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Roy has always had an overactive imagination. You wouldn’t guess that from just looking at him – the midnight charcoal-coloured shirts and pants, and jackets, and socks, and shoes didn’t really give that impression. But it was true. He was a visual type, always needed to see the board before the game to fully understand the strategy. Imagined it during the games, too, the blue magnets against the red ones, moving, switching, pressing.
Which was exactly why the image of Keeley with another person, has been in the back of his mind since he saw them together the other day. Vastly different pictures, but the core was the same: moving, switching, pressing. It made him sick. It also made him feel disgusting, but it wasn’t something he could help.
So, it was strange that now, feet pedalling and hands steering blindly, he wished for those images back. Only Jamie fucking Tartt could make it even fucking worse.
“I don’t remember,” he had said, so casually. Roy stared at him.
It took a bit to process. Roy half-expected Jamie to say he’s fucking joking, laugh and say, “Oh my god, Roy, mate, you really believed that my dad would force me to have sex with and adult woman I don’t know at 14 and then be so traumatized I don’t remember it, but not even recognize that it was wrong? Fucking got ya!”
Roy kept staring.
Then, the images came.
Hands in the dark.
Wide eyes.
Mov-
Roy presses his eyes shut and shook his head ever-so-slightly.
Jamie’s rambling about something still, but Roy’s ears are ringing and he’s not quite comprehending any words being said.
“I’m sorry for being a dick today, too.”
He doesn’t know why he’s saying ‘too’. Jamie was actually really nice today, which shouldn’t be a surprise at this point, because Jamie’s somehow nice nowadays all the fucking time.
The image of 14-year-old Jamie comes right back and settles behind Roy’s eyelids. No disturbing stuff this time, just a picture of Jamie that he saw once, back from his U16 days. He was the youngest kid there. Stupid ass haircut, long at the top and too short on the sides, with a hair gel amount that could supply the entirety of the northern hemisphere. His features were still soft, clothes messy and dirty, with a cheeky smile that was unmistakable.
Swi-
“I think Keeley’s got a girlfriend.”
All that triggers out of Jamie is a pensive, “Hm.”
They keep pedalling.
Eventually, they reach the wretched fucking Disney windmill. Jamie is smiling. The breeze halts too, as they stop to admire the building. Roy looks over at Jamie. His eyes are glittering with the reflection of the pale streetlight and the distant stars. It’s completely quiet. The moment turns bittersweet.
The sweet gets swallowed by the time Roy is in bed that night. But the bitter lingers, the memories taste acidic; they burn his tongue as he whispers ‘stop’ to himself. He turns onto his back, which is his least favourite fucking position to sleep in, but at least that’s something to think about instead of Jamie’s confession.
Pressing…
Roy heaves. Is he overreacting?
Jamie didn’t seem that bothered about the whole thing, but that almost makes it worse because someone has to be fucking worried about it. And he’s past the point in his life where he tries to pretend to understand anything about the human mind and the hormones and the behaviours, and above all what’s healthy and what’s not, but he’s pretty sure what’s pushed down will come to the surface eventually.
It lays a kind of responsibility on his shoulders that he didn’t need, and more importantly that he doesn’t know how to handle. Strangely, it’s also something he doesn’t want to pass on to anyone – nor can he, really. Fucking mint.
It’s not necessarily urgent.
In the coming months, it’s like time has sped up. He doesn’t have room for anything between training, meetings, training, Pheobe, and the days pile on top of each other like the excuses. By the time it halts again, they’ve lost the league. Which, a few months ago he would not count as tragic nor surprising, but here he was, sad. They’re in the fucking Champions League, but they’ve lost the Prem by one fucking point and Roy can’t stand it. Maybe it has something to do with Ted leaving in two days, too. He’s gonna miss that Yankee bastard.
Jamie doesn’t seem sad. Ever since he visited his mom in Manchester, he’s been fucking on it, day after day, training after training.
“So when are you leaving Grandpa?” he shouts from where’s lacing up his shoes on the park bench.
“Fucking what?”
“I mean like for vacation. When are you leaving?”
Right, it was the summer. Off days, those existed. He hasn’t thought about it.
“None of your fucking business.”
Jamie grimaces and nods, moving onto his other shoe. Roy walks closer with a sigh. It’s fucking taking him forever.
