Jamie’d say, Wow! Who knew mini-me was such a self-deprecating twat?

But he knew that the possibility were there, the same way he knew how to make a penalty kick, how to sink the ball, how to be fucking great. He knew it like he knew everything that came naturally, like it were always there, always a part of him.

Thing was, knowing this were still slightly different from knowing those things. He couldn’t use his maybe-freebie on the pitch like he could use his talent and skills. Couldn’t use it, ‘cause using a freebie in football at all was against the fucking rules. No passive footballers, the rules say. Ever, in your entire fucking life.

Which ain’t fucking fair, is it. Just ‘cause some people were registered as active ‘cause they had a bit of control on their freebies don’t mean that every passive shouldn’t be able to play. Some passive wielders weren’t even hurting no one! Like the kid who lived next to him in their council estate, the one whose fingers sometimes got all liquidy, and they turned floppy and flexible so you could stretch ‘em out to ‘round nine inches long if you pulled on ‘em, as if the bones just turned into putty. That freebie didn’t hurt football none! Just made the fingers all wiggly and weird. But footy rules said no, so kid-from-next-door had to deal with only kicking about in the park or the road, and never in the academy or on an actual pitch.

The thing were, Jamie didn’t want to be like that. Jamie wanted to get scouted and play for Manchester City, wanted to play in every big stadium there were, wanted to move up to playing for England and traveling ‘round the world for matches. The thing were, Jamie couldn’t do that if he registered his freebie. ‘Cause Jamie were a passive wielder, yeah, and footy rules said no.

But Jamie’s mum, she were a dodgy fucking genius, she were, ‘cause she never registered herself and she never registered him. No one in their family ever did register, she’d told him once, ‘cause they didn’t have the money to do it, and it were a waste anyway, since their freebies only happened once.

Point being, Jamie’s mum’s a genius, and Jamie’s unregistered, and Jamie’s allowed to play football.

His freebie never stopped him from academy, never stopped him from City, never stopped him from Richmond.

And it ain’t something he worries ‘bout, either. His mum had used hers when she were eighteen, like she said. Taken care of herself for a week, then mini-her had popped off, and that had been that. Her dad, though, he’d used his when he were in his forties. She’d told Jamie that she was there when it had happened, even. So for Jamie, it could happen at any time. But it hadn’t happened when he were fifteen and in the academy, hadn’t happened when he were twenty-two and playing for City, and it still hadn’t happen now that he’s playing for Richmond. He figures, he’s got all his life ahead of him, so it makes sense, statistically and allat, that it’ll happen when he’s older. If he’s lucky, maybe it’ll happen when he’s old and grey and senile, and it’ll be a forty-something him that pops up and don’t need any looking after.

This is what Jamie figures, but it’s not what ends up happening. What ends up happening, is Jamie’s tugging his trousers on after his post-training shower, trying to fit his foot through without hopping about the dressing room like a one-legged swing-dancing frog. What ends up happening, is Jamie’s just finished putting his clothes on when Will comes bustling in, and the only reason Jamie notices him is ‘cause he’s gotten used to Will’s level of bustling, which is in fact, none at all, because he’s really fucking quiet. What ends up happening, is Will quietly bustles through the door, gives Jamie a look that makes Will look rather like he’s choking on a walnut or summat, and goes straight to where Ted’s sitting at his desk. What ends up happening, is Will and Ted and Beard talk back and forth, and Jamie watches through the window as any sort of calmness disappears and turns into Ted’s furrowed eyebrows, into Beard’s gaping mouth, into Will’s rapid nodding.

“What d’you think that’s about?” Jamie hears Colin ask. He don’t think he’s talking to Jamie specifically, and when he glances over, Isaac’s there and giving Colin a shrug. The rest of the dressing room’s absently paying attention, no one in a rush to leave, just slowly coming out of the showers and getting dressed.

Will decides to come bustling out of the office, then, and right back out the dressing room with Ted and Beard behind him.

That’s when Roy walks out of the office, goes to look through the door where they’ve just left, and turns back around to ask the team, “What’s all that about, then?”

Then, quick and easy, the team starts spitting out guesses.

“Someone shat and missed the toilet,” Isaac gets out first.

“What is this, middle school?” Roy shoots down. “No.”

“Oh, maybe we have an important visitor that forgot to tell us in advance that they were coming,” Sam offers, already dressed in his comfy-looking sweater.

“Hm, maybe,” Roy grunts. “Boring.”

“Maybe they have brought in more puppies!” Dani shouts, grinning like the fucking cute-animal-crazed madman he is. That photo shoot they had, like, a month ago, with all them tiny puppies? Absolutely buzzin’, everyone was, after that. ‘Specially for any chance at doing it again.

The team’s properly engrossed now, so the whole dressing room goes silent when Beard walks back in.

What ends up happening, is Beard looks at Jamie, says his name, nods when Jamie points at himself, and walks back out the door. So Jamie don’t got no choice but to follow, yeah, so he gives one confused look, pursed lips and all, to the team before he goes out into the hallway. They walk down it, and there ain’t no point in asking Beard what’s happening, ‘cause it’s Beard, so Jamie just follows with his hands tucked in his shirt.

What ends up happening, is Beard holds the door to the boot room open for him, gestures at it, and closes it behind them both when they’re inside. Jamie sees Will first, dithering by one of the shelves and eyes darting from Jamie and over to Ted, who’s kneeling down in front of— oh, ew, fucking gross. There’s a puddle of vomit on the ground, and now that Jamie’s seen it, it’s all he can smell. He scrunches his nose up, like that’ll make it better, and looks back to Ted. He’s kneeling, yeah, but that’s because the vomit came from somebody who’s curled in on themself in front of Ted, and Ted’s rubbing their back through it.

What ends up happening, is Ted looks up then, hand still making circle motions on the stranger’s shirt, and gestures with his head for Jamie to walk over. Jamie’s got half a mind to say no, ‘cause that’s where the vomit puddle is, but the way Ted’s face is forcefully calm makes him stop. Makes Jamie stop the words before they’re even on his tongue, and then he’s walking over and kneeling beside Ted, keeping him between the puddle and himself.

What ends up happening, is Ted is saying something about faces and accidents, but Jamie’s brain don’t register any of the words that Jamie’s ears are hearing, ‘cause that’s when the stranger decides to look up. They uncurl themself, just a smidge, and their hair — brown, messy, and sweaty — falls into their face a bit.

What ends up happening, is when their face tilts towards Jamie, he near fucking dies right there, kneeling in the boot room beside a puddle of vomit that ain’t even his.

What ends up happening, is mini-Jamie looks up at normal-Jamie, puddle of vomit on the floor, bruise on mini-Jamie’s neck, breath caught in normal-Jamie’s throat. Between the two of them, there’s no air at all.

What ends up happening, is Jamie’s just used his freebie, in front of his fucking coaches.

What ends up happening, is Jamie is fucking fucked.

- - -

Jamie’s current mental state consists of fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck and making sure he doesn’t crash the fucking car.

What the fuck is he going to do? Ted’ll probably come up to him later, yeah, and say something like, “Well, Jamie, it’s been nice having you, but now that we know you’re a fucking liar, we gotta drop you.” Which doesn’t sound too right now that Jamie’s thinking it, but only because he knows Ted’d never curse. But the point’s still there, yeah, that Ted will drop him immediately. Maybe he’ll be nice about it, though. Maybe he won’t force Jamie to register, that way he’s got a chance still. Not with Richmond, yeah, ‘cause he’s fucking blown it, but maybe some other club will take him. Fucking fuck.

How is he supposed to walk into the club tomorrow? How’s he supposed to step into the dressing room knowing that it’ll probably be the last time he ever does? Unless… fuck. Unless Ted just tells him not to come in tomorrow. Is that what Ted was saying, when Jamie was staring at mini-Jamie? When he was kneeling in the boot room, staring at himself, not understanding anything anyone was saying?

Maybe he’ll show up anyways. Walk in, see the team one last time, hope Ted or Beard or Will didn’t tell them about anything. There’s probably no chance they haven’t told Roy yet, probably. Made a little group of people that know Jamie’s a liar.

He finally pulls up to his house. He turns the car off and sits there, hands on the wheel just so they’ve got something to grip, head too loud now that the engine’s off.

What the fuck is he supposed to do.

He turns his head left and looks at mini-Jamie. He’s dead asleep, he is. Puked his guts out, probably exhausted from that and all the general stuff that comes with being sick. Jamie’s eyes flicker to the bruise. Shit, he’ll have to take care of those, get some ointment on them soon.

Should probably get out of the fucking car first.

He has to focus on unclenching his fingers from the steering wheel, but when he manages it, he gets out and walks around, opening the passenger door. Jamie’s never been a particularly light sleeper, but he weren’t a heavy one either. He was somewhere in between, depending on who was in the house when he slept. So he’s not sure if he should try carrying mini-Jamie, or if he should just shake him awake.

Mini-Jamie makes the decision for him by waking up himself. He’s still tired, and he gives Jamie a slow blink when he sees him standing there, kind of bent over, arms out halfway with indecision.

“What the fuck,” mini-Jamie mutters, like he forgot about the shitty situation they’re currently in.

“What the fuck,” Jamie mutters back, decidedly not able to forget it, as much as he wishes it weren’t happening in the first place.

Mini-Jamie’s unbuckling his seatbelt then, hand flapping around for the button blindly, ‘cause he’s too busy staring at Jamie, who’s too busy staring at him to help. When he finally pushes the button with a click, the seatbelt zooms up and fluffs mini-Jamie’s hair up with the force.

Jamie’s stepping back then, letting mini-Jamie clamber out of the car like a drunk deer or summat. The door closes with a slam that echoes down the quiet street, and Jamie locks it with a beep. Then he’s fumbling with the door, then with the alarm, then with the door again, and then with toeing off his trainers, dropping his bum bag, and watching mini-Jamie stand in the entryway.

Mini-Jamie looks up the stares, looks ‘round at the shoes and the floor, then decides to walk down the hallway. Jamie follows him to the couch, where he ends up plopping down and leaning his head back on the top, stretching his neck so Jamie can see that the bruise there is actually multiple tiny ones, shaped like… fingerprints… oh, Jamie knows how old he is now.

“No sleeping,” Jamie says when mini-Jamie’s eyes close. He goes to step forward, but he stops his foot midway before he can actually get closer. The last thing mini-Jamie needs is him getting in his space, probably. “You need a shower, yeah.”

Jamie nods to himself and finds the linen closet. He grabs his softest towels, puts them in his bedroom’s shower, since it’s already got all his products in it anyways, so no point in the guest bath. Then he goes to his closet and digs around his corner of comfy clothes, the ones for when he’s just at home and not in the mood for his fun clothes. There’s trousers that’ve got a drawstring that should cinch them tight enough, and he grabs one of his cozier sweaters that he wears when he needs something tight on his skin, so it should be just the right amount of loose on mini-Jamie. He doesn’t have any pants that’re kids size, so he just grabs a pair and hopes mini-Jamie will figure something out.

Mini-Jamie’s still on the couch when Jamie goes to find him, and he follows quietly when Jamie leads him to the bathroom.

He points to the shower handle, says, “Up is hot, down is cold, and it takes a bit to warm up,” ‘cause when he first got it he spent ‘bout five minutes trying to figure it out, wondering why it were only one handle instead of two.

“Towels, clothes,” he points to where they sit by the sink. Points to his lineup of bottles on the shelf, “Shampoo and body wash and conditioner and everything else.”

He turns back to mini-Jamie. He’s standing there, hands curled up in the bottom of his shirt, face slack except for the small crease between his eyebrows, bruises shining on his neck, vomit drying in his throat. Jamie remembers. He remembers the after, the post-event feelings. How he’d left with weak legs and a sick stomach, couldn’t understand what his dad were saying to him, could only stumble onto his knees and hit the pavement, could only let the vomit come splashing out on the kerb. It had looked red then, everything had looked red. The vomit and the pavement and everything else he blurred out. He remembers a hand on his neck, and he had thought for a minute that it were his mum, brushing her fingers across his hairline to help him through it, ‘cept the fingers ended up curling ‘round his throat instead, like they were trying to keep the vomit in. They just made him choke instead, on the vomit and ‘cause he couldn’t breathe. He remembers hating himself so much, that his insides felt as red as everything around him.

He’d scrubbed himself in the hotel shower later. Scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed himself red with the hotel soap. Rinsed his mouth out with the shower water and spit it down the drain, each time a pain in his throat. He remembers letting it wash over the back of his neck, like phantom fingers on his hairline, as he watched blood swirl down the drain, everything still red, nothing familiar.

“Yeah, ehm,” Jamie said, mini-Jamie still standing there. “Shout if you need anything. No one else is here, and when you’re done, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He leaves then, hears the quiet click as the bathroom door shuts and the gentle spray as the shower starts up. He sets about making tea, then he grabs his phone and orders some treats from the shop he likes, the one with the berries and jams that they shove into their tarts.

Then he just kind of sits there, at his kitchen island while he waits for the tea to finish. His own hair’s still damp from the shower he had in the dressing room, and when he looks out the windows, the sky’s already dark.

The doorbell rings and Jamie sets the box of treats on the counter, and then the tea’s done and he makes two identical cups in two of his favorite mugs. The shower’s still running, and Jamie’s still waiting in his kitchen, not really knowing what the fuck to do.

Thank fuck his dad’s not here. Thank fuck he hasn’t talked to Jamie since Wembley, ‘cause if he were here right now, shaking him down in his own house for money or summat, then mini-Jamie’d be screwed, yeah. Maybe he should tell mini-Jamie that. Tell him his dad’s fucked off ever since he punched him. But maybe not, maybe it’ll mess with mini-Jamie’s head in all the wrong ways.

