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~~~
Jamie doesn’t know what’s happening.
He’d been fine yesterday. He’d been alone, but he’d been fine. He’d spent an hour FaceTiming with Mummy; Simon had told him about a new Paul Hollywood recipe he was going rogue on. He’d been texting on and off with both Sam and Dani, respective timezone differences between London, Lagos and Guadalajara not enough to stop them from talking. He’d played FIFA for hours and gone for a quick jog around the Richmond Green. He’d signed a football and taken some selfies with a group of school kids playing there. So he’d been fine. He’d been alone but he’d been fine. He’d been fine. He’d been fine. He’d been-
Nothing had happened, is the point. Nothing had changed. Nothing that would explain why he’d had to choke down his dinner, had only managed part of it in the end, left the half-eaten remains to go bad in his kitchen sink.
How he’d had to drag himself through his nightly routine, hadn’t showered, had barely managed to brush his teeth, feeling ancient and brittle as he’d braced himself on the counter afterward. How he’d had to skip his skincare, had only been able to splash cold water on his face, hoping it would wake him up. Hoping it would help. Hoping it would push back the thick shadows he could feel creeping up his neck.
Nothing had happened that would explain how when he’d gone to get undressed for bed that night he just… couldn’t. How the thought of taking off the heavy sweats he’d spent the evening in felt unnervingly like peeling off his own skin. How he’d crawled into bed still fully clothed, still cold, had curled into a ball, tucked deep under his duvet. How he’d just… gone.
Nothing had happened that would explain why he was still curled into that ball, still fully clothed in the dark all those hours later. Still awake, still gone.
He’s cold.
It’s coming from inside him, some solid, crushing, icy thing.
He’s cold.
He’s cold and that doesn’t make sense. Usually he couldn’t bear to have anything on his legs while he slept. It wasn’t just what he’d told Roy, that he got cold upstairs and hot downstairs, it was the seams. He could ignore them well enough in the daytime, could feel them, but could push the feeling down until it was only in the background. He could ignore them until the sun went down, until it was night. At night those same seams felt like wire brushing against his skin, felt sharp and biting enough to draw blood. The urge to get out, to get away was usually so overwhelming that he couldn’t hope to sleep. But now he’s cold. He’s cold and the seams don’t matter anyway, he can’t really feel his body enough to notice them.
But he does notice the itch on his face, he doesn’t know where it’s coming from and it’s bothering him. He wants to raise his arm, wants to scratch it away, but he can’t. His body doesn’t belong to him right now, his mind is floating high above him and his body is anchored far below. He’s drifting somewhere in between them and he doesn’t know where he fits. Doesn’t understand what he is.
His pillow is wet. He doesn’t know why.
~~~
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
A high shrill tone cuts through the night, hurting ears he didn’t realise he could still feel.
He’s confused at first, can’t work out what the sound is. It’s repetitive and growing steadily louder, it won’t let him sleep. Won’t let him drift.
Oh.
It’s not meant to. It’s his alarm. He know he needs to turn it off but his arm is too heavy, a lead weight tucked firmly against his chest.
His alarm going off means it’s 4:30am. Means it’s the morning. Means he needs to get up.
It’s the off season, half the team has scattered to different corners of the world, but Jamie’s still in London, still training with Roy. They were less intense about it now. The time spent together was more like that between friends than between player and coach, even if they’re both still refusing to admit to each other that that’s what they’ve become.
They weren’t training everyday and they weren’t training at four anymore. They’d pushed it back to a slightly more reasonable hour. Five instead of four; so much more reasonable. Roy had been reluctant at first, had said something slightly worrying about ropes and red paint and people being most vulnerable at 4am. Jamie can’t remember what it was now.
It hadn’t taken much for Jamie to get Roy to agree to keep training him. So much had changed lately. They’d qualified for the Champions League. They’d nearly won the whole fucking Premier League. Nate was back. Ted was gone. Beard had stayed. They didn’t know who the next gaffer would be yet.
(Jamie just hopes Ms Welton won’t hire someone like Cartrick again. He can’t go back to someone like that after Ted. Ted changed him too much. Tore down his defences. Took him from icon to i, cog. He can’t go back.)
In all that change it was… nice to have something familiar. So he’s still training with Roy.
He still needs to get up.
The alarm is still playing. It still hurts.
He drags his arm up painstaking inch by painstaking inch to reach his phone where it’s trying to vibrate it’s way off his bedside table. The face of it is bright, too bright. It hurts. The display reads 4:47, even though Jamie knows the alarm is set for 4:30, he doesn’t know where the time in between has gone.
Turning his alarm off feels like giving up, like surrendering to the knowledge that he’s not going to be able to get up, to get out of his bed. He does it anyway. He’s tired.
He drops the phone and pulls his arm back under the covers against himself, tries to push the limb into his chest, tries to use the weight of it to anchor himself. It doesn’t work. He’s still cold and his pillow is still wet. His face itches.
~~~
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
A high shrill tone cuts through the night, hurting ears he didn’t realise he could still feel.
He’s confused at first, can’t work out what the sound is, he’s- didn’t he just do this?
Jamie tries to open his eyes but the scene in front of him doesn’t change. That should be worrying, shouldn’t it?
Oh.
His eyes were already open. He drags them over to his phone, expecting to see the display lit up again, the alarm going off. Didn’t he just turn it off? He hasn’t been here for a whole day has he? But the screen’s dark, the phone is still. It’s not his alarm.
The tone stops.
Then starts again.
Then stops. Again.
“Tartt!”
Oh.
It’s his doorbell.
It’s Roy.
The tone sounds again.
It’s Roy ringing his doorbell.
“Tartt! Get your arse down here!”
He’d love to. Honestly he would. He just can’t get to his body right now. The strings connecting his mind to his limbs have all snapped, there’s nothing there to puppet him now.
It’s quiet. Roy must have given up.
It’s quiet until it isn’t. Never mind.
He only realises his eyes are still open when his phone display lights up. It’s still too bright, it hurts. The phone starts ringing. It. Hurts.
He tries to raise his arm to it again, he knows he can, he did it earlier. But whatever it was that let him drag his arm up before is gone now. He can only stare at the phone, at the display showing Roy’s name. Can only stare as eventually it stills and falls quiet, goes dark.
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
He can hear muffled cursing coming from his front door, thinks he catches his own name somewhere in between.
His front door opens. Serves him right for telling Roy where his spare key is hidden.
“Tartt! Get the hell up!”
He can’t. He wants to. He can’t. He’s sorry.
Roy’s voice is getting louder. He’s on the stairs.
“You’d better be fucking dead Tartt!”
Maybe he is. Maybe that’s what happened. Roy’s outside his room now. He’s turned on the hallway light, so Jamie knows when Roy reaches his doorway. His shadow looms large against the floor.
“How the fuck did you sleep through that?”
He’s walking toward him. Jamie tries to speak, tries to move. Roy will see him. He’s fractured. Nothing happened and he doesn’t understand why but he’s fractured. And if he can’t speak, can’t move then Roy will see. He has to move. He has to move. He has to-
“Little fucking… Jamie?”
Too late.
Roy’s in front of him now, standing tall above him in the low light. He drags his eyes up to take in Roy’s face. His mouth is hanging loosely open, his eyes are wide under raised brows. Roy’s looking at him. Roy is seeing him and Jamie can’t put the pieces of his expression together. Is Roy disappointed? Disgusted? Is Roy mad at him? He hopes not.
“Jamie, what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t-
He’s cold. He’s fractured. His face itches.
“Can you hear me?”
He can hear him. He can hear him. He can hear him. He can-
“C’mon Jamie you’re starting to scare me here.”
He’s sorry. He’s trying. He wants to answer. Really, he does. He wants to speak. Wants to scream.
“I need you to tell me you can hear me, lad.”
He can hear him.
He can’t tell him.
He doesn’t know how to get his voice working, the distance between his thoughts and his throat is too great; a gaping, yawning chasm he can’t even look at let alone cross. But it’s Roy asking. It’s Roy Kent asking. He tries to speak to him, he really tries but he’s choking on the echoes of a voice that won’t work. That cold thing in his chest is rising up and crashing over his neck again, it won’t let him speak.
He can’t speak. He can’t speak. He can’t speak. He can’t-
He shakes his head. Slowly. Gingerly. He shakes his head. He's still looking up at Roy Kent. At Roy. Tries to tell him with his eyes.
He can hear him.
He’s sorry.
“Did something happen? Jamie, did you take something? Or- Is it your Mum? Is it- was it your Dad?”
He shakes his head again.
Because nothing had happened. That’s what he doesn’t understand, nothing had happened. Nothing had happened. Why is this happening? Maybe Roy would know.
Roy is still staring down at him, his expression is still unreadable but it’s harder than it was. Harsher. Looks dark, like a shadow has fallen over his eyes. He is mad. He’s disgusted. He’s disappointed. He saw the pieces of Jamie that he can’t drag together. Saw that Jamie’s fractured, and stupid and broken, and he’s mad.
Roy walks away.