He raises an eyebrow. “Why, when are you leaving, Tartt?”
Jamie looks a bit surprised by the question. “Uh… next week, yeah.”
“To fucking Ibiza?” Roy half-jokes.
“Nah, mate.”
That’s quite laconic from Jamie, unusual. Almost concerning if Roy wants to be paranoid. And he does.
“Then where?”
“Um, yeah, uh,” he starts, scratching the back of his head. “Going back to Manchester for a week, you know.”
Roy smirks. “Visiting Georgie?”
“What’s this obsession you got with me Mom, mate, piss off.” He puts his foot down from the bench back to the dewy grass, still avoiding eye contact. “And nah, not really.”
Roy didn’t get it. “Then why?”
“Visiting me dad, innit.”
Roy’s blood pressure spikes in an instant. He stands there with his mouth open, unsure of what to say. “What the fuck for?” he asks, hoping the answer will be ‘to murder him in his sleep’.
“Listen, he’s… he’s in rehab. Well, he just got out yesterday. We’ve been texting, look. He’s been super nice and like…”
He shows Roy his phone. The first message reads: It’s been a while. You okay? Roy’ heart aches. Fuck. Then, he notices the date it was sent. The day of the Manchester City match, a few hours after. When they were celebrating.
The next message is a paragraph, that starts with: Yea, son, nice to hear from ya lad, I’ve been at… And Roy can’t read the rest because Jamie scrolls down to unveil a chain of shorter message exchanges, but he can’t catch any of the words.
Roy’s not looking at the phone anymore, his gaze is burning holes into Jamie Tartt’s innocent fucking puppy-like face.
“See, he’s been dead normal, swear down. I wanna go back to Manchester to see some old friends anyway, so it’s all fine, no stress. Come on mate, don’t look at me like that, he could’ve changed. Besides, Ted’s leaving, so fucking gotta follow his advice, don’t I?
Roy blinks. Once, twice, check if he’s fucking hearing it right, or if he’s in some sort of weird dream again.
“Lasso told you to contact your fucking dad?”
Jamie’s looking at him like he grew a second head. “Yeah, mate. He told me to like, forgive for me, so.”
Either Roy’s losing his mind or everyone else is because fucking what?
“Go run laps.”
Jamie hops up and bounces away. Roy drops down onto the bench.
His feet and fingertips are tingling, and of course they are, because all the blood just rose to his fucking head, he must look like a fucking tomato. For once, the images stop. He’s seeing red. He’s clutching his phone with so much force he might break it, and he contemplates calling Lasso to tell him not to wait two days and fuck off back to America right this instant or he’s going to rip his arms off and shove it where even the Kansas fucking Sun don’t shine and-
Breathe, Dr Sharon had told him. Breathe.
The disgusting thought occurs to him between two extremely violent ones that maybe this has to be a conversation between him and Jamie as well. That won’t stop him from ripping Ted a new arsehole either, to be fair.
Roy is swinging between stunned, disappointed, and angry like a fucking pendulum. He realizes Ted doesn’t know all that he knew… but come on. It’s not hard to figure out that James Tartt Sr. is an abusive piece of shit, is it? Did barbecue sauce get in Ted’s eyes at Wembley, permanently blinding him, or what? (Even then, in hindsight, they both probably should’ve made the deduction from the way Jamie acted at times.)
Roy half-arses the rest of practice, with the excuse of “endurance-training.” He blames the running on the fact that Roy wants them to try a bit of heavy-metal football. Total football is working really well, but it’s not Roy’s style of play, and it doesn’t hurt to try something different. And for pressing you need stamina.
Jamie doesn’t seem to take it to heart or notice what’s going on in Roy’s head – and probably on his face. Maybe he just pretends not to. Roy almost regrets his choice when he realizes he won’t get to kick the ball around this way or see Jamie dribble around the park. He tries not to let him know too often, but the way Jamie plays is absolutely electrifying, and he fucking loves watching him. It’s getting to a point where Roy’s running out of things to teach and refine (apart from his left-foot cross, which has gone from sub-par to average).
Jamie’s doing short sprints between the cones Roy set up for him, when a group of kids approach him. They’re all 13–14-year-olds, and they’re wearing Richmond jerseys under their thin jackets. Their dad is accompanying them, but ushers them forward and has them talk to Jamie. They take pictures and Jamie smiles their jerseys with a huge beaming smile plastered on his face, and waves them goodbye.
