Work Text:
Saturday
“I think I need some space.”
Roy doesn’t need to roll over to know that Jamie’s head has whipped around to stare at him. He can clearly picture the widened set of his eyes, the slight part in those stupid lips, all framed by a mess of truly spectacular bedhead. No, Roy doesn’t need to look to know it’s happening - Jamie gave him almost the exact same look the first time they tumbled into bed two weeks ago, disbelieving that Roy Kent was actually kissing him, and now not a full fortnight later he’s looking at him like that again, when Roy is maybe - kind of - potentially - thinking of ending things.
So no, he doesn’t turn over in bed to look at Jamie. Instead, he stares resolutely at the ceiling, waiting for the inevitable - Jamie’s going to start swearing at him at any moment, call him an asshole, yell about how Roy’s lead him on, and -
“Alright.”
Roy whips around faster than he thought he could still move, disbelief painted over his face when he sees Jamie is still lying casually on his back, scrolling through fucking Instagram , of all things. It’s not - it’s not anger , that Roy feels rolling around his gut at Jamie’s obvious dismissal, but - it doesn’t feel good , either.
“Did you just say alright ?” Roy asks, borderline confident he heard wrong, staring incredulously as Jamie continues scrolling through his stupid fucking phone. When it becomes clear Roy isn’t going to roll back over and go to sleep, Jamie lets out a long suffering sigh, locking the phone and turning his gaze up to meet Roy’s.
“Yeah, mate,” he says, his shoulders moving in the world’s laziest shrug. “You need space. What do you want from me? Beg you not to take it?”
Well - yeah. But Roy doesn’t say that; instead he lets out a little grunt, that has Jamie rolling his eyes and flopping onto his side, head propped up on one arm so he can better look Roy in the eye.
“Listen, Roy,” Jamie says, slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “When you fucked me a couple weeks ago, I thought it were a fever dream or some shit, yeah? But then you kept doing it. So if you’re getting cold feet or whatever, or changed your mind, it’s fine. We can still be mates and I won’t bring it up at training or nothing when it starts back up again. It’s fine.”
Of all the ways Roy saw this conversation going, this certainly wasn’t one of them. He continues not gaping at Jamie, searching his face for any kind of cracks in the nonchalant facade, but comes up empty. They’re close together, enough so that he can feels the tickle of Jamie’s slow breaths in his beard, and Jamie, for his part, continues staring right back at him, unaffected.
What Roy doesn’t know how to say is that he hasn’t changed his mind - he shagged Jamie two weeks ago, and hasn’t stopped since, instead finding himself thirsty for the taste of Jamie’s mouth on his like it’s the fucking fountain of eternal life. What he doesn’t know how to say is that it fucking scares him, how quickly this thing seems to be spiralling, how he can’t manage to keep his hands off the curve of Jamie’s waist where his palm seems to fit perfectly. But they’re due back for preseason training in just over a week and a half, and Roy’s the manager now, and Jamie’s - well, Jamie’s Jamie fucking Tartt , now, isn’t he, and the fact that Roy can’t seem to be around him now without so much as a pinch to that perfect bum means that he might, maybe, be just a bit scared.
Not scared . There’s nothing scary about fucking.
“There’s a lot coming up,” Roy says, instead of all that. “With the manager position, and shit. I need some time to think about,” he gestures vaguely between them, “this.”
Jamie nods, slowly, lips pursed together. “Alright,” he says again.
Roy really hates that fucking word.
“You ought to take a trip or something, Coach,” Jamie says, flopping back down onto the pillows, making no move to leave Roy’s bed despite the whole needing space thing. “Take a holiday before the season starts. Get your head on straight.”
That - isn’t the worst idea Jamie’s ever had, really.
“There’s only a week left until we’re back at Nelson Road,” he points out. “I’d have to leave tomorrow.”
“Then leave tomorrow,” Jamie scoffs, turning over onto his side, back facing Roy. He nestles under the duvet, clearly making no move to get out from beneath the covers. “You’re a bloody millionaire, Roy, be spontaneous. I’m off tomorrow to film that show before preseason, anyway. Take your time and think and get back to me after. Now let me go the fuck to sleep, Grandad, they’re paying me for my youthful glow. Can’t go in looking like your wrinkled self.”
