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It starts as all things do… something insignificant turning into something hugely fucking significant.
Roy can count the things he considers truly important on his two hands – calloused, knobbly, big hands like his father’s that they are. Number one is Phoebe, swiftly followed by his sister, Keeley, and everything football-related he’s ever loved… which isn’t a long list at the end of the day.
There are far more things he considers insignificant. Rain, numbers, Halloween, motorways, tennis, the endless shades of coloured paint on offer at B&Q… He could live his life never giving a rat’s arse about a single one of them. Except for when Phoebe makes them significant. When she drags him down the paint aisle with a fiercely strong grip on his wrist and makes him debate the merits of Soft Vanilla compared to Daffodil White. They’re both fucking beige-yellow, who gives a shit, but he indulges her, feeds her growing mind, so it doesn’t end up like his. Functional yet emotionally stunted from all those times he’s headered a football or been tackled to the ground or been shipped off to Sunderland at the ripe age of nine.
Phoebe plucks an entire rainbow of paint samples from the shelves. The stack of small cards is too much to hold in one hand or two; she juggles them, dropping one, reaching down to pick it up and dropping another in the process, until Roy sighs and gives in, taking the whole lot of them. They fit perfectly in a single hand. Phoebe grins up at him.
Then she takes his wrist again and skips as she drags him towards their next adventure in the DIY store. A question slips out of her as they venture toward the lamp section, the whole area around it illuminated by a hundred light bulbs in various designs of casings.
“What colour do you think Jamie’s bedroom is painted?”
Roy stares at the bright sphere of light ahead. He spares a distracted thought to the question, trying to remember which of her classmates she’s talking about now. “Jamie?”
“Jamie Tartt,” Phoebe chirps good-heartedly, “Your best friend. Well, you said he wasn’t. Have you even been to his house?”
Roy frowns. “Yes,” he says, even though he’s never passed the threshold, never seen the little world Jamie’s built behind those brick walls – only had a glimpse of a sparse hallway, no personality to be found.
“So?” She prompts as they reach the aisle of light fixtures.
Roy’s got after-images in his vision when he finally turns away, looking down at Phoebe. It’s dizzying; the blurry spots obscuring her face, slowly fading. “So what?”
She rolls her eyes. “So, what colour are his bedroom walls painted?”
Roy’s throat feels a little dry. “Why would I know that?”
She pulls a face, perplexed. “Why wouldn’t you know that?”
The expression of outright confusion is enough to nudge Roy’s brain into understanding. Every time Phoebe visits a friend’s house, she sees their bedroom, of course she does, she’s nine. They play barbies or secret spies or houses of parliament, whatever kids her age play together, sitting on some kid’s stained carpet in their bedroom. She doesn’t know adult relationships don’t work like that. There is no venturing into friends’ bedrooms unless they’re a special kind of friend. Roy doesn’t know what a single bedroom of his friends’ looks like. Except Keeley’s, if you’d call her a friend. And fine, maybe he’s had a quick peek at the yoga mums’ bedrooms on his travels to the toilet but never more than a glimpse of cream walls and cream sheets, or an excess of Princess Diana memorabilia lining the dresser and shelves, or Barbara’s golden lab curled up on pitch black sheets. But he hasn’t spent any bloody time in their personal space, certainly not long enough to remember what colour the walls are painted.
Roy settles for a shrug.
“We should visit him,” Phoebe declares, “For research.”
“Research?”
“Have you forgotten why we’re even here, Uncle Roy?” Phoebe looks exasperated and she yanks on his arm insistently. “To pick a new colour for my bedroom! I want to see what other people chose!”
“You know lots of people! Why do we have to visit Jamie fucking Tartt?” Roy argues, waving his free arm around a little too emphatically in the middle aisle of the huge warehouse. A few passers-by glance their way.
“I like Jamie,” she argues back, chin held high, “I respect his artistic choices.”
“Where the hell did you learn those words?”
“Mummy’s guilty pleasure is watching those bad fashion shows,” she explains. Roy wants to laugh despite himself; Ruth claims to hate those programs. “Can we visit him?”
Jesus Christ. Roy has a lot more patience with Phoebe than he does with the rest of the imbeciles on this planet, but it’d last longer if he’d had more than five hours of shitty, toss-and-turn sleep last night before the kid rang his doorbell ten times in a row. Not to mention that last month she’d set it to the most irritating ringtone she could find.
“No.” Roy grits out, wishing they could go back to looking at a hundred different lamps and leave without buying a single one. If it weren’t for this, they’d probably go do the same thing in the carpet aisle too. A morning well spent.