“Oi, Jamie,” Roy says, after five more minutes of running. “C’mere.”
“Yes, coach?” Jamie pants as he jogs over.
“That’s enough for today. You have any plans for dinner?”
“Well, I was gonna–”
“Did I fucking ask?”
Jamie blinks at him. “…Yeah?”
“Well, I don’t care. You’re coming over to my house for dinner.”
And Jamie nods.
After practice, Roy sits in his car, alone. There’s some podcast on the radio. It’s all muffled and muted and he can’t make out the words. He’s staring at the passenger seat and thinks about all the times Phoebe has sat in that seat, eating ice cream, and telling stories and playing games on Roy’s phone. He’s staring until his eyes dry up. He blinks, but suddenly it’s not Phoebe he sees. It’s a 9-year-old, messy-haired, wide-eyed Jamie Tartt, and he looks scared. And in the place of himself, it’s not Roy, not his coach, not his friend, it’s Jamie’s fucking Dad, screaming and throwing and hitting.
Roy doubles over and rests his head on the steering-wheel, trying not to throw up. He calls Keeley.
“Hey, Roy.” her beautiful, angel voice speaks though the phone’s speaker. The phone that is shaking so violently in Roy’s hand, that he has to put it on speaker and drop it into his lap. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Keeley.”
And he realizes there’s been a question, but he needs to breathe normally before he can think about why he even called.
“Everything okay?”
Roy sighs, his heartbeat calming a bit. “Yeah, everything’s fine, just… What do you know about Jamie’s… fucking… dad?”
There’s a silence and the end of the line. “Enough. What’s going on?” she sounds scared, and Roy already regrets calling.
“Lasso told him to forgive the bastard and Jamie’s now fucking set on spending a week with him in Manchester.”
“Oh.”
“He says his dad is – or was I don’t fucking know – in rehab, and they’ve been talking, and he’s been fuckin’ nice, and wants to reconcile with Jamie.”
Keeley hums pensively. “That sounds really nice, Roy.”
Roy blinks, and he can’t help the surprised “Huh?” that escapes his lips.
“Yeah, I mean… If Jamie wants to give him a second chance. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll be here for him, right?”
That’s when it dawns on Roy, that no one else knows. Jamie hasn’t told Keeley, because no way would Keeley ever say that if she knew about the – he gets lightheaded even thinking about that ugly word. She can’t know. And hopefully neither does Ted, because if Jamie told him what he told Roy, and Ted still hit him with the “sunshine rainbows forgiveness” speech then Roy will not just be on the cover of the Sun tomorrow, but every national and international newspaper published, for the crimes he will commit.
He can’t help thinking that he probably doesn’t know the half of it, either, because while he only saw verbal abuse at Wembley, it was pretty fucking obvious that it never ended there. Jamie just never talked about that.
“Roy?” she asks and brings her voice up with the ‘o’, like she does when she’s worried.
And it kills him, but if she doesn’t know, then she can’t help. Continuing this conversation will just drive up his fucking blood pressure. For a second, he contemplates telling her, but it’s a very brief second because he even shakes his head at himself.
“Nevermind,” he presses out between his teeth. “See you later.”
“Roy,” it’s a warning, a ‘wait,’ but Roy doesn’t, and presses the red button. His forehead hits the steering wheel again.
He closed his eyes, and the images came, as they always did, and Roy doesn’t know what to do about them this time. He lets them wash through him. Red lights, blurred shadows, stuffy rooms, thick air. It’s sounds now, too: pleading, laughing, sniffling, crying, a ringing slap when Jamie tries to say ‘no.’ Moving, switching, pressing, shaking. A honeyed voice’s singing praises.
He gets out of the car and slams the door. The wind has picked up, and the sun hid behind the thin layer of grey clouds. His fingers have gone grey, so he pockets his hands. The RFC jacket is thin, and the breeze blows right through it. He walks past the Richmond pub, ignoring the shouts coming from the benches. Doesn’t even yell “fuck off!” back, just drags his leg up the cobblestoned street. An old lady lets him in the front door, and she offers him her walker when she sees him climbing up the stairs one-legged. Roy declines.