Jamie must’ve missed the shower shutting off, ‘cause it’s the pitter-patter of feet on stairs that draws him back. He blinks, and mini-Jamie is standing across from him, hovering on the edge of the kitchen. The sweatpants are definitely too big for him, but he’s managed to wrap the drawstring ‘round his waist and tie ‘em off in a knot that keeps them up. The sweater is better, but the neckline is threatening to slip down his shoulder, and the bottom is bunched on top of the trousers. He looks like he’s drowning in Jamie’s comfiest clothes.

“Pattern’s nice, innit,” Jamie says instead of all of that. It is, it’s why that’s one of his favorite sweaters. Not just ‘cause it hugs him in all the right spots, but also ‘cause it’s a blue, pink, and green monstrosity of pastels, and it looks fucking mint on him.

“‘S soft,” mini-Jamie says back. His words are quiet and his voice is scratchy, so Jamie nudges the mug by the stool next to him. Mini-Jamie’s eyes dart around, from Jamie to the mug to the fridge to the box to Jamie again. Then he’s levering himself onto the stool beside Jamie, feet dangling down and trousers spilling beneath them. He has to push his sweater sleeves up his arms so he can use his hands and hold the mug. He turns it around, and Jamie watches him look at the pineapples on it.

Mini-Jamie leans down to the cup instead of bringing it up to his face, and he breathes in the steam of the still-hot tea, hunched over the counter. He takes a slurp, and Jamie reaches to his side and pulls over the box. He opens it, pulls down the front part and wonders how someone was smart enough to design it like that, and takes out a small cake for himself. Mini-Jamie sits up again, looks between Jamie’s small cake and the other treats in the box, and pulls out one of the tarts with the berries on the top, which, that’s fair, ‘cause that’s the first thing he ever ordered from the place when he found it.

Should’ve put music on or summat, ‘cause the kitchen’s real quiet as they eat and drink. Jamie shouldn’t really even be eating the small cake, but it’s chocolatey and good, and it’s not like he’ll be playing any matches for Richmond ever again anyways. Fuck. Jamie takes another small cake and starts eating that too.

“What’s the plan?” Mini-Jamie asks him when they’re done. There’re crumbs all over the counter, so Jamie goes about absently sweeping them up with his finger and licking them off. Mini-Jamie seems to have the same thought right then, ‘cause they’re both gathering crumbs together, and it’s only partially weird, ‘cause the whole reason Jamie ever got in the habit of it is ‘cause of his mum.

“The plan is,” Jamie says, licking some of mini-Jamie’s tart crumbs from his finger, “we give you a name that’s not just mini-Jamie.”

Mini-Jamie nods and says, “I’ve just been calling you tall-Jamie.” His voice is slightly better from the tea, but Jamie’s hoping it goes back to normal in the morning. He can’t remember how long it took him to speak normally when it had happened, so maybe that means it didn’t take too long.

“Right,” Jamie nods. Then he starts listing names. “Baby-Jay? Jaybaby? Jay? JT? Jamie Junior? Tiny Baby Jamie?”

“Old Jamie? Big Jamie? Gramps? Slightly Less Attractive Jamie?”

“Oi,” Jamie interrupts, “my freebie, means I get to keep my name.”

Mini-Jamie scoffs, and it sounds ugly with his bruised neck. “Our freebie, you just happened to use it first.”

“How’s that work anyway?” Jamie asks, scrunching his face. He talks out loud, ‘cause he already does that when he’s alone, and mini-Jamie’s just him but tiny, and he already knows Jamie’s weird habits. “Like, how’s this not messing up the fucking time stream or whatever? Shouldn’t reality be pissing itself right now?”

“It’s a fucking freebie, tall-Jamie,” mini-Jamie says. “They don’t have to make sense.”

“Hm,” Jamie thinks, looking at mini-Jamie some more, taking in the loose grip he’s got on his nearly empty mug. “Forgot I’ve always been smart, didn’t just grow into it, yeah.”

“Fuck off,” mini-Jamie tries, but he’s not scowling, so Jamie knows that it ain’t serious none. Makes sense, don’t it, for another version of him to understand when Jamie’s trying to be a prick and when he’s just making comments out loud. He’s got too much going on in his head sometimes, it helps to get it out, even if it ain’t directed at anyone specific, even if no one else really gets that and they decide to take it personal.

“Reckon it’s like in Ms. Hussain’s class, yeah?” Mini-Jamie says then, not really looking at anything. “How sometimes instead of doing more maths, she’d pull the projector down and play films. Like, she were in charge, and she were deciding that day, hey, we’re gonna fuck off with the rules, ‘cause there’s this bangin’ film we’ve got to watch, you get me?”

Jamie pauses, thinking about it. “Oh, yeah, actually,” he says when a memory pops up. “She the teacher that played that one with the ladies swinging a bat around?”

“Mhm.”

Ms. Hussain were dead nice. Got that Jamie didn’t care for maths, but she helped him through it anyways, ‘cause she knew that even though his heart were in football, it were still good for him to not fucking die at everything else back in secondary school.

It’s like that, yeah, is what he’s pretty sure mini-Jamie’s getting at. Right now, his freebie’s Ms. Hussain, telling reality to fuck right off.

“Can’t call me Jaybaby, though,” mini-Jamie sniffs. He takes the last sip of his tea and sets it down. “Weird since you’re not mummy.”

Jamie nods at him. “Yeah, felt it soon as I said it.”

“Could do JJ,” mini-Jamie suggests. “It’s what Liam and Oliver call me.”

Jamie nods again. Liam and Oliver were good lads, and Jamie still talks to them sometimes. Gets congratulatory texts after a match, goes out to dinner with them occasionally. Liam’s got a fiancée now, and she’s a dead good teacher, if all of the children’s cards on their fridge means anything. And Oliver’s out traveling, and he sends selfies to Jamie of him standing on cliffs and hanging out of aeroplanes, proper Mission Impossible shit.

When he was still with City, some of the team used to call him JJ too. It was nice, the closeness they had together. Then Jamie got sent to Richmond, and Cartrick had ground any potential for that into dust. Until Ted came along, knocked some sense into all of their heads, and Jamie’s back to being part of a team, same companionship just in different colors.

“JJ’s good,” Jamie says. He takes one last finger of crumbs, then pats his hands together. “Right then. This way.”

JJ hops off his stool and follows Jamie back up the stairs and into his bathroom again. Jamie gestures towards the toilet, and JJ settles onto the lid while Jamie gets on his knees and fucks about in the cabinet under the sink. He tosses things around until he finds the ointment he uses for bruises. Hasn’t had to bring it out for a while, not since he’s been taking care of his bruises in the Richmond treatment room, ‘cause the only injuries he ever got recently were just football related, not dad related.

It still comes to him like second nature, easy as anything. Unscrew the cap, get a dollop of it on his hand, then spread it across the bruises. Jamie knows it’s cold, which could be why JJ flinches back from his touch, but he keeps his fingers light anyways. Spreads it across JJ’s neck until he’s sure he’s covered all the purple.

“How old are you, anyways?” JJ asks when Jamie’s putting the lid back on. “Do we play for City now?”

Jamie tosses the ointment back under the sink, not bothering to see where it lands. “Ehm, nah, but we used to. They loaned me out to Richmond, though, to get more minutes. Then I was sent back, then I quit, then I came back to Richmond, so.”

JJ pulls on his fingers, looking at Jamie. They’re ‘bout the same height like this, JJ sitting down and Jamie kneeling next to him. It’s better than when they were in the boot room, ‘cause for one, there’s no vomit this time, and for another, they’re both breathing all right.

The occasional sound of water dripping in the shower fills the pause they’ve found themselves in.

“Is that where I was?” JJ asks, voice just above a whisper. The quiet scratchiness of it is loud enough for Jamie to hear, though, and ‘cause they’re sitting so close, the words ain’t got far to travel. “In Richmond? Did I fuck it up for us?”

Fucking definitely. Gonna walk in tomorrow, have Ted drop him, and walk back out and have to figure out a way to get JJ to stop blaming himself, and also figure out a way to get him to stop blaming himself. Should probably buy some ice cream for when that happens, so they have some more sweets to drown themselves in now that they don’t have nothing else to worry about. This is fucked.

“Wish we could fix it,” JJ says, out loud to himself. ‘Cept it doesn’t work like that. He’d asked his mum about it, about if she remembered being eight and just magically appearing in the future. But she’d said that weren’t how it worked. It were more like she were eighteen, and someone had just plucked eight-year-old her out of her brain and let her wander ‘round for a week. More like some sort of copy of her that didn’t face any consequences, ‘cause she weren’t going back to her own time or nothing, just existing as she was. Ms. Hussain, and allat.

“‘S alright,” Jamie says instead. It’s not, ‘cause it’s actually fucked, but JJ already knows that. Maybe hearing something nice will help him, help take the guilt from his shoulders. “We’ll worry ‘bout allat later. Or, actually, I’ll worry ‘bout it later. I’ll probably just hand you off to Keeley or someone for a bit while I get it sorted out.”

“Keeley?” JJ asks, face finally transforming from a really somber looking thing into something more curious. JJ stops fiddling with his hands to rub at his eyebrow instead. “That your girlfriend?”

Jamie smiles then, ‘cause it won’t take long for JJ to connect the dots between Keeley, tall-Jamie’s possible girlfriend, to Keeley, mini-Jamie’s celebrity crush. Fucking shocker, that’ll be. Best to save it, though, for when he can enjoy it proper.

“Nah, maybe I’ll just throw you to mummy,” he says instead, cheeky. Then his brain freezes, and his grin is stuck on his face because oh shit, he’s got to call his mum.

He’s got to call his mum and tell her ‘bout all this. She’ll want to come down and talk with him about it, want to help him with JJ, want to listen to him explain how he’s fucked it with Richmond. Shit, he’s got to find out what he wants to say to Ted, too. Probably best to have something planned, that way when he explains everything it comes out easier.

But it’s real fucking late, and JJ is yawning, and Jamie’s knees hurt from today’s training and today’s kneeling, so he’s got to prioritize. First thing’s first, get JJ into a bed.

He gets up, and at least he doesn’t groan like Roy when he’s sat on a bench too long, or whine like Keeley when she’s getting up from being comfy too long, but he does let out a small sound that he can’t catch before it leaves him.

JJ doesn’t notice though, just follows him to his bed and gets in with nothing but a quiet, “Fucking yeah,” as he pulls the covers over himself. Then he’s out in a blink, eyes closed and breathing even. His hair’s still damp, so that’ll be annoying in the morning, but that’s an issue for later.

Issues for now include calling his mum and making a plan. Fucking hell, Jamie’s in over his head.

Chapter Text

Jamie’s current plan is: wait for his mum. The call they’d had last night went well, and she’d let him talk and talk to her about everything, about JJ and bad timing and how he’d probably never play for Richmond again. She’d then told him off for being so negative, then started talking ‘bout how he just had to keep a brave face until she drove down, so hopefully by the time he finished talking to Ted about everything today, she’d already be at home waiting for him.

After that, he’d fallen into the couch and stayed there, partly planning what to say to Ted, partly trying to get some sleep. Turns out he’s shit at multitasking, ‘cause he ended up failing to do either.

So, Jamie’s in the car again, driving back to Nelson Road with nothing but coffee and cereal in his stomach. Was good, though, ‘cause JJ’d asked for banana slices with it, and Jamie’d realized that he could indulge whenever he wanted now, instead of just eating them at midday. So he’d had banana in his cereal, and it was delicious, it was.

JJ’s normal now, Jamie thinks. Balls to him, ‘cause Jamie can’t remember if he’d bounced back as easily when it’d actually happened to him. Recovering’s different when the people you’re recovering with are different, he supposes. Might be weirder to have Jamie instead of his dad, as the person being there for JJ, but at least it’s kinder.

Fucking hell, thinking about a younger version of him as an actual person is weird. How the hell did his mum do it?

JJ’s still chattering out loud in the passenger seat, saying something ‘bout what he wants to do now that he’s in the future. Jamie glances over, and he was right that JJ’s hair is frizzy — definitely should’ve dried it before bed — but they’d done their best to salvage it together, lathering some product on it in the bathroom before they left. They’re both still wearing the same clothes they were in last night, but Jamie’s not gonna complain, ‘cause it’s one of his tamer outfits, so that means he’s fine sleeping in it for a while, ‘cause there ain’t any zippers or nothing to dig into his skin uncomfortably.

There’s toothpaste dribble on the edge of JJ’s sweater, but it’s seen worse, and JJ’s not bothered by it. It’s nice, yeah, that JJ feels the same ‘bout sharing things as Jamie. Meant that he just handed over his toothbrush, and JJ’d put it in his mouth without complaining.

His voice is better, too. Probably the tea and the ointment, working together to heal him. ‘Cause the bruises on his neck are a duller purple now. Still obvious, ‘specially with the loose neckline, but so long as no one were stupid enough to ask about them, it should be fine. Fucking hell, he probably should’ve put concealer on it. Shit, he definitely should’ve put concealer on it. Maybe talked to JJ about it, about what to say if people got too curious.

Too late to do that now, ‘cause his brain decides at that moment to start tuning in again, and JJ’s words finally filter through his ears.

“D’you think I can go on the pitch? Oh! Will you take me to the dressing room? Wait, wait! Who’re your teammates! Do I know any of ‘em?”

Jamie lets his lips lift into a smile as he turns into the car park. “You’re gonna fucking love one of me coaches, lad.”

“No fucking way!” JJ’s scrambling to undo his seatbelt now, heaving the car door open as he clambers out to stand by Jamie. “Can I meet ‘em ‘fore you get dumped?”

Jamie’d told JJ ‘bout how he’d come outta nowhere and got found by his coaches, which JJ immediately understood. Jamie didn’t really feel too bad about it, ‘cause firstly, JJ’s him, and it’s stupid to keep things from yourself, and secondly, JJ’d taken the news like a professional, bouncing back from it like a proper bad-news-recipient veteran.

