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I.
Roy has it all planned out.
Dinner at L’Ecrin to start, because Jamie has been going on about the place ever since his last call up (‘Declan Rice said that there’s a location in London now, and that they—get this—lit his drink and his dessert on fire and almost his jumper, too’). Jamie’s pout had been equal parts ridiculous and endearing when he’d learned about the six month long waitlist in place, despite dropping his name.
Luckily for Roy, he doesn’t have to attempt to throw his own name around to get an earlier reservation - not when Janice’s husband started there recently as the head chef, running the place like ‘a military platoon, it’s absolutely mad.’ At least, that’s how Janice had put it while holding warrior II during yoga last week.
The ladies’ ears had perked up when Roy asked about securing a reservation, peppering him with questions until he’d outlined his plan. And the high pitch squealing that had followed? Roy’s unsure even now if his ears will ever recover.
Thinking the plan over, though, makes the excitement flicker in Roy’s chest. He’ll tell Jamie to dress all nice for dinner, make himself pretty, while having a packed bag waiting in the car with training clothes and boots to change into afterwards. After dinner they’ll drive over to Nelson Road, because Roy’s spoken with Peter from maintenance and he’s agreed to turn on the bright lights for the home pitch, despite the lack of a match or the physical presence of anyone else.
Except for the two of them, of course.
They’ll have a kickabout, and Roy won’t answer when Jamie asks why they’re fooling around on the home pitch when their next match is an away one tomorrow afternoon, because he’ll have his answer soon enough once Roy drops to one knee when he’s not looking.
The plan is perfect—foolproof even, because it’s so quintessentially them. Jamie can try a restaurant he’s been going on about in wistful tones for months, and they get to mess around on the pitch in a way that they…when Roy thinks about it, in a way that they’ve never done before. They’d been on opposite ends when they wore matching kits, clashing more often than not and because of it, the two of them never got to enjoy being on a team together, not really. They’ll kick a ball with Phoebe in the back garden sometimes in a way that makes Roy’s chest all warm, but it’s not the same as the pitch, is it?
Roy doesn’t mind his position on the touchline, not anymore. His chest doesn’t tug in the way that it used to, because although his name is no longer written across his back, he’s still Richmond. He’s gone from being a cog in Richmond’s machine to a conductor of sorts, laying the foundation in training and guiding the strings of his players during matches.
Still. Part of Roy is looking forward to fooling around with a ball on their home pitch, and with Jamie at that. What comes after, though…Roy’s trying not to think about it too much.
How the fuck is he supposed to come up with words that will properly express to Jamie how much he fucking means to him?
Roy’s not good with it. Words. Getting his point across while speaking. He can hear Dr. Fieldstone’s voice in his head, though, saying that he’s being unnecessarily critical towards himself and to rephrase his point in a way that is more kind.
Christ. Therapy’s really starting to do a number on him if Dr. Fieldstone has taken up residence in his brain.
Maybe he can ask Dr. Fieldstone what he should say at his standing appointment, still to come for this week. Fucking Thursday afternoons. Gives him enough time to put his plan into action on Friday night.
The plan is squashed before Thursday has the chance to roll around, though—Janice calls him and rambles on about how the entire restaurant’s been bought out for Friday night. To make it worse, it’s been bought out by fucking David Beckham of all people. Wanker.
The restaurant won’t even let Roy buy them out for the night at a higher price than what Beckham’s offering, either. They simply tell him that the reservation will be rescheduled for next Friday.
Unbelievable.
II.
When the next Friday rolls around, Roy wakes before the alarm has a chance to hit three thirty. He doesn’t train in the mornings with Jamie as much as before—his ever increasing gaffer duties mean that Roy will often trek to Nelson Road in the early hours, situating himself at his desk rather than overseeing Jamie’s workouts.
Roy finds himself looking forward to the mornings where they do train, though. Jamie doesn’t need help with sticking to the training regimen in the least, but the time they spend together in the early hours tethers Roy, in a way. It keeps him in one piece, despite the inevitable stressors that will follow the rest of the day. It’s grounding. Jamie is grounding.
This morning, though, Roy feels the opposite of grounded as he extricates himself from the bed, electricity crackling along his limbs because-
He’s going to propose tonight.
