Archive of Our Own ^beta

Falling in love is nothing like riding a bike.

Despite prior experience, Roy’s not got a clue of what the fuck he’s doing.

To be fair, Roy usually has some idea when he’s on the way to falling in love, or at least that the potential’s there. The same way he’s aware when he’s, like, physically on a bicycle. And while Roy might not be a particularly skilled cyclist, whenever he hops on a bike, even with months-long stretches in-between rides, he finds he remembers just about everything. He manages to get his limbs in order, keep his balance, and push off with enough effort to get going. Even as he dips down a steep hill and shouts in panic, he can always expect Jamie’s buoyant laughter, and the instinct to hit the brakes with some level of ease saves him from going airborne.

But no, Roy had no idea he was setting himself up to fall in love until he’d already collided into a tree, so to speak.

Looking back, it was probably inevitable, but no muscle memory ever kicked in to keep him from crashing headfirst into love. Felt like he was fucking freefalling, when he finally put it together. It hit him like a violent punch of lightning to the chest on what would otherwise be a typical morning at the Dog Track.

Roy had been passing through the canteen when he noticed Jamie and the lads with their newest full-back. Jamie looked quite impassioned, explaining something about defensive positioning, his voice steadily rising in volume as he grew more confident in his point, shuffling bottles of Lucozade to illustrate and gesturing to spots on the table as the new lad and the others nodded along. And Roy just watched Jamie speak, admiring the shape of his words without hearing the sound, the light in his eyes, the grin that split his face when the new lad cracked a joke. And Roy realised he was smiling, too, right when Jamie caught him looking. Brief confusion washed across Jamie’s face, or maybe it was surprise, then his eyes creased before sending Roy a nod and a cheeky wink.

A match struck inside Roy’s ribcage, right beneath his sternum, though oddly, he felt frozen in place.

And that’s how he realised he was in love with Jamie Tartt.

After the sudden wave of clarity had faded, Roy just felt so fucking stupid.

At the time, Roy didn’t even think to bark an expletive, like with most other dawning realisations. He couldn’t even speak. Jamie was pulled back into his conversation, and Roy hovered there until a voice called his name and brought him back to earth. Once he could make himself move, he ignored the voice and rushed out of the canteen and straight to his office, where he stared into space and thought about Jamie for a full hour, until he eventually had to drag himself into a predictably monotonous meeting with Higgins that he could only halfway pay attention to.

Aside from the obvious, everything else about Roy’s day had been fairly unremarkable, and it continued on as such. On the training pitch, the lads went through their normal drills, and Jamie had the best time and form of the lot by all measures, but he always does. He laughed through a foul from Bumbercatch, helped him up, dusted off his back, then moved on to set up a beautiful shot for Sam like he’s done a thousand times.

Despite the lack of novelty, Roy found himself zoning in on everything Jamie did with something like awe — had he ever watched Jamie this closely before? Had he ever really given him his full attention? — and as Jamie cut through the green like a bullet, Roy drank it in like he was moving in slow-motion. God, Roy is so unbearably fucking corny when he’s in love, but that’s the honest-to-god truth of how it felt. Jamie was nothing short of gorgeous, covered in sweat and hair all mussed, cheeks flushed, his every movement timely and smooth and elegant and effortless — except no, fuck that, Roy knows exactly how much effort he puts in, and he loves him all the more for it.

This new shape of Roy’s thoughts felt strangely familiar, like he was a step to the left from where he normally stood, except positioning mattered fuck-all when he was spinning himself in circles until he felt actually nauseous. But because you can’t call out of work lovesick, Roy had no choice but to finish running training and watch Jamie be as brilliant as ever while reckoning with the truth that he was pathetically, horrifically, hopelessly and aggravatingly in love with him, and likely had been for a while. Roy felt so stricken that he’d almost forgotten to panic about it.

Almost.

Most of the lads had already headed out for the day when Jamie stopped by the office to bid goodbye to Roy, or rather all the coaches, and Roy went on blinking dumbly at Tartt, totally speechless. Luckily for Roy, no one ever raises a brow when he’s short on words, and so Jamie sent a little awkward wave and shuffled backwards through the door. Nate started to ask a question, but instead of answering, Roy stood abruptly, feeling shaken to his core but filled with energy, like he’d been fucking electrocuted. His brain screamed ‘run’. 

So he jumped on the treadmill and ran 5k in the best time he’s made since he was at fucking Chelsea.

Afterwards, stumbling to a seat and sorer than he’d ever felt at fucking Chelsea, Roy rubbed at his face, and fucking laughed and laughed.

What the actual fuck.

Roy was at a total loss. He hadn’t the faintest fucking clue what to do with this information, that he’d fallen in love without even noticing. And perhaps it’s the delayed awareness that caused him to completely forget how to be in love like a normal human person.

It’d been a while, and Roy hadn’t tried it but a few odd times since Amsterdam, so he may as well have forgotten how to ride a fucking bike, too. 

Love never used to be so fucking… jarring, or confusing, or unpredictable. Falling in love with Keeley was the most natural fucking thing. Roy knew he was going to fall in love with her before it even happened, it was that certain. The realisation settled with him like sliding into a bath he’d run for himself, and after sinking into the warmth and sighing, Roy felt like there was nowhere else on earth he’d rather be.

With Jamie, however, it was like the cold-shock surprise of a bucket of ice dumped on his head after a win. There was a sense of resolve there — he’d figured it out, this fucking thing between them that’s been getting at Roy for years finally had a name — but also a breathlessness, and a bone-deep exhaustion, with himself, and after that, another level of dizziness and disorientation — what was happening now, where was he meant to be going next? And instead of figuring that out, Roy’s been walking around in a damp shirt, dazed and shivering, unable to come down from the high. 