“Yeah,” Jamie says. Then, ‘cause the thought pops into his mind all of a sudden, and it makes him grin immediately, he says, “In fact? Think I’ll leave you with him while I talk to me manager, yeah?”

“Fuck yeah,” JJ mumbles, grinning too.

They walk through the door like that, grinning at each other like loonies or summat, but at least that’s something good going for ‘em during this shitshow. Right proper havoc, the two of ‘em can cause before they leave, just by existing.

Jamie smiles at the people that wave at him as they walk, and he feels proud of JJ for following along and just giving smiles too, as they pass by.

It’s still early, and Jamie’d chosen to come now for a reason, which is that the dressing room’s not totally packed yet, when they enter. A few people are there, Sam cooling down from the warmups he does in the mornings, and Isaac and Colin have got their heads together in front of Richard’s phone. Bit weird, that, Colin coming in so early, but he and Isaac have always been close, so Jamie’s doesn’t bother worrying over it none.

He gives Sam an “alright mate,” ignores the way his eyes fall onto JJ, and walks into the office. Ted’s there, as he usually is, now that they’ve been coming in earlier, and Beard’s sitting across from him, feet propped on the desk. Their coffees are still sitting there, so they must’ve just gotten in.

Ted’s the first to see him. “Hey, there he is!”

Jamie gives his best smile to Ted. All of the grinning from earlier don’t come easy no more, ‘cause now his hands are shoved in his pockets and he can’t decide which foot he should put his weight on.

“Ehm, yeah,” Jamie ends up saying. He’s annoyingly aware of how the door’s still open behind him, and that the window gives the lads a clear view of what’s going on.

Then he’s annoyingly aware of Roy, who’s magically appeared in the other doorway and is making back and forth glances from Jamie to JJ.

“This was the fucking emergency?”

“You fucking dickhead, it’s Roy fucking Kent!”

“Ehm,” Jamie says, can’t help himself from looking between the two. Roy’s staring at JJ now, face doing something Jamie doesn’t think he’s actually ever seen it do too often. His eyes are real wide, and his jaw’s working back and forth, like he’s tryna keep something in, which only ever happens when he’s trying to express feelings and shit. JJ’s face is the opposite, all open and familiar. Jamie’d worn that face when he first got Roy Kent to sign something, and he’d worn it earlier, like when mum got him his boots, and then he’d worn it later, like when he’d first stood in Wembley.

“Sure is lovely to finally meet you,” Ted ends up saying when no one else breaks the eye contact. Jamie tears his gaze away from the two, and Ted’s looking at him this time, smiling all easy like. Fucking hell.

Jamie tightens his fists, where they’re hidden in his pockets. Closes his fingers ‘round something, like if he pretends he holds some confidence in them, it’ll bleed over into his words. He manages, “This here’s JJ.” His voice don’t come out too shaky, so he keeps going. “Well, I mean, he’s JJ but—”

“Can you sign me shirt?” JJ’s asking then.

Jamie’s eyes get tugged back over to him, and he steps forward then and pulls JJ back by his shoulder a bit, just a small grip. Does his best to keep his voice kind still, even though he can’t help but let it come out firm, “Mate, you ain’t getting marker on one of me favorite sweaters, yeah?”

JJ turns to him then, the first time his eyes have gone off Roy, and he’s pouting at him. “But I don’t have me kit! What’s he s’pposed to sign?”

“I dunno,” Jamie says, pulling his arm back to shrug. “Get him to write you a fucking letter or something. We’re literally in an office, there’s paper and pens everywhere.”

The next few minutes are spent watching JJ tell Roy, “You can call me JJ and I love watching you play,” and Roy saying, “Yeah? Got a favorite match?” as he grabs a pen and starts writing, and JJ proceeds to spit out the same list that Jamie’s kept in his head since he were a lad, taking from each of Roy Kent’s best matches where it sits in the back of his head, coming out as easy as anything.

They’re standing in the other room while they talk, Roy hunched over his desk and JJ bouncing on his toes beside him. So Jamie figures, now’s as good a time as any, so he closes the door behind him and points at the other door, the one separating Roy and JJ from the rest of them. Ted gives him a shrug and a nod, so Jamie walks over and closes that door too, and then it’s just him and Ted and Beard.

Right. Now to appeal his case…

How the fuck’s he supposed to do that?

“I’m gonna be honest with you Jamie,” and thank god Ted starts the conversation for him, ‘cause otherwise Jamie thinks he’d’ve been standing there for a good few minutes. Sometimes trying to speak is like trying to catch butterflies with a net that’s got holes too big for ‘em. Which he’s never actually done in real life, even though he reckons it’d be fun if he did, but he has done it in Animal Crossing, and it took him a bit to get the hang of it.

Ted lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug, ‘cause his hands are in his pockets where he’s decided to stand, now, instead of sitting in his chair. Then he says, words diving straight into Jamie’s chest, “I didn’t think you were coming in today.”

And that’s, just— if that isn’t one of the most brutal things Jamie’s heard, then he don’t know what is. Like driving nails in a coffin, ‘cept they’ve missed the fucking coffin and hit his heart instead. Ted’s done some shit, yeah, like yelling at Jamie in the dressing room that time he’d said he were hurt, but Jamie’d realized he’d actually deserved it then, so it weren’t Ted’s fault. Or like when Ted’d talked to all those journalists and in all those interviews about Jamie and how proud he was, but he’d just dropped Jamie from Richmond, and he were playing for City so they weren’t even on the same team no more. Jamie still can’t figure out why Ted did that, yeah. If he’d just changed his mind sometime between accepting Jamie and getting rid of him, or if he were playing mind games the whole time. But that don’t matter, ‘cause Ted’d taken Jamie back when he asked him to. Not right away, yeah, but he’d thought about it.

Maybe that’s what made Jamie think, yeah, that Ted would’ve waited a bit longer. At least until the end of the morning, maybe. Not when it’s only been a few minutes since Jamie walked into the office, but here Ted is, laying it all out for him, and Jamie realizes he couldn’t have prepared for this no matter how much he tried last night.

“Just thought, like,” Jamie says then, shifting his thoughts around and trying to find which ones to put into words, “that I should ‘least talk to you about it, yeah?”

He squeezes his fists, fingers clenching then unclenching in his pockets. One squeeze for confidence, another ‘cause he’s fucking addicted to chasing the feeling of it, even if it doesn’t always work right.

“Hm,” Ted says. He’s looking at Jamie like he already knows how this works, already knows what Jamie’s planning to say, even though there isn’t a plan, and he wishes Ted would clue him in on whatever he wants to happen. “I do think we’d appreciate whatever explanation you’re willing to give.”

Jamie looks over to Beard then, and he gets a solemn nod in return. Right then.

“I didn’t mean to lie or nothing, I’d just never thought anyone would find out? Like, me mum and I did our best to keep it secret, yeah, ‘cause we never wanted it interfering with football none. And I swear it’s a one-time thing, yeah? But I know that ain’t enough to make a difference, ‘cause I still, like, lied, but— oh, you don’t think I could go to jail for it, do you? Shit, I know it’s not allowed, but is it, like, legally punishable or summat?”

He’s looking at them now, but also not, ‘cause fuck, he doesn’t actually know what’s supposed to happen. Makes sense that the coaches have to follow some guideline, right, about what to do when a player’s unregistered and has been lying about it, ‘cause they’d known all along, and it’s not like he doesn’t have the money now to get it all official. But it’s never happened before, he’s sure. He remembers staying up late, some nights, diving down a hole of searching for cases like his, where there might’ve been players in England who had passive freebies, but every time he came up empty.

“Alright, there’s a lot in there that I wanna touch up on,” Ted is saying now. He pauses there and looks over to Beard, who has is arms crossed and is nodding along. “But we’re gonna take it one by one, that way it’s easier and it makes more sense when it comes out.”

Jamie’s hands aren’t in his pockets anymore, ‘cause they like to come out and move around when he’s talking for a while, so he shoves them under his armpits and waits.

“I get why you’re sorry, Jamie, and I forgive you for keeping JJ a secret. It’s scary, it really is. Family’s hard to figure out, and I can see how trying to keep it separate from your career could be a sound strategy.”

Jamie blinks. Tries not to let it show, but it happens anyways, when he feels his eyebrows scrunch and he tilts his head at Ted, proper confused.

Ted keeps going. “Now, while my own family is only slightly different from the picture perfect, stereotypical four-person American household, I can still sympathize with having to wrangle a kid on your own. I mean, you’ve seen Henry, and I love him so much it makes my heart want to burst, but sometimes,” Ted gives a sigh, and his posture is so relaxed that Jamie has no clue what’s happening right now. “Sometimes I just need a break, you know? And sometimes that break means not talking about him in certain places, like at work.”

Ted seems to be waiting for something from him, but Jamie’s been lost this entire conversation, so he just gives his best nod and pretends he knows what’s happening.

“Right,” Ted says. He breathes in then, letting the breath fill his whole body so Jamie can see how long he holds it for, and when he lets it out. “I’m just saying, it’s mighty brave of you to be raising a kid.”

Okay, wait. Fucking, pause, for a second.

Ted does not pause. “How long’ve you had him?”

He’s smiling at Jamie, and all Jamie wants to know is when he got kicked out and thrown into this different universe, where Ted thinks Jamie’s got a— got a fucking kid, somehow. How would he even do that? He ain’t married, ain’t got no girlfriend to get pregnant, and his mum’s all the way back in Manchester, and his dad’s definitely no kid wrangler. Fuck, what would his dad be like if he had a grandkid?

And, actually, wait, Jamie’s not even old enough to have a kid JJ’s age!

“He’s fourteen!” Is what Jamie’s mouth decides on shouting, voice high, ‘cause this is fucking mental, innit?

That wipes the warm smile off Ted’s face, changes it to a different smile, one that’s more considering with the sudden confusion on his face. His eyes are jumping around, like he’s trying to spot where he made a mistake.

This whole conversation! Jamie wants to shout at him. None of this should be happening!

Ted hums and shakes himself, like he’s resetting all his words, and turns to Beard, who gives him a pointed look. Right.

Ted talks out loud then, neither to Jamie or Beard specifically, though they both hear it. “Kid’s real scrawny for fourteen.”

Which, fucking, yeah, Jamie supposes. He were fourteen, trying to get used to the training they put him through in the academy, and he also, you know, just puked his fucking guts out last night, and is wearing clothes that make him look like he’s drowning in coziness.

“He’s not my fucking kid,” Jamie says next. That’s— how pissed d’you have to be to— he can’t even imagine how they got there.

His eyes flicker to the closed door, where he can see through the window, and Roy and JJ are still by the desk. JJ’s not looking up at Roy no more, though, and instead he’s talking to— oh, fuck no, not Trent.

Beard makes a buzzing noise then, like the one on that show where if you guess wrong, it makes a weird sound and everyone in the audience goes awww.

Jamie turns back to them, and sees Ted give a full body slump of defeat and shake his fist. “Oh, man, thought I had it. Hm, lemme guess… estranged cousin? Long lost twin, parent trap-style? Government clone?”

“He would’ve died before he’d have any chance getting out, if he were a clone, Coach.”

Jamie gives Beard a look then, and wonders if he and Moe ever hang out.

“No, yeah you’re right.” Ted nods and calms down, hands back in his pockets. “Little brother.”

Jamie hates lying, honest. The only lie he’s ever kept for longer than a day is the one about his freebie, and that’s ‘cause his mum helped him with it, and ‘cause it were the only way he could do what he loved. But it wouldn’t be fair to say that lying ‘bout it did something to him, in his chest. Like his heart were being squeezed by something, like someone stuck their hand in there and grabbed it, didn’t want to let it go. Every time freebies were ever brought up, he did his best to keep it off himself, yeah. Kept the team’s attention on their own family and their own freebies, and when he had to, he just told stories ‘bout the more unique freebies he’d been around back in school.

So last night, when JJ’d popped into the boot room and spilled his guts out all over the floor, Jamie’d been fucking terrified, but he’d been terrified in the way where you at least knew what to expect. Like in those horror movies, when the characters finally realize that something’s hunting them. They’re still shitting themselves, but at least they know why they’re shitting themselves. No more of that chokehold anticipation in the beginning of the movies, where only the audience knows what’s going on.

It were like that, yeah. Jamie’d been terrified, but he’d known why. He could finally let go of that constant lie, always just sitting in the back of his mind, not letting him forget that if anyone knew, he’d be fucked.

Except here he is, standing next to Ted and Beard, with Roy and Trent through the door, talking to JJ.

And they’ve got no clue.

They think that JJ’s his kid brother, or summat. Some bastard child from his mum, maybe, or maybe they’ve forgotten that his dad and his mum split way back when Jamie weren’t born yet, and they think JJ’s also from his dad. Maybe they think JJ’s Simon’s kid, even though they’ve never even met Simon, and JJ looks nothing like Simon.

Fucking, makes only a bit of sense. He supposes they’ve never seen pictures of him or anything, not of when he were younger. All the academy photos were professional, just ones to get him noticed and scooped up. Even then, though, that were when he were older. Seventeen, eighteen, a few more years. Not fourteen, bruises on his neck.

The way Jamie sees it, is he’s got two choices. One of ‘em’s way, way easier than the other, and the other’s definitely got no long-term perks, like, at all.

Option one, he comes clean. He just tells Ted and Beard, right now. Says, hey, he’s not related to me, in any kind of way, unless you count that he is me. No? ‘Cause I used my freebie yesterday, yeah. Oh? You didn’t know? Yeah, ‘cause I never registered. Figured I’d lie about it, take the risk, you get me?

Then Ted and Beard would kick him out, be all disappointed in Jamie for lying, and he might have to face legal punishment? How’s he supposed to know anything if it’s never happened before? What sort of publicity would this get him, being the first footballer to have a freebie, and also the first footballer to, fucking, tragically devastate an entire team ‘cause he wanted to kick a ball around as a career?