The plan hasn’t changed. Roy runs through scenarios in his brain of how Jamie will react - maybe he’ll think that Roy is joking, or maybe he’ll pull out his phone to ring Georgie before even giving an answer. No matter how it unfolds, Roy already knows that it’ll be perfect.
Jamie doesn’t rise as easily today as he usually does, letting out a groan when the alarm goes off and burrowing himself further under the blankets. Roy runs his hand through the hair at Jamie’s temples, pausing when the backs of his fingers brush against Jamie’s forehead.
He’s running warm.
Roy sits himself back down on the bed, brushing back the errant strands sticking to Jamie’s forehead, and fuck, Jamie’s shoulders are proper trembling.
“You alright, sweetheart?”
“M’fine.” Jamie’s voice is raw, scratchy. His hand reaches out from the layers of blankets, and Roy interlocks their fingers before pressing a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “I’ll be up in a mo.”
Roy’s brows push together as he takes him in. Jamie is pallid, circles under eyes that remain squeezed shut as he curls into himself. “You don’t look fine. Or sound fine. Stay there.”
Not that Jamie makes an effort to move, his face pressed into the silk of his pillowcase as Roy returns with a thermometer. His eyes are on the blearier side while Roy takes his temperature, and Roy isn’t surprised when the thermometer reads at 38.5 degrees.
“See? I’m fine, swear down.”
“Fine? You’ve got a fever.”
“Run warm, don’t I?”
“You run your mouth, more like.”
“You like it, though,” Jamie mumbles, but he does sit up and take the painkillers and glass of water that Roy holds out to him.
“Take those. I’m going to text Beard and email the med staff.”
Jamie frowns at the water and painkillers. “You don’t have to stay home because of me.”
As if Roy would leave Jamie on his own while looking like the world’s saddest and most pathetic blanket burrito. “There’s no match today. Beard and Nate can run training on their own. I have a pile of scouting reports that I can easily review from here.”
“But-”
Roy presses a kiss to Jamie’s slightly damp forehead. “Focus on resting. Let me take care of you?”
“Yeah, alright,” Jamie whispers, and the hoarseness of his voice twists in Roy’s chest. “Sound.”
The plans for the evening flood back to Roy’s brain when he reaches into his pocket for his phone and his fingers brush against the ring box. He’ll have to text Janice, too, and put a pause on the reservation for the time being.
Proposing is out of the question for tonight, when what Jamie really needs is some time to rest and recover from whatever bug he’s caught. Much better to propose when Jamie’s well enough to enjoy it.
Roy can wait.
For now, he’s going to focus on finding the honey and ginger tea in his pantry, the one that always soothes Phoebe’s throat whenever she’s sick, and maybe he’ll pull out some crackers too, in case Jamie can’t stomach much else for the time being.
The ring will have to stay in his pocket for a little while longer.
III.
Jamie is bouncing off the walls by the time he’s recovered from his bug and cleared to return to training. Roy’s surprised he hasn’t caught it himself. Jamie leans into touch on the best of days but when he’s sick he’s surprisingly clingy, curling into Roy’s side or tugging on his arm or burrowing his face into Roy’s chest. It would be a lie for Roy to say that he’d tried to stay away from Jamie in case of contagion—running his fingers through Jamie’s hair, wrapping himself around Jamie’s shivering frame had been just as comforting to Roy. It soothed Jamie enough his fluttering lids to relax, and drained the residual tension from his muscles.
Maybe Roy’s nursing duties have been a touch too effective, though, from the volume level at which Jamie now sings along to the radio during their drive to training.
“Are you trying to lose your voice a second time?” Roy asks, letting out a snort when Jamie sings the chorus in falsetto.
Jamie grins, his eyes all crinkly. “Just excited, is all. I was proper losing my mind by yesterday with boredom.”
“Take it easy today. You’ve just recovered. No need to push yourself when you’ve only recently stopped needing mid-afternoon naps.”
“Alright, mum,” Jamie sticks his tongue out, while Roy rolls his eyes as they pull into the car park.
“I mean it. Behave.”
