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“Roy?”
“Hm?”
“I don't want you to die before me.”
“The fuck?” That jerks Roy right out of his half-slumber. He tries to sit up, but Jamie flexes his calf muscles, trapping Roy back down against the cushions. From the other end of the sofa, with a pillow stuffed against his chest in a death grip, Jamie looks pathetic. He looks like someone's just told him his favourite puppy needs to be put down.
Roy huffs. “I’m not dying.”
“I know,” Jamie says. “But you’d tell me if you were, right?”
Roy rolls his eyes.
“Roy,” Jamie drags his name into an insistent whine, and God help them both, but there’s real stress in his voice.
Roy pats one of the calves holding him down. “Yes. I’d fucking tell you. You’d probably be the first to know beside my sister.”
The muppet nods, at least not arguing with his being placed behind Sarah. Roy has a brief moment of deluding himself that that’s it for Jamie’s tangent into the logistics of mortality planning, before the prick adds with all the subtlety of a hammer, “You’re almost fifty.”
Fucking hell.
The sigh that escapes his chest isn’t entirely free of weight. Age simply isn't something Roy can ignore these days, not with how his body has started to hold him back more and more. Sure, he’s still fit. He’s able to do 5K’s for charities without much effort, but he can’t go over a steady jog. His heart's in fine shape. A history of strict nutrition guidelines has left him with a habit of eating well, and as far as his doctors are concerned, he’s fit as a whistle, with no pressing concerns that should keep him up at night.
But he feels old now, in a way that would be alien to the Roy of five short years ago. Everywhere he looks, the signs of his age reflect back. His hair isn’t as thick as it used to be. Thicker than most, but when he washes up at night, he can feel the difference in how easily his fingers brush against his scalp, how much room there seems to be between strands that no longer feel as wiry. His skin has also lost some of its elasticity, a paper-like consistency creeping in around his joints. Strangers have started to hold doors open for him when he's out on his own. More than a few times now, he’s been asked by a fresh-faced juvenile if he qualifies for a senior discount.
It's not just him either. His niece is almost an adult, long weedy limbs beginning to steady into a permanent shape. Phoebe’s been looking at universities, and the dozen or so tours he’s been dragged around on – plus an exacting list of demands – have narrowed down her choices to an aggressive handful of final round picks. He’ll be helping her move in the fall.
His little sister’s hair has gone grey, streaked and wild where she’s taken to pulling it back in a thick braid. Sarah's become a hit on the lecture circuit, and years of extra shifts have given her a cushion of stability that she can rely on outside of her brother. It's been years since Roy's needed to step in to cover a last minute emergency.
And Jamie, sulking at the other end of the couch, has crow’s feet that flutter out from the corners of his eyes whenever he smiles. He’s not smiling now, but Roy can still make out the faint outline of them below the skin. The sight of them has become a familiar ache; when they first met, Roy already had those.
Somehow, Jamie’s still not the age that Roy was when they first met.
At some point he’s gone from petting the calf under his hand to holding it close, warm and heavy and familiar from hundreds of evenings spent watching the highlight reels on Sky Sports.
He gives it a quick squeeze. “Let me up.”
Jamie swings his legs off of his chest. Then he shimmies around, and before Roy can complain, he crawls over to collapse against Roy’s side. Roy lets his arm drop around his shoulder, holding him close with an ease that’s taken years to weave under his skin.
He wouldn’t trade it, not even for youth. Not even for more time.
“You realise it’s not fair the other way around, right? Me watching you die before me.” Awful, the way his throat goes thick at the mere thought. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere any time soon. Short of being hit by a bus, you’re stuck with me.”
Jamie exhales. He’s tense. Without thinking, Roy rubs his arm.
“Not saying I wanna die any time soon either. I’m just saying, it’s shit you’re likely to kick the bucket first.” His forehead digs into the bone of Roy’s shoulder. “Don’t know what I’d–“
He cuts himself off, sucking in a breath.
While he tries to compose himself, Roy does the same. Still sounds rough to his own ears when he points out, “This conversation sucks.”
Jamie snorts, a little wet and more than a bit thick. “Your fault, you grumpy old bastard. What were you thinking, being born fifteen years sooner than me like that?”
“Probably that someone had to be ready to look out for your sorry arse when you showed up.”
Jamie wriggles, his arms snaking their way around – one between Roy’s back and the cushions, the other curled over his front like a safety belt, until they meet around the other side, one lapped over the other.
“Yeah,” says Jamie softly. He hugs Roy like if he holds on tight enough, he can give a few years back. “Thanks for that by the way.”
Fifty years pin Roy down against the weight of the living; mentally, he vows to do everything in his power to hang on for another fifty more.
“You’re welcome.”