Or, option two, he grabs the secret and shoves it back inside him, doesn’t let it get out. He keeps the lie wrapped tight around his chest, doesn’t say anything, and lets this happen. He can ask for a week off to take care of JJ — ‘cause Jamie’s not just tossing him over to his mum, he’s not that irresponsible — and then once the week or however long is up, he goes back to playing football and brushes off any questions they might have later, like asking where JJ’s gone, or if they can see him again. He’ll just say JJ died or something, he’ll figure it out.

Jamie knows that he’s kept a lie for years. He knows how it feels now, to let that lie go. He knows how it would feel to take it back, and then to add another lie on top of that, pretending JJ’s his brother, and not an actual fourteen-year-old replica of Jamie.

And he hates the fucking lying, but it’s not like he’ll die, yeah? And can he really face letting down his team? Just, fucking ‘em over by letting everyone know he’s a wielder? That’s something he doesn’t want to do, ever again. Losing them the first time was devastating enough, when he got sent back to City. Having to get kicked out of what he thought was turning out to be a good fucking team, then coming back and having absolutely no one but Dani smile at him, and that were only ‘cause it were Dani, weren’t it, and Jamie hadn’t personally fucked him up yet.

The choice is easy, then. Being dishonest with everyone is gonna fucking eat him up inside, and he knows it’ll be worse now that it’s two secrets instead of one. But as long as he knows, as long as he’s always aware of how much he’s fucking himself over by not fucking the team over, then it should be alright.

That were one of the things Dr. Sharon said he were good at. Being honest with himself. She’d also said it were good for him to be honest with others, but he figures she’d forgive him, if she were still here and if she knew what the stakes were.

Jamie’s got two hands, anyways. Can just hold one lie in each, and hope they don’t get too heavy.

So it’s easy then, what Jamie has to do. Easy to get the words out, and easy to look at Ted as he says them, and easy to catch his secret midair and shove it back inside, like something dirty and hidden, and easy to say, “Got it there, Coach. JJ’s me brother.”

It’s easy then, just building up one more lie.

- - -

He’s sitting in Ms. Welton’s office, and the first thing he thinks is that it’s better than when Mr. Mannion had been using it. It’s much less intimidating, mainly, because of the change in decor and the way Ms. Welton has Jamie sit on the couch instead of at her desk. Not that it’s completely empty of intimidating-ness, ‘cause it’s fucking Ms. Welton, and if Jamie says one fucked thing, then he’s gone.

JJ’s next to him, and now that he’s not bouncing with the excitement that comes with Roy fucking Kent, he’s sitting next to Jamie, a fluffy pillow being squeezed in his arms, and paying absolutely no attention to what Ms. Welton’s saying.

Not his job, though, is it. To be paying attention to the important bits. Like, Jamie’s not being kicked out. ‘Cause they think JJ’s his brother, and they think he appeared in the boot room ‘cause of JJ’s freebie.

“Teleportation?” Ms. Welton is asking. “Passive? Or a delayed response as an active?”

Jamie stares at her, trying to figure out what she’s trying to get him to say.

“Ehm, what?”

Ms. Welton hms, glancing over at Higgins, who’s sitting at his own corner of the couch with his laptop open.

Jamie doesn’t know either of them very well. He’s, like, seen them before, obviously. It’s not like Jamie just ignores anyone at Richmond who’s not a footballer. And Ms. Welton and Higgins like to join them when they take the bus to matches sometimes, or sometimes he’ll see them pass through the dressing room to talk to Ted. Jamie knows that Higgins is a part of that group thing, too, where the coaches close themselves in the office and bark like dogs for some reason.

JJ leans into him then. When he looks down, it doesn’t look intentional. Just looks like how Jamie feels sometimes, when he’s stuck in his head and it’s easier to sit up against someone, just steal their warmth for a bit.

“Doesn’t matter,” Ms. Welton says, waving one of her hands like she’s shoving the issue aside. “We’ll find his registered documents, then, get it all sorted.”

Jamie blinks then, and turns away from JJ to fully look at her. “He ain’t registered, actually.”

Higgins makes a choking sound, and Ms. Welton’s smile freezes on her face, like Jamie’s words have caused an allergic reaction and paused a film at the same time.

“Right,” Ms. Welton recovers, face unfreezing. “Then we’ll have to get him registered for you, then. It’s no issue, especially if this is his first use of his gift. There should be no need to address any other legal matters, so long as you or another guardian can sign off on it for him.”

“Right, yeah,” Jamie says, tapping his fingers on his knee. “You’re not getting rid of me?”

“Goodness, no,” Ms. Welton says. She smiles at him, like she’s trying to make sure her words stick. “Not over a silly little misunderstanding, especially one so easy to fix.”

“Right,” Jamie nods, like he gets it.

“How long will you be needing off, while you take care of him? I’m assuming you’ve called the appropriate people to come and retrieve him?”

No, yeah, Jamie can use this. His mum had spent a week with herself, so if Jamie just takes that time? He can waste a week of no practice if it means that he still does get practice, once this whole thing is fixed.

So he says, “Think a week, maybe,” and Ms. Welton nods and Higgins clacks at his laptop. JJ’s dead weight against his arm.

“Right,” Ms. Welton repeats. She looks at Higgins, and Jamie sits through a familiar round of people talking to each other without actually talking at all, and Jamie watching and understanding absolutely none of it.

Higgins shuts his laptop then, and Ms. Welton’s face transforms from its raised eyebrows and back to her professional smile. Jamie thinks that’s her default face, the professionalism. He wonders what it takes for her to let it go for a bit. Ted’s probably seen it, and Keeley definitely has. It’s nice that she’s got that, yeah, so she doesn’t have to be a posh rich boss-lady all the time. Remembering yourself, and allat.

“We’ll have it all sorted out for you, Jamie.” Ms. Welton picks up her tea then, has a sip, and glances at JJ over the rim of her cup. “If you’d like to head home…?”

Jamie lets his eyes slide past her and through the windows. The team’s on the pitch, and they’re still working on their warmups.

“Ehm, actually, could I do something first?”

- - -

“OHHHH!”

JJ’s fucking aces at football, and the kick he sinks in the net leaves real emotion on Van Damme’s face, and it makes Jamie laugh as the team lifts JJ onto their shoulders.

Ain’t surprising, is it, ‘cause Jamie still remembers how it felt, being one of the best players since he were young. Were true then, still true now, he’s just learned how to think ‘bout it differently.

But JJ’s tired, ain’t he. Didn’t get much sleep last night, ‘cause by the time Jamie’d realized their second cups of tea were gone, it were already way late.

Jamie couldn’t sleep that night, in the hotel. Fourteen and wide awake, the sound of his dad snoring in the bed across the room filling his head, a backdrop to all the red he saw whenever he tried to close his eyes. Scrubbing in the shower had only helped a bit, and he still couldn’t look at himself, ‘specially the areas he’d scrubbed raw and bright against the rest of him. He’d put on his only pair of pyjamas, but it were like he couldn’t feel how soft they were, ‘cause it were like sandpaper in all the wrong places.

And his mind couldn’t stop cycling through the night, not of any of it actually happening, but of everything else. Like he were sitting just outside the room, listening to it happen through the door. Watching through a crack, everything fuzzy. He knows it’s him in there, but it don’t really feel like it, yeah? More like he’s listening to someone else. He remembers listening to the lady’s words, Move over here, and It’s better when you do it like this, and Yeah, baby, just like that. Remembers nails on his face, on his shoulders, on his legs. Lipstick, dark red, smudging on her lips and his wrists. None of it feeling real.

Makes sense for JJ to go through the same thing, go through the same thoughts, even in Jamie’s bed last night, knowing it were no one but himself in the house, down the stairs, on the couch.

But it’s like Keeley says, yeah? He’s a battler. Been fighting since he were young, since he were living with his mum and since he were surviving his dad. Fourteen and red, and JJ’s running on a field with professional footballers, scoring against them. Yeah, they’re going easy, ‘cause he’s tiny and baby-faced and tripping over the ends of his trousers, but he’s still fucking amazing, and Jamie knows that they know, and that feels kind of great, don’t it.

Plus, he fucking nails that penalty kick.

Jamie’s standing by the coaches and Will, Trent the only one by the seats, ‘cause they’ve closed off the pitch from visitors today, and Jamie won’t pretend he doesn’t know why. He ain’t in his kit or nothing, ‘cause just twenty minutes ago JJ was passed out, and Jamie figured he’d let him visit the pitch if he still wanted, then take him back home. But so far he’s been standing and watching, not a bit of exhaustion from JJ as he trips on his own trousers again. Sam and Moe lift him back up, one arm each, and JJ’s after the ball again.

Isn’t there a thing about kids crashing after kickabouts? Maybe JJ’ll fall asleep again after this. Maybe constant naps can be his workaround for no full night of rest.

“He’s got feet full of bees, doesn’t he?”

There’s a water bottle being held out in front of his face, and Jamie knows it’s Will standing beside him before the words even register.

Jamie looks between the bottle and Will, who’s smiling awkwardly at him. He pushes the bottle away with his finger, pursing his lips. Will don’t move none though, just keeps standing there awkwardly, in that way that seems like a mix of general kitman-ness and unique Will-ness. So Jamie don’t bother to think none, just lets the words tumble out, “How the fuck can you have bees in your feet?”

“Ah,” Will says, much more comfortable now that Jamie’s responded. He tosses the bottle up with one hand and catches it with the other. “Well, my mum likes to say that about children with too much energy.”

That makes sense, actually. See, Jamie knows that bees are deceptive, yeah? Like, you’re just walking and then a bee bumbles up to you, all slow and tired-like, and it just kinda bumps against you, yeah? Like it’s so sleepy and confused, so it thinks you’re a flower filled with pollen. But actually, if you get enough bees together, yeah. Start, like, a bee footy team or summat, you know, something a ton of bees will want to join. Then they’ll start to get all energetic like, ‘cause it’s footy, and they’ll start buzzin’ all over the place like you see ‘em do in cartoons.

It’s like that, Jamie thinks. JJ’s tired and sleepy when nothing’s happening, but if you put him in front of footy, then it’s like a bunch of bees have started playing it inside of him.

“Why the feet?”

“Hm?”

“Why’re the bees in the feet, though?”

Will opens his mouth, gets distracted by Colin tripping over JJ and then starting a domino effect of falling footballers, then says, “Oh, ‘cause he’s running around, yeah? That’s where all the movement is.”

JJ kicks Richard off of him, then kicks at Moe trying to shove Richard back onto him, and then he does a twist-kick move that brings him back into a stand.

“Ohhh,” he says. JJ’s a footballer. Makes sense for the bees to be in his feet, then. Reckon it’s the same for all footballers, ‘cept for Thierry, maybe, ‘cause he’s goalkeeper. Tennis players must have bees in their arms, swimmers must have ‘em in their breath, and rugby players must have ‘em buzzing throughout their whole body.

“You don’t get bees then,” Jamie says, all observant like.

Will doesn’t look at him, still watching where footy has turned into tussling. He does tilt his head though, and he says, “No, guess I don’t.” Then he catches himself, his whole body moving with it, like he got poked in his chest and it’s rippled across the rest of him, “Ah, actually, I do get bees when my girlfriend’s visiting.”

Hm, makes sense, that. Dates do make it feel like Jamie’s got bees in his stomach. Think that’s a universal thing, actually.

“Thought you were single?”

Will smiles, his crooked, excited one. “Ah, just made it official, actually.”

“Nice, mate.”

Nate blows his whistle then, the sound of it shrieking across the pitch. The team’s jogging over, JJ trailing behind them. Jamie catches his eyes, and JJ must take it to mean something, ‘cause then he’s redirecting towards him until he’s standing by his arm. He’s breathing heavy and his hair’s somehow even worse than it was this morning, but he looks proper exhausted, yeah, the kind you get when you’ve done something that took your breath away but gave you something else in return. Jamie sees it in the bounce in JJ’s heels, in the way his hands are loose by his sides, not fisting or twitching or flapping about.

“You ready to head out?” Jamie asks.

JJ nods, then he’s fumbling to grab the water bottle Will’s holding in front of his face then. Jamie sends Will a smile, which he takes as his cue to fuck off and mither the team with their own bottles. Jamie wonders sometimes if Will’s just fucking with ‘em. If he is, he’s dead good at long cons, ‘cause Jamie don’t think anyone’s caught on. But, it could just be Will being Will.

Jamie catches the bottle with one hand when JJ tosses it to him after drinking some, and it’s half-empty in his palm. JJ swipes at his mouth and says, “Yeah, sound.”

“Right.”

Jamie turns ‘round then, JJ trailing behind him as he walks back inside. Ted and them are busy talking to the team about something, but Jamie’s not paying enough attention to care, ‘cause instead he’s distracted by the loose grip JJ’s got on the bottom of Jamie’s shirt.

He does pass Beard though, and he thinks they lock eyes behind the sunglasses. But Jamie’s never known how to talk to Beard, and he thinks Beard likes it that way, ‘cause he’s a weird bloke. But Beard just gives Jamie that half-nod he does, so he don’t worry none and just walks through the hallways with JJ trailing behind him, tethered to him at the hip. Since he didn’t bring anything with him, he doesn’t stop until he gets to the car park. Ms. Welton and Higgins already know he were planning on leaving anyways. Pretty sure they were counting on it, for him to get his shit together.

So he pops in the car and turns on the radio, keeping it quiet, just so there’s sound without noise. JJ’s still looking like he’s filled with nothing but that good-exhaustion, the one you can feel in your bones, so Jamie doesn’t expect him to talk until he sees his mum.

JJ starts to hum along then, under his breath and only just audible enough to reach across the car to Jamie’s ears. But he hits the notes in the back of his throat, right along with Rihanna or whoever’s playing, and Jamie’s grip is tight on the wheel.

This is fucking fine, yeah. Jamie can get his shit together in a week.