His bangs his fist on the door until it opens, revealing a surprised but smiling Ted.
“Oh, didn’t expect to see you here, coach, how ya doin?”
“Fucking shit.”
Ted’s smile falters. “Oh, come on in, then. What’s got you so animated, my friend?”
Roy steps inside, looking around the room. He’s never been here before, and now he’s kind of questioning his choices because it somehow even smells like America.
“You told Jamie that he should forgive his dad.”
Ted tilts his head to the side. “Well, yes, I did…”
“Why the fuck?”
“Look, Roy, father-son relationships are complicated,” he’s holding his hands in front of him like he’s talking down a wild animal. It drives Roy out of his mind. “I just wanted Jamie to be at peace. To let it go.”
Roy exhales through his nose like a bull ready to charge. “Congratulations, now he’s gone and tried making amends with that piece of shit, just because he went to fucking rehab.”
“Roy,” he says, with the same warning tone that Keeley used, and it drives Roy crazy. “I never told him to do that, he did that on his own. But giving people second chances is a good thing.”
“Fuck you.”
Ted looks at him, clueless. “I’m not understandin’ you right now. Jamie is an adult, he can make his own choices, if that’s trying to have a relationship with his father then you have to respect that.”
Roy’s head’s gone full red, and his eyebrows have blended into one. His fingernails dig into the palm of his skin. All of Dr Sharon’s advice flies right out the fucking window and Roy damn-near tackles the rodeo clown.
He can’t even blame it on Ted’s ignorance, because anyone with half a brain knows seeking out your abusive parent is not something a person should be encouraged to do by someone they look up to, even on an implication level. It drives him mad because Ted knows how Jamie sees him, he must notice how he looks at Ted like he hung the fucking stars sometimes, and Ted also knows Ted’s advice is only about fucking Ted.
He steps closer. “Not when that person sexually abused you! There’s a fucking line, and you’ve crossed it for the last fucking time. It’s not Jamie’s fault you’re fucking obsessed with fathers. They’re just another fucking person, Ted! Don’t say that kind of shit to anyone ever again.”
Roy exhales, as the adrenaline drains out of his veins as quickly as it came. The bitter anger still remains in the back of his throat and the edges of his fingertips. He still wants to hit something, and his gaze wanders over the decorations briefly.
Ted is frozen in front of him.
Roy feels smug for a moment and then –
Fuck. Roy told him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, he is the shittiest person the world has ever seen–
Roy rubs his forehead. “Fuck.”
It’s dead quiet. Ted’s eyes are wide with horror.
“What?” Ted breathes out, face white as a sheet.
Roy’s head reels. He might throw up. “Forget I said that.”
“Jamie was…? His dad…”
“Not like that,” he hurries to explain, not even sure why. Now he contemplates whether letting Ted believe his dad molested Jamie is better than sharing his trauma completely. He settles on no; Jamie wouldn’t want that either.
“Yes, Jamie was r –,” he spits out the word as soon as he tastes it. He doesn’t bother to try again. “His dad forced him to have sex with a prostitute in Amsterdam when he was 14.”
He tried to deliver it as clinically as possible, so that it hurts the least, but it still sent a shiver down his spine.
Ted closes his eyes. “I didn’t know…”
“Yeah, well that’s not a fucking excuse, innit, cause we all knew his dad was a piece of shit.”
And he knows Ted doesn’t need to hear it, but he adds, “For someone who makes such a big deal about caring about others, that was the most self-centred thing I’ve ever seen someone do in my life. Now I have to go and fucking fix it.”
He turns around. By the time Roy’s reached the bottom of the stairs again, he’s not sure what he even achieved besides making himself better, if that, because violating Jamie’s trust frankly felt horrible.
…
He picks up Italian from a fancy restaurant in Central London. He makes sure it’s hot and puts it on a plate as if he cooked it.
Jamie shows up 2 minutes late and drenched to the bone. His hair, his T-shirt, his shoes all weighed down by the rainfall that’s still pouring outside. He’s not wearing a jacket either.
“The fuck?”
Jamie hurriedly steps inside. “Sorry mate, I don’t mean to get water all over your floor. It started raining after I left.”
Roy grunts. He turns on his heel and walks upstairs for some new clothes. Though they are about the same height, Jamie’s obviously more muscular than him; Roy’s T-shirts would not be comfortable for the younger footballer. He digs into his wardrobe until he finds the shirt he was looking for and grabs a random pair of shorts to match.