“Please, Uncle Roy?”
He starts walking again, dragging her along. “We’re not visiting Jamie, Phoebe.”
She lets go of his arm and jumps two steps in front of him, smiling sweetly over her shoulder. “If you don’t take me, I’ll tell mummy what happened at Big Tesco yesterday…”
Roy stops mid-step. “You wouldn’t.”
She smiles angelically. “I already wrote it down in my journal… it would be a shame if she found that before I had the chance to rip the pages out.”
They stare each other down silently, a halo of lights above them.
Twenty minutes later Roy is driving to Jamie Tartt’s house while Phoebe blasts Taylor Swift songs from the back seat with a devilishly happy grin stretching her face.
He doesn’t even warn the fucker. It’s only 9am, so he’s hoping Phoebe will deliver the same unpleasant wake up call. After all, it’s the off-season and Jamie is only subjected to Roy’s early morning training three times a week. He's granted a lie-in every other day.
Better yet, he’s hoping Jamie isn’t in.
Unfortunately for Roy, Jamie answers the door on the fourth quick-fire ring of the doorbell. He's fresh-faced and wide awake, dressed in a uncreased hoodie-shorts matching set. The only thing not put together is his unbrushed hair. It flops over his forehead; Roy stares at it.
Naturally Jamie's gaze falls upon Roy first at eye-level, and mild confusion flits across his expression, before dropping down to Phoebe’s obnoxiously large pink scrunchie (which Roy bought for a whopping eight pounds) and further down to her face. Tartt blinks. Then his face cracks open in a blinding grin to match hers.
“Phoebe Kent!” He shouts, leaning down to scoop her into a hug. “What a great surprise!”
“Hiya Jamie!” She yells in his ear, slinging her arms around him.
When she’s been lowered back down to the ground, Jamie looks at Roy again and grins, all easy like he’s genuinely happy to see him. “Two Kents on my doorstep on a Saturday morning. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Phoebe says uber-seriously, “We’ve come to inspect your bedroom.”
Something in the back of Roy’s throat makes an alarmingly loud sound. Jamie’s gaze jumps up to him, an eyebrow raised above it, “Oh yeh?”
Phoebe nods firmly.
Jamie’s eyes don’t leave Roy for a moment, studying him with amusement as though the answer is written somewhere in Roy’s embarrassment. The door is pulled open to the fullest. “Come on in then.”
There should be all that space to walk through but Jamie stays in the middle. Phoebe slips right past. Roy has to edge around Jamie, shrinking his wide, stiff shoulders to slink on past, as the younger man watches him, not saying a word. The hair on Roy’s nape stands on end.
Once they’ve shucked off their shoes, Phoebe stares expectedly at Jamie.
Roy plants a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and clears his throat. “Don’t you want to… tidy up before she has a look?”
Jamie’s eyes crinkle and he scrunches his nose. “Nah. Dead tidy, me. Come on, Pheebs. Last one to the top has to eat cold baked beans!”
With that, they race each other up Jamie’s stairs as Roy stands at the bottom, feeling detached from his limbs.
“Are you coming, Uncle Roy?” Phoebe calls down. “I won, by the way!”
Roy grimaces. “Uh—”
“She asked if you’re coming, Uncle Roy!” Jamie’s delighted voice shouts.
“Fucking fine,” Roy grumbles before he loudly thumps up the stairs in lieu of a proper response.
By the time he’s reached the final step, they’re gone. Only one door is open at the end of the long hallway and Phoebe’s giggles are definitely coming from that direction. Huffing, he spares a glance at the navy blue interior of this part of the house while he walks to find them. There are a few large frames containing football shirts – a couple of Jamie’s from Man City and Richmond and some youth clubs – and team photos dotted along the walls. Kid Jamie grins at Roy from the biggest photo of them, his arms looped around his mum’s and Simon’s shoulders. He’s got Man City kit on, for the under 19s team. The sunset must be behind the camera, casting him in golden light as the sky behind him dances in shades of orange and pink.
Phoebe calls Roy’s name and he flinches, yanking his gaze from the photo.
Adult Jamie stands in the open doorway watching him. “Gonna have a look at my bedroom then, old man?” He cocks a smile. “You came all this way.”
“Shut up,” Roy grunts as he marches over, shouldering past Jamie and adamantly ignoring the way Jamie’s head follows him as he passes.
He looks up from the wooden floorboards to the room that Phoebe is inspecting with care.