Roy feels a bit like a mother hen once training starts, his eyes flicking back to Jamie more than usual. Jamie, for his part, is cheerier than ever, hopping onto Dani’s back after their conditioning circuit and letting out a screech when Dani spins them around.
Beside Roy, Beard clears his throat.
“Fuck off. What?”
“He’ll be fine.”
“I know that,” Roy grumbles, crossing his arms. He refuses to look over at Beard, aware of the expression to likely be on his face. “Just don’t want him to overdo it.”
“He’s been taking rest breaks like medical told him to, and didn’t protest when I told him to sit out during suicide runs. He’s on top of it.”
Roy lets out a grunt at Beard’s words, because the man is right, at least. Beard, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it, instead blowing the whistle that hangs around his neck to call the players over for drills.
Roy winces. Christ. At this rate, he’s going to lose his hearing by fifty.
“You can’t fucking warn a person?”
“Nope.”
Jamie makes it through training in one piece, much to Roy’s relief, a smile still on his face as he chats with Sam in the changing room. Thank fucking God for that.
If Jamie is not too exhausted after his first day back, it means that their evening plans can still be a go. Janice had been more than happy to oblige Roy when he had asked to postpone the reservation at L’Ecrin (‘what’s the point of having a husband who runs the place if I can’t twist his arm a little?’), and Roy doesn’t try and tamper the excitement in his chest when Jamie leans his head into his office, having changed out of his training kit.
“You planning on staying late today?”
“Not tonight.”
“Good, because I don’t think I’d survive the drive if I bummed a ride from Colin today. He’s having a strop because he and Michael couldn’t get Beyoncé tickets. Told him to bug Keeley, see what strings she can pull. That’s what I’m going to do, at least,” Jamie grins. “Not related to Beyoncé’s tour, but what are your thoughts around assless chaps?”
Roy snorts. “Not a fucking chance.”
“Not you, you old fart. What about me? Reckon I could pull them off?” Jamie swivels his head to look at his own backside, his back arching slightly, and Roy reaches over to swat at his arse, rolling his eyes good naturedly when Jamie yelps.
“Want to show your arse off to everyone more than you already do?”
“Maybe.”
Roy grins, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“That’s why you love me,” Jamie says without missing a beat, grabbing Roy’s bag as Roy shuts off his computer. “Now come on, we need to get home and pick out matching cowboy hats for the concert, at least, if you’re not planning on having your arse out.”
“I was thinking we could do something different tonight, actually.”
Jamie’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Yeah? What are we doing?”
“You’ll have to see. Pick out something nice to wear when we get home.”
Jamie peppers Roy with questions for the entire drive (‘alright, is it a formal look that I should pick out, or a hint of soft glam - don’t make that face, there’s a difference’), unperturbed by Roy’s lack of responses. He’s debating the merits of a mesh top as they pull in, but his voice trails off at the same time that Roy notices the car in his driveway.
Jamie squints at the windows of the other car. “That’s your sister’s car, right?”
“Yeah,” Roy says, pulling his phone out with a frown after he shifts into park. “I don’t think I was supposed to watch Phoebe today. Hope I didn’t forget.”
The rap of knuckles on the driver’s side window makes the both of them jolt.
“Uncle Roy!”
“Jesus Christ,” Roy gets out, his heartbeat high in his throat as he throws the door open.
Phoebe makes her way in before Roy can process what is happening, elbowing him in the ribs and making him let out an oof as she crosses the driver’s side to sit on the centre console. She waves at Roy cheerily before turning towards Jamie in the passenger seat.
“Hi, Jamie!”
“Hiya, Phoebs. Did you drive that car over here all by yourself?”
Phoebe shakes her head with a look. “Course not. Mummy drove us. I’m not old enough for my licence yet, you know that.”
“Right. My mistake.”
As if on cue, Sarah climbs out of her car with her phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder. “I’m on hold. Was about to call you next, actually. Thank fuck you’re home.”
“Didn’t forget anything, did I?”
“You’re fine,” Sarah says, an apology already across her features. “I’m being pulled in for a last minute case at work. Would it be okay if Phoebe spends the evening with you? I’m really sorry for the last minute of it all.”