He throws them at Jamie when he gets halfway down the stairs. He looks disgusted for a moment at the sight of the red Liverpool jersey, until he turns it around. His jaw drops.
“…You’re jokin’.”
“It’s from 2015. FA Cup semi-finals.”
“You got Steven Gerrard’s jersey and you’re giving it to me? Because I got wet.”
Roy can’t hide how amused he is at Jamie’s absolute shock. “Well not for forever.”
Jamie looks a little disappointed.
“Only if you want to keep it,” Roy says, softness washing over him. What is it about Jamie fucking Tartt that makes him not care about Steven Gerrard’s jersey a tenth as much as his smile?
Jamie laughs. “Fucking of course I want to keep it, mate, are you serious?”
Roy rolls his eyes, very serious, no affection showing at all. “Don’t just stand there and look stupid, get changed and let’s eat.”
Jamie walks out of the bathroom 5 minutes later, weirdly shy. Roy looks up from his phone when Jamie clears his throat. He keeps pulling down the jersey, it’s slightly too big and doesn’t quite fit right.
“I’m hoping you washed this.”
Roy shakes his head and grunts, of course he did. He sits down at the dinner table and waits for Jamie to join him.
“You cooked this?” Jamie asks, incredulous.
“Fuck no.”
Jamie shrugs, sits down, and digs in. Then, he swallows and glances at the glass of white wine that Roy poured for him. He picks it up and slides it over to Roy’s side of the table. “Sorry, I’m driving. Besides, gotta watch the calories.”
“It’s summer, you can drink a glass of wine. And if you want you can stay here tonight,” Roy offers, trying to sound casual.
It doesn’t work.
“You’re being fucking weird today, mate.”
Yeah, he senses that. In fact, he has been trying to avoid being fucking weird, but he doesn’t know how else to do this shit. If only Keeley could help him… But he has to do this emotion shit on his own this time.
“Sorry,” Roy grumbles, twirling pasta around his fork.
Jamie makes a surprised sound, almost spits out his food. He swallows loudly, shakes his head, and says, “Now, that’s proper strange man, what’s gotten into you? Are you like, in love with me or sommat?”
And that just makes Roy really sad. A bit annoyed, too, to be fair, but mostly sad and lethargic.
It must show on his face ‘cause Jamie instantly notices and rushes to explain. “I was just taking the piss mate! But not like, I’d be judging you or anything. You know I’m super down with like, gay people, there’s Colin and stuff, so no problem there. Plus, I totally get it, like, most people want to fuck me, I’m hot and rich and I’m a great footballer, so I promise I’m not judging you, mate, it’s just that you’re not really –
If Roy lets him go on any longer, he actually might go insane, so he sets his utensils down on the table hard enough for the plates and glasses to shake and clatter. Jamie instantly draws back and shuts his mouth.
Roy needs to take a breath before he can answer to all of that. Finishing his dinner peacefully now seems practically impossible. He was hoping he’d get to the emotions part with a full stomach, but it was too late. Roy himself was full of fucking emotions, and questions, too. Like, is really me wanting to fuck you the only explanation for being nice and apologizing? But he’s not gonna say that. Even thinking that sentence has him feeling disgusted with himself.
“No, I’m not in love with you. That’s not why this is happening.”
Jamie lets out a regretful ‘ah.’
“Yeah. There doesn’t have to be a reason anyway,” because they’re friends now, Roy thinks but doesn’t say.
“But there is one,” Jamie’s words are too quiet. He seems afraid.
“Yeah,” Roy bites out, “there is.”
“Oh,” Jamie says. His face seems full of guilt, too. Now Roy partially regrets slamming down his utensils earlier. Partially, he still doesn’t because he didn’t want to hear another word of that horrid sentence.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, you muppet,” Roy has to clarify. “Well, you did. But I’m not blaming you.”
“So, there does have to be a reason,” Jamie circles back, bitter half-smile on the edges of his lips.
“Fucking whatever, yeah. I mean, no, just because there is a fucking reason now doesn’t mean I can’t invite you tomorrow too if I want to.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jamie says. (Roy has a feeling he doesn’t actually.) He leans forward in his chair again. “So, what’s gotten your panties in a twist?”