Jamie stares at his retreating back as it passes through his bedroom door, then disappears from view. He can hear the sound of Roy’s steps fading, growing quieter as he walks further and further away. Then Roy’s gone, and it feels like he’s taken all the air out of the room with him.
There’s something crawling up the back of Jamie’s throat, it gags him and for a moment he thinks he’s about to be sick. That cold feeling in his chest has gone up over his head now, he’s drowning in it. He chokes, tries to pull his arms and legs impossibly tighter in toward himself, tries to use the pressure to pull all the fractured parts of him back together.
He turns his head away from the empty room and buries his face in his pillow. It’s wet, he doesn’t know why. He tries to swallow the hitching sobs he can feel building in the the burn behind his eyes and the ache at the back of his teeth.
He doesn’t want to be alone.
He didn’t realise that until he was.
If he wasn’t such a useless shit Roy wouldn’t have walked away. If he’d just been able to open his stupid mouth and get his stupid voice to work, Roy would’ve stayed. He wants to call out to him, to beg him to come back. Wants to lift his stupid arm and turn on his stupid phone and plead with Roy not to leave him alone. But he can’t. He can’t do anything. He’s stuck floating between his stupid mind and his stupid body and he can’t really get in to either. It hurts. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, but it hurts.
He doesn’t want to be alone.
“Fuck- Jamie.”
He isn’t alone.
That’s Roy’s voice, panicked and close. That’s Roy’s hand, heavy and warm against his head.
His breathing stops, cutting off the stuttering gasping noises he didn’t notice he was making until they were gone. He turns his face out to the room, needs to be sure.
That’s Roy. Bent over him with eyes blown wide. Again.
“There you are.”
Here he is. There Roy is. He came back.
Roy leaves his hand resting against Jamie’s head, his thumb lightly brushes back and forth as Jamie stares at him in shock. He came back.
Roy turns away from him, looks at Jamie’s bedside table, at his still and silent phone, at a tall, clear glass of water and a damp looking facecloth. Huh. They weren’t there before.
With his left hand still tightly settled in Jamie’s hair, Roy turns his head gently upward then picks up the washcloth and brings it to Jamie’s face. It is damp. It’s warm.
Roy uses it to brush at Jamie’s eyes, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t understand what-
Oh.
He’s been crying. He is crying. That’s why his face itches, why his pillow is wet. He doesn’t know when that started, he can’t make that stop.
Roy’s wiping his face and Jamie can only stare up at him. He’s still shocked Roy came back. He still can’t talk.
Roy turns and drops the facecloth back onto his bedside table.
It’s damp, it shouldn’t- it doesn’t matter.
He closed his eyes, presses his now clean face back into the pillow.
It’s wet, it isn’t- it doesn’t matter.
“Why’ve you got a jumper on? You feeling sick?” The gruff voice is accompanied by a steady hand, lightly tugging at the hood crushed under his neck.
He’s not sure. He doesn’t really feel sick, doesn’t really feel anything. He doesn’t know what’s happening and he still can’t talk. He doesn’t want Roy to get mad, doesn’t want Roy to leave; but he still can’t talk. He shakes his head. Hopes it’s answer enough.
The hand on his head moves from his hair to press gently above his brows, “Well you feel a bit warm.”
Jamie peels one eye open just in time to see Roy sigh and turn his gaze to the ceiling before he yanks the duvet away from the tight ball Jamie has tucked himself into. Jamie knows he should feel something at that, annoyance maybe, but it’s- it doesn’t matter. He just feels hollow, still cold even as Roy casts his eye across the heavy sweats and fluffy socks he’s wearing.
“Well that explains that at least.”
Jamie curls up tighter, turning and crushing his whole face into his pillow as the cold, heavy thing is his chest burns and builds into a choked off sob.
“Ah fuck- here, just-.”
The duvet falls back to rest against him, followed by a heavy hand tucking it around his shoulders, then smoothing it’s way down his spine. He leaves his face hidden and swallows around the wet lump in his throat.
“Okay… Okay.”
The hand moves up from his back to the curve of his shoulder and squeezes.
“Jamie, you should drink something.”
He doesn’t answer. He can’t talk. He feels hollow. Can’t even shake his head, can barely feel his head at all.
“Alright. Maybe later.”
Roy’s hand leaves his shoulder. He’ll leave, he’s going to leave, he doesn’t want to be-. The hand settles in his hair again, brushes rhythmically, brushes hypnotically. Jamie falls deeper into the nothing-space between his mind and his body.
Jamie drifts.
~~~
Jamie doesn’t remember the first time this had happened.
Georgie does.
He’d been young, she thought, too young to be feeling that way.
Her boy had been himself all day, bouncing between endless, animated chatter and quiet contemplativeness as he’d stared, wide eyed and distracted at the world around him.
He’d slowed down that evening though, then come to a complete and eerie stop, curled motionless against the arm of their couch. She’d thought he was sick at first. Sometimes she still wonders if he was, if he is now, but not in the way that had concerned her as she’d bent over him with a careful hand pressed against his brow. She’d sat next to him, ran her fingers through his silky soft child hair and thought maybe he wasn’t the only one of them who was too young.
She hadn’t known what to do.
She hadn’t noticed when the tears started.
Georgie had turned on a football match, hoping the sport he loved would coax her little boy out of the shell he’d hidden himself away in. She’d started watching the game herself, had taken her eyes off her son, off her Jamie. So she hadn’t noticed. She hadn’t noticed when he started crying.
He was silent, no shaking in his shoulders, no wet hitching to his breaths. Just salt water, soaking his eyelashes, running over his small cheeks, pooling against his nose and dripping off his little chin.
She’d been frightened. More frightened than she knew what to do with. Her baby wouldn’t talk to her, would barely react. The only thing that had stopped her from calling for help had been the way her child’s solemn grey eyes had met her own, had studied her face.
He could hear her. He wouldn’t talk.
She’d sat with him, that whole night on the couch. Had turned the television off, the cheering and chanting of the crowd feeling horrifically loud in the presence of Jamie’s tears. She’d pulled him into her lap. Her baby, the same baby whose whole body she’d once been able to tuck under her chin was now loose limbed as she’d pulled him to her, folded his arms into his chest, pulled his legs tight against him. She’d wrapped herself around him as much as she could, settled his light head against the crook of her neck and rocked him the same way she’d done when he was tiny and free of real fear. When she was his whole world.
She didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did he. The salt water patch soaking into her skin and clothes grew and grew as she cradled him tightly against her.
It was the first time something like this had happened. It wouldn’t be the last.
Georgie wishes she didn’t remember. She’d glad Jamie forgot.
~~~
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
Roy’s voice sounds far away, muffled, like the cotton wool stuffed fuzzy in Jamie’s head is filling his ears too. The words are coming in confusing stops and starts that Jamie can’t make sense of. He tries to pull his head together enough to understand what Roy’s saying, to force the words into sentences.
“…He won’t talk… yeah he can hear me, he was shaking his head but he won’t speak… I can’t do that if he won’t talk-“
Oh.
Roy isn’t talking to him.
“I don’t know. There was this- thing that happened the last time we went up to Manchester-… His Mum, should I call her?… Yes obviously I wasn’t going to do it fucking now, it’s half past-… because you’re a Doctor!… I know you’re not that kind of Doctor but I don’t-…”
Jamie drags one eye open, his head is too heavy to move from where it’s half buried in his pillow so he can only see a sliver of the room. It takes effort to drag his one seeing eye around his limited field of vision, it takes a cost. He can’t see Roy. His thoughts feel like they’re moving through molasses, slow and heavy. It’s harder to realise than he thinks it should be that Roy’s voice sounds far away because it is. Because Roy is. He’s in the hallway outside, slowly pacing, judging by the way the sound of his voice swells and fades as it reaches Jamie.
“No, he’s a bit warm but he’s fully fucking dressed under a duvet, I don’t think it’s-… yeah exactly-… so what should I do?… Yeah, yeah okay I can do that…. Yeah I will, thanks… Give Phoebe my love, tell her that I’m sorry for cancelling and I’ll make it up to her later, yeah?…Bye.”
He’s still one-eyed staring out the open bedroom door when Roy reappears in it.
He freezes when he see’s Jamie looking at him, stops wide-eyed right there in the doorway. Looks down at his phone, then back up at Jamie.
Jamie turns his head slightly so he’s got both eyes fixed on Roy. So he can watch him properly.
“Are you meant to be anywhere today?”
He was meant to be up already. He was meant to go running with Roy. That can’t be what he’s asking him about though.
He thinks. He can’t remember. He shakes his head.
“Okay. Neither am I.”
Jamie stares at him. He knows Roy’s lying. Roy was meant to go running with him. Roy was meant to be with Phoebe. He just heard him cancelling plans with Phoebe. Roy cancelled plans with Phoebe because Jamie’s gone and forgotten how to be a person. Because he’s fractured. Because he’s cold. Jamie’s keeping Roy from spending time with Phoebe. Phoebe. Sweet Phoebe. Phoebe, who doesn’t have a Dad. Phoebe, who needs her Uncle Roy. Phoebe, who-
“I can stay, I mean. I’m going to stay.”