After a solid two years spent getting himself all fucking attached, Roy’s left to deal with the consequences of his own actions, like after having done something as stupid as learn to ride a bike without a helmet or any knee pads and still managing to act surprised when his limbs end up tangled in the bushes, though thankfully with his brain still inside his skull.

Which brings us to a full week later, Roy’s mind all out of sorts.

The world keeps turning, everyone carrying on as usual, which means Jamie tries to call him a few times over a few days. Roy has to psyche himself up to answer, is terribly short when he does, and hangs up on him more than once, which is surely fucking charming and definitely going to communicate the right message. Then another time, Jamie invites him over to watch a film, ‘cause he’s been on a rom-com kick lately and apparently wants to tick off every fucking John Cusack film, and he throws out a suggestion that they could watch Say Anything. Roy tells him he’s already seen it and rushes away. 

Fucking amateur hour, over here. Decades of dating and Roy’s sure he had better game when he was a fifteen-year-old virgin with only a few notes in his wallet and no cell phone. 

Roy's always thought himself decent at romantic shit. When the situation calls, he’s always been able to plan a big, thoughtful gesture; it’s a skill that’s gotten him laid many times. Though he’s dated much less in the last couple years (maybe there’s a big fucking annoying Tartt-shaped reason for that), he’s had more than enough experience planning dates and buying flowers and picking out gifts and pairing posh wine with the dinner he’s prepared. He’s even capable of swallowing his pride and confessing his love on someone’s doorstep, if need be.

And deep down, Roy knows that if it comes down to it, he’ll bear the rejection. It’ll fucking suck, but Roy accepts that he can always leave Richmond and hide under a rock to avoid seeing or hearing from Tartt ever again. And yeah, sure, Roy might spend the rest of his life pining for the obnoxious twat, but reconciling that isn’t the problem, really.

For some reason, despite his best efforts, Roy can’t tell Jamie how he feels. He can only manage to piss him off.

Roy’s initial strategy to give himself time to figure out his next move doesn’t fare too well. Obviously he goes on avoiding Jamie for the better part of the week. Naturally. But this approach quickly frustrates Jamie, who has spent the last year or so becoming quite comfortable inviting himself along to anything in Roy’s life, and gets pretty cheesed off when Roy shuts him out. Jamie pouts. He sulks in a way that Roy suddenly cannot stand to look at without throwing himself at any solution he can find to make Jamie smile. 

So he fucking caves. He invites Jamie to join him at Hus’s one night, so long as he shuts up and lets Roy eat in silence, and offers the lazy excuse of a migraine for his mood. But then he’s got to sit there and deal with Jamie humming happily and resist the urge to wipe sauce from his mouth and tell him how fucking fit he looks in that oversized jumper ‘cause he’s pretending he’s not in love with him. 

At least that’s fucking familiar, being tortured by Tartt’s very presence. 

After they finish, Jamie tries to poke at Roy a bit, because there’s obviously something bothering him, and he knows him well enough to tell Roy’s migraine growls from his moodier growls, and it doesn’t make anything better, does it, how well this prick understands him. Because under typical circumstances, Jamie would be the one to drag the truth out of him. Still, deflection comes as easy as fucking breathing for Roy, but he watches Jamie’s gentle smile shift into a concerned pinch of the brow, a deep frown — fucking empathy, or whatever the fuck — and suddenly he can’t. 

Fucking disgusting, how Roy looks at him and feels so fucking… cared for. Looked after. It’s doing things to him. He’s so unbearably fucking fond of the prick that he starts feeling nauseous again, and if he gets sick, Hus’ll give him an earful and hand him the mop, straight up. Roy wants to shout. He wants to punch something. And for a moment, he’s actually tempted to spill his heart to Jamie fucking Tartt, right then and there, but the weirdest fucking thing happens.

Jamie moves his foot under the table, his ankle lining up against Roy’s. Roy doesn’t move, stonefaced, but Jamie leans into the touch. His eyes swim across Roy’s face, like he’s trying to read him. It’s so weirdly intimate, all Roy can do is breathe, and he’s barely managing that. 

And then, maybe for the first time in his life, Roy feels fucking shy. Around Jamie.

So he shifts his foot away and puts it in his mouth. Critical mistake.

Roy full-on stammers and shit, starting and stopping a half-dozen sentences, fumbling for coherency and stumbling through excuses until he’s rambling about not feeling all that well and having a lot on his mind but most of it’s stupid. Like, he keeps thinking about learning to ride a bike, and there’s definitely nothing about that that means anything, and he’s probably only dreamed about it twice this week because Jamie’s got a match with England against the Netherlands on Saturday, even though that’s in Berlin, so it’s actually totally fucking irrelevant and there’s no reason to be all fucking nostalgic about Amsterdam when he can hop on a bike whenever the fuck he wants. Not that he’s even in the mood.

And Jamie watches him fall apart, eyes wide and brows raised, until Roy finally runs out of detours and breaks off with an exasperated, “fucking hell.”

Jamie tilts back in his seat, watching him carefully as Roy’s brain tries to reboot. 

“Okay. What’s goin’ on with you?”

“Nothing,” Roy snaps, too quickly. “Fuck off. I’m fine.”

A brow quirks up, Jamie crossing his ankles under the table, brushing Roy’s again in the process. Roy startles like a fucking cat, and then he’s sat facing Jamie’s signature shit prick grin. 

Roy’s an easy fucking target, isn’t he. A sitting duck. Jamie has no real choice but to take the piss out of him and tease him about all his strange awkwardness, and under normal circumstances, Roