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We know we are, we’re sure we are
When the boys start to sing heartily together, the sacrifices have been recast. It’s raw fuel now, pure greyhound power that’ll last long into the night, after the bin is down to embers.
We know we are, we’re sure we are
Roy isn’t as sure about whatever the fuck he is right now.
The warm Mezcal turns him inside out and all he can see is Tartt, grinning from pointed ear to ear across the licking flames.
The firelight definitely loves his angles.
All Roy needed was thirty seconds of vulnerability, and Jamie went from being revoltingly attractive to it being something he was quite okay with.
Roy is trying to think of something to say. It’s like struggling to remember what Grandad said in a dream, massaging his brain until something fits into the empty word bubble. He can’t find the language to tell Jamie how brilliant everything feels because he actually gave a shit tonight.
All at once, Jamie’s voice climbs to the loudest in the chorus, the rest of the boys trailing off to make space for the golden notes. “We’re Richmond til we diiiie–” he belts out, swelling with emotion the chant couldn’t hold.
He flushes at the sudden silence, at everyone’s eyes and “whaaa?” and “ bruv!” as if a shower curtain just flew open on him. “Ah. It’s, ah—” He rolls his eyes and flashes his tongue against his lip. “It’s nothing.”
Roy is as stunned as everyone else, but maybe the only one scarcely breathing. There’s something Jamie fucking Tartt is shy about—looking at the ground and stretching the pockets of his jacket— tonight, no secrets are safe.
“Oh my God, we got Justin Timber-Ace in the house, everybody,” Ted says.
Dani, if he got any brighter, might burst. “Jamieee! This night is full of holy shits. Mas canto!”
“Nooo, c’mon, I thought you lot would drown me out, it’s really not—gahh. Fuck.”
“Go on, Tartt,” Roy says, with Mezcal-drenched gentleness. “You can’t take back punching everyone in the gut like that. Give us more.”
Jamie’s eyes flash in the dark.“Eh? Don’t think I know any of the wooly mammoth-rib marimba hits from your era,” he winks. The boys ooooh and Roy just grins. “Alright fine. For you, Roy. ‘Cause you said I weren’t wrong and it’s probably the nicest thing you ever said to me.”
As everyone’s laughter subsides, Jamie sings a poppy thing that Roy thinks he’s heard before, but he couldn’t tell you what it is– only that his heart is punishing his ribs listening to it. Whenever he gets self-conscious, Jamie’s eyes meet his and he stops fiddling with his jacket or bouncing his foot.
Roy would think he was underwater if there wasn’t a blaze in front of him, but then again those Bubble Guppie pricks light campfires all the time.
When Jamie’s heartfelt little number ends, the boys holler and hoot and Roy has to take a swig from the bottle to stop himself from fucking weeping. Fuck. Here he is, a drowned prince gurgling awake, falling for a voice and the unholy creature that comes with it.
Gina Gershon’s psychic told him he was destined to be with a singer, and that’s why Roy called bullshit when it didn’t work out with Natasha Beddingfield or Lily Allen. Or Gina for that matter, who was actually in several musicals.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Jamie Tartt has a throat kissed by God.
The festivities go on, the fire getting dimmer. Roy and Jamie keep elbowing each other and saying nothing, like primary schoolers, with grins that might as well be missing teeth.
There are looks and longer looks and copper light blushing across their cheeks and yes, something has flipped and it’s fucking gorgeously irreversible.
The fire dies down and at some point another bottle of Mezcal appears and disappears.
Roy backs up with come-hither fingers curling at him, and Jamie is striding right along, slipping into the darker reaches of the training ground.
“I s’pose agave spirits is the only thing that makes you agreeable, Crumpsy?” Jamie snickers, chewing gum that looks blacklight white as they manuver into the shadows.
“I like music. Siren songs. Obvious danger.”
“Oh. Weird how I’m the one followin’ you, innit?”
Roy snickers. “Fuck. You’re such a flaunty prick—why didn’t you flaunt your voice before tonight?” He’s closing in, the space between their puffed chests getting narrower.
“I dunno. Really only sang for me mum before. Thinking about her tonight, I just felt it.” He thumps a fist to his heart.
“Lis’n. You have no idea what that meant to the team, when you showed them some real fucking shit. What it meant to me.”
“Well. We’re in a dark corner. I got some idea.”
Roy’s arms go around his shoulders, hands sliding down until they’re in the back pockets of his light washed jeans.
Jamie unmistakably lets out a whimper out at the contact, his mouth quivering into a lopsided smile.
“Made me feel like…your insides matched your outs,” Roy breathes.
“Maybe you oughta get a closer look.”
Roy’s hands smooth back up to frame the hard lines of his jaw. “How about at that golden throat…?”
“Can I kiss you first? ‘Fore I make you sing?”
Roy is so moved by such an innocent request coming out of that mouth, he snort-laughs and just nods at hyper speed.
Jamie goes in ten percent but Roy goes ninety—head cocked, leaning hard, ex-fucking-ploring him—as a strained “mmph” rushes from the lad’s mouth.
They part, already panting from it, and Roy grins with transferred gum.
“Fuck. You kiss how you fuckin’ play. Could do that for a full ninety. Another night, tho.” He drops to his knees, looking up at him hopefully. “Winner, winner, football dinner, no city on a hill til every mouth is filled,” he sings low, pulling down the zipper of his jeans. “No paradise till everyone’s satisfied…”
“Leave it to you to defile a charity single, prick.”