He shouldn’t. He should be with Phoebe. He should be with the people who need him. Who he needs. Who aren’t fractured. Who aren’t cold.
Roy’s gaze bores into his own, trying to see past his eyes. Trying to see him. Roy is seeing him.
“Unless you want me to leave?"
Jamie feels selfish thinking it. Feels like an absolute piece of shit. But he doesn’t want to be alone. Without Roy there he feels dangerously untethered, he’s already drifting in the nothing between his floating mind and the weight crushing his body down. But if Roy leaves he’ll take all the air again. Jamie might drift too far and he’ll never make it back. He’ll be cold forever.
He slowly shakes his head.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
The cold weight in his chest is crawling up his neck. His eyes are burning again, threatening to flood and spill. He closes them.
He can hear Roy moving around the room. He walks around the bed until he’s behind Jamie. The curtains rattle slightly; he must be pulling them back. The windows creak once; he must be opening them. A gust of pre-dawn air rushes into the room. It’s fresh. It’s cold. Jamie’s cold.
He wants- it doesn’t matter.
He can hear Roy moving away from the windows. He’s walking in starts and stops, grunting slightly as he does. It sounds like he’s bending down.
Why would he be bending- it doesn’t matter.
He can hear his wardrobe door slide open, can hear his laundry basket creak-
Oh.
Roy’s cleaning his room. Roy Kent is cleaning his room. He can’t get into his stupid body or his stupid mind and Roy Kent is cleaning his room.
He can hear him move into the ensuite, can hear him grunt again, mutter “fucking muppet”, as the dirty towel Jamie dried his face with last night slaps off the floor.
Jamie knows he should probably feel embarrassed about that. Roy Kent is picking up his used towel and his dirty socks and he can’t even move his arm. He can’t even open his eyes right now.
He hears Roy walk back toward the bed. Hears Roy grunt quietly before the bed dips under him. Roy’s sitting down on it. He’s sitting at Jamie’s feet.
He feels a hand come to rest on his ankle. Feels a thumb gently rub the sharp bone there.
Through his duvet, through his socks; he can feel Roy.
Jamie drifts.
~~~
James always knew the boy was soft.
It had scared him once. Cradling the tiny pink newborn against his chest, while his Georgie slept exhausted in a hospital bed, he’d looked over the boy’s delicate eyelashes, ran his fingers over the soft curve of his ears, pressed his thumb to the dimple of his son’s chin, and thought the world was too big and harsh for something so small.
He’d given the boy his name, hoping it would give him some of his own strength, and promised the baby that he’d raise him right, make him tough, that no son of his would be soft for long.
But then he left.
He left but he came back. Had heard whispers of a child football prodigy lighting up the under 9s in North Manchester. A child named Jamie. Jamie Tartt. So he’d come back. Had thought that even if his bitch-of-an-ex had changed the boy’s name, at least the lad had stopped being soft, had grown up like a man should.
He’d gone to see the boy. Had watched one of his games, and the child was what the rumours had said; a prodigy. James had felt pride as he’d seen him race across the pitch, whip fast with wicked aim, controlling the ball like it was an extension of him. Even if James had left, the child was a Tartt after-all. Tough, strong.
But then the game had ended and he’d watched the lad race to the sidelines, to Georgie, bright eyed with an easy smile, calling ‘Mummy!’ before flinging himself into her arms. Had watched Georgie heft the boy up against her chest and spin him while he laughed and squealed. The boy wasn’t embarrassed, wasn’t ashamed to be calling the woman ‘Mummy’ of all things. To be picked up and spun while his teammates and opponents watched on. The lad was still giggling when Georgie set him down and held his face, when she pressed kisses into his hair.
He was soft.
James had broken his promise to the boy, he’d walked away, hadn’t put in the time to raise him properly. Had left the task to a woman who knew nothing about being strong.
No wonder the lad was like that.
But James was back now. He’d fix it.
He’s still trying to fix it years later, but the boy doesn’t learn.
Jamie’s 12 and he’s hauling an opposing defender to their feet after he’d scored a hat-trick against them. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 14 and he’s curled, dead eyed and limp, under the duvet of the bed next to him in an Amsterdam hotel. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 17 and sitting across from him, telling him he’s been selected for City’s senior squad, his hands are curled into his sleeves and his eyes are wide. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 20 and he’s gifting him a Young Lions kit, ‘Tartt’ emblazoned the back, the boy won’t make eye contact. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 23 and he’s passed the fucking ball instead of taking the shot himself and relegating those second-rate amateurs he used to call teammates. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 24 and he’s standing in front of him, voice low and thin as he repeats ‘don’t speak to me like that’, as he turns away. He’s soft.
Jamie’s 24 and he swings.
Good.
~~~
Jamie can’t feel Roy.
Jamie can’t really feel anything. But he could feel Roy before. Did he leave? Maybe he finally figured out that staying isn’t worth it. That Jamie isn’t worth it. Maybe he’s alone. Maybe the air will be gone again and his stupid fucking lungs will suffocate and his stupid fucking body will choke and his stupid fucking life will-
Resigned to an empty, airless room. Jamie peels his eyes open.
He sees Roy’s shadow before he sees Roy.
It’s still large, still looming, but it’s in a different place than before. Splashed across the wall instead of stretching across the floor. Why would it have-
Oh.
The light.
The curtains.
The sun.
The sun is up. It’s gentle and soft, still low. Still morning. But it’s up. The sun’s up.
When did the sun- it doesn’t matter.
Roy hasn’t moved from where he'd sat at Jamie’s curled legs, midway up the bed. Jamie’s knows that the weight of him would still be tipping down the mattress at his feet but he’s floating further from his body than he was before.
He can’t get back.
He can’t stretch his awareness down far enough to feel his legs.
But he can see him. He can see Roy. Roy didn’t leave. Roy stayed. Jamie’s not alone.
There’s air.
Roy’s bent forward at the waist, his head resting in his right hand as his left holds his phone close to his face. His thumb brushes against the screen sporadically; he’s reading. Whatever he’s seeing on that screen must be bothering him, his mouth is turned down at the edges and there’s that crease that builds between his eyes when he goes serious and thoughtful.
Maybe he’s thinking about cancelling plans with Phoebe. Maybe she’s texted him asking him why. Maybe that’s what he’s reading. Texts from Phoebe asking him to go to her. He should. He should go to her. Roy should go to Phoebe. Roy won’t go to Phoebe because Jamie’s been such a piece of shit and told him not to leave. He should’ve told him to leave.
He should tell him now. He should get up. He should get up and tell Roy to leave. Tell him Phoebe needs him.
But he’s tired. He’s cold and he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be alone and he can’t feel Roy and he can’t get back in his body and he can’t even fucking speak and he can't-
He closes his eyes.
He can’t feel Roy.
His face itches.
He’s tired.
Jamie drifts.
~~~
He can feel Roy.
At least he thinks it’s Roy. Maybe Roy left but he called someone else. Maybe he didn’t want to leave Jamie alone because Jamie’s being a useless shit who can’t even fucking talk. Maybe he’s worked out Jamie isn’t worth it and he left and he won’t come back and he-
“Jamie.”
It’s Roy.
“Jamie. C’mon lad.”
Fingers in his hair, lightly scratching. Scratching rhythmically, scratching hypnotically. Jamie wants to fall deeper into the nothing-space between his mind and his body.
“Jamie, please.”
Okay.
He opens his eyes.
Roy’s bent over him. His eyes aren’t blown wide anymore but that crease is still between his brows. He must still be thinking about missing time with Phoebe. Must be talking to Jamie to tell him he can’t stay after all. To tell him he’s leaving.
“There you are.”
Here he is.
Roy picks up the same washcloth from earlier and brings it to Jamie’s face. It’s warm. Why would it still be warm if the sun’s up, if that was hours ago, if-it doesn’t matter.
“You need to drink something.”
He doesn’t want to. He’s not thirsty. He’s tired. He’s cold. His pillow’s wet.
He closes his eyes.
“Hey Jamie, no.”
A hand on his shoulder now. Shaking him. It’s not rhythmic. It’s not hypnotic. He can’t drift. He wants to drift. He doesn’t want to be awake. He doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t-
“I’m not asking Jamie. Look at me.”
Okay.
He doesn’t want Roy to get mad. Doesn’t want Roy to leave. Roy should leave. He doesn’t want to be alone.
He opens his eyes.
Looks at Roy.
The shaking stops. The hand leaves.
“I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to but you have to drink something.” Roy looks down at the facecloth, he’s worrying it between his hands, curling it under his fists. “You’ve been crying, lad. For hours. You have to drink something.”
He doesn’t want Roy to get mad.
Roy looks up.
Roy’s gaze bores into his own, trying to see past his eyes. Trying to see him. Roy is seeing him.
“Okay? …Okay.”
He drops the facecloth back onto his bedside table. It’s damp, it shouldn’t- it doesn’t matter. He bends over Jamie, slides his right arm under Jamie’s shoulders, getting briefly stuck on his hood before wriggling his fingers free. Turns him onto his back and hefts him up with a gentle grunt. Jamie feels his legs fall loose from the tight curl that had kept them tucked against his chest.