Still frowning, Roy stares at Jamie’s burrowed form for another moment or two before slowly lowering himself onto his own pillows, too lost in his own head to come up with a shitty remark back. He pulls out his own phone, lowering the brightness as he pulls open a travel website with a silent promise to send Cathy a lovely gift later.
A week in the sun can’t be the worst idea in the world, can it?
Sunday
Roy calls the Uber to Heathrow at 11:01 pm.
At 11:03, he realizes he can’t find his passport.
At 11:08, he’s not panicking , but he’s certainly not feeling good about things.
At 11:18, the Uber driver leaves without him, the late fee pinging his account.
At 11:27, he finds his passport, exactly where he first thought it was in his desk drawer, where he already fucking looked , and he kicks the desk in retaliation for hiding it from him.
He makes it on the plane at 3:02 am, after rebooking it, because apparently his original flight left at 12:14, and not 2:14 like he’d originally written down.
Things are off to a bad start.
Monday
It’s too fucking hot.
Sweat rolls its way down the side of Roy’s neck, pooling down in the dip of his collar bones. He’s been dripping since the moment he stepped onto the tarmac, the humidity of the Mediterranean settling onto his skin and making a second home there, sticky and uncomfortable and making the thin fabric of his shirt cling to the contours of his chest. He’s never regretted his dark wardrobe more than he does as he lugs his suitcase into the boot of his taxi, the sun beating down to bake him into the concrete, the shade provided by surrounding palm trees sparse and useless.
It’s good, though; for all the heat snaking its way under his skin, the smell of the nearby sea and the call of gulls over him relaxes him enough to let a small sigh escape. Sliding into the back of the - under air conditioned - taxi, he sinks into the cracked leather, ignoring the way the back of his knees stick to it. Already, he feels lighter, away from the problems that plague him back in London - he’s got no use for worrying about the team, or the manager job, or the way Jamie looks when he’s blinking in the lowlight of Roy’s kitchen, a smile tugging at his lips when he sneaks a sip of Roy’s wine when he full well knows better, like his very purpose on this earth is to tempt Roy -
Enough of that. Roy clears his throat, loudly, ignoring the glance his driver shoots his way.
It’s a short drive to the resort Roy’s booked for the week - he’d have preferred a private villa somewhere, but the tight timeline made it all but impossible, and besides, he knows Posh and Becks have stayed here before, even as it pains him to take a recommendation from Becks, of all people. They pull up quickly enough, a bell boy hopping down to dutifully open Roy’s door and carry his bags into the hotel. It’s grand, large trees shading the short walk through the towering french doors, marble edifices as far as the eye can see.
The clientele looks lovely, too; all the rich and famous congregated together for a Mediterranean getaway, women in expensive sundresses lounging on plush sofas and tittering over glasses of champagne. The whole place reeks of wealth and luxury, and Roy’s man enough to admit that maybe this week won’t be so bad, after all.
“Roy? That you?”
He’d recognize that voice anywhere. His teeth clench and grind together of their own volition, and he turns around, hoping against all hope that when he opens his eyes, he won’t see who he knows he will standing in front of him.
He sees him.
Dressed in white linen pants and a god awful, overly printed shirt unbuttoned to the point of indecency for this early in the morning, Jamie is grinning wildly at him, shoving a pair of surely overpriced sunglasses on top of his head. He looks - well, fuck, he looks great, honestly, which is more annoying than anything else, considering that Roy looks like most people do after rolling off a middle-of-the-night flight.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Roy demands, annoyance pricking beneath his skin, because of all the hotels in all the world, how the fuck is Jamie at the one Roy came to specifically to get away from Jamie for the next little while.
Jamie bites at the insides of his cheeks, like he’s clamping down a smile. “Don’t you remember?” he says, voice teasing. “We literally talked about it on Saturday. I’m here for my episode of Travel Man: Forty-Eight Hours with the ,” he gestures to himself, unable to tamp down his grin any longer. “Jamie Tartt.”
Recollection comes crashing down on Roy in a sobering tidal wave. Jamie had told him about jetting off to the Mediterranean to film an episode of Travel Man; he’d been off the walls delighted about spending two long days on camera with Richard Ayoade, seeing a beautiful place and doing interesting things. Of course that’s how Roy had ended up here, unconsciously thinking of the place Jamie had spent ages prattling on about, looking up and reciting facts between Roy making dinner and the two of them tumbling into bed together.
Of course. Because Roy is a fucking idiot .