Chapter Text

After he showers, he walks downstairs in one of the sweaters from his mum. He thinks Simon helped her pick it, or he was just a big influence on her the day she did, ‘cause it’s got a cartoon bread on it and says I loaf you very much! He ain’t never really baked before, not without making a right mess of things so they were finding flour all over for days, but the sweater’s dead fucking comfy. He’s worn it so much now that it’s gotten frayed at the edges from all the tugging he does, and the front of it’s faded so much that it’s starting to look like a plain purple.

He almost kills himself on the stairs, slipping on his socks and barely catching himself from planting his face in the wood, but he manages to make it to the kitchen without anymore near-death accidents. Wonder what would happen to JJ if he did brain himself. Just disappear, probably. Or maybe he’d be stuck here, and he’d just take over Jamie’s life or summat. Nice for him, if that’s how it works.

JJ’s talking to his mum at the island, sitting in the same stool he were last night, ‘cept he’s wearing clothes that actually fit him this time, ‘cause Jamie’s mum is real smart and thought to bring a suitcase of some of his old clothes over.

They’re matching, actually, ‘cause JJ’s got his own purple sweater on, ‘cept his is decorated with a bunch of polka dots and shit. Nice one, that.

Jamie moves and stands next to his mum, leaning into her when she sees him and wraps him up in her arms. Her bracelets are cool where they touch his skin.

“How you doin’, Jaybaby,” he feels her say into his hair, face tucked on top of his head.

“‘M alright,” he says, his own head tucked into her chest. “Thanks for coming.”

She squeezes him before pulling back, cupping his face in her hands like he’s something precious and worth being gentle with. “Anytime for you, yeah?”

She doesn’t usually come down, yeah. It’s only ever Jamie driving up to Manchester, staying the night with her and Simon and then popping back down. Off-seasons, too, he’ll stay with ‘em both for a week or two, then fuck off somewhere to go on holiday. Her and Simon have only ever been in his house when he was first moving in. Brought with them baskets of welcoming gifts and shit, which meant his kitchen is filled with stuff he doesn’t know how to use, and his bathroom’s got one of those fluffy carpets his mum’s obsessed with, and he’s got too many tiny plant pots he does his best to keep alive.

He nods in her hands, and she smiles at him before readjusting on the stool, so Jamie’s standing on one side and JJ’s sitting on the other.

“Right,” she says, “like I was saying, yeah. Simon’s just a few minutes out with groceries, and then I’ll make us some food and we can figure out what to do for a week, hm?”

Jamie shifts so his hip’s against the counter, angling himself to face both of them. His mum’s not turned to him, ‘cause they’re both looking at JJ, who’s looking between the two of ‘em. His face is scrunched, and his eyes are kinda crinkled and tired, and his hair’s finally looking put together. He showered in the guest bath, since his mum also brought shampoo and allat for him, ‘cause, again, fucking genius. Even though JJ’s wearing clothes that actually fit him, he still looks out of place. Even though he’s sitting beside his mum, a handwritten letter from Roy Kent on the counter in front of him, he still looks like he’s gonna fucking cry, which makes no sense, yeah, ‘cause his mum’s right here, but also does make some sense, ‘cause his mum’s right here.

“You alright, Jaybaby?” His mum asks, except she’s still looking at JJ, and Jamie closes his mouth real quickly.

JJ nods, stops nodding, and his nose scrunches up and his hands come up to his shoulders, elbows bent, and start waving up and down, and it’s weird being on the other side of this, ‘cause Jamie’s only ever been the one actually doing it. But not here, not in the kitchen with his mum in between him and himself, as JJ starts bawling.

His mum leans forward then, putting her hands on JJ’s shoulders as he wriggles in his seat, says words that come out high pitched, and his accent is so thick, that Jamie can practically feel the way the sounds form on his own lips. “I dunno, you— I e’nt— ‘s like—”

And his words get drowned out by his crying, and Jamie feels like he’s in some fucked up reality show, or some shitty film where no one knows what to fucking do even though everything’s falling apart around them. It’s all, get your shit together and step up. It’s all, at least do fucking something.

His mum hops from her stool then, and she moves so she’s standing up against JJ so she can wrap him up tight, like her arms will get his words all together and into something manageable.

Like watching a film, the way his mum tucks JJ’s head into her chest and rubs her face in his hair. The way she waits him out, not saying anything and letting him curl into her.

Once, when Jamie were seventeen, he’d showed up at his mum’s. Simon were there even though Jamie was hoping he wouldn’t be, but he’d taken the hint and fucked off to the shops for a bit.

And see, Jamie’s always loved his mum. Loved her his whole life since she’d been there when it started, and he’d never thought about what it’d be like to not love her. Weren’t even an idea he’d ever entertained, ‘cause there’s no point entertaining something you know you’ll hate anyways.

But when he’d been out with some mates, yeah, and they’d talked about mama’s boys, and he’d seen his dad later and he’d talked about being a man, Jamie’d entertained it. He’d thought to himself, What would it be like if I didn’t love me mum?

So he’d gone to her, yeah, and sat with her at the table and asked, Why d’you love me?

Took it like it were natural, she did. S’ppose it were natural, him asking questions most people couldn’t understand how he got to. But she still thought about it, smiled at him in the way she does whenever he asks about anything other people think he should already know, and she’d said, You’re me son, Jamie. You don’t ever have to do anything to make me love you, yeah, ‘cause I already do.

And he’d said, Ehm, yeah, obviously. But why?

He thinks this is like that. JJ, fresh from a different time, a different place, dropped here where he’s got fuckall to remember, just Jamie and his mum the only people he knows. He thinks JJ crying into his mum’s arms is like Jamie asking her why she loved him when he were seventeen and doubting himself. Stupid thing, that. The doubting.

And he thinks his mum holding onto JJ, even though he’s fourteen and not ready for the shitstorm the world is gonna throw at him, is like when she’d smiled and said, Baby, it’s you. Can’t stop loving that, can I?

- - -

After JJ’s had a cry, and Jamie’d stood there staring at him and his mum cuddle on the stool, he heads upstairs and naps down in Jamie’s bed again. Then it’s just Jamie and his mum, helping Simon put away the groceries.

“I’m thinking pasta, yeah?” His mum says, leaving out the things she doesn’t want to put in the fridge.

“Ooh, I love your pasta, darling,” Simon says from where he’s putting bananas in a bowl.

His mum walks over and gives him a kiss on the cheek, whispers something in his ear, and then goes back to sorting.

Simon smiles and finishes fussing with the bananas, instead turning over to Jamie, who’s tracing his finger on the cool marble of the countertop. “I think I’ll go and read in the other room while you and your mum fuss about cooking, hm?”

“Right, man, thanks.”

Simon wiggles his fingers at him with one more smile before walking off.

Then it’s just Jamie and his mum.

“How’re you doin’?”

“‘M alright, yeah,” Jamie says, watching her find the pot and pan she needs. She looks over her shoulder at him. “Ehm, kinda freaked, actually. A little nervous.” He breathes in. Stares at the counter. “I’m— no, yeah, it’s all a bit shit.”

His mum hefts the pot she’s just filled with water onto the stove, then turns and walks over to him. “Freaked about what?”

Too much fucking shit, really.

“Ehm, for one, having JJ ‘round is fucking weird.”

She smiles at him and rubs her hands up and down his arms. “Fucking scared, ain’t he? Tossed up into the future and nothing’s like he thought it’d be.”

“What, didn’t think I’d be playing for what used to be a shit team and learning under my favorite footballer?”

“Didn’t think I’d remarry and he wouldn’t have to worry ‘bout his shitstain of a father anymore, ‘s what I were thinking,” she says, giving him a squeeze.

Jamie sucks through his lips and clicks his tongue. Mad timing, that. Straight from a night out with his dad and tossed somewhere his dad don’t visit no more. Where his dad don’t text him no more and Jamie’s near washed his hands of him. Everything clean from him ‘cept his head, ‘cause that’s a bit harder to clean, ain’t it.

“I’m also fucked at Richmond, mummy.”

She tilts her head at him and scrunches her eyebrows, like she’s working on figuring him out. She’s good about it, too. Always seems to find what she’s looking for, and Jamie never has to do much but stand there and talk.

“How so, baby?”

Her makeup’s a bit messy, yeah. Not, like, dead messy, but her eyeliner’s a bit crooked, like she’d rushed to put it on this morning. He flickers his gaze from her face to his hands, pulling on his fingers, pushing them into his palms and then pulling them back the other way, then repeats with the other hand.

“Used me freebie in front of me coaches, didn’t I.”

Her shoulders drop then, and her head ducks to catch his eyes until they’re locked back onto her. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry.”

His mouth doesn’t open, and even if it did he don’t know what he’d end up saying anyways, ‘cause his brain’s just focused on the way her hands have moved up to his neck, one on each side, fingers scratching at the base of his head, along his hair.

“‘S that what you were doing this morning? Getting everything settled?”

“Ehm, kind of?” He can’t help the way his voice pitches, doing that high-key thing it does when his mouth starts working without him, and his brain just feeds it everything until it’s all falling out at once. “So, actually, me coaches think JJ’s my brother? And, like, I know he’s not, right, I’m obviously an only child, but then they was going on about how they understood why I kept him a secret and were asking how long I’d need to get him settled before I could go to training again? And like, I didn’t know what to do, yeah, so I just said JJ is our kid, yeah, ‘cause he looks like me anyways since he is me, so now they think JJ fucking teleported into the boot room or summat and I told ‘em I’d be back in a week and I feel like fucking shit ‘cause now I’m just lying even more to ‘em!”

His hands are in the air beside his head, elbows bent so he can shake ‘em by the wrists without hitting his mum’s arms, since she’s still touching his neck like she’s trying to hold him down, like keeping contact will get rid of the way he’s rocking from his heels to his toes.

She’s nodding at him, lips tight together and eyes flicking back and forth across his face, and Jamie feels like he’s just spouted out a bunch of shit and none of it made sense or cleared, fucking, anything. Ain’t spitballing supposed to make you feel better? Ain’t that the point of, like, Dr. Sharon and allat? ‘Cause it don’t seem to be working now, ‘cause all he feels like he’s done is spill everything out so it can fill him back up again. Like, revitalizing his worries or summat.

“You’re in a big pile of mess, ain’t you?”

He nods and, shit, yeah, tears start to squeeze out the corners of his eyes, and there’s no stopping those, is there, so he falls forward and shoves his face in her chest.

It feels like en château, or whatever it’s called, the thing that sounds like a french singer but it’s actually when you’re just repeating something without actually repeating it, yeah. Repeating something that you think should’ve happened, but it’s just in your head. That’s what hugging his mum feels like right now. Like he should be fourteen and sitting on the stool, his mum towering above him. But instead, here he is, leaning against her and bending down, ‘cause if he stands straight then he’ll be taller than her. But when he bends down, yeah, then he can hide his face and she can put her own in his hair, still dripping from the shower, fucking hell.

“Want to know what I think?” She asks when she pulls away and lifts his face up, like he’d ever say anything but yes. “I think you should find someone, yeah, who’s got some power at the club, and make sure you trust them, and then tell them the truth, Jaybaby.”

Load of shit, that. He says as much.

“Mm, but there’s got to be someone that’ll help take care of it, yeah? Plus, that way you have someone who can help you out some more when I head back up to Manchester.”

Like three Jamies layered on top of each other, fourteen and seventeen and twenty-five. Living in the same moment too many times and Jamie wonders if it’ll ever stop, or if he’s just stuck in a loop for the rest of his life. Like the pundits have predicted and the statisticians have done the math, all leading back to Jamie getting stuck in the same moment, like everything else comes back to this. Wonder what it means, that. Wonder if it’s him being stuck, or if it’s him being safe. Wonder if there’s much of a difference.

“So, you and JJ can stay here for a week, since you already took it off, yeah? And if he’s still here by the end of it, then I want you to call someone who can actually help you, and you get it sorted with ‘em.”

He blinks and looks back at his mum. Feet on the ground, hands on his neck, eyes on his eyes. Three points of contact, innit.

“How’s that sound?” She asks him when he stands and stares for too long.

He don’t know who he’s supposed to call, but he’s got a week, yeah? A week in the house with JJ, doing fuck knows what with him. Shouldn’t be too bad.

He nods, mutters, “‘lright,” and manages a smile when she pulls away.

- - -

They finish eating ‘round mid-afternoon, and his mum tries to convince him to let her stay, and he would, really, ‘cause it’s his mum, ‘cept that’d mean Simon would have to drive back to Manchester alone for his bake sale.

When Jamie’d first heard about how Simon’d turned his stress-baking into sell-baking, he’d thought him mad just for baking in the first place. But that were ‘cause he were still spending near everyday with his dad, weren’t it, so it weren’t really his thinking that had thought it. Few years later, though, and Jamie’d asked if he could go with Simon to one of his bake sales. So they’d driven down to one of the supermarkets in Manchester — Jamie can’t remember which — and he’d helped Simon take care of the stall. All of his baked goods had sold out in the day, and Jamie’d gotten sweat and an achy face from smiling out of it.

Simon doesn’t go too much, only once or twice a month, and Jamie’s only been with him a handful of times after that. But he still looks forward to it, even if he keeps telling Jamie he can skip this weekend’s and stay back with his mum to help out some more.

But there’s something about it, yeah? The way Jamie can remember the noise of the other stalls around them, the back-and-forth talking Simon did with each of his buyers, the way people’d come up to them and their baskets full of bread and trays full of pastries, and left with armfuls of goods. And Simon’d been smiling the whole time. Not that he don’t smile much, ‘cause that’s definitely not even debatable. Seems anytime Jamie sees him, his cheeks are pushed up and he’s grinning at him, all soft and excited like. But at the supermarket, yeah, Simon had got this look in his eyes that turned his smile into something sharp and cozy at the same time. Like he belonged there, in that stall, handing away baked goods to anyone who glanced his way.