Jamie looks at Roy. He’s close. He can’t speak. He wants to speak. The cold thing in his chest is squeezing now, it’s rising up his throat and it’s squeezing and he’s cold and he’s tired and Roy is fucking holding him up because he can’t do it himself and he’s-
There’s a glass under his chin.
“C’mon lad, just a few sips then you can rest alright.”
Alright.
The water washes away the cold squeezing thing in his throat. The ache behind his eyes he hadn’t even noticed starts to fade.
The water’s gone. The glass leaves.
“Good job. Good job, Jamie.”
Roy pulls him closer, tucks him under his chin, reaches behind him. Is he hugging-
He feels the pillow behind him flip.
Roy eases him down.
His face doesn’t itch. His pillow isn’t wet.
Roy looks at him.
He’s tired.
He closes his eyes.
A hand settles on his cheek. A thumb brushes under his eyes. Brushes rhythmically, brushes hypnotically.
“What am I gonna do with you?”
Jamie falls deeper into the nothing-space between his mind and his body.
Jamie drifts.
~~~
Simon remembers the first time he met Georgie’s boy.
Standing postured in the kitchen of Georgie’s council estate, steely eyed with arms crossed defensively, tight against his chest. The boy was almost fully grown, the last traces of baby fat fading rapidly from his cheeks, but still nearly a head shorter than Simon. He seemed to be uncomfortably aware of that height difference, looked to be desperately trying to shrink it as he squared his shoulders, straightened and stretched his spine until he stood at his full height.
Simon had been worried about him almost immediately.
He knew that Georgie’s ex, Jamie’s father, was a nasty piece of work. As he met the boy’s guarded gaze he couldn’t help but wonder how much of that he’d suffered through. Couldn’t help but wonder at the instincts that made Jamie stand straight and tall and strong. He was defensive of himself, protective of Georgie, that much was clear.
Was he scared?
Had he been hurt before?
Simon didn’t know.
Then.
Simon knows now.
Now, Georgie is away for the weekend, travelling to Edinburgh with some friends, and her boy is standing hunched on their doorstep. Barely 21 yet looking ancient, bowed and breakable on the porch, light rain settling in around him.
Looking… fragile.
His arms are again crossed against his chest, but it’s not defensive. It’s desperate. He’s not warning something away, he’s holding himself together.
There’s a bruise on his cheek, a splash of red slowly deepening to a violent purple.
Jamie’s barely 21 and he’s not his. Not Simon’s. But Jamie is Georgie’s. And Simon is Georgie’s. So Simon loves him all the same.
Jamie’s barely 21 and Simon pulls him inside, tries to ignore the sickening flinch as he holds Jamie steady by his elbows, tugs him gently into the house.
Jamie’s barely 21 and the water on his face isn’t from the rain. Wasn’t put there by the sky. But it might as well have been for all that it won’t stop falling over his cheeks.
Jamie’s barely 21 and he won’t talk, hardly moves. Just shivers as he curls into the arm of the couch where Simon’s left him.
Jamie’s barely 21 and he stays there, mute and frozen for the rest of that weekend.
Jamie’s barely 21 and Simon brings him water and food and patience and as much love as the boy will let him give.
Jamie’s barely 21 and now Simon isn’t just worried about him.
Jamie’s barely 21 and now Simon is scared for him.
Georgie comes home.
Simon leaves.
Jamie leaves.
Jamie’s barely 21.
Jamie’s 24 the very next time Simon sees him.
~~~
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
He opens his eyes to a sharp rap on his bedside table. Sees Roy’s hand retreat from another tall glass, a bendy straw tilted against it’s rim. It’s not clear, it’s not water, it’s-
“Hey you.”
Roy’s noticed him looking.
“You feeling any better?”
Jamie looks away. He doesn’t know. He isn’t sure.
His throat feels clear, his eyes aren’t burning. His pillow is dry, his face doesn’t itch.
Oh.
He’s stopped crying.
He didn’t notice.
He flicks his eyes back to meet Roy’s, finds him still watching him. Pointedly looks past him back to the glass. He can’t bring himself to ask the question but he wants to know.
“It’s a smoothie.”
Explains the colour.
“You need to drink it Jamie.”
He just drank something else. He just drank the water. He just drank the water because Roy asked him to.
He’s tired.
But…
But the water cleared that cold squeezing thing in his throat. His pillow’s dry. He’s not crying anymore and he hadn’t even been trying to stop.
Maybe he can move now. He can try.
He drags his left arm out from where it’s crushed under his chest, plants his elbow into the mattress. He tries to push up but he isn’t- he can’t-
“Scoot back Jamie.”
What?
He looks up at Roy. The crease is back between his brows, he’s reaching out to him, hands hovering over his shoulders.
“Scoot back.”
He blinks at Roy. What?
“Into the middle of the bed.”
Blinks again. What?
“I’ll help you up, but I need you to move back.”
He just stares at Roy, unmoving, elbow still planted to the mattress. Why does he need to move back so Roy can help him? Why is Roy helping him?
“Jamie. I can’t crawl up the bed. My knee’s fucked, remember?”
He moves.
He pushes back from his elbow and shuffles his hips until he’s laying in the middle of the bed, pulling the duvet with him as he goes. He keeps looking at Roy. He still doesn’t understand what he’s doing.
He doesn’t understand, right up until Roy sits in the space he’s just vacated, swings one leg, then the other up until they’re both stretched in front of him. Roy turns to look down at Jamie’s face where it’s resting not far from his right hip, bends and wriggles one arm under Jamie’s shoulders while the other wraps around him, tightly grips his waist and pulls.
Roy is trying to pick him up.
Roy has severely underestimated how heavy he is.
Roy grunts. It sounds strained.
Jamie doesn’t want to hurt him. Jamie wants to help. Jamie tries.
He pushes his hands into the mattress on either side of himself, locks his elbows and slides back until, together, they’ve got him sitting upright.
Roy exhales and releases his waist, props him against the headboard, balances him against his side. “Thanks Jay,” gently extracts his arm from around Jamie’s shoulders.
He tries not to miss the contact, tries not to be greedy, tries not to take more than he’s given. But he can’t stop himself from letting his head roll loose until it settles against the edge of Roy’s shoulder. Can’t stop himself from pushing his temple lightly into Roy’s arm.
“You okay?”
He still doesn’t know. He’s still not sure.
But he can feel his arms. He just moved his arms, just moved himself.
He pulls his hands into his lap, tucks them tightly into the sleeves of his jumper. Nods once, his nose skimming against Roy’s sleeve with the movement.
“Okay.”
Roy stretches toward the bedside table, Jamie tilts further against him as he does. He brings the glass in front of him, pauses with it in his lap. From where Jamie’s gaze is focused on Roy’s hands, he can only just see the way Roy turns his head briefly toward him before quickly facing away again.
“I get that you’re not hungry but you need to eat something, yeah? I figured a smoothie would be easier than chewing.” Roy stares into the smoothie, pinches at the straw, jiggles it up and down. “I even put that stupid vanilla shit in here you love so much.”
Oh.
Jamie slowly reaches out to the glass, holds it between his hoodie-covered hands and pulls it toward himself. From the corner of his eye he sees Roy’s gaze shift from the smoothie to his face again as he releases his own hold on it.
He brings the glass up until he can catch the straw between his teeth, not moving his head from where it’s leaning heavy against Roy.
He’s not hungry. He’s not thirsty. But Roy told him to drink it. Roy made it for him. Roy put vanilla in it.
He sucks it slowly down.
It’s good.
Roy lifts his right arm and slides it around Jamie’s shoulders, he’s gentle as he does it, careful. The movement barely jostles Jamie’s head where it’s still pressed against him.
“Jamie.” Roy breathes deeply, the motion gently rocking him. “I know you don’t want to talk but I need you to tell me if this is because of your Dad. You haven’t seen him have you?”
He shakes his head, watches the action swirl his smoothie from where the straw is caught between his teeth. It’s not a lie. There’s a text on his phone he can’t bring himself to look at. A reply that he realised too late he didn’t want to read. But it’s not a lie, he hasn’t seen his Dad.
“Good… You’d tell me if you had, right?”
He nods. It makes his straw cuts through the smoothie. Makes the surface of it look angry, like the smoothie knows. Knows that this time it is a lie. Because Jamie isn’t sure if he’d tell Roy. Doesn’t want to admit that there’s a part of him that maybe still wants a Dad that… Well, it’s a lie, is the point.
“Good.”
He’s awful. He lied to Roy. To Roy Kent. Roy’s here and he's just lied to him. He’s sitting propped against Roy because he can’t keep himself upright alone, drinking a smoothie that Roy had made because he doesn’t have the energy to chew and he’s just lied to him.
He’s being awful. He’s being useless and awful and stupid. He’s being so stupid.
He wants to talk to Roy. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Doesn’t understand why Roy stayed, why he’s wiping his face and turning his pillow and bringing him water and a smoothie. Why he opened his window and cleaned up his floor. Why he’s next to him now. Warm and solid and here. He wants to talk to Roy.