“I came here to get some space ,” he growls, like this is all Jamie’s fault, and not Roy making the fuck up of the ages.
Jamie chuckles. “Then why’d you follow me?”
“I didn’t follow you , you fucking prick,” Roy does his best not to shout, but annoyance at himself and Jamie and this whole situation threatens to boil over into full blown anger if he doesn’t stamp out the fire soon. “I just. Forgot that you’d also be here.”
“Keep your wig on, Granddad,” Jamie laughs. “We were just staying here last night, we’re off to film today and tomorrow. Promise you won’t even see me, yeah? Like I were never here.”
“Good,” Roy grunts. “That’s what I came here for.”
“You’re going to hurt me feelings if you keep telling me to piss off, mate,” Jamie says, but he’s still smiling. “I’ve got to go anyway, so enjoy your holiday, yeah? Call me or something when you’re back round London.”
With that, Jamie spins on his heel and walks away, back to the camera crew loitering in one corner of the lobby that Roy somehow missed when he walked in. He makes some joke to one of them, surely already fast friends with everyone he’ll be spending the next two days with, because he’s Jamie Tartt and he’s always making friends with everyone he fucking meets. Roy growls, low in his throat, and can’t even find it himself to be excited that Richard Ayoade is standing no less than fifteen feet from him, pulling Jamie into a conversation, most likely about their schedule for the day.
Roy stares until their group leaves, long enough to see Jamie glance over his shoulder and send a cheeky wink his way. The irritation in his stomach only grows, but if Roy deludes himself enough, maybe he can convince himself it’s just hunger. Or thirst. Or thirst for beer, specifically, maybe.
Turning on his heel, he stalks past reception and over to the bar. His holiday starts now.
Tuesday
He’s bored sitting by the pool within twenty four hours.
Seeing Jamie at reception has rattled Roy far more than he cares to admit, and he keeps peeking around every corner before turning to make sure Jamie’s not going to pop out at him like some sad fucking haunted house. It’s best, he figures, to go off property, go somewhere where Jamie’s definitely not likely to be.
Ironic as it is, Roy sighs and tells the cabbie to drive him over to the nearest luxury shopping plaza when he climbs into the backseat. At least, he figures, if Jamie is here shooting Travel Man , the film crew isn’t likely to have much interest in a fucking mall, of all places, when there are sights to see and a sea to explore. The taxi pulls up to the shopping center with little fanfare, and the sun is beating down on Roy once more as he paroozes through the open air mall at his leisure. Tourists all mill about, popping into the designer stores lining the walkways, taking photographs of the faux marble statues and fountains set about to lend the place an air of wealth. Roy pokes into a few stores with familiar names - Chanel, fucking Gucci , so on and so forth - figuring he may as well find his sister something nice while he’s out here, a small apology for telling her he wouldn’t be able to take Phoebe this week with such short notice.
He’s torn between going into Louis Vuitton or Dior when he sees it .
In the middle of the shopping centre’s plaza sits a large screen running various ads across it, shiny photographs of sleek handbags and directories telling all the poor saps here where to find them in the maze of shops. It rolls over from an advert for Prada just as Roy glances over to it, and his whole stomach sinks.
Jamie’s face flashes over it before zooming out to show his whole body in motion, kicking a football through a sandy beach clad head to toe in Nike. It must be from his Brazil shoot at the start of the summer, the one Roy now remembers Keeley excitedly telling him had been pushed up to launch before the football season started to drum up buzz for the campaign in line with Jamie’s prodigal return to the pitch.
And fuck, but - Jamie always looks good, but the photographers from Nike took him to a whole other level, zooming in on the sweat sliding down his forehead and neck, right to the spot where Roy knows he’ll moan if kissed there, and it’s hot enough out here with the sun bearing down above them in the height of the day, but watching Jamie’s advert on the monitor, it feels almost unbearable. The way Jamie moves in slow motion is borderline obscene, all tight muscles and thighs bulging out of his shorts, and fuck’s sake, don’t they know they’re playing these adverts where children can see -
The video ends with directions on where to find the nearest Nike store, and with the last shred of self preservation he has, Roy high tails it to the exit, adjusting his shorts as subtle as he can while definitely not running away.