“Of course it’s fine, you know that,” Roy says, his eyes flickering towards the passenger seat.
Jamie and Phoebe are engrossed in thumb wrestling, with Jamie calling for a rematch when Phoebe uses her other hand to hold his thumb in place. “That’s cheating, that is!”
“Oi,” Roy calls out, with Jamie and Phoebe’s heads lifting in nearly perfect unison. “You okay if we have a night in with Phoebe instead?”
“Mint,” Jamie grins, high fiving Phoebe and their matching expressions leave Roy’s chest all warm. “Will you tell me what the surprise was going to be, then?”
“Not a chance. Still to come, isn’t it?”
“Mean.”
“You’ll survive it.”
“Really, it’s fine, Roy—I don’t want to derail your evening plans,” Sarah starts, but Roy waves her off.
“These are now our evening plans. Go to work, we’ll be here. You’re late already, aren’t you?”
Roy follows Jamie and Phoebe inside after his sister leaves with another round of apologies, ones that he waves off. The ring box will have to sit in his pocket for a little longer.
He definitely needs to call Janice again to move the reservation.
IV.
If Roy believed in superstitions outside of his old match rituals, he’d be worried about the universe trying to send him a sign.
But Roy doesn’t believe in them, not really. Outside of pre-match habits, he knows that superstitions and signs from the universe and all that are a boatload of shit. If the universe is trying to tell Roy anything, he’s going to proper ignore it.
Tonight’s the night.
He feels a little more prepared now for the actual proposal part, at lead. He’d caught his sister up when she came to pick up Phoebe—Sarah had been proper horrified upon realising what she’d accidentally interrupted, telling Roy off for not covertly letting her know (‘someone else can stay with her if you’re bloody proposing, Roy, for God’s sake’). She’d been even more horrified to learn that Roy hadn’t planned out what to say when getting down on one knee.
After an hour on the phone with Sarah and Phoebe one afternoon while ‘working late,’ they’d helped him put the thoughts down on paper. Roy’s sure that he’s developed a stomach ulcer from Sarah and Phoebe’s unrelenting questions about how he feels and how much he loves Jamie and how he’ll let Jamie know as much when on one knee. Relentless, the two of them, and immune to his grumbling.
Roy supposes he should be grateful for it, now that he has a more coherent plan to go off of. At least he won’t have to rely on the halting thought processes in his brain that won’t let him express his fucking feelings without wanting to puke.
He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.
The stupid reservation has been rescheduled for the fourth time, and part of Roy wonders if they’ll ever make it through the door at all before getting inevitably derailed. Not tonight, though. The two of them will head there in the evening after their away match with Crystal Palace and the presser, and they’ll go for dinner, and then they’ll head back to Nelson Road, and then-
Well, Roy has gone through the plan in his head enough times as it is. It hasn’t changed from his first three attempts.
And everything is right on schedule. Jamie nets two goals and an assist because of course he does, the star that he is. He’s positively glowing when the team swarms him after the second goal, head peeking out from behind Sam’s shoulder as he shoots a grin in Roy’s direction.
Roy holds in his pride the best he can, and doesn’t let it overflow into a proper smile because he’s still the manager and he’s objective, isn’t he? Can’t show favouritism on principle.
Once they head home, though, and before they have to get ready for dinner, Roy will show Jamie exactly how proud he is.
Regardless, he still shoots Jamie an approving nod of his head and Jamie practically beams, knowing exactly what Roy is conveying. Good lad.
While waiting for the play to resume, Roy mentally runs through the contents of his closet to choose an outfit for the evening (there’s the slate black suit, but there’s also the raven black suit and Jamie does like that one…then again, he likes the first one too, all of them really), when a commotion further down the pitch catches his attention.
Isaac’s yelling, so is Richard and Jan’s motioning to a referee and Sam’s running over to Roy and Beard on the touchline, shaking his head.
“A Crystal Palace fan threw a lighter from the stands, coach. He hit Cockburn on the head.”
“Fuck!”
It’s a frustrating wait until Cockburn is properly off the pitch before Roy is allowed to make his way over to him. Cockburn ends up back in play with a ridiculous looking bandage over his eyebrow, but the aftermath of the throw takes longer to deal with once the match is over.