So Jamie convinces his mum she don’t have to stay. When they’re done eating and they’ve finished the box of treats Jamie’d bought last night, he convinces his mum to leave with Simon, and that if he or JJ need anything, he’ll call.

When Jamie and JJ are standing on the steps, watching the car pull out onto the street, he wonders if they should’ve stayed. Should’ve let his mum out-convince him, maybe. For his sake and for JJ’s.

But they’re already gone, yeah, and it’s just him and JJ and it’s not even dark out yet.

“Right,” he says, “what the fuck d’you want to do for a whole week?”

JJ sniffs, looking back at the door and then at Jamie again.

“You got a place where I can play against you?”

- - -

JJ doesn’t play the same against Jamie like he played against the team. His kicks are vicious and his runs look exhausting.

The first time Jamie played like that, he’d gotten yelled at by the gaffer and harsh looks from the players. But fuck them, yeah, ‘cause Jamie’d had a shit week. Can’t remember now what exactly made it so shit, but he does remember feeling like absolute rubbish, so he’d taken it out on the pitch.

That’s what it feels like JJ’s doing now.

“I thought they’d be allowed by now,” JJ says eventually, huffing after getting the ball past Jamie and into the makeshift goal they’ve got set up. Just kind of wandered around a bit, ‘cause Jamie didn’t fancy taking him somewhere crowded where they’d get papped, so he hoped for the best and found a small clearing that they decided would make do for a bit.

“What would?” Jamie asks, settling for toeing at the ball and letting JJ finally talk.

“Freebies,” he says, nose scrunched and eyes locked unforgivingly on Jamie. “Passives.”

Jamie can’t remember ever thinking that. He’d always accepted that it just wouldn’t happen. Maybe he’d hoped, yeah, in the back of his mind, that people would get their shit together and change things. But he’d never actually believed it, he don’t think. Not that he can remember, at least. But JJ’s fourteen, and how much can Jamie really remember when he were that young? Brain’s going to make space for things, so it makes sense for it to kick out the useless thoughts, or the small thoughts, or the thoughts that could never happen.

“Well they ain’t,” he says, and it makes JJ’s eyes flicker away before coming back more intense.

“What, and you just accept that?”

Fucking, yeah. Stupid question, that. Jamie’s got no clue where JJ’s coming from right now. His mum made it dead clear when she’d explained it to him, way back on the couch and in her arms in Manchester. Footy doesn’t accept passives, so just don’t tell ‘em you’ve got a passive. Easy as that. It’s not like it’s a big deal, ‘specially not for Jamie. Some blokes have passives that’re hard to forget about once you know they’re there. But Jamie’s lucky, sort of, ‘cause his is a one-off.

It’s shit, yeah, for everyone else. Fucking, discrimination and allat. And people know it, too. They talk about it on social media and shit, pointing out how biased athletics is for not displaying full inclusion and everything. But the rules haven’t budged for them, so Jamie’s just been doing what he wanted to do in the first place. Playing footy and not giving a fuck about freebies.

“You sound like,” JJ says, even though Jamie hasn’t even said nothing. He pauses, jaw working as he tries to find the words, and it’s weird seeing it from this side. Jamie’s grown into the habit of it, of repeating himself. His dad used to ask him to all the time, anyways. Say that again, lad and I didn’t hear ya. So he figures, might as well just get used to repeating himself, so he does it until it’s normal, yeah. Until he forgets how much he does it, like as long as it’s happening, whatever he repeats will turn true. JJ’s in the in-between, where he’s trying to make it a habit, but he keeps forgetting. So instead, every time he talks, he stops and starts and backtracks, and it’s confusing trying to watch him figure it out.

JJ kicks at the grass with his trainer, fists his hands, says, “You sound like— fucking, you sound like dad.”

Jamie’s foot slips where it’s been messing with the ball, and it sends it rolling away and makes him lose his balance. He feels his own hands start to fist, and it must look mad, innit, from a third perspective. Two Jamies mirroring each other, trying to hold something, but just flinging words ‘round.

“The fuck you on,” he chokes out. Big feat, that, ‘cause his throat is tight and it feels like how JJ’s looks. Sort of fucked up cosmic karma throwing this at him, like it’s funny JJ’s saying things Jamie’s stayed up at night worrying about.

“It’s like you don’t fucking care!” JJ says, and he’s shouting now, a little bit. It doesn’t echo, really, but it is loud, innit, and if someone were to walk by they’d have a full view of what’s happening. “‘S like you just— just fucking accepted all the shit dad says, and it’s stupid, innit? ‘Cause it’s stupid, right, ‘cause it’s— ‘cause last night you said he weren’t here, but he is, ‘cause you’re just saying everything for him!”

“Fuck you,” Jamie says, and his hands are definitely shaking now. He has half a mind to hide them, to shove them in his shirt so no one can see his fingers trembling. But it’s just JJ, isn’t it. It’s just him, fourteen and yelling at him because he thinks Jamie’s— because he think Jamie’s turned into his dad.

“Fuck you,” he says again, except this time the words come out sharper and angrier, and this is just fucked, isn’t it? “I didn’t fucking— you’re such a— listen, I didn’t go through eight years of dad just so you could come here and start saying shit. I didn’t fuck myself when I punched him at Wembley just so you could say I’ve turned out just like him! If you think the only thing different about you in eight years is that you turn into him, then you’re fucking delusional!”

JJ’s face twists, and he and Jamie have stepped closer so they have to angle their heads to look each other in the eyes, so Jamie can see as he processes the words. Can see when something shifts in him, taking the fighting words from his tongue and shoving new ones on, so he says, voice small, “You punched dad?”

Jamie blinks, and it’s like he’s falling back in on himself, his skin and bones collapsing on his lungs ‘cause it hurts to breathe, then, like a struggle to get one bit of air.

“How did he— what’d he—” JJ darts his eyes around, his hands moving themselves so they’re tucked under his armpits. He looks like he’s got no clue what’s happening. He looks like he’s got no clue what’s possible. “Why?”

Something cold hits the back of Jamie’s neck. By his hairline, down his shoulder, and disappearing into his shirt. Small and cold and then followed by another, and Jamie finally breathes in, and the air that fills his body chills his bones. It’s raining, but barely. Just spitting, really, and it’s cold. It brings him far, far from the tightness of his throat and his fists and his rage, and to right here, where JJ is small, and Jamie hates feeling larger than him. So he squats down, and maybe that’d be patronizing to someone else, sometime else, but all it does is put Jamie lower than JJ, which isn’t bad, yeah. That way they’re both small, together.

“Here’s the thing,” Jamie says. “You’re not wrong with thinking I’m a dick, ‘cause I was, for a little bit. Just recently started not being one, and that’s ‘cause of Richmond, yeah? The team, and me coaches, and everyone else, they helped me not be him, or like, some fucked Jamie-version of him, yeah?”

JJ’s watching him, and if it weren’t raining Jamie’s sure he’d be able to feel his breaths on his hair.

“And so, I got out of me head enough to realize I was being shit, and that people cared about me, and that I didn’t need dad no more.”

JJ’s gnawing on his lip, and Jamie’s knees are getting wet in the grass, because the rain’s not letting up and it’s started making mud, and it’s pooling at his knees and his feet, where his body touches the ground. Going to have to shower again.

Jamie figures, fine, whatever, and he falls back so he’s sitting on his bum instead, getting comfortable with a squelch, and that’s ‘angin’, that. Makes him shiver from thinking about it and from the cold, and he thinks, with JJ looking down at him, this is all a bit mad, isn’t it? Who’s he think he is, yelling at himself, like a right twat?

“You’ll like this,” he says, and JJ blinks at him, water dripping down as he does. “Was in the middle of the fucking Wembley dressing room, weren’t I. He came in, started acting like a right dick, started insulting the team, yeah? So I knocked him over with a punch, he got escorted out, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“That’s— fuck, that’s…”

“Fucking mint, yeah?”

JJ huffs, then, a half-laugh that’s given away by how one side of his mouth pulls up. “Were gonna say insane, but yeah, guess so. Fucking mint.”

Jamie leans forward to shove at him, and JJ helps out by falling down onto his own bum beside him, squelching in the mud.

“What else?” JJ asks.

Jamie scrunches his nose at him, leaning back on his hands. “What else what?”

“Like,” JJ says, tilting his head a bit to look at him, “what else have you done?”

Jamie doesn’t want to fuck it up. Like, right now, sprawled on the grass in the rain with JJ, it’s like a small moment of perfection. Talking about Wembley to himself in a way that lets him understand? That lets him realize that it’s not all shit? He don’t want to mess that up. But he figures, for him, it’s just as good, what he wants to talk about. Wembley’s right up there, in major moments of Jamie’s life that he couldn’t fucking come back from. Wembley, and going back to Richmond, and learning to trust his teammates, and, and, and.

When his mum took him to Amsterdam, Jamie did all the touristy shit. Fucking brilliant, it was. He’d made a list later, of all the things he didn’t get to do with her but that he definitely wanted to when he came back. Like, Amsterdam had a thing for cats, apparently? Didn’t advertise that, did they, so Jamie didn’t know until he were leaving. So next time he’d visit De Poezenboot and look at a bunch of cats, and then he’d go to the KattenKabinet and look at a bunch of photos of cats. Not a weird obsession if he only does it twice, and definitely not a personal obsession if cats are so famous that they’ve got two things dedicated to ‘em.

So he says, “Oh, alright, so,” and keeps his eyes on JJ, “when you go back to Amsterdam, you’ve got to visit De Poezenboot and KattenKabinet, ‘cause I forgot about ‘em last time I went.”

JJ’s breath hitches, his chest stuttering underneath the sweater that’s slowly matting itself to his chest, but he doesn’t jump up and yell at him. It’s like he knows that this moment is just that, too. A moment.

“When was last time?” He asks.

“Few weeks ago,” he says. Not the next time he visited after he did with his dad, with his mum. But going back with the team, riding in the bus together after a shit match and then being let loose on the city? That’s what matters right now, in the rain. “Like, taught Roy Kent how to bike, didn’t I.”

“He doesn’t know how to fucking bike?”

Jamie laughs, head tilted down so he can look at JJ through his lashes, ‘cause they’re dripping and it’s getting hard to see now, and JJ hasn’t fucking yelled at him for talking about Amsterdam, even though Jamie thinks he definitely would’ve blown up at anyone who looked at him wrong right after. Thinks he almost did, if it hadn’t been his mum who’d first asked him ‘bout the trip. Thinks maybe this is like that, except Jamie’s his mum and JJ’s him, and he’s not asking about anything ‘cause he knows it all already. He thinks JJ knows that, too.

He thinks this is all his fault, maybe. Not, like, actually, since it’s not like he’s got control over his freebie. But it is his freebie, yeah? So by default, like, that means whatever it does falls on him. So it’s his fault JJ’s here in the first place, stuck eight years in his future and talking to himself about something without actually talking about it.

All he can do, though, is just make sure JJ doesn’t feel like it’s his fault, ‘cause it isn’t. So Jamie just has to make sure JJ doesn’t die, or see something shitty, or realize Jamie’s actually a bit of a complete prick still. Make JJ feel better even though Jamie’s not.

So he says, “Right, where’s the fucking ball,” and twists around to look for it.

It’s rolled to the edge of the clearing from when he kicked it, so he shuffles over there, hands and knees slipping in the mud. He grabs it and looks up, and yeah, the rain’s turned from barely spitting to absolutely pouring.

When Jamie pivots around, JJ’s followed him and is on his hands and knees beside him, eyes flickering from Jamie’s face to the football.

Once, when Jamie was sixteen, maybe seventeen, he had been stuck on the pitch with two of his mates, trying to convince a cat to come out from under the table that had set up for drinks. ‘Course, the cat were busy being a cat, which meant it were being a fucking pussy and meowing at them, and scratching when they tried to reach out.

But then someone’d gotten a good swipe at it, pulling it forward a bit, and it should’ve been absolutely miserable with the yowling and the scratches on Jamie’s arms, especially when the cat decided to run down the pitch. That left three footballers chasing it on the grass, slipping in the mud and getting absolutely covered in it, head to toe. Jamie had to swipe at his eyes every five seconds so he could see what he were chasing, and most of the time he were too late and he’d slammed into someone else.

This feels like that. So Jamie’s already filled with anticipation, ready to pour out of him, and it spills out in laughs when JJ lunges at him, hands reaching for the ball. But Jamie leans away, so JJ’s fingers only push the ball out of Jamie’s, and then they’re scrambling after it as it rolls away, shoving each other in the mud and getting filthy.

It’s like everything about him is folding back in on itself. Like JJ being here is just replaying scenes Jamie’s already been through, except he’s got to make it better, this time. Got to make sure JJ knows things ain’t shit, make sure as everything repeats, Jamie doesn’t just follow it all again. Kind of like a fresh start, innit, but for JJ instead of himself. Skip all the bullshit and get straight to the one-of-eleven.

If Jamie weren’t laughing, he’d be cold, probably. Usually is cold, most of the time, but right now he’s not even though he should be. So he lunges and tackles JJ, both of them going down with a thud, and then sliding for a bit, arms wrapped up, legs tangled.

Jamie’s muddy and filthy and drenched, and he’s laying on top of JJ, body heat circling between them, trading laughter like they traded their breaths last night in the bathroom. JJ’s fourteen and he’s had one and a half shitty days here, and Jamie thinks that maybe it’s okay, yeah. He thinks things might not be so bad.

Chapter Text

“No, like, it feels weird, yeah, but you’re s’pposed to let it sit for a while.”

JJ pulls back from Jamie’s hands and does a little dance-spin in a circle, nose scrunched. Jamie pulls back with a laugh, looking down at him and keeping his hands up, product lathered on his fingers.