It is utterly uninteresting. The papers would pay good money for a picture of Jamie’s bedroom, likely expecting some BDSM sex shit to live up to his on-screen reality-TV personality. But it’s barely worth Page Ten of the shittiest celebrity-news magazine. There’s character, sure – Jamie clearly hired an interior designer to create a modern, black and blue themed, elegant space worth spending time in – but it’s devoid of Jamie.
Plush curtains and sheets, a picture frame wide-screen television, a plain dresser, and a tall built in bookshelf filled with colourful book spines. There’s a fluffy carpet stretched at the end of the king sized bed, a double-doored entrance to what must be a walk-in closet, and an ajar door leading off to a glistening bathroom, but there’s no memories pinned on the walls nor memorabilia lining the window sills. Everything personal seems to be contained within the eight shelves of books. It’s very… adult, that’s what it is; completely unexpected from the juvenile twenty-two-year-old Roy first met.
Most importantly to Phoebe, the walls are painted a dark blue, so dark that it cannot possibly be distinguishable from black when the sun isn’t shining through the windows. She scrutinises the shade in the corner, comparing it against her sample cards.
Jamie’s shoulder bumps into him from behind and a huff of hot air grazes the side of Roy’s neck. “What do you think of my bedroom?”
“It’s… nice,” Roy utters stiffly. How the fuck else is he supposed to answer that question? Gush about the beautiful interior design and pairing of colours? Say it feels like Jamie but nothing like him at all, both at once? Roy knows fuck all about interior design; he knows what looks good and what doesn’t. Jamie’s bedroom looks nice enough. The rest is none of Roy’s fucking business.
“D’ya think you’ll come here again?” Jamie asks quietly, his breath still hot by Roy’s ear.
Roy inhales sharply. “What?”
Jamie steps away. “Nothing.”
Phoebe comes skipping over when Roy turns to stare at Jamie. What fucking reason would he have to visit Jamie’s bedroom again? The man isn’t on his deathbed and the only other reason would be—
“I want my bedroom to look just like this, Jamie!” Phoebe says.
“We can make that happen, I bet! What’s your budget?” Jamie replies, all easy going and light smiles. Roy feels the ghost of his breath on his skin.
“Hmm…” Phoebe ponders. “I think my mum said fifty pounds. Is that enough?”
“Well,” Jamie looks like he’s suppressing his amusement. “I’ll add another fifty to that, and I’d bet ya Roy will add another hundred pounds! Ain’t that right, Uncle Roy?”
Phoebe rotates to Roy. “Really?”
“Phoebe–”
“You already owe me fifty pounds for the swear jar and fifteen of that is from this morning!”
Roy’s lengthy sigh is signal enough that he’s given in to her demand. She hugs his torso, jumping up and down. “My bedroom is going to look exactly like Jamie’s.”
She must hook an arm around Jamie too because suddenly they’re all lumped together, Jamie closer than he’s been in months, since he cried into Roy’s shoulder. Jamie’s arm winds around his back, his hand settling in Phoebe’s hair and ruffling it, with a great big grin on his face. Roy stares at him from up close, feeling unmoored. Something’s changed. Roy can’t put his finger on it.
When Phoebe releases them, Jamie leans down a little. “You had breakfast yet?”
“Duh, it’s 9:30am!” She responds quickly, making use of her new watch.
“Obviously. Do you want a second breakfast then? Or an early lunch?” Jamie adds the winning component to the offer, “I’ve got pancake mix?”
Phoebe’s eyes widen as she nods quickly, not even looking for Roy’s approval. Spoilt, she is; Roy fucking loves it.
“But Jamie, you’ll have to eat your cold beans first!” She positively sparkles. “Let’s go!”
The pitter-patter of her running feet is already halfway down the corridor when Jamie leans sideways and whispers conspiratorially, “I actually love baked beans — cold and hot.”
Roy snorts and elbows him. “Freak.”
Jamie seems pleased. Roy doesn’t stick around to appreciate the look on his face. He’s downstairs by the time Jamie catches up and overtakes, jogging to find Phoebe in the kitchen. She’s found a stool and is searching through his cupboards, entirely unconcerned by common courtesy. Her hand wraps around a can of Heinz beans as Roy settles against the kitchen island.
Jamie indulges her, pouring out the can into a bowl with a theatrical performance of disgust. The act continues as he fakes horror at the spoon Phoebe guides to his lips, transforming it into nausea as he struggles to swallow. All the while Phoebe is delighted; thrilled as her new friend loudly suffers from a case of baked-bean-phobia.