Wednesday
Roy sighs, leaning back in his sun lounger and thumbing his way through the book Beard convinced him to pick up. It’s another mystery thriller, no Dan Brown, by any measure, but he’s still guessing as to who might have done it, so it wins points on that front. With his free hand, he reaches towards the small table beside him and grabs the sweating bottle of beer one of the attendants had handed over as soon as they’d seen him sit down. He’ll give it to Beckham; the resort really is lovely, not that he’ll ever say it out loud.
There’s a movement next to him as a woman settles down on the adjacent sun lounger, spreading out her towel down before laying on top of it. Roy spares her a glance and nods in response to her sunny smile. She pulls out her own book from some overpriced beach tote bag, and while Roy would normally be annoyed about someone sitting down next to him when there are other open seats, with his beer in one hand and a book in the other, he finds he doesn’t mind so much. A gentle breeze is carrying up from the sea, cooling the sweat that’s made a permanent home on his skin with it. Gulls are calling in the distance, and Roy’s getting more certain that he knows who the killer in his novel is, too.
This is why he came on holiday, he muses, taking a sip. This is what he needed - no one speaking to him, time to himself, time to think about anything that isn’t Jamie fucking Tartt for five minutes.
His thoughts are interrupted by a tap to his shoulder. He glances up over his sunglasses to see his neighbor smiling at him apologetically.
“Excuse me,” she says, a heavy northern accent playing on the edge of her tongue. It’s almost reminiscent of - no . “I need to nip to the loo - would you mind watching my things for me? I won’t be a minute.”
“No problem,” Roy says, and the woman murmurs her thank yous before scurrying off to the restroom. He’s about to settle back into his novel and only half pay attention to her things - surely she can’t be that worried about theft at a luxury resort - when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.
Roy has to tug the sunglasses off his face as if they’re somehow distorting his view. Spread over the woman’s lounger is a beach towel, long and obnoxiously bright, and while that’s no offense on its own, the image it bears is.
The Jamie of two years ago is plastered across it in all his Lust Conquers All glory, clearly a screenshot from one of his confessional in his obnoxious Hawaiian shirt and too-small shorts. The shirt is, naturally, unbuttoned down to his navel, and he was grinning at the camera with a cocky glint in his eye, lips quirked up in a smirk that shows off the sharpness of his teeth. Like a ghost is whispering in his ear, Roy can hear exactly what Jamie said in that moment, can hear Janice and Maureen laughing loudly behind him, can almost taste the cheap screwtop rose they’d been drinking during that episode.
I’m the island’s top scorer , past-Jamie drawls in Roy’s ear. Sexually .
If the woman is upset that Roy abandoned his post to hightail it back to his room, well - that’s on her for asking a stranger to watch her things.
Thursday
Roy slides into the stool of some ramshackle little bar down the road from the hotel, defeated.
For all that he came here to get away from Jamie, it’s proved nearly impossible, the fucking prick turning up around every corner Roy so much as glances down. It’s his own fault, really; who goes and falls for football’s biggest star and then expects to be able to avoid him? Roy should’ve taken his sister’s advice a long time ago and settled down with someone normal, outside the very niche world he occupies, someone bland and boring and who never came to him suggesting wild, athletically challenging sex positions then laughed in his face when they toppled over onto the floor after attempting them. He should be content with a plain, normal girl or boy, someone who knows how to roast a chicken on Sundays and who wouldn’t keep entertaining Phoebe’s new, outlandish career paths every time one popped into her silly little head.
But he doesn’t want that, does he?
No, he wants a cocky little grin on the face of the most arrogant, sweetest boy he’s ever met, who’s humble when it counts and louder than life. Who’s a sore loser at FIFA and who spent the night at Colin’s for three nights this summer just to make sure he was alright when he and Michael went on a break. Who loves Phoebe, and lets her win at footie in the back garden, and who drives Roy wild with annoyance and lust and anger and want , and another thing that he’s not quite ready to name yet.
He wants it all, and he’s scared. He’s so fucking tired of being scared.
“You’re Roy Kent!”
He’s shocked out of his downward spiral by the voice in front of him; Roy glances up to see a grinning man in front of him, ruddy cheeks and curly hair, clearly pleased to have been right in his recognition.
“Yeah,” Roy grunts. “What of it?”
“Two Richmond legends in my bar in less than a week!” the man says, as if hardly noticing Roy had spoken. “Lucky me!”
“Two Richmond stars?” Roy says slowly, his eyes glancing up at the man once more, then just behind him, above his head, and -
Fucking hell.