“Ain’t it supposed to make me feel good, though?” JJ asks when he stops spinning, and yeah, he’s definitely pouting now.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, leaning forward again and stopping JJ from pulling back with an oi, “but like, that one goes on after this one.”

JJ stills then, huffing and settling his shoulders, but he holds still when Jamie starts rubbing the product across his face again. “Maybe if it didn’t feel like yoghurt, it’d be better, yeah?”

It’s late, and the clouds outside made it look darker sooner, so Jamie’d reheated some of his mum’s pasta and he and JJ had eaten it standing in the kitchen, mud streaked across his floors. He did his best to keep it all off the carpet, though, so it shouldn’t be too bad to clean up, right? Actually, he should probably do that when he and JJ are done, so it doesn’t dry into the floorboards.

He’d let JJ shower in the guest bath again, and Jamie’d spent time making sure all the mud was out of his hair. And he’d figured, while he were drying his hair, that JJ’d probably appreciate trying out his skincare products, yeah? Get a head start on what’s best for his skin.

‘Cept turns out all JJ can think about is yoghurt, so when he sticks his tongue out and swipes some from above his lip, Jamie laughs at the immediate disgust on his face. “Nah mate, tried that, tasted like shit.”

JJ pulls back, but it’s just to spit into the sink, so when he’s done he’s coming back, face in Jamie’s hands. Jamie breathes in then, and his breath gets caught somewhere between his throat and his chest, like it’s skipped over something and stuttered in his body.

JJ blinks at him, and then it’s like nothing happened at all, ‘cause his hands start working again, reaching carefully under JJ’s eyes and working around them.

“Are you dating Keeley Jones?”

Hey, woah.

“How d’you figure that?” He asks, pulling back. He’s done anyways, now JJ just has to sit through it for a few minutes, which he seems fine with if he’s asking about Keeley.

JJ shrugs, eyes flickering from the edge of the sink to Jamie’s face. Jamie scoops more product onto his fingers and starts applying it to himself. “Not dating her anymore, but I did for a little bit, yeah.”

He looks at himself in the mirror as he gets his forehead, making sure to keep from his hairline. He can hear JJ open his mouth and draw in air, so before he can ask, he says, “And it’s none of your business if the sex is as good as you think, you get me?” He finishes off and turns back to JJ, smirking at his crossed arms. “Spoilers.”

JJ pouts but accepts it, so he changes the topic. “How’d you end up going from City to fucking Richmond, anyways?”

Jamie settles his forearms on the edge of the sink, getting comfortable. “Alright, so I played good with City and ‘em, but Pep decided to loan me out for more minutes. Picked Richmond, and this were before Ted came to coach us, yeah? So we had fucking Cartrick, and this bit I can spoil, but he’s a right twat. Set me up against the lads, didn’t he.”

“That’s fucked.”

“Right? Yeah, so, I play with ‘em and I’m fucking amazing even though we hate each other for stupid reasons, and then the boss switches out for Ms. Welton — she’s the lady whose couch you were sitting on — and she brings in Ted, right? And Ted cares more ‘bout the team than the sport, which, no, yeah, I know. Anyways, I fuck up enough and he ends me loan, which were a bit— right, ehm, I go back to City, then I quit City ‘cause of dad, and— don’t ask, mate, it’s a whole thing.”

Jamie gives JJ a rundown, talking through it even when the product’s ready to wash off. Like a skeleton of his life, innit. Talking about all the main pieces of his career, from bouncing between City and Richmond, and leaving out all the shit that came with it. It’s, like, planning a match, right, and you’ve got the plays down and all you have to do is go on the pitch and win. Without actually playing yet, so all you’ve got in your head is the plan. That’s kind of what Jamie’s doing, innit.

When they’re done — and JJ does enjoy the next stuff Jamie puts in, ‘cause it’s like he said, yeah, it feels so much better after — Jamie shoves JJ back to his bed. The clock he’s got on the bedside table is too bleary for Jamie to read, which is how he knows it’s late and they’re both tired and Jamie’s still got to clean the floors.

He grabs the bucket he keeps around for messes like this, which came in handy with the house parties he used to throw all the time. Fills it with water and soap and gets on his hands and knees to scrub at the floor, vest and shorts already out of the way from the suds.

He does a kind of crawl-shuffle from the kitchen and down the hallway, and he’s wringing out the towel to get a clean swipe in the entryway when his phone goes off. He sits back and drops the towel, patting his shorts for his phone even though they’re too small for pockets.

It’s in the kitchen, ‘cause that’s where he fucking left it, and he squints at the caller ID. It’s too blurry, though, like the clock were earlier, so he just swipes it and holds it up to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Jamie! Glad I caught you. I’ve been meaning to call but works just been blurgh, yeah? Hey, what’re you doing still awake, babe?”

It’s Keeley, and Jamie breathes out as she rambles. He puts the phone on speaker and wanders back over to the bucket, getting back on the ground to finish. “Just finished showering, actually. Sounds like you’ve been drowning in success over there, yeah?”

Keeley makes one of her many frustrated noises, the one where she usually spreads her fingers out like she wants a high-five, and she stretches her neck out and lets the noise out through her teeth. “Yeah, it would be success if they weren’t asking about things that aren’t fucking possible by the deadline!”

“So you told ‘em to fuck off then, yeah?”

“Duh, of course! All proper snobby, too. ‘Thank you so much for your ideas, but due to your inability to properly communicate with us, I’ve no choice but to say fuck no!’”

The phone goes quiet, and Jamie focuses on getting more soap as he listens to quiet clicking sounds. Distracted ‘cause she still has her laptop out, probably.

Jamie’s wringing out the last bit of mud, putting his phone in his mouth — but like, just between his lips, yeah, ‘cause he’s not getting his saliva on it or nothing gross — then standing up and hauling the bucket to the back door and dumping it outside. He leaves it there with the towel, ‘cause the rain’ll rinse it all out for him, then walks back in and gets another towel to start drying his arms and legs. Puts his phone on the counter and hears a quiet slam, which must mean Keeley’s actually done now, not just that distracted sort of done, where she wants to be but isn’t.

“Now before you give me the scoop on what’s happening, I want you to make yourself some tea — the chamomile you bought with me last week — and then I’m going to ask you how you’re doing, and you’re gonna tell me because I care about you and we’re friends, okay?”

Keeley’s always been firm in doing what she believes is right. Always had a take-no-bullshit-from-dumb-idiots thing about her, and he loves that part of her, ‘specially when it comes out for the people ‘round her, for her work or for her personal life, doesn’t much matter which. Plus, whatever Keeley says goes, ‘cause it’s not like Jamie can say no to her, can he.

So Jamie says, “Right, okay,” and finishes wiping off and sets about making himself a brew.

He does settle on the couch, while she talks to him about how her and Barbara have been awkwardly bonding about their combined hatred for the one client, the one she were just talking about with the deadline. It’s when she runs out of steam, pausing for a break, and once he’s taken a sip from his mug, that he starts talking.

“Me mum came down earlier today, after I got back from Nelson Road,” he says, and putting it into words makes it seem like it were forever ago, like this day has been too long, stretched out and pulled over his head. “So it’s not as shit as it could be. And I cleared some stuff up with JJ, so— and I ain’t bein’ funny, but you can take those worries you’ve got and shove ‘em up someone’s arse, yeah? ‘Cause I’m alright, here.”

“Aw, babe, that’s good to hear. Shove ‘em up the first good-looking arse I see, just for you.”

Jamie smiles and settles in, cradling his mug to his chest and tilting his chin down to slurp at it. Just in time, and Keeley’s saying, more excited and giggly like, “Now can you please tell me what the fuck is going on!”

So he gives her the skeleton of what happened, explains it the same way he explained his career history to JJ. Talks about how JJ’s his younger brother — which takes her a good few minutes to get convinced about — how he somehow ended up in the boot room, and Jamie’s got to take care of him for a week even though he just saw his mum, and couldn’t she have taken him with her and Simon back to Manchester, Jamie?

And he gets ready to say, Bonding and that, yeah?

But he catches the words before they leave, which is a surprise in itself, isn’t it, him being quick enough to do that. But the point is that he does, because he thinks about his mum.

Keeley’s not someone with ‘power’ at Richmond, not like how his mum meant. But she and Ms. Welton are the literal definition of best friends. Jamie’s sure if he grabbed a dictionary — although, who has dictionaries these days, so maybe if he just opened his phone — and searched ‘best fucking friends in the whole wide world’ — which were Keeley’s words, not even a drink into one of their date-but-just-as-friends nights — he’s sure he’d find a picture of Keeley and Ms. Welton sitting on some couch together or summat, holding hands and gossiping and smiling. And since she’s best friends with his boss, the person who pulls all the fucking strings for Richmond, and Keeley’s just an all ‘round respectable person to the lads anyways, that does make her someone with power for him, don’t it.

If he tells her about his freebie… well, if he tells her he’s keeping a secret from Ted and his coaches and his team, she’d tell him he’s being a right idiot, wouldn’t she. But she’d do it in that Keeley way, where she’s dead fucking nice about it, and she’ll try to convince him to not lie, right, and stop being a coward. Say there’s nothing to be afraid of, even though there is.

The problem isn’t that he doesn’t want to tell her then, is it. It’s that there’s this thing in his head, taking up space so there’s no room for the thinking that Keeley’d prefer to happen, and it’s telling him that telling her would be a bad idea, because there’s no guarantee that she can keep him at Richmond, is there. No guarantee she’d be able to convince Ms. Welton not to get rid of him. Ms. Welton’s a smart woman, she is. Have to be to be in charge of a whole football club. Which means she’d think about the good and the bad of keeping Jamie, and she’d figure that the bad outweighs the good, yeah. The risk of news of his freebie getting out too dangerous to keep him around.

Over the phone, because he’s been silent for too long, probably, he hears Keeley ask, “Jamie?”

The best things and the worst things happen when the tiny voice in his head agrees with his normal thinking.

He hadn’t talked to Dr. Sharon for long, but he did have a few sessions with her ‘fore she left. They mainly talked about him, yeah, ‘cause that’s what the sessions were for. Sometimes they talked about other people, like his relationships with ‘em and allat, but not usually. Sometimes, and this only happened once, but sometimes they talked about his dad. Didn’t even mean to, really, but it’d just slipped out. His dad’s been slipping out of his mouth a lot lately, actually, and he’s not sure what that means.

But he’d slipped out during one of the sessions, unexpected like. Didn’t even know it were his dad slipping out at the start, ‘cause he weren’t meaning to talk about his dad. All he’d said, when they were talking ‘bout self-image and shit, were, Like there’s a worm in me head sometimes. And Dr. Sharon raised an eyebrow at him and just said, Expound. Which he figured meant, you know, keep talking about that, so he did. A worm, slimy and wriggly and pink, were making its home in his head. And she’d said, Why a worm? And he’d figured, it’s ‘cause worms are worms, innit? There’s something about them, right, that’s so interesting. ‘Specially if you think, like, how they must be to a child playing outside. So interesting that the child will pick it up and hold it to their face and watch it squirm, and then it’ll wriggle into their ear and make its home there, their brain the dirt it eats to survive, until there’s no more brain left. And sometimes the worm would tell him things he didn’t like, or tell him to do things he didn’t want to, or tell him he were things he didn’t want to be. And Dr. Sharon’d said, Is it really a worm, Jamie? Or is it someone else. And he’d said, What d’you mean? And she’d said, Does the worm’s voice sound like anyone specific?

And Jamie’d changed the subject right then, didn’t he. Not even smooth like, ‘cause Dr. Sharon’d taken a big breath, yeah, the kind where he did something she’d rather him not’ve, but she’d chosen not to poke at it. Figured she’d probably bring it up at another session, wouldn’t she, but either she’d left before she could or she never planned to in the first place, ‘cause they didn’t end up talking ‘bout it again.

Keeley would know how to handle it, he thinks. She’d just grab the worm with the tips of her fingers and fling it far away, sticking her tongue out and shivering while she does, doing her best not to gag from something she finds gross, because little boys like Jamie always liked things they shouldn’t’ve, even if they were small and easy to dream about loving. Even if they did things to him, like eat away at his brain like some kind of zombie-worm, until there’s no more brain left and all he’s left with is a worm with a Manchester accent, slurred and laughing and snide, until his head is just his dad.

Again, tinny and echoey and distorted through the phone, “Jamie? Babe, if you’re dying over there you gotta cough twice or something so I know to hang up and call you an ambulance, yeah?”

“No, sorry, I’m fine, Keeley.” He was supposed to answer something, he thinks. He can’t remember what. “What were you saying? Sorry.”

His feet are cold and he wishes he’d put on socks. Tucks ‘em up on the couch and under his bum instead.

She breathes in, through her nose he thinks, and he can see her straightening herself, tilting her head back and getting her mind sorted.

“I think you should really get some sleep, Jamie. You’re knackered, yeah?” She sounds really caring, don’t she. Like she finished working and called him midway just to check on him, make sure he were still alive and alright.

So he says, “Yeah, sorry. Thanks for calling, Keels.” And he means it. Tries to put his soul into it, so she knows how much he means it. Wishes they were on a video call instead, so she could see it on his face. Always said he were easy to read ‘cause of what his face did, she did.

“Alright. Get some rest, ‘cause you’re gonna need it for tomorrow, okay?”

Don’t know why he’d need it for tomorrow, really, ‘cause it’s just him and JJ, innit. Doing whatever he figures JJ wants to do. But he is knackered, and it must be the kickabout and the warm shower and the tea, all settling into his bones. So he finishes off, says, “Bye, Keeley. Thanks for calling. Yeah, see you soon.”

And then it’s just him sitting there, feet under him, empty mug in his hands, room quiet now that Keeley’s voice isn’t echoing through the speaker, just the rain pitter-pattering on the roof, like jittery fingers on the nearest surface.

He washes up and heads upstairs, picking the guest bed over the couch. He drops his shorts on the floor to find in the morning, and he figures even though he don’t have his alarm, JJ will wake up from it and come get him when he does. In the morning.