Roy resists the urge to ball his hands into fists as he takes question after question in the post match presser (yes, he appreciated Crystal Palace’s statement that they would issue a lifetime ban to the fan throwing the lighter, yes, the safety of his players is his top priority, yes, Cockburn is being further examined by medical, no, it shouldn’t impact his return to play). His eyes eventually flick towards Rebecca at the back of the room, and her slight nod is all the permission that Roy needs to call it, leaving his spot at the presser table and heading for the door as the journalists continue shouting their questions.
After the presser, the day doesn’t get any less busy—Roy has match review to get through and an incident report to write and then he’s checking on Cockburn with his now stitched up forehead. The lad is in good spirits, at least, saying that his fiancée will be into the scar that will remain once he is all healed.
Jamie is leaning back in Roy’s desk chair by the time he returns, attempting to balance a pen on his nose.
“What are you still doing here? Should’ve gone home ages ago, especially after a match like that. You deserve a rest.”
“Wanted to wait for you and go home together,” Jamie says, his face falling when the pen clatters to the floor. “Aw. I’m getting better at balancing it, though. Been practising.”
Jamie’s words are incredibly matter of fact—as if waiting for Roy for hours is nothing at all, as if he also hadn’t played the full ninety earlier in the day. It makes Roy’s chest snag, but not unpleasantly. A sense of security starts to settle around his shoulders like a blanket, one that only Jamie can wrap him in.
“Muppet,” Roy murmurs, but there’s no heat behind it, only fondness.
Jamie knows it too, from the way his eyes crinkle. “You rescheduled for tonight, right? Wherever it is that you’re planning on taking me?”
“Yeah. The reso’s booked for…” Roy checks his watch and his train of thought comes to a stop as he sighs. “Fucking fifteen minutes ago.”
Not again.
Roy lets out a grumble under his breath, ignoring Jamie’s snicker. “Let me call. Maybe we can move it an hour later.”
“Mate, I’ll need more than an hour to get ready. You said you wanted pretty, you need to be willing to wait for it.”
Jamie’s always pretty. “Two, then.”
“Better.”
The restaurant is no help despite Roy dropping his name, and he knows that they’re done for when even Janice replies that the place is booked to the ceiling, not a single extra seat available for the evening.
“Fuck,” Roy mutters, rubbing his face with his hands. “I should’ve gone and left the match review early, with having to look over Cockburn. My fucking fault.”
“Your fault for doing your job?” Jamie asks, raising an eyebrow. “Hey, now. Y'know what sounds better for tonight than a posh restaurant that can’t even pull strings for Roy Kent, of all people?”
“What?”
“That pilaf and salmon that you made last week,” Jamie says, the tentative lilt in his voice matching the rosiness spreading along the apples of his cheeks, “with the roasted veggies?”
Fucking hell. Roy is so, so gone on him.
“Yeah, we can do that,” Roy says, reaching his hand out for Jamie and pulling him into a standing position. Jamie fits against him like a missing piece, filling in the cracks that Roy pretends he doesn’t have. His fingers draw circles at the small of Jamie’s back, and Jamie’s pleased hum is right on cue. “After playing like that? I’ll make you whatever you want, baby.”
They both know that Roy always will. It doesn’t matter how Jamie performs on the pitch, or how hard he works in training. The space in Roy’s heart that’s been carved out for Jamie is unconditional, there on days with matches like today but also during ones that don’t end as successfully. Doesn’t fucking matter. Taking care of Jamie is as easy as pulling air into his lungs, and makes his head a little clearer because he’s doing what’s needed, what Jamie needs. It’s a reassurance to Roy that he’s capable of doing something correctly, and arguably the most important thing at that.
And whenever Jamie lets out a pleased hum, or shoots Roy that soft smile brimming with gratitude, it serves as a reminder that their edges fit together better than anyone else’s ever could.
Now he just needs to propose.
V + I.
Fifth time has to be the charm.
It’s getting ridiculous at this point, Roy has to admit to himself. Enough so that Beard has started a betting pool within the Diamond Dogs about when the proposal will actually happen. Fucking Trent Crimm doesn’t expect Roy to propose until the end of the season, and has already bet as much.