Above the bar, in a place of prominence, is a photo of Jamie and the bar owner, arms slung around each other and an obnoxiously large fishbowl between them. Crazy straws poke out from it in every direction, and Jamie looks like he’s trying to smile but is also mid cough at the same time. His hair is tousled and cheeks pink, likely due to the huge drink in front of him being half finished. He still, somehow, looks absolutely gorgeous.
“Jamie Tartt was here last Sunday night!” the man says, drawing Roy’s eyes back to him. “He helped me invent our new signature drink - the Jammie Tartt! You must try one, Roy Kent!”
He shouldn’t. He won’t. It’s a stupid looking drink with an even stupider name. He’s a beer man.
Sighing, Roy throws down some notes for the drink, and with it, the rest of his dignity.
The first sip has him hacking into the crook of his arm, the burn from the overly sweet vanilla vodka threatening to scald his throat with its strength. People start looking over at him, concerned about the brooding man with a fishbowl to himself and seemingly no self preservation, so Roy swallows down his coughs, glaring back at the drink as if to show his dominance over it.
He’s officially lost his fucking mind.
The second sip is better, now that he knows what to expect; not great, still too sweet, but it does, in some way, remind Roy of Jamie - too much sugar, a bit of kick at the end.
By the time he’s halfway through, every last thought Roy has is overtaken by Jamie, obnoxious prick he is, but the booze has loosened him up enough that at least he can be honest with himself and admit that it’s been that way for a long time, far longer than the couple of weeks they’ve been shagging. At least since Amsterdam, when Jamie cheered him on for riding a bicycle with more enthusiasm than even the crowds during his prime at Chelsea. He can’t stop thinking about the little prick, no matter how hard he tries, because while Roy may be a man known for being every fucking where, it’s Jamie fucking Tartt who keeps popping up like a ghost around every corner.
Reaching into his pants pocket, Roy fumbles to pull out his phone, nearly dropping it into the half-empty - three fourths empty? - fishbowl on the counter in front of him. Nearly is important here, because he’s got killer reflexes still, thanks, and he snorts a laugh to himself, because damn, he’s good. It’s a mess of thumbs to pull open his text thread with Jamie Tartt , the basic name something that caused Jamie great offense when he realized there were no emojis or innuendos saved in his contact information. Because Roy is an adult, thanks, and it’s because he’s an adult that he begins typing away on his phone, getting his message to Jamie just right.
I just can’t get you out of my head.
Roy smirks to himself, satisfied. That’s a good message that, although - perhaps not as romantic as he thought. Brow furrowed, Roy begins typing once more.
For your loving is all I think about.
There it is: clear, concise, let’s Jamie know exactly where he’s at. He doesn’t have time to ruminate - that’s a funny word - before his phone is pinging once more in his hand and - and that’s Jamie, responding, Roy swipes it open as quick as he can, which means it only takes two times fumbling with fucking Face ID before he manages it. The letters on his phone swirl, but he manages to make out:
Are you texting me fucking Kylie Minogue lyrics rn?
With a frown, Roy continues staring at his phone, when all at once the thrumming base beneath his feet seems to hit him, banging out the infamous Kylie song; it’s possible, he muses, that he’s drunker than he originally thought.
No shit, Grandad, pops up on his screen, and too late he sees he sent that thought as a voice memo. Fuck.
Friday
Roy’s head is pounding before he even opens his eyes.
He’s not one hundred percent certain how he managed to get home last night; one minute he was sipping on the Jammie Tart, and the next he’s pretty sure the bar owner was tipping him into the cab after Roy shoved too many notes into his hand. He might have called him a booze genius, or something; he can’t quite remember. All he knows for certain is that one minute he was texting Jamie, and now he’s waking up with a dry throat and the worst taste he’s ever had in his mouth -
Oh, fuck.
Roy was drunk texting Jamie last night.
Sitting up as fast as he can, Roy’s hands scramble around his bed, trying and failing to figure out where he may have thrown it last night. His whole head pounds, protesting the effort, but he has to make sure he didn’t say anything to Jamie he can’t take back, or worse, to let him know how much his attempt at getting some space hasn’t worked out -
“Looking for this?”