Roy watches on, smiling, eyes flickering between the pair of them. They’re three spoonfuls in when Jamie partially drops the pretence.
He asks around a mouthful of beans, “Do you know any other Jamies, Pheebs?”
She nods. “Jamie Fletcher. He’s in my year. He’s nice to everybody else but he doesn’t like me.”
“Well, you know what they say: if he’s mean to you, he has a crush on you.”
“That’s bollocks,” Roy interjects, shouting a little, “Don’t listen to that shit, Phoebe. Little boys are just mean.”
Jamie raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, he has a point. Who cares about Jamie Fletcher anyway? There’s only one important Jamie in your life, ey?”
Phoebe nods. “That’s right.”
“D’ya know any other Roys?” Jamie asks, catching Roy’s eye.
Phoebe scrunches her nose. “No. I’ve never heard of anybody else called Roy. Is it an old name?”
Jamie smirks. “Definitely. Only granddads are called Roy nowadays.”
Phoebe giggles.
“Are you going to make these pancakes then?” Roy says with an eye roll. “I’ll leave you two troublemakers to it.”
He heads out of the kitchen, sitting down on the sofa in the adjoined living room. It sinks under his weight. He sighs in gentle relief. He still keeps in shape but keeping up with Phoebe is a fitness challenge in itself some days. Noise filters through from the other room; cupboards bang and voices whisper.
It’s another nice room; expensive taste evident in the choice of furniture and decor, but sophisticated nonetheless. Jamie hasn’t fallen into the common footballer curse of having too much money and no idea how to spend it. Clearly he has carefully chosen the pieces that suit him — or hired someone to make those decisions for him. The curtains are still drawn and it's a dark, peaceful corner of the house, so Roy tilts his chin to the ceiling, closes his eyes, and just listens.
Phoebe has never been the most subtle whisperer, so he can hear half of the conversation anyway, contorted by laughter as it may be. At one point, he hears mention of Big Tesco and he quashes the instinct to shout for her to keep her lips sealed. He can always threaten Jamie instead.
There’s an absurd amount of giggling, most likely at Roy’s expense. In a ridiculous way, it soothes him to hear the pair of them like this, soft voices and happy tones. He settles further into the sofa.
“Roy?” Phoebe calls. “I think I left my paint samples in Jamie’s bedroom, can you get them?”
“Why can’t you–?”
Phoebe pops around the doorframe to reveal her batter splattered hair and hands. Jamie also appears on cue, revealing the same, the pancake mix almost blending into his walnut mist hair dye. They grin at him.
Roy rolls his eyes. “Why do you need them now?”
“Please, Uncle Roy.”
Jamie wiggles his eyebrows.
Roy heaves himself up from the sofa, feeling the familiar dull pain of his knee as it straightens out again. “These pancakes better be fucking delicious.”
“That’s eighteen pounds now,” Phoebe sings as she disappears again.
Jamie says nothing at all. He watches Roy go.
Roy feels the hot gaze burn through his clothes, right between his shoulder blades. He moves quickly to get out of Jamie’s line of sight. It doesn’t shake the feeling, even once he’s reached the top of the staircase. Roy’s body tingles absently.
He stands momentarily outside the bedroom. This feels wrong, entering Jamie’s bedroom alone with nobody watching. Forbidden, even.
Roy pushes open the bedroom door and looks around quickly, trying to locate the cards. He spots them and walks over. The samples are on the dresser, left there without thinking, but as Roy reaches for them, his knee knocks a knobbly drawer handle. He curses in pain as the cards topple over the far end. They stream out across the floor in every direction.
He sinks to his knees with a pain-induced grunt and starts gathering the rainbow into his hands. He has to stretch when reaching for the furthest cards, which have slipped right under the bathroom door. He nudges the door and swipes them, trying not to look— why doesn’t he want to look? His gaze lifts in response to the question and locks onto the plain white bathroom. Utterly unremarkable save the pile of products in the shower. Shampoos and conditioners, half full, from every major brand. There’s a razor too, haphazardly teetering off the shelf, and shaving cream. Roy’s eyes linger for no reason.
He snaps out of it and abruptly stands up, cramming the samples into his pockets, most likely creasing a few of them.
But then he makes the mistake of looking at the bookcase and it lures him in, step by step. It’s nothing fancy – a variety of classic books, non-fiction, and more modern stories – but then there’s the extra touches: the photo frames and the little figurines between rows of books. A hundred photos plastered to the back wall of the bookcase. Professional shots of Jamie playing football, family photos, selfies with teenage friends, and tucked in the very top left corner, a picture with his dad.