Roy considers for a second. He wants to say, ‘Ted Lasso’. Or ‘your shitty dad’. Or even ‘you, Jamie’. There’d be some truth to all of that but the whole truth is something different.
He just grunts.
Jamie stares at him. “You ain’t the fucking Witcher man, use your words.”
Roy clears his throat and straightens his back. “I…” he trails off again.
Roy’s mind is muffled. His knuckles have gone white from squeezing his fists in too tight. He wants to vomit out all the thoughts and images that have plagued him along with the shitty fucking pasta right on the table and never see them again. But he’s not sure if he knows any words at all.
Jamie is back to looking awfully patient, and just watches as Roy tries to string together a coherent sentence.
“I… I’m…” he tries again, this time more determined. “I’m angry… at myself.”
The silence between them stretches.
“You’re… mad at yourself? Why?” Jamie asks, cocking his head like a confused puppy.
Roy stretches his hands out on his jeans. They tingle. “I should have told you the things that I was thinking, things that you were clearly not, and then this all could’ve been avoided.”
“…Why are you speaking in riddles, mate?”
“I’m not,” Roy presses out between his teeth. Fuck it, there’s no good way to start this conversation. “I’ve been thinking about Amsterdam.”
Jamie looks like he realizes that means something to Roy that he expects Jamie to understand, but he doesn’t. “What about Amsterdam? You clearly haven’t picked up smoking cause you’re still fuckin’ tense as shit.”
“…About what you told me.”
Jamie’s still looking at him like he doesn’t get it. Roy couldn’t decide if he’s acting dumb to avoid the topic or genuinely it did not feel significant to him at all. He wasn’t sure which one was more terrifying.
“The story about your dad and the red-light district.”
Jamie’s silent for a second. He fidgets with his multiple-thousand-dollar bracelet. “Oh. Yeah. I’ve forgotten about that.”
“I haven’t,” Roy says, and it’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. “I avoided talking about it because I didn’t know how to. But then, today, when you told me you were going to visit him it all just fucking bubbled up again. I can’t believe Ted would advise you to forgive him, and I can’t comprehend why you went with it?”
Jamie looks like a scolded child in his teacher’s office. He’s cast his glance down at his lap. Roy feels fucking horrible. Jamie mumbles something he doesn’t quite catch.
“What?”
“He’s my dad, Roy.”
Roy knows that, and he even knows what Jamie means, and it breaks his heart right in half. Because after all of that, Jamie still loves his dad.
“You don’t have to,” Roy says. “You don’t have to give him another chance, even if he did change. I’m begging you not to.”
This is all so horribly familiar it carved a pit in Roy’s stomach. He’d said these words before, begging and pleading with his sister, to not be hurt again. He feels his grip slipping again, and he buries his face in his hands. His heart is racing.
A hand grips his forearm, gentle, reassuring. “I’ll be okay.”
Roy drops his hands and looks up. “You don’t even understand,” his voice comes out so strained and pained it surprises even himself.
Jamie’s eyes harden. “I don’t understand my own relationship with my father?”
The ‘no, you don’t’ is on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it. His stomach is so full of swallowed truths it makes him sick. He lets himself fall back into all the images he’s pushed down, let’s himself sink in the cruelness of it all. The screaming, the crying, the panting, the begging, the hands, and the sharp fingernails. He doesn’t feel human, but he opens his eyes.
Jamie looks angry, like Roy hasn’t seen him be in a long time. And he wonders just how much worse the reality of Jamie is than Roy’s imaginary horror. He wants to wrap his arms around him like he did at Wembley. He can’t, and he probably won’t be able to for some time because what he’s about to tell Jamie will not go over well. But he has to know. Roy has to say it.
“Jamie,” he says as gentle as he can. The words sit heavy on his tongue. “What happened to you in Amsterdam was rape.”
Jamie goes completely rigid. Like a deer caught in headlights he freezes. The cold expression falls right off his face. The air he was drawing in gets stuck halfway. Then, he snaps out of it. He sits back and stares at his nails casually, but something’s off.
“That? Nah. I totally, I –” his voice cracks, but he clears it and scratches his ear. “It wasn’t like that. It was fun,” he shrugs.
There’s an obvious sitter to be scored here. Roy shifts. “How can you say that if you don’t even remember it.”