He swallows, pushes his tongue against the back of his teeth, wets his lips. He can taste vanilla. He opens his mouth. Tries.
“I’m being stupid.”
It worked. His voice is flat and cracked and quiet. But it worked. He can talk to Roy.
Roy, who turns his head toward him sharply. Roy, whose expression is readable now. Roy, who looks relieved. Roy’s relieved to hear Jamie say he’s being stupid. He must have been waiting for him to admit it.
“You’re not being stupid Jamie. Don’t say that."
Or not.
“I am though.”
Roy sighs, when he speaks his voice is tight, different than the approaching-a-spooked-animal-tone he’s been using all day. “Why do you think that?”
“Because nothing happened.” Jamie swallows again, sips at the smoothie. Talking is still an effort and he feels like he’s rapidly running out of words. “You asked me what happened but nothing did. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“…Is it like… is it your wings?”
His what?
“My what?”
“Before- at Nelson Road, in the boot room? …You told me you lost your wings. Is this like that?”
Is it?
He’s not sure. He felt empty then too, hollow. But he could talk then, could get up. Got himself all the way to his Mum’s house, talked until they both understood.
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t understand what’s happening now. Apparently Roy doesn’t either. “I’m tired.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
…Is it?
Nothing had happened. Nothing had changed. He wants to ask Roy, wants to understand what he means. But he’s out of words. His mind is floating, his body is beyond his reach. He’s out of time.
He’s tired.
Roy lightly shrugs the shoulder trapped under Jamie’s head. Purposefully, gently, jostles him.
He’s tired.
“Jamie? Just finish that first, yeah?”
He opens his eyes. Didn’t realise he’d closed them. His hands have gone loose even as his tongue has curled into the plastic straw, trapping it. The mostly-drunk smoothie is still hovering in front of him, caught in one of Roy’s hands instead of his own.
He’s tired.
He stares into the glass.
“…Jay?”
Two slow sips later and the smoothie’s gone. He releases his jaw, lets the straw slip from between his teeth.
He’s tired.
He can hear Roy’s voice. Can’t turn the sounds into words. Can’t turn the words into a sentence.
He’s tired.
Jamie drifts.
~~~
Jamie thinks the worst he’s ever been was after his doomed conversation with Ted at The Crown and Anchor.
He’d even said it. He’d said the word he’s spent so long running from, hiding from. Disjointed internet searches that had led him to solemn websites with confusing videos, hurriedly closed when that word appeared. He hadn’t meant to say it, he’d been trying to lie. But his thoughts had spiralled and his mouth had followed right along.
‘Awesome. The best. Pretty good. Okay, a little depressed. It’s all shit, Ted.’
Depressed.
He knew what the word meant. Those solemn websites meant that he knew there was a difference between feeling depressed and being depressed.
But that night he’d sat, dead eyed on the edge of his bed, fist closed tight around the green army man he hadn’t actually named after Ted Danson. Too tired to even lay down, thinking about the wreck he’d made of his life. The burnt and mangled remains of it that lay scattered around his own match-burnt hands. Thrown out of Richmond because he wasn’t enough of a team player. Thrown out of Lust Conquers All because he’d played strategy too much. Thrown out of Man City because the one thing people had ever wanted him for, his ability to kick a round fucking ball up a rectangular fucking pitch, was just not worth the hassle of having Jamie around.
Because that’s who he is. What he is. Either not enough or too much. He can’t pull those ends together, can’t make his extremes meet. He feels like he’s stuck diving between distant rocky outcroppings while everyone else happily strolls along a grassy middle ground. He doesn’t know how they all do it. He doesn’t know how to just be.
So he’d sat, frozen in the dark and willed himself to stop being at all. To stop trying. He’d stared at what he thought was a promise, a lifeline, wrapped tight under his fingers, and realised it was never anything more than just a plastic toy. At least when given to him. Jamie had sat in the graveyard-silence of his bedroom and he’d willed himself to stop breathing. Willed his heartbeat to slow and cease. Willed his life to just fucking end.
He was 24 years old and he had no hope of a future because of the actions of his past. The nicest, kindest man he’d ever met had watched his Dad throw a boot at his head and had walked away. The nicest, kindest man he’d ever met had listened to him say that forbidden word, tell him it was all shit and still hadn’t thought Jamie was worth it. Richmond had been relegated to the Championship and Jamie’s apparently once-in-a-generation football talent could help them.
But Jamie wasn’t worth it.
To anyone.
But especially to Ted. Sam was worth it. Roy was worth it. Even Trent fucking Crimm. But not him. Not Jamie.
He wanted to be, he just didn’t know how. He knew there was something in him that he needed to rip out, to mutilate and maim until he could fit, but he didn’t know what. So, sitting there frozen and exhausted and empty in the dark, Jamie had wanted nothing more than to die.
But merely wanting something wasn’t enough to make it real.
Wanting to die didn’t mean he had.
He didn’t do anything.
He wouldn’t. He swears. He hopes.
30 hours later Ted had called.
Ted had told him he could come back to Richmond, but that he had to earn it. That his spot on the team was conditional to his behaviour. And Jamie, dizzy and sick after not eating or drinking or sleeping in all of those long hours, didn’t need to think before agreeing.
He still didn’t know how to fit. How to just be.
He only wanted to be worth it. To be worth anything.
He’d try. He’d keep trying.
~~~
His eyes are dry. Not the not-wet-dry they’d become somewhere after Roy gave him the water. No, they’re brittle dry. Sand dry. They hurt.
His eyes are open. He blinks. They don’t hurt anymore. How long had they been open?
He’s still propped against Roy’s side; head still firmly planted into the solid place where Roy’s arm meets his chest. If he concentrates, if he squints his tired eyes and holds his gentle breath, he can hear the steady thump-thump of the older man’s heart.
There’s a book sitting open in Roy’s lap. He can’t see his face from this angle anymore but the hand not wrapped tightly around Jamie is curled into a fist, clenched tight around the book’s hardcover edge.
Roy hasn’t moved. Roy hasn’t moved and Jamie only keeps one book close enough to his bed for Roy to have been able to reach it.
Jamie must shift then, must tense or flinch, because Roy notices he’s watching.
The hand resting steady against Jamie’s shoulder moves to slowly brush through his hair. The fist holding open the gold-gilded blue cover book painstakingly loosens.
“Did you read this?”
Ted gave that to him. Ted gave him that book and he must have had a reason. Jamie wishes he knew what it was.
He shakes his head.
It’s not a lie.
“Good.” Roy snaps it closed.
Good?
“Don’t.” Tosses it one-handed to the same floor he’d earlier cleared.
Don’t?
But Ted gave it to him.
Jamie swallows, licks his lips, can still taste vanilla. “I tried to.” His voice is still cracked, still quiet and flat, but he doesn’t feel like he’s about to run out of words anymore. “The letters wouldn’t stay still.”
Roy breathes deeply again, stops brushing Jamie’s hair. Presses his palm flat against his head, pushing him tighter into Roy’s own shoulder.
“Don’t. I can give you some books if you want to read… or there’s audiobooks you might like. But don’t read that one.”
But Ted gave it to him.
“But Ted gave it to me."
Roy sighs. “Ted didn’t know everything Jamie.”
Jamie pulls his hands together into his lap, looks down at them, still tucked into his sleeves. He understands Ted didn’t know everything, but Ted knew enough. Ted knew Jamie needed to change, needed to be one-of-eleven instead of one-in-a-million. Knew he wasn’t worth keeping around. Knew he was only worth taking a chance on once he’d been completely humbled and come crawling back, begging. Ted knew that hurt people, hurt people. Ted knew he didn’t want to carry hate for his father around with him anymore. He knew he was suffocating under the weight of it, knew it had made him tired. But Ted had told him to-
Roy’s fingers resume combing through his hair.
"You know Ted was in therapy, yeah?”
Jamie knows. Jamie saw the headlines same as everyone else. ‘Panic at the Lasso’. Not their best.
And Jamie’s not an idiot. He knows people think he is but he isn’t. He remembers standing on the pitch the day of those headlines, the team loosely circled around Ted as he’d rambled about choices and Greek yoghurt. Remembers thinking maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Ted stopped being so skittish around Dr. Sharon not long after the Tottenham match.
So yeah, he could connect the dots. But he doesn’t know why Roy’s asking him about it.
He nods.
“…Have you ever, maybe, thought about going?”
Oh.
That’s why he’s asking. Roy doesn’t know.
“I did go.”
Roy’s fingers slow and stop. They don’t leave his hair though. “When?”
Jamie clears his throat, still can’t remove the flat cracking from his voice. “Started when I came back to the club. The team weren’t, well… and Keeley was… busy. She took me to Dr. Sharon. Didn’t really have anyone else to talk to. So I talked to her.” He doesn't think he’s ever thanked Keeley for that. He should. “It was good, I mean- it helped.”
“…I didn’t know that.”
“Well you weren’t there were you? Then you didn’t want to talk to me anyway.” From where he is now, with half his face wedged into Roy’s sleeve, Roy’s hand gently pressed to his head, it’s almost hard to believe that wasn’t even two years ago.