Roy is going to prove Trent wrong. Their dinner reservations have been rescheduled. Again. For tomorrow, now. Roy is ready to challenge the fucking universe in order to get down on one knee, even though he’ll probably have to pop it back into place once he stands up.
They’re in the park this morning, the pink sunrise dusting the dew on the leaves in a soft glow. Roy likes the early hours, the quiet ambiance while everyone else stays asleep for a little bit longer. He leans back against the bench with his coffee in hand, mentally cataloguing the items in the fridge that he can use for Jamie’s breakfast. The early morning trainings are still rare, but fitting the odd one in never fails to cover Roy in a layer of comfort, a hug of sorts.
“Forgot to mention—” Jamie starts, breathless as he fits his words in between burpees, “Keeley told me yesterday that Nike—wants to shoot another campaign. Because the first one—did well. They’re not flying me out—to Brazil for this one, though. Shame.”
Roy isn’t working Jamie hard enough if he’s capable of getting that many words out while completing burpees, though he can’t find it in himself to mind. “That’s great, love. What are they planning for this one?”
“Keeley sent me some—draft ideas for the campaign and—I think they’re planning on filming—in a Tesco or some shit,” Jamie huffs out a laugh as he stands back up. “Done, Coach.”
“Cool down stretches then, go on. A fucking Tesco?”
“Not a real Tesco. A supermarket type set. They’re apparently going to have me cause some chaos in the aisles.”
“Not different from our trips to the shops, then.”
“Rude, but true,” Jamie lifts his head from his forward fold, shooting a grin in Roy’s direction. “Think they’d boot us from M&S if we had a kickabout in there?”
Roy snorts. “I can see the headlines. Kent and Tartt clash once more—from the pitch to the produce section.”
“Exclusive photos—Tartt sends Kent to the ground with a melon to the knees.”
“I’d take you down before you’d have a chance. Besides, you’d break a toe by kicking a melon.”
“You can take me down anytime you want, Coach,” Jamie says without missing a beat, ignoring Roy’s groan and sinking into a lunge to stretch his hip flexors. “Anyway, Keeley sent an invite for tomorrow after training, some sort of planning meeting I think. I’ll see if she’ll give me a ride home afterwards. That way we can still ride in together that morning.”
Roy freezes. “Tomorrow? After training?”
“Uh, yeah? Why?”
Their reservations - stupid, fucking, rescheduled multiple times reservations - are set for tomorrow after training. In the evening, sure, but if the meeting goes long then they won’t have the chance to get ready and make the reservations in time and then Roy won’t get to propose and he’ll have to reschedule yet again and—
Fuck it. Fuck all of it.
“Marry me.”
Oh, fuck. Blurting it out isn’t part of the script. What if Jamie thinks he’s taking the piss, or—
“What?”
Fuck. Roy’s fucked it enough already, so he might as well push through. Jamie looks like he’s been punched, sucking air into his lungs with uneven breaths and eyes that are wide, unblinking. Frozen in place.
Roy swallows, jerking his head in a nod. “Yeah.”
“Are you actually asking me? Right now?” Jamie gets out as he scrambles up from the ground, stretches abandoned. “Not taking the piss, or nothing?”
“No, why would I take the piss about—fuck,” Roy spits out, the blood in his ears loud enough to drown out the rushing of his thoughts. “I had a plan, and a fucking speech, and fuck, I’m not even down on one knee, I’m fucking it all up—”
Jamie’s lips cut off Roy’s rambling as he climbs onto the bench and his lap, wiping Roy’s train of thoughts clean. His hands reach out to cradle Jamie’s face, and the pads of his thumbs brush against the wetness on Jamie’s cheekbones. When Jamie pulls back he doesn’t go very far, his forehead resting against Roy’s own with ragged inhales. There’s a tremble in Jamie’s fingers as his hands fist into the front of Roy’s shirt, the fabric tugging around his ribs.
“Fucked nothing up,” Jamie mumbles, his breath stuttering when Roy tilts his chin up for another kiss.
“I had a plan. Wrote a speech and shit.”
Jamie’s eyes are wide. “Really?”