And the figurines. Roy had no idea Jamie is such a closeted nerd. He’s got a little bit of everything, from Star Wars to Doctor Who to Indiana Jones, from footballers’ bobbleheads to Eeyore to what looks like one of those Moomin hippo characters. It’s absurdly diverse.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, checking out each book title and each slice of Jamie’s two decades of interests. It just sucks him in, all this individuality in a two-by-two corner of the room. Makes him wonder what else he’s been missing out on.
“Like what you see?”
Roy almost jumps out of his skin. “Fucking hell, Tartt. Why the fuck are you here?”
Jamie leans against the doorframe, all cleaned up, sporting a small smile that echoes in his eyes. “Thought you got lost, grandpa.”
“Well I didn't.”
“I can see that.” Jamie’s smile widens.
Roy’s gaze moves behind Jamie, suddenly noticing the missing person. “You left Phoebe alone in the kitchen—?!”
“Relax, the stove is turned off at the wall.” He says, “I left her with an IKEA catalogue.”
Roy has nothing to say to that. His mouth opens then closes.
“So.” Jamie steps into the room. “Do you like my bedroom, Roy Kent?”
Roy backs away from the bookshelf a little, distancing himself from the personal pocket of the room, only to unintentionally move closer to the bed. He shrugs on a familiar mask, shrouding himself with defensiveness. “Why does my opinion matter?”
Jamie’s brow tenses a little at that. “Of course it fucking matters. You’re… you.”
“What?” Roy frowns. “Well, it’s fine, I guess. Yeah, whatever, I like it.”
Jamie smiles— no, preens. He dusts off his hoodie and pats down his hair as his smile lights up the whole fucking room. And Roy just watches, unable to look away.
“You know…” Jamie takes another step. “I’ve had many fantasies of you being in this room.”
There’s a tightening of Roy’s throat and a squeeze in his chest as his eyes widen. “You mean when you were a kid, as an aspiring footballer?” He rationalises.
Jamie moves again, pausing a couple of meters away. “I mean I’ve had fantasies in this room, in that bed. And Roy, I only bought this house three years ago.”
Roy blinks against the image of Jamie sitting up in bed, sheets bundled around his waist, wishing Roy was there with him. Against his will, Roy remembers Jamie sleeps naked from the waist down. His face feels awfully hot.
“All those early mornings, Coach. I’ve always wanted you to invite yourself in,” Jamie tells him, coy as he makes slow, intentional movements closer. “Meant to ask you myself sooner or later, but didn’t dare.”
“What changed?” He finds himself asking. Because Jamie is certainly taking initiative now.
Jamie’s carefully coy smile stretches a little further. “Roy Kent turned up on my doorstep on a Saturday morning asking to see my bedroom.”
“That wasn’t me. Phoebe—”
“Yeah yeah, Phoebe did all the hard work for me. The way you are with her, man…” Jamie trails off. His hand stretches across the small gap left between them and straightens the collar of Roy’s leather jacket.
Roy must be having a heart attack, given the way his heart is hammering, but he doesn’t move, he doesn’t fall, he stays rooted to the spot. In control of his body and yet not at all.
Jamie sways ever closer. Roy’s not an idiot, he can tell what Jamie means, what he wants. He can’t put words to it but he can read it in the shimmering seduction of Jamie’s eyes.
“This isn’t…”
“Isn’t what?” Jamie asks softly, his head cocking to the side as he examines Roy from so close.
Roy takes an unsteady breath and releases it. He still can’t look Jamie dead in the eye. “Isn’t a good idea.”
“Says who?”
Roy’s voice feels scratchier. “I’m your… I’m your coach, Jamie.”
“So what? Rebecca dated Sam and she’s your boss. Would be hypocritical to prohibit others doing it.”
Roy tries to swallow a lump in his throat but it doesn’t budge. “Is that what you want? To date me?”
Jamie pauses, considering it. “I think I’d take anything you’d give me, but yeah, Roy, I wanna date you. Would you— would you want that too?”
“I don’t— Jamie, you sprung this on me two minutes ago, I don’t know what I—”
“But you’re thinking about it, right? You haven’t pushed me away, haven’t said no. You’re attracted to me, Roy, I can tell. Tell me I’m wrong.” Jamie’s face is hopeful, tender; oh so easy to break.
“You’re…” But Roy can’t say it.