“…Right.” Roy pauses, then starts lightly scratching at his hair again. “Have you thought about…going back to her?”
Nothing had happened. Nothing had changed.
“I can’t.”
“The fuck do you mean you can’t?” He’s mad again. He’s made Roy mad again. What if he leaves? What if Jamie’s- No. No, Roy said he’d stay. Roy said he wouldn’t leave. He’s here. He won’t be alone.
“She gave me a reveal-all.”
“…Do you mean a referral?”
Does he?
Probably.
“Yeah."
He still thinks a reveal-all makes more sense. That’s what you do in therapy, ain’t it?
“Why’d she do that?” There’s something in Roy’s voice. Jamie doesn’t know what it is but he thinks maybe he does understand what it means. There’s something Roy’s not telling him. Something Roy’s being very careful not to tell him.
“Said what’s in my head isn’t her usual thing, ya know?” Jamie frees one thumb from his sleeves, uses his nail to scratch at the opposite cuff, “That what I was telling her was more complicated.”
“Alright… So why didn’t you go? To the referral I mean.”
“Dunno really. Guess I just got used to talking to her. Didn’t want to talk to someone else.”
“Did you tell her that?”
It sounds simple. Put like that.
‘Did you tell her that?’
‘Did you ask them to stop?’
‘Did you speak to someone about him?’
‘Did you say no?’
“No, she’d already tried to get rid of me.” It sounds simple, but begging hasn’t gotten him anywhere in the past. Not with his Dad, not with Ted, not even with Roy. Why would Dr. Sharon be any different?
Roy sighs. He’s been doing that a lot today.
“Jamie, I think it would-“
“She had a word for it." Not the forbidden one. One of the confusing ones. He pronounces it carefully, he wants Roy to understand, “See-pea-tea-esdee?”
Roy freezes under him, the gentle rise and fall of his chest coming to an abrupt halt as he stops breathing. “C-PTSD?”
“Yeah, I don’t know what the word means.”
All the air caught in Roy’s lungs releases in a quick whooshing exhale, “It’s not a word lad, that’s an acronym.” Roy pauses, seems to brace himself. “It means complex post-traumatic stress disorder.”
Jamie squints, his nail catches against the cuffs seam. “How’d you know that?”
“I was looking at- it’s not important.” Roy pauses again, seems to be thinking. “Jamie, if you had an injury you couldn’t rehab yourself, you’d talk to one of the physios yeah?”
“Yeah.” He’s a professional footballer, what kind of question is-
“This is the same lad.”
He doesn’t understand.
“But I’m not injured.”
Roy sighs, leans his head against the crown of Jamie’s own. Jamie can feel the bones of his nose where it presses against his skull.
“Just because you can’t see an injury doesn’t mean it’s not there Jay.”
He doesn’t understand.
He doesn’t understand, but apparently Roy does. He doesn’t want him to get mad, to think Jamie’s stupid for not getting it. Roy said he’d stay. Roy had stayed, but what if Jamie’s questions drive him off? What if his questions are too much? What if Jamie’s too much?
He doesn’t understand.
“I’m tired, Roy.”
Roy’s arm is still wrapped around his shoulders, Roy’s hand is still in his hair. “I know, lad. Try and sleep, yeah?”
He closes his eyes, shuffles slightly and tries to take the strain the angle is making off his neck. He just wants to sleep. He just wants to rest but he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t-
“Here.”
Roy shifts under him, eases him down with the hand braced against his head, uses his other arm to tug around Jamie’s chest. Moves him until he’s laying bent in Roy’s lap, his head resting against Roy’s left forearm.
“Just sleep, Jamie.”
Something builds inside, threatens to choke him. But it’s not cold, it doesn’t hurt. He turns until his closed eyes are hidden against Roy’s sleeve and sinks into the feeling.
Jamie sleeps.
~~~
He has dreams.
…
He doesn’t remember them.
~~~
There’s someone holding him.
He tenses. Panics. Tries to push them away. Why is he panicking? He doesn’t-
“It’s me! It’s just me.”
It’s Roy. Hands curled around his wrist and braced under his shoulders. Holding him. Holding him still. He doesn’t need to panic. Why would he panic? It’s Roy.
“I just need to move you for a bit.”
Right. Right, he’s in his lap. He’s laying in his lap. He’d fallen asleep in Roy’s lap. In Roy Kent’s lap.
He lets his head fall back, cradled in the crook of Roy’s elbow. Turns his face up to meet Roy’s. Wills his heart rate to calm. Wills his breathing to even out.
“You with me?”
Nods.
“I’m just getting some food. I’ll come back.”
Jamie stares up at Roy. Roy stares back down at him. Squeezes his wrist once then gently levers Jamie up far enough to slide out from under him. His feet make soft thuds as they hit the floor before Roy gently settles him back onto the mattress, still curled at the waist, half of him laying sideways.
Roy releases his wrist, slides him arm out from under Jamie’s shoulders, pulls the bunched hood away from Jamie's neck. He softly settles his hand to the top of Jamie’s right bicep, smooths down his sleeve.
“Oi. I won’t be long."
Roy stands. Walks toward the door before tossing a quick glance back at Jamie. Jamie’s watching him. Roy is seeing him.
“Do you want anything?”
Jamie wants lots of things. Jamie wants to be warm. To be whole. Not cold, not fractured. Jamie wants to be able to talk, to speak like he normally can, without effort, without cost. Jamie wants to get up.
Actually.
Yeah, Jamie wants to get up.
He holds an arm out toward Roy, leaves it hovering, outstretched and reaching in the empty air between them. Watches as something immense builds and breaks over Roy’s face. Doesn’t understand what that something is.
“Can you give me a hand?”
Roy doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even blink. Just cuts back across the room in quick strides, locks his hand around Jamie’s outstretched wrist, waits for Jamie to do the same to his, then hauls him forward until he’s sitting upright.
It’s fast. Too fast. And he’s been still for too long. His head spins with the speed of the movement. He closes his eyes tightly, brings the hand not wrapped around Roy to press against the side of his own face.
“Fuck- Jamie, you alright?” Roy sounds panicked, the grip on his wrist tightens.
“Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” He waits for the spinning to stop, peels his eyes open to find Roy’s creased brow mere inches from his own. “Just got dizzy.”
Roy’s hand twists against his wrist, his fingers moving until they rest against his pulse point. Jamie turns his head to watch and Roy follows his gaze.
“You’re okay. You’re okay.”
…He just said that.
“Did you still want a hand?” Roy’s voice is low, Jamie glances back at him and finds he’s still staring at where their hands are locked around each other.
“Yeah, I want to get up. Gotta use the bathroom.” Roy looks back at him now, sharply. “I don’t need help in there, don’t look so stressed.” Roy’s still frowning, is he worried Jamie can’t take a piss by himself or something?
“Alright. Ready?” Jamie nods and together they shuffle him to the edge of the bed, Jamie still feels ancient, but he’s less… brittle, less fractured. Still, he just woke up and he already feels tired. He pushes his socked feet free from the duvet, immediately missing the weight of it as he gingerly sets them on the floor. Roy’s free arm curls around him, hauls him upright. More slowly than before, carefully, like Roy thinks Jamie is just as breakable as he feels. Jamie sways and feels Roy’s hand move to brace against his flank, holding him still, holding him up.
“You’re okay.”
Roy’s just repeating himself now.
Jamie raises his eyes to catch Roy’s gaze, blinks at him once.
“You’ll be okay.”
Jamie doesn’t know which one of them Roy’s trying to convince.
He drops Roy’s wrist, feels Roy do the same and then pull his other hand away from Jamie’s side. Under his hoodie, the skin there burns; a phantom pain left behind by the absence of it’s steady pressure. Jamie quickly ducks his head and shuffles past Roy toward his ensuite, glances back to find him stood frozen, frowning at the rumpled duvet on the mattress. Gently pulls the door closed.
He’s alone. For the first time in hours he’s alone. Despite what he’d told Roy about not needing help, about not wanting Roy to follow him into the bathroom of all places, he doesn’t want to be. He doesn’t want to be alone. He rests his back against the closed door and glances around the stark space. Roy’s replaced his dirty towel with a fresh one.
Jamie takes a deep breath and pushes himself upright. He has to trail one hand along the wall while he walks into the room, braces himself against it while he stands over the toilet. Leans his weight into his elbows balanced against the counter to wash his hands. Stares into the mirror at his reflection, hunched, red-eyed, greasy haired and pale; he doesn’t recognise himself. He turns away from his ghostly doppelgänger and contemplates the closed bedroom door, the distance feels uncrossable. He’s tired.
There’s a shadow.
There’s a shadow under that door.
Moving. Hovering. Roy.
Jamie doesn’t know what to do with that.
It does make the thought of crossing the room easier though. He rolls his full weight back onto his heels, painstakingly straightens his curved spine and walks achingly forward. Watches the shadow move as he closes in on the door, pulls it open just as Roy steps away.
They stare at each other. Grey eyes locking onto brown, trying to see each other. Trying to understand.