Roy wracks his brain but the words that he’d spent time agonising over are long gone, his brain terrifyingly blank. “Can’t fucking remember it, though. Fuck. Why can’t I remember it? I even…fucking practiced it, with Phoebe and Sarah.”
Jamie lets out a noise akin to a dying animal at the words, though Roy doesn’t fully process it as he pats down his pockets just to check if…
“Fuck! I left your ring at home because I wasn’t fucking planning on proposing at four in the morning, but now I’m doing it and your ring’s not even here after I’ve been carrying it for weeks—”
“You carried it for weeks?” Jamie breathes, his face so open and unguarded that Roy wants to wrap his arms around every inch of him, keep him safe from anything capable of causing him hurt.
“Yeah. Had a plan, then had to postpone it over and over again as things came up. Been waiting to propose for too long,” Roy mutters, his thumb tracing the shell of Jamie’s ear, “and now I’ve gone and fucking asked you without following that plan at all.”
Jamie presses his lips against Roy’s temples, his cheekbones, the slope of his nose, the corner of his mouth as if he’s something precious that Jamie never wants to lose. Roy doesn’t understand what he’s done to deserve Jamie’s unconditional adoration, the sheer magnitude of it knocking his breath from his ribs.
“I don’t need a plan or an elaborate proposal, dickhead,” Jamie mumbles, his words carrying no bite when he’s looking at Roy like he won’t ever get his fill of him. “You’re the important part. As long as it’s you, I don’t need anything else now, do I?”
“Not even a ring?”
“Well…”
Roy holds back a laugh at the conflict warring over Jamie’s features, pulling him closer to kiss him again. “You’re getting a fucking ring. I’ll get you anything you want, baby.”
“Especially you?”
“You’ve had me for years. From before I even knew it. Not going anywhere, unless you want to be rid of me.”
“Never,” Jamie yelps, the alarm in his eyes almost comical as he tightens his hold on Roy’s shirt. “Wouldn’t ever. Don’t even joke about that, man. And no take backs, you’re stuck with me for the rest of our lives now. Because we’re engaged.”
Fuck. They’re fucking engaged. Without a ring, and after Roy’s mucked everything up, but…
They’re engaged.
Before Jamie, marriage had never been on the forefront of Roy’s mind. He’d seen his peers peter out of football, going to uni and working normal jobs with normal salaries and finding nice girls to settle down with. Seemed dull back then, when his days were filled with playing at his athletic peak and his nights were spent with women and drugs and a serious lack of shame.
Then there had been Keeley, and for a while the realisation that their pieces wouldn’t fit together had been difficult to accept. It made Roy feel like he was missing a part of himself that would have made her happy in the way that she needed to be.
But Jamie. Jamie, who never tires of having Roy around, soaking up their time together like a sunflower. Jamie and his smile that takes over his entire face with a mind that at times, understands what Roy needs more than he does himself. Jamie, who’s gone and tucked himself underneath Roy’s breastbone and settled a part of his chest that was previously untethered. Jamie—a man who deserves everything in the world and then some, who somehow looks at Roy with the same disbelief that Roy feels when he remembers how fucking lucky he is.
“What d’you say we call it for training? Actually, no, I’ll race you. I think being a fiancé will make me faster.”
“We’re not fucking racing,” Roy snorts, but the smile spreading on his face is impossible to tamp down when Jamie does a roundoff on the grass. “Oi. Season’s not over yet, be careful.”
“Let’s go then, come on!”
Jamie links their arms together and Roy lets him tug on his elbow towards the direction of home, a soundtrack in his ears from Jamie chattering on about breakfast and his ring (‘you’ll see it soon enough, you muppet’) and about how he absolutely needs to call Mummy and Simon before they have to be at Nelson Road, even though they’ll be asleep for another hour at the minimum.
The ragged edges of Roy’s chest sand themselves down whenever he’s with Jamie, becoming easier to breathe against. Jamie is the oxygen that makes Roy’s brain clear on what he really wants, stripping away any hesitations around what he actually deserves.
Trailing after Jamie on the path home, Roy knows one thing is for certain—he’s willing follow Jamie fucking Tartt absolutely anywhere.