“Tell me to go fuck myself, Coach, come on.” Jamie eggs him on a little, surging into the empty space until their chests are flush together and it feels like they’re back on the pitch, fighting for the sake of fighting. There’s no energy in it; all bravado that Jamie is putting on but there’s no spirit. He’s trying to nudge Roy into a response in any way he can.
Roy doesn’t have a single thing to say. He breathes quickly, audibly. “Give me a second, Jamie. Just a second.”
“Okay,” Jamie says, “Okay.”
To give him some credit, he gives Roy a moment to breathe, to think, to process, but they stay right there, breathing the same oxygen, their chests rising and falling and meeting in the middle. And Roy doesn’t push away either.
There’s something to it. Something significant he’s been pushing down as long as he’s known Jamie, as much as he hates to admit it. A mutual understanding. Anger and fear and a pull towards each other. This last season, training Jamie, actually getting to know the man, it has unravelled the gnarly mess of feelings. Jamie’s eyes are always on Roy, looking for his approval, bringing a burning hot, happy tightness to Roy’s stomach. So eager to please, Jamie is. Following every command; maybe with a joke or pulling a face but following Roy nonetheless. Roy fucking loves it. Loves Jamie’s attention too, loves having Jamie’s pliant body beneath his fingers, pushing him down into another squat or lunge or driving him on for another mile. Loves it in a way he can’t replicate with another player. Sometimes, Jamie will shove his calf at Roy, expecting a massage to relieve stiffness, and Roy will comply, addicted to the sensation of Jamie’s muscles, loosening them with his firm touch.
Maybe this wouldn’t have been such a huge fucking surprise if Roy had taken a step back and examined his own goddamn feelings every once in a while. But he’s been too distracted, heart still pointed towards Keeley, to fully realise why Jamie comes to mind each time Roy thinks of her. More than jealousy. Something different. Something more tender; inseparable from Jamie’s heart, his smile, his voice, his thighs, his essence, every-fucking-thing about Jamie Tartt.
And Jamie is staring at him now, looking fond and patient. There’s a lightness in his body as he pursues Roy, going after what he wants, but Roy can see the subtle tension too: the small pinch in his brow, the too-straight posture, the fidgeting fingers at his sides. Roy wants to capture them. He wants to hold Jamie Tartt’s fucking hand.
Fuck.
“Are you ready now?” Jamie’s voice says softly, carefully interrupting Roy’s thoughts, the quiet anxiety finally winning.
Roy’s head shakes minutely, distracted by Jamie’s face, taking it in. This is the face he’s been seeing in his dreams, split wide open by grins and folded in with gentle smiles and happiness.
Jamie’s voice whispers a moment later, “How about now?”
It’s ridiculous enough that Roy scoffs with a grin.
“Or maybe now?” Jamie says.
Roy rolls his eyes and rocks back on his heels, unable to clamp down on the smile stuck on his lips.
“Have you had enough time now?”
“Fucking shut up, you idiot,” Roy says through the same stupid smile.
“Right, sorry. Forgot old people can’t multitask,” Jamie quips. ”Thinking and listening at the same time must be an Olympic sport for your generation.”
God, Roy loves the way Jamie speaks. The way his tongue curls around words, injects character into them. Roy raises his eyebrows. “You’re seriously calling me old while you’re trying to get into my pants?”
“It’s all a part of my charm.” Jamie winks.
Roy grumbles half-heartedly.
“Is it working? My charm?”
Roy doesn’t dignify that with an answer. But all it does is bring Jamie in closer, reeling him in until Roy can do nothing but cast his gaze all around Jamie’s face, wondering how the hell a beautiful man like him would ever consider a grumpy old fart like Roy. To him it feels like magnetism, this universal draw towards Jamie.
“Roy,” Jamie says softly, ducking to snag Roy’s gaze. “Can I stop asking questions, and kiss you instead?”
A fucking shiver runs down Roy’s spine. A shiver. And he realises he’s turned on. Jamie Tartt has well and truly turned him on.
He’s not thinking when he tugs his bottom lip into his mouth, when presses his teeth into it and releases it slowly, Jamie’s attention locked onto him, sultry eyes following the movement.
He utters a simple, “Yes.”
Jamie’s eyes snap to his, and he smiles slowly to one side. “Yeah?”
Roy’s heart thumps loudly. He nods. “Yeah.”