Roy’s expression has gone unreadable again. Did he really not think Jamie could piss by himself? Was he worried he wouldn’t notice the towel?
Jamie ducks his head, turns past Roy and moves as quickly as his tired bones will let him. Crashes back into his bed, pulls the duvet tightly around his shoulders.
He looks up to find Roy still staring at him. Opens his mouth to speak but there’s no words. He hasn’t run out of them again, he just doesn’t know what to say.
Roy keeps staring.
Jamie doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Sure he looks like absolute shit right now, he knows that, was just confronted with his sickly reflection, but he must have looked like this all day.
Roy keeps staring.
It’s starting to freak him out a bit. He takes stock of his body, he’s not in the same tight ball he’d been in overnight, not quite collapsed in half the way Roy had settled him when he’d gotten up, he’s laying loose, tucked into his duvet near the edge of his mattress and he-
Oh.
Holding eye contact with Roy, he slowly shuffles back until he’s in the middle of the bed again, until there’s room for Roy to get back in.
Roy nods once, quick and firm the same way he does when Jamie perfectly executes a drill at training, then turns on the spot and slowly walks toward the open door to the hall.
He stops. Looks at Jamie again, Jamie watches Roy as Roy watches him. Watches as Roy seems to decide something before walking back toward the head of the bed, coming to a stop in front of Jamie.
“I’m just going downstairs. I’ll be back soon.”
Jamie looks on as Roy fishes through the pocket of his sweats, digs out his phone and plugs it into the charging cable hanging over Jamie’s bedside table.
His phone background lights up he does. It’s Phoebe, teeth bared at the camera in a mock snarl, face painted to look like bright scales. Some kind of lizard? Maybe a dragon. Jamie thinks there might be a fun story there, he resolves to ask her the next time he sees her. He’ll buy her ice-cream and apologise for stealing her Uncle for a day because Jamie forgot how to be a person.
By the time the screen dims and takes Phoebe's multicoloured face with it, Roy’s gone.
Jamie can still hear him though.
Roy’s gone but Jamie doesn’t drift, doesn’t float in the shrinking nothing between his mind and his body. Jamie listens. Roy’s gone but he hasn’t taken all the air with him. Jamie breathes.
Roy’s in his kitchen, his clattering echoes more than usual. Are Jamie’s ears being weird now? Or is Roy being extra loud? Either way, Jamie can almost track his path around the distant room through all the noise floating up the stairs.
Ceramic on marble. Roy’s put a bowl on the counter
Water on metal. Roy’s filling a pot up.
Metal on glass. Roy’s put that pot on the stovetop.
Crystal on marble. Roy’s put a glass on the counter.
Roy’s going to break something if he keeps banging everything around that much.
The sounds keep drifting up the stairs. Nothing breaks.
Jamie listens as Roy cooks. Smells chicken and pasta and tomatoes. He almost expects it to make his stomach rumble, for the scent to stir his body back to life. But it doesn’t. He’s still not hungry.
Jamie listens for Roy.
He can hear the blender. Remembers noticing the sound earlier but not bothering to think of what it was. It’s loud.
Jamie listens for Roy.
He can hear him. He’s on the stairs again. He’s coming back.
Jamie knew he would.
The screen of Roy’s phone is still dark beside him.
~~~
Sometimes Jamie thinks he might be broken. That there might be something fundamentally unfixable inside of him.
Maybe his Dad shattered something deep in Jamie’s core when he was still young and hopeful and his walls weren’t quite so high. Shattered something that Jamie’s spent every second since desperately papering over the cracks off. Shattered something he’s patched and re-patched and patched again so many times that he’s distorted the original shape. Shattered something that looks nothing like what it once did, looks nothing like it should. Shattered something he can’t hope to reach anymore, broken pieces he can’t grab and grasp. Can’t even try to fix.
But maybe it wasn’t his Dad. Maybe that’s just who Jamie is. What Jamie is. Too much, not enough. Not worth it. A hassle. Fucking soft.
Broken.
He has to be.
Because no one else he knows has to try so fucking hard.
No one else he knows wants to thump their fists against their heads when the overhead lights get too loud. No one else he knows feels like they’re being slowly crushed by the absence of touch then brutally burned when the touch isn’t right.
They don’t feel like if they look into someone else’s eyes for too long they’ll fall into them and get lost, will stop being themselves and become the other instead. Don’t need to hide their hands, spin rings or crack knuckles to make the speed of their thoughts match the beat of the world around them.
Don’t feel like a fucking alien parading around in a skin suit that’s at least one size too small. Watching others and trying to do what they do. Trying to be a person, trying to just fucking be.
Don’t have to hear something three times before they can listen to it. Don’t feel a need to move, run, get away, get out, burning like fire-ants crawling under their skin and tunnelling into their bones.
Don’t feel empty. Scraped out, raw and hollow and hurting for no good reason. For no reason at all.
No one else Jamie knows feels like this. No one else is this.
Because Jamie doesn’t need one of Dr. Sharon’s fancy degrees to know that what’s wrong with him isn’t something he has. It’s something he is.
So, sometimes Jamie thinks he might be broken.
Because what the fuck else could he be?
~~~
Roy stalls in the doorway. Looks at him.
Jamie hasn’t moved.
Did Roy want him to move? Was Jamie supposed to stay still? Roy had nodded when he shuffled into the middle of the bed, so wasn’t this where he was meant to be?
Roy doesn’t speak. He’s got both hands held in front of him, each clutching a glass. One is clear, probably water, the other looks to be another smoothie. Jamie wonders if Roy made this one for him too, wonders if this one also has vanilla in it.
Roy finally moves, striding purposefully forward out of the doorway before coming to a stop at the edge of the bed and looking down at Jamie with a serious expression painted across his features. His eyes jump between Jamie’s face, turned up toward him, and his own hands wrapped around the glasses.
“Do you need help?”
Oh.
Roy wants him to move now.
He does. He pushes himself upright. Doesn’t have to lock his elbows, doesn’t have to plant his hands. It takes effort, but not cost.
He leans back against his headboard as Roy settles next to him, dropping both glasses onto the bedside table as he does.
Jamie holds himself stiffly, stares down at his hands and pushes his cuffs over his knuckles. He can feel Roy’s gaze burning against the side of his face, but Jamie doesn’t look up. Doesn’t make eye contact. Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t want to take more than he’s given.
Because he knows it’s soft and stupid and weak and needy but he wishes Roy would hold him again, would-
Roy grunts softly before looping his arm around the back of Jamie’s neck, he’s gentle as he slides it down to lodge between the expanse of Jamie’s back and the headboard behind him. Jame goes limp with the contact, lets Roy pull him into his side, lets him shift them both slightly until Roy can again comfortably tuck Jamie under his arm.
He knows it’s soft and stupid and weak and needy. He also knows it isn’t. He knows why he thinks like that. Knows whose voice that is whispering in his ear. Knowing can’t shut it up though.
So Jamie knows it’s soft and stupid and weak and needy. But right now he doesn’t care.
He’s tired.
He tips his head down until it’s again cushioned against Roy. He lets himself be soft, lets himself be held.
He breathes.
Lets himself be.
Roy grunts softly once before carefully leaning away. He grabs the probably-water and passes it over, Jamie drinks it. Only realises when it’s gone how thirsty he was. He hands the empty glass back to Roy, watches as he goes to trade it for the full possible-smoothie-filled one.
Jamie braces himself. Glances up at Roy, can’t raise his gaze to his eyes, settles for staring at his chin instead.
“No.”
“No?”
He doesn’t want it.
“I don’t want it.”
“You need fuel, lad.”
“Maybe later, yeah? I just- I don’t want it.”
“Okay.” Roy leaves the possible-smoothie where it is. Angles himself upright in the bed, shifting Jamie with him as he goes.
Jamie relaxes. That was easier than he thought.
“Jamie.” Roy turns to look at him and Jamie finally meets his gaze. Roy’s eyes are angled down; serious and solemn and …kind. “Do you need help?”
Roy already asked him that. And he’s already sitting up, he already moved himself, he’s comfortable here, he didn’t-
Oh.
Roy’s talking about something else.
“You already said the thing about it being like seeing the physios Roy.”
“Yeah. Yeah but I was thinking about-“ Roy turns away from him, stares at the hardcover book he’d earlier thrown to the floor, swallows once, “-medication.”
Oh.
“Oh.” Roy must think he’s broken too.
“I just mean- Jamie, if things get bad, if they are bad-“ Roy breathes in, breathes out; deep and long and slow, “That’s always an option.”
Everything’s always an option until it isn’t. Jamie’s spent too much time thinking about his options when he gets like this.
He wouldn’t. He swears. He hopes.
“What if it fucks me up and I can’t play.” It’s the one thing people have wanted him for, kept him around for. Tolerated him for. He has to play.
Roy shifts under him, squirms like he can hear what Jamie isn’t saying.
“Your health is more important Muppet.”
“Bit ironic coming from you mate.” Jamie doesn’t even try to disguise the brattish tone. On a different day, he’d snort at that; Roy Fucking Kent putting anything above football.