Roy nearly leaps out of his skin as he whips his head around to the other side of the room, sure that this time he truly is hallucinating, because sitting on the settee near the hotel room balcony is none other than Jamie himself, allegedly in the flesh, shit eating grin on his face and Roy’s phone balanced between two fingers.
“I’ve lost my fucking mind,” Roy says in disbelief. “I’ve been imagining you’re here all week, and now I’ve actually lost my fucking mind.”
“Not a figment of your imagination,” Jamie grins, still perched in his seat and eyeing Roy like a bird of prey about to strike. “I’m here, in the flesh.”
“How - why - what are you -”
“ I cunt stop thinkin bout your, ” Jamie says in a faux slur, Roy’s phone pulled open in front of his face, clearly reading the string of borderline illiterate texts from last night. Cold dread washes over Roy. “ Facklikn prick you are. Yourrrrrrrr everywhere but not actually heer .” Glancing up from the phone with a dangerous glint in his eye, Jamie smirks. “How sloshed were you, man?”
“I tried a Jammie Tartt,” Roy mumbles, embarrassment flooding his stomach. “Why are you here?”
“You tried the Jammie Tartt?” Jamie beams, honking a laugh loud enough to make Roy’s sore head feel like it’s splitting in two. “Mate, you didn’t drink it by yourself, did you? It’s meant to be shared .”
“I know that now ,” Roy mutters. “Why are you here ?”
Standing with a grin, Jamie slowly begins sauntering his way over to the bed. Roy sits there and gapes at him, taking in the long line of his muscles beneath a flimsy little linen shirt and shorts set. The sun washes in from the patio behind him, bright enough to be painful, but illuminating every last curve and edge of his body in a way that’s so borderline angelic Roy will deal with the pain if it means getting to see him like this.
“You kept prattling on about how you missed me,” Jamie says slowly. “Figured I’d come and make sure you were alright, not going insane in your old age. You did want some space, afterall.”
He’s right at the edge of the bed now, close enough that Roy could reach out a hand and pull him in if he wanted to. He wants to. He doesn’t, though; not yet.
“I did,” Roy admits. “But then your stupid face kept popping up everywhere.”
“Yeah,” Jamie says, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “And what about it?”
Slowly, Roy begins reaching out, his fingers just brushing over Jamie’s wrist. “Made me realize,” he swallows, thick, the hangover heavy taste of his tongue bitter in his throat. “Maybe I don’t actually want space after all.”
Jamie settles a knee on the bed, leaning in closer, almost hovering over top of Roy.
“That so?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Roy says, just as quiet. “I’m fucking scared, Jamie. You’re Richmond’s star player. I’m the new manager. A lot of shit could go wrong.”
“Could do,” Jamie admits, the hint of a smile playing with the edge of his lips. “Could also go really, really right, Roy.”
“Yeah?” Roy asks, glancing up at him, now so close it would be easy to tilt his head up and close all the god forsaken distance in between them.
“Don’t see why not,” Jamie says. “Now do something about the fact I’m actually here, now, or I’ll leave and make you miss me again Roy, I swear to god -”
Roy tightens his grip on Jamie’s wrist and tugs him down, sending both of them sprawling over the king size bed. The slide of their lips is slow, languid, Jamie’s tongue tasting like sunshine itself when he moans into Roy’s mouth. Roy’s hands skate up and over the hard planes of his back, soaking in the warmth of his skin and letting it flood his senses, the salty smell of his sweat and spicy sweetness of his cologne taking over the hangover fog clouding Roy’s brain. He doesn’t want an inch of space between them ever again; wants to spend the rest of his days wrapped up in his sunshine golden boy, with his soft hair and pretty sounds that he sighs into the space between Roy’s lips.
Eventually, Jamie is the first to pull away, propping himself up on his elbows and smiling down at Roy, who can’t stop himself from reaching underneath Jamie’s shirt to stroke at the smooth skin he finds there.
“So we’re doing it, yeah?” Jamie says, hope tilting his voices shyly. “Making a proper go of things?”
“Yeah,” Roy husks, voice gone hoarse. “Yeah, we are.”
“Mint,” Jamie grins at him, bright and blinding, before scrunching his nose up. “Can I ask you something, then?”
Roy nods; he’ll say anything, answer anything, so long as he gets to keep Jamie, real and tangible, in his bed with him.
“Can you go and brush your fucking teeth, mate? You taste like shit.”
Roy shoves him out of bed, Jamie’s laughter following him down.