Goal.
“I d– I, I…” Jamie stammers. His breathing is audibly quick and shallow. Roy’s chest aches watching it. It’s him now, that reaches out to touch Jamie’s arm. It’s a careful touch, still, Jamie shakes under it like a withered leaf.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been… concerned… about you,” Roy says, and it’s hard. It seems fucking impossible to drag his tongue and form those words. A knot builds up in the back of his throat, a reflex to the unusual and frankly unnatural. “Fucking… I know I don’t know most of it.”
(It’s something that Roy’s been thinking about. He only found out about Amsterdam a few months ago, how many skeletons could Jamie be hiding in his closet?)
“… what you have told me has got me driving myself up the wall, and I can’t function, because I’m so scared that he’ll hurt you again.”
It’s maybe the most he’s ever said, but he has to keep going.
“It’s not any of my business, and Keeley and Ted don’t agree with me, but I just…” he trails off. “I don’t know what I would do if you got hurt. So please don’t visit him. Or at least, let me come with you.”
When Jamie looks up, his eyes are brimmed with tears. He looks so surprised. Jamie doesn’t say anything, just looks down again. He looks as distant as the stars were that night. Roy rises from his seat. He slips one hand over Jamie’s shoulder. The kid lets himself be guided over to the couch. They both sit down.
“That’s nice of you to say,” Jamie croaks out.
Roy hums. It didn’t feel nice; it felt selfish. Only talking about what he wants. What he doesn’t want. How it would make him feel if Jamie got hurt and Roy didn’t even try to stop it. It’s not how he wanted to come off, not how he wanted to phrase it. But what is pushed down will come to the surface eventually. Even the rocks he threw in the ocean down in South England as a child will be washed back up to the shore again. Maybe a kid will take them home this time.
The clock ticks on the wall silently. Raindrops pattered on the windowsill.
Jamie sighs and throws his head back on the couch and squeezes his eyes shut. “It was that bad, wasn’t it?” he says it with a laugh, but it’s wet and it dies halfway up his throat.
Roy just nods. Tears prickle at his eyes. All the air’s been sucked out from his lungs. The murderous rage that pumped his blood for months, hell, years now just drains out into the hot humid air.
A sob shakes Jamie’s body. He wipes at his face with is forearm. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have shit to be sorry for.”
“Jus’ being a fuckin’ baby,” Jamie replies, shaking his head at himself.
And even though Roy still feels like a deflated birthday balloon, the urge to scream returns for a flicker of a moment. But that flame eats up all its remaining fire and dies down as quick as it came. He reaches out carefully. His hands move so slowly he can feel his fingers break through the thick air. They settle on Jamie’s shoulders for a second, then gently pull him into Roy’s chest. He rests his forehead on Roy’s arm and breathes, finally.
“You’re not being a baby,” Roy whispers. “I’ve only known this story for a few months, and I’ve been a fucking mess over it.”
“Y’have?” Jamie mumbles. It’s strangely endearing the way he says it, like a kid.
For once, Roy doesn’t mind repeating himself, “Yeah. Of course.”
Jamie still for a moment, then starts crying again. It’s not loud or violent this time; just silent tears and minute shaking. It’s heartbreaking all the same.
“I said no,” Jamie says, plain and true and tragic.
Roy pulls him in tighter. He holds Jamie like they’re hanging off the edge off a cliff.
“I said no,” Jamie repeats, words not as soft this time. A louder sob rips itself from Jamie’s throat again. “I said no, Roy.”
Roy doesn’t feel anything but Jamie’s hot tears and warm breaths on his skin. His throat is tight. He manages to squeeze out, “I know.”
He doesn’t, though. Roy doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t understand how this could happen. How someone could be so cruel; it doesn’t seem possible. Everything feels foreign. So, he just draws Jamie even closer, and leans his own head into Jamie’s drying hair.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers. “Even if you hadn’t, it would have been a terrible thing to do.”
Jamie shakes his head. “He said – He said he’d…” he trails off, lost between his own thoughts and his quick breaths.
Roy shushes him carefully and rubs Jamie’s back. He’ll apologize to him some other day for spilling his secrets. Maybe he’ll also apologize to Ted, too – not that he’s earned it. He’ll also kill Jamie’s dad if he sees him again.