“No it isn’t.”
“Nah, you’re right, it’s hypocritical.” Jamie makes a note to tell Keeley about this shit later.
“My knee and your fucking brain are completely different. A knee’s just a fucking knee, fucking important to be fair but you can’t do shit if your brain is fucked, can’t fucking think or talk or play fucking football or do fucking anything-“ Roy cuts himself off with a sharp huff, “-look anyway it doesn’t matter, the point is; even if they did mess you up for a bit it wouldn’t last.”
Roy’s words are getting quicker and quicker, louder and louder and louder still. He’s getting worked up and Jamie almost wants to see how much further he can take it. Almost wants to push those old buttons he used to know so well. But there’s something he wants more. Something he wants to know.
“How can you be sure?” He trusts Roy.
The look Roy gives him is strange, it’s considering, significant. Almost like Roy’s the one reduced to communicating with his eyes, like he’s the one that’s run out of words, like he’s the one who-
Oh.
“Oh.”
“No.”
No?
“Not me. My sister, after her ex-” Roy pauses, carefully clears his throat, ”Well after he was gone.”
Jamie knows there’s a lot Roy isn’t saying right now. But that’s okay. It isn’t Roy’s place to share his sister’s secrets. It isn’t Jamie’s place to know them. He knows they care about him, really he does. But he’s not family. Just a stray they let hang around.
“You’re not weak or some shit for needing a bit of help. Not unless you think she’s weak too.”
Jamie can’t remember the last time he heard such a baffling idea, and Jamie’s spent the better part of the last three years being coached by Ted Lasso; King of Baffling Things, ideas and otherwise.
“What? Nah course not, she made Phoebe and she puts up with you. Toughest person alive.”
“Damn right.”
Damn fucking right.
“So will you think about it?”
It’s not the same for him. Jamie’s job is important, he can’t afford for his weight to change, can’t afford to be lethargic or distracted. He needs to be clear headed. It’s different for Roy’s sister, she’s a Doct- okay there’s a chance Jamie’s actually being stupid now.
“I dunno. Maybe. Not right now though… I’m tired, yeah?”
It’s not a lie. Not an excuse like it was earlier when he was wanted to avoid upsetting Roy. He has questions about this, thoughts and maybe even tentative plans. But he really is tired, he’ll think about them later.
“Yeah. If you’re tired you should sleep lad.”
Jamie squints. It’s almost a question when he says, “I been sleepin’ all day.”
“Have you?” The look Roy gives him is strange, considering and cautious. “Your eyes have been open a lot.”
Oh.
“Oh. I don’t remember.”
“It’s okay.” The arm around him tightens, squeezes him like Roy thinks he can crush that idea into him until it becomes the truth. “You’ll be okay.”
Roy hand brushes against Jamie's arm, down then up; briskly like he’s trying to keep him warm.
“Lay down Jamie.”
Jamie hesitates. There’s so much he wants to say to Roy. I’m sorry. Thank you. Please stay. He still refuses to ask for more than he’s given though.
He’ll lay down. Roy will leave.
He’ll sleep. Maybe.
He’ll wake up. He always does.
This time Jamie does have to plant his hand into his mattress, does have to lock his elbow to peel himself away from Roy’s side. With cost, he pulls himself out from under Roy's arm. He glances up once to find Roy watching him carefully before he shuffles further down the bed and lets himself collapse into his pillow. It’s dry. His face doesn’t itch.
He closes his eyes and waits to feel the bed shift. To feel Roy get up. To hear Roy leave.
He never does.
The bed doesn’t shift. Roy stays.
A hand settles against his head, brushes his hair back lightly.
“Go to sleep Jay, I’m gonna stay yeah? I’ll be here. I’m here.”
He’s warm.
It’s coming from inside him, some soft, gentle, tender thing.
He’s warm.
He’s warm and he thinks that makes sense. He’s not alone. He can feel Roy.
Jamie hears Roy sigh and settles deeper into his pillow.
Jamie hears the sound of a low thunk and squints his eyes back open; looks up.
Roy's head has tipped back to rest against Jamie’s headboard, exposing the underside of his jaw and the bob of his throat as he swallows heavily. The hand not gently tangled in Jamie’s hair is settled against Roy’s stomach. It’s clenching and unclenching into a fist in time with Roy’s breathing.
Jamie thinks he’s gotten pretty good at reading Roy, at understanding his grunts and deciphering his eyebrows. Jamie isn’t sure what he’s looking at now.
Jamie stares at Roy Kent.
Not for the first time.
The truth is he’s lost track of how many times he’s fallen asleep staring at Roy Kent.
Curled small in his single bed, football duvet around his shoulders and head tilted to lock eyes with a poster; Roy had always been a source of solace, of comfort, of hope. Angry voices floating up the stairs, vivid bruises darkening the skin of his ribs, of his arms, of his cheekbones (never of his legs). Through all of it; Jamie remembers staring at Roy.
Then he’d met the man and it had all gone to so much shit so quickly. He’s spent more hours than he cares to think about reflecting on those early days. What he did wrong, what he would change if he could. He never imagined it would get him here.
Here, under Roy’s hand. Here, resting near his hip. Here, with the man’s heartbeat and his words and his care echoing in his ears, dancing across his eyes, curled warm and real in his chest.
Jamie stares at Roy.
He’s not made of paper anymore. Isn’t posed; stance aggressive and eyes blazing. Isn’t armed with a football, shrouded in bold Chelsea blue.
He still feels like hope. Comfort and solace.
Roy’s palm is warm again his head. The pressure of Roy's nails is light where they gently scratch against his scalp. Rhythmic and hypnotic.
Jamie closes his eyes.
Jamie sleeps.
~~~
He has dreams.
…
He dreams about being seven years old, sprawled on his stomach, splayed out loose and relaxed, propped up by his elbows on the floor of his and Mummy’s sitting room. He feet slowly swing through the air behind him as he tips his head back to laugh. His Mummy smiles as he does, bright and wide and easy. She’s sat cross-legged in front of him holding a disposable camera high and backward, pointing it’s lens at the both of them. There’s wrapping paper scattered around them and Fleetwood Mac floating gently through the air from the CD player set up in the kitchen. It’s his birthday and he’s happy.
He still has one gift left to open. It’s a strange shape for a present, long and round like a giant straw. His Mummy has wrapped it in brilliant royal blue and her eyes crinkle as she passes it to him. He doesn’t know what it is yet but he loves it already.
His Mummy got it for him, how could he not?
~~~
There’s someone next to him.
That thought comes to him before all others. Before he thinks about early morning runs or changing coaches or fabric bunched around his knees. Before he thinks about the day that was.
The thought comes to him before all others because he’s stifling. Beyond warm in they way you only get when you’ve been sharing close-space with another person for long enough that your body heats mingles and amplifies like twin human furnaces.
He drags his eyes open. Orients himself in the room. He’s laying on his side, half his face crushed into the warm pillow beneath him. The space is softly lit; the first stirrings of gentle dawn light creeping in through the cracked curtains.
He’s facing the mystery person.
It’s Roy.
Asleep, laid flat on his back, mouth hanging open and breaths softly whistling. He looks tired.
Roy’s here.
Jamie remembers.
Remembers feeling hollow, fractured, cold. Remembers floating in the chasm between his body and his mind, not being able to talk, to move, to be.
But Jamie also remembers Roy.
Remembers smoothies and a clean floor, a warm facecloth and a dry pillow. Remembers a solid arm around him and a steady heartbeat in his ear.
Roy stayed.
And Jamie’s hot.
He’s very hot and the seams of his sweats scratch at the sensitive skin of his thighs. He feels well-rested; not ready to get up, and not eager to get away. There’s still a gap between his mind and his body but it’s not the uncrossable void it had been yesterday. More of a ravine, the edges connected by a swaying rope bridge. Jamie still doesn’t feel good, doesn’t feel like himself, but he thinks he remembers how to try.
He’s unreasonably hot.
The duvet has already been pushed or kicked away by one or both of them during the night, it’s pooled around their waists instead of tucked up high like Jamie had last left it. Jamie casts an evaluating look at Roy’s face, checks that he won’t suddenly wake up before he carefully wiggles out of his sweatpants, pushes his fluffy socks down and off his feet, hooks an ankle around the tangled fabric and levers the whole lot as far away from himself as he can.
He leaves his boxers on; he doesn’t currently want Roy to kill him.
Could be fun to mess with him a bit though.
Slowly, carefully, he brings his knees up to curl slightly before gently pressing them high into Roy’s leg, rests the bare skin of his shins against him.
Roy doesn’t stir.
Jamie smiles and closes his eyes, lets himself sink back into an easy doze.
~~~
It’s quiet.
It’s quiet until it isn’t.
“Muppet if you’re not wearing any fucking pants right now I swear-“
Jamie turns his face into his pillow.
It’s warm and dry and soft.
He laughs. It’s slightly shaky, far too quiet and over almost before it’s begun.
But it’s genuine.
For now, for right now; he’s happy.
For now, for right now, (for always); he’s not alone.
~~~