- - -

“Why’s your alarm set for four in the fucking morning, anyways?”

Jamie looks up, which is dangerous when he’s cooking, but he just put this cup of batter on, so it should be alright. “Oh, shit, sorry. Forgot it were set that early. Did it wake you up?”

JJ nods from where he’s sitting on the stool, the one he’s effectively claimed as his. He’s picking at his sleeve, and Jamie spots loose threads on it. Old shirt, that. ‘S got Bumblebee on it, gun-arm held up like he’s going to shoot at anyone who gets too close, protect JJ as he yawns at him, jaw cracking.

Jamie squints at him, getting distracted by his hair. Which is much better now, by the way, since he actually took proper care of it last night when he were doing his skincare routine for them. Maybe Jamie should let his hair go natural again. Brown’s nice on him, innit.

“Yeah, so I smashed it and it might’ve broke, I dunno.”

Jamie scrunches his nose. “Oi, you didn’t have to break it.”

“You’re burning.”

“Ah, fuck.” He whips back around and jabs the spatula at the pancake, trying to jam it underneath so he can peel it off the pan. It flings up and he catches it halfway, holds it up and licks the bottom and, yeah that’s burnt. Think the top’s still not cooked, either. He puts it on the plate with the two other failed ones, semi-dripping and semi-burnt black.

He pours another cup on and tells himself not to look away this time. So he doesn’t talk and instead lets JJ fill the room.

“Figure it’s probably training, like. Extra time for footy and allat, yeah? Morning workout?”

“Mm,” Jamie says, flipping it over. Not burnt, fucking yeah.

“Is that something they want you to do for Richmond? Or did you just decide to, ‘cause you figured it were smart?”

Simon had tried to teach him, once, after he’d told him he didn’t know how to make many breakfast foods, and after his mum had said how her attempt at teaching him had ended with fire in the batter bowl. So when Simon’d left yesterday, he’d pointed to the mix and said, “Remember, sizzle sizzle flip, sizzle sizzle take it off.” It’s about the tiny air bubbles and shit.

He takes it off and fucking mint, that, ‘cause it actually looks normal and fully cooked and not burnt. He puts it on a clean plate and slides it to JJ with a fork.

“Right, so Roy Kent?”

“No.”

“Fucking yeah, man.”

“No fucking way!”

“He’s doing some extra training with me.”

“Ho-ly fuck!”

Jamie grins and winks, then turns back around to make his own pancake.

By the time he’s sitting next to JJ, eating his breakfast and saving the spot where the most chocolate chips are for last, JJ’s stopped absently gaping and has redirected his previous hazardous yet accurate guessing and turned it into energy for shoveling the rest of his food down his throat.

“So you told him to fuck off while I’m still here?” JJ asks around a mouthful.

“Ehm, no, actually.”

Now that JJ’s mentioned it, he can’t remember talking to Roy at all about… anything, really. Not since JJ came ‘round. So Roy must’ve, like, just decided on his own that Jamie didn’t need training for… a while. So he’s stopped coming over and he just, didn’t tell Jamie. Right, okay. That’s fine, that’s definitely fine, yeppp.

“Must’ve inferred it then,” JJ says, nodding at his empty plate. “From being a coach and all.”

“Yeah, guess so.”

JJ hums and swipes a finger across the chocolate smudges leftover on both their plates.

Jamie catches it and says “oi,” then goes to swipe at him when the front door rings.

They both turn to the entryway, twisting on the stools.

“You expectin’ someone?” JJ asks.

“Nope,” Jamie says.

Through the door, three knocks. Hard like, as if whoever’s on the other side is using their whole palm instead of a fist. Promising, maybe.

“You gonna answer it?”

The doorbell rings again, then interrupts itself and rings again, then again and again and oh, yeah, that’s annoying, that.

Jamie drops from the stool and walks over to the door, JJ sliding on his socks behind him. One glance through the peephole has him swinging it open and standing there, saying, “The fuck you lot doing here?”

Sam and Dani are grinning at him and, oh, actually, they’re grinning at JJ, who’s leaning ‘round from behind Jamie. Isaac and Colin though are looking at Jamie, and it’s Isaac who says, “We figured you could use some company, bruv.”

Jamie looks between the four of ‘em, waiting for someone to talk more, but it don’t work, ‘cause Colin’s joined Sam and Dani at looking at JJ, ‘cept Colin’s making weird faces at him, like you’d usually do when you see a baby or when you smell spoiled milk.

Actually, “Keeley texted you, didn’t she.”

“Nah, she texted Roy, and Roy yelled at us. Now move.”

He catches himself on the door as Isaac moves past him, leading the way for the rest of them to come in. Dani pats him on the shoulder, Sam gives him the smile that pushes his cheeks up, and Colin lifts his shoulders at him like he’s been dragged into this unwillingly. Might’ve, if Jamie thinks about it. Probably Isaac.

They move as a mass, like some kind of amoeba or whatever, with JJ near the front and trying to listen to four footballers talk to him at once, headed towards the living room while Jamie closes the door. Isaac goes about setting up FIFA, which JJ hasn’t actually touched yet. Colin settles into the corner of the couch to watch them and Dani heads to the kitchen, sees the burnt pancakes and unwashed dishes, and sets about cleaning up, the fucking saint. Sam stays behind and scares Jamie when he turns from the door, smiling like a clown or summat. A handsome, kind, well-meaning football star of a clown.

Jamie’s stuck between Dani in the kitchen, humming under his breath at the sink, between Isaac shoving JJ and Colin laughing at them on the couch, between Sam standing in front of him in the front of his house. So he shifts past Sam and settles in the stairs, and Sam just sits down next to him, their arms resting on their knees and their shoulders brushing together.

“So,” Sam says, drawing it out and bumping closer, like he’s trying to jostle something out of Jamie from somewhere in him.

“‘M good, Sam, honestly.”

Sam tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at him, and really, this is too much it’s unnecessary, innit. Already talked to Ted and Ms. Welton. Already talked to his mum and Keeley. If anyone else looks at him with sad eyes or what the fuck ever Sam’s face is doing, he might explode, won’t he. And that’s a big mess no one needs, so.

“Of course,” Sam says, because he’s nice like that. Every bone in him is filled with kindness, like when he were made they didn’t have any other ingredients available. “Then I suppose I’m left wondering,” and he glances away and over the railing, where JJ’s foot is in Isaac’s face but they’re still focused on the TV, “why is JJ still here?”

Oh, ehm. “‘Cause of, uh, reasons.”

Please don’t ask about reasons, Sam. Jamie’s defaulted to his straight-from-brain and directly-to-mouth mode, and if Sam asks him to explain anything, he’s no clue what he’ll end up saying.

Instead, Sam redirects and jabs where Jamie weren’t expecting, yeah, and asks, “The bruises?”

The thing about Sam, yeah. The thing about having him as an actual teammate now? Instead of an unexceptional player that let Jamie smash him on the pitch and off the pitch and too many times to his heart, is that Sam’s loathing has shifted to friendship. And when Sam’s got his fingers in an idea like that, he tends to share traits with Dani in hurriedly placed loyalty that Jamie’s scared of breaking and losing with everything he does. Obviously, yeah, Sam hated Jamie. For the longest time, and rightfully so, ‘cause Jamie were well worth hating then. But after clawing his way into something better, something his team could be proud of being seen with, Sam had tiptoed and then leapt into being friends. Into trusting each other.

Everyone was there at Wembley. Feels like forever ago. Feels like some hazy dream, don’t it. But everyone was there, and everyone includes Sam, and Sam includes a sort of terrifying love that Jamie’s scared of losing, scared of keeping, scared of acknowledging and pointing at and responding to.

So before he can stop, Jamie says, not thinking of what it means, because Sam’s face and Sam’s feelings deserve something that ain’t covered in muck, “Mate, you’ve seen me dad.”

Sam’s face does something, when Jamie looks at it. Flickers through too many things, which is just like Sam, ain’t it. Too many feelings in him, all of them good. Still makes Jamie wonder which he’ll land on, what he’ll do with it.

He does him the grace of asking, “Would you like to talk about it?”

And Jamie breathes, shoulders sinking and finally looking away. Breathy and weightless, “I’d rather not.”

From the corner of Jamie’s view, Sam’s fingers twitch. Makes Jamie realize he’s picking at his nails, so he presses his palms on his legs instead.

“Are you coming to the match tomorrow?”

Jamie blinks. Pause, shift direction, right, okay. Good.

“Don’t know,” Jamie says. What would he do, anyways? With JJ, he means. Just throw the lad into the stands somewhere, so he can watch Jamie fumble about without having practiced the past two days? He’d be brilliant, obviously, but would Ted even let him? Maybe. As like, some kind of mental thing. Who knows.

“You don’t have to play,” Sam says, like he’s reading his mind. Opening Jamie’s head and scooping his thoughts out for him, which would be handy if it weren’t too fucking strange, too terrifying, right. Sam continues, keeps scooping, like catching guppies in his hands, like holding a river in his palms, “But you could bring JJ, yes? And sit in the owner’s box, with Higgins and Keeley and R— and Ms. Welton.”

Jamie scrunches his nose, ‘cause that’d just be like, just awkward, wouldn’t it. Having to sit there and pretend JJ’s normal while he watches his team play without him. Not that he thinks they couldn’t do it, right, ‘cause he’s changed and he knows their worth and how it holds up to his own. But it’s different, right. Like being benched, ‘cause that’s what’s really happening, isn’t it. And watching from the sidelines and hoping none of his teammates fuck it up without him there to help. Just sitting and watching and hoping and, well, that’s what footy is, innit? Everyone gets all wrapped up in watching lads kick a ball around, and they fucking love it, and he loves fucking doing it, so maybe… Maybe it might not be too bad, yeah? If he could do that again. Just one match, rooting for a team he’s put his heart in.

And JJ. Jamie’s supposed to be showing him what he has, isn’t he. Prove himself to himself, or something. Showing off his team does fill him up with something, don’t it, all pride like.

So Jamie figures, might as well. Says, “Guess I could, yeah.”

From the living room, Isaac shouts and Jamie can hear the others yelling, can hear Dani babbling in Spanish where he’s probably joined them by now, can hear Colin saying something about going easy, can hear JJ laughing, through it all. Jamie thinks that right now, if everything were to stop and let him catch his breath, he wouldn’t mind too much. Think it’d be nice, with the couch filled down the hall, with Sam sitting beside him. Be nice, wouldn’t it, to stop time on the mid-morning stairs.

When Jamie were younger, some small number that felt round and were below six, he’d ran into a slide. Right clumsy he were, still getting the hang of his feet and how bodies were supposed to work. But he’d run into a slide and hurt his shin bad, like, right where it stung and turned his skin pink. It’d bruised dark and purple, like someone smeared plum on his leg to make him taste sweet. He’d cried about it too, ‘cause he were young and round and low, and he’d gone running to his mum. And she’d kissed it, rubbed it, and taken him home to put one of her lotions on it. Told him she didn’t have any actual healing ointment for bruises, not that she thought they actually did much, since bruises were bruises and those healed fine on their own, so she’d grabbed a bottle of her flowery smelling lotion and spread that on instead, and Jamie’d thought it worked better than any medical-prescribed ointment were meant to.

Sitting in Jamie’s bathroom is a container of his mum’s flowery lotion that he hasn’t had to use for a while. But then JJ’d come along with bruises on his neck, like plum juice fingerprints.

Sometimes things feel like that. Like a solution to something that doesn’t actually do anything except smell good and make your mind feel better. Some kind of home remedy bollocks medicine. And when Jamie’s attempts at actual solutions don’t work? He rubs lotion over it, like a slapdash flower-scented bandaid.

“I do want you to know,” Sam says, bringing Jamie’s eyes back up to his face and away from where he’s started picking at his nails again. Fucking nerves and shit, his nail stylist would hate it.

There’s this thing Sam does when he’s trying to say something important. He used to do it a lot when Jamie first met him, when Sam were still trying to stand up for himself ‘fore Ted came ‘round and made Roy do it instead. He’d square his shoulders and bring his head back, take a breath, and deliver his words like he’d carefully picked exactly the right ones for the moment, for the person, and the only thing that changed the meaning was if he were smiling or not. Back then, he were never smiling when he did it. Not at Jamie at least. And it’s like an ode to then, the way Sam’s readying himself now. A love poem to not smiling, ‘cept this time Jamie’s different and he knows that whatever Sam tells him is something worth listening to, something worth considering instead of laughing and shoving him off.

“Whatever may be happening, hm?” Sam begins, and Jamie remembers the way he couldn’t ever look away. Not with all of Sam’s sincerity. “Whatever you’re doing, or whatever somebody else is doing? If there’s any way the team can help— if there’s any way I can help… Please do not be afraid to seek it, Jamie.”

A laugh and a shout from down the hall, Sam’s eyes locked with Jamie’s, Jamie’s chest held in the grasp of words and feelings that Sam always excelled at expressing, time paused on the mid-morning stairs. He doesn’t mind too much. But if Jamie stayed next to his mum as she rubbed lotion on his shin, or if he stays now while Sam offers himself up like he’s not afraid of how Jamie could hurt him, then nothing’d ever get done, and JJ’d be stuck on his own, and Jamie’d be fucking too many people over.

So he tucks Sam’s words away, safe in his ribcage where they’re already holding his heart, and lets the edges of his mouth lift and says, “Thanks, Sam.” Bumps his shoulder against his, breathes in the laugh that Sam lets out through his nose and his smile. Trading air.

“I mean it, Jamie.”

He stretches, arms reaching up and away from the moment. Stands and looks back when he thinks he can manage to without crumbling, smiles, and says, “Me too.”

Then Sam is following him down the hall to where JJ and Colin are shouting at Isaac and Dani, and Jamie breathes in flowery lotion, and the sunlight through the windows keeps moving.