He expects Jamie to go in hard and fast, to take what he wants with no mercy. He should’ve known better. If there’s anything he’s learnt, it’s that Jamie defies expectations. So, Jamie takes his time wrapping a delicate hand around Roy’s neck, his thumb settling at the very corner of Roy’s jaw, under the bone. His fingers move gently into Roy’s hair, right there at his nape, barely applying pressure. Roy sinks forwards as the sensation ripples along his skin. Jamie’s other hand moves to Roy’s waist, curling his digits, and for an excruciatingly long, pleasurable moment, he just holds Roy. He’s probably watching Roy too, but Roy’s eyes are fixed on Jamie’s lips. They’re an intoxicating shade of light pink, and his tongue dampens them in a quick movement. Something stirs in Roy’s stomach.
The lips draw closer and Roy goes a little cross-eyed before his eyes slide closed. He waits there a second, maybe two, heart hammering.
Finally, Jamie kisses him.
It’s everything Roy’s ever had before, and nothing like it.
Jamie is easy and gentle at first; a quick brush of lips until Roy catches up. He kisses sweetly, in no rush. He kisses Roy like he’s gotta convince him this is more than lust, that this deserves more than the simplest of kisses. Jamie’s nose nudges Roy’s, and somehow, that reminds Roy to act. His hands shift, looking for something to grasp, choosing Jamie’s back, wrapping around so his hands curl around the opposite sides of his waist.
He starts to kiss back with more agency, as Jamie presses in even closer, Roy’s hands making sure of that.
It’s slow and lucid and Roy’s stomach churns with butterflies, his senses on high alert as a shudder moves down his back.
Jamie releases him for the shortest of milliseconds. Long enough to dart a wet tongue across his lips before he takes Roy’s bottom lip between his lips and sucks. From there, the leisurely pace falls off a cliff. Jamie knows Roy is reciprocating now. There’s no turning back.
All at once, Jamie has all the fiery heat Roy was expecting. He tilts Roy’s head just so, for the perfect angle, as he begins to take him apart; there’s teeth involved and tongue and Roy can’t think of anything besides all the ways they’re touching right now and the electric thrill running wild across his skin. For a long time they kiss — messily and a little thoughtlessly, but just kissing. Until Jamie gets the rest of their bodies properly involved.
He walks them backwards, one slow step at a time, Roy too distracted to notice his own feet moving in sync. He notices when the backs of his thighs bump into the footboard of the bed. He certainly notices when Jamie presses his lower body against Roy, an unfamiliar hardness most conspicuous. Roy suddenly realises he’s never had a man this close outside of a football pitch. Jamie’s hands roam a little restlessly across Roy, into his hair and out, across his shoulders and down his arms, fingernails dragging down his tight back muscles. Roy’s surprised he’s still breathing; he hasn’t been kissed like this in— well, a while.
And hey, Roy’s breathing is certainly ragged when Jamie pulls back for air.
“That was–”
“Am I a good kisser, Coach?” Jamie’s cocky voice says against Roy’s neck, having ducked down to press his lips below his ear.
“I like you better when you’re not talking,” Roy says in response, smiling at the lie.
Jamie’s toothy smile presses hard against his neck before Roy gets a hold on Jamie’s hair and tugs him back in for another kiss. They fall into it again, nothing between them. Jamie tastes of spearmint. He smells like vanilla. Roy’s fingers claw at his waist.
A loud shout from downstairs interrupts them. “Jamie?”
Jamie pulls away with a breathy laugh. He shouts over his shoulder, “Yeah, Pheebs?”
“I’ve picked out my new desk!”
“Oh yeah?” Jamie grins at Roy, his face all scrunched up in the most wonderful way. “I’ll be right down.”
Jamie leans back in, kissing Roy quickly but delicately. For one final moment, he presses his full weight against Roy, forehead against forehead. Then he retreats completely, hanging on by a single hand, fingers curling around Roy’s palm. Jamie leads him to the door, pulling dead weight along. Roy stops short.
He takes a quick breath, taking inventory of his feelings. He feels fucking fantastic, drunk on Jamie. Why the fuck weren’t they doing this months ago?
“Coming?” Jamie cocks his head to the side, looking back. “Or do you need some time?”
Roy shakes his head, smiles. “I’m coming.”
“Queen Phoebe awaits,” Jamie says grinning, darting back to plant a kiss on Roy’s cheek.
Roy chuckles, eyes flickering closed at the press of lips to skin. Moments later, he’s hauled downstairs, Jamie’s broad back a distraction in its sheer existence. Phoebe looks up from her catalogue, sharpie in hand, and only then does Roy lose the physical contact with Jamie. His hand is dropped. And yet, Jamie reverses into him subtly, pressing his hand to Roy’s waist and his arse to Roy’s hips. Then he’s gone for good, back to the stove to make their second breakfast, and Roy’s left to suppress this new-old feeling in his gut. He hands over Phoebe’s samples. She grins at him.
They eat pancakes with berries, Phoebe opting for golden syrup for a pancake or two. Her hands stick to the cutlery by the time she’s finished. She takes lead of the conversation, using the opportunity to tell Jamie all about her life, since there wasn’t adequate time on Uncle's day. Then there's the intense interior design discussion. The paint samples are spread across the table and contrasted against various images of IKEA furniture. Phoebe weighs the pros and cons of each desk she's found, as well as every rug, stuffed animal, and curtain set. Jamie is the perfect conversationalist, easy to please and eager to make her laugh. He shoots glances at Roy from time to time, happiness dancing in his eyes.
They talk and talk, Roy chipping in with his two cents every once in a while. It’s nice. It’s good.
Roy’s attention falls to Jamie more often than not. He takes note of every feature, curve, and blemish. He doesn’t push down the usual feelings that arise. He admires Jamie from afar.
Jamie’s foot nudges him under the table, followed by a quick wink, before settling over Roy’s ankle. Skin against skin when Roy’s jeans rise with Jamie’s guiding foot. Roy stretches his bad knee in the other direction.
They don’t leave the table for two hours and Roy is perfectly content.
As newly designated time keeper, Phoebe declares at 12pm that it’s time to leave for netball practice. “You could come too, Jamie? Roy doesn’t like talking to the mums.”
“They talk too much,” Roy adds. Nevermind that Jamie is also a chatterbox and that’s never bothered him before.
“Aw, Pheebs. I would love to come but I’ve gotta meet Isaac in an hour for important best friend business.”
Roy rolls his eyes as Phoebe laughs in good humour. “See you next week, then? We need to design the rest of my bedroom!”
Jamie’s eyes flicker across to Roy and he smiles, shrugging. “Amazing idea.”
“It’s a date!” She chirps. Roy and Jamie both turn to her with an odd face. “What? That’s what they say in the movies!”
Jamie sways into Roy’s side, knocking their shoulders together. “It’s a date.”
Phoebe nods, pleased, and busies herself with tying her shoe laces and straightening her flyaway hair. Roy’s cheeks burn hot.
“Bye Jamie!” Phoebe says a moment later, pulling the front door open.
“Bye Pheebs!”
Roy tosses Phoebe the keys. “Go get buckled in.”
She shrugs and walks quickly away to the car, yanking open the door and climbing inside. Roy waits until he sees her yank the seatbelt over her middle.
“She’s with me all day.” He says, pushing the door halfway closed and stepping towards Jamie behind it. “But I’m free tomorrow?”
Jamie grins, shoulders folding in a little as Roy crowds him against the wall. “Come over for breakfast then? Stay for dinner and tea?”
Roy smiles easily, his face feeling all loose and malleable. “Alright.”
“You can see my bedroom again,” Jamie says playfully, pressing his palms against Roy’s chest. “We’ll have all day, yeah? I’ll give you a tour.”
Roy raises his eyebrows, enticed.
Jamie tags on, “An interactive experience.”
“Oh yeah?” Roy laughs lightly, taking hold of Jamie’s wrists. He leans against him. “A 5 star experience?”
“The full experience,” Jamie says, curling the words out slowly, eyes watching Roy intensely.
“I fucking lo—like you, Tartt.” Roy catches himself and clears his throat.
Jamie grins, having heard every syllable. “That’s good, then. Would be a bit early to be in love, no?”
“Shut up,” Roy says, smiling before he hauls Jamie across the remaining gap.
They kiss against the wall, Jamie’s hands fighting to get out of Roy’s strong hold – but Christ, if they get free, Roy is never getting out of here. He ends the kiss before he’s tempted by the sheer taste of Jamie.
Jamie looks at him, soft and ruffled and maybe a little sad to be left behind.
“Come here,” Roy says, pulling Jamie into a hug. His arms wrap around Jamie’s shoulders as Jamie’s hands go to his upper waist, squeezing his rib cage tightly. Jamie’s nose finds space in the nook of Roy’s neck, a wet smile finding skin there too.
When he lets go, he knows it’s time to leave, lest Phoebe starts incessantly questioning him if he takes any longer. Roy presses a kiss to Jamie’s eyebrow, runs a hand through his tousled hair, and with one last glance at Jamie’s entrancing smile, he steps out the door.
Just like that, Jamie is added to the short list of important things in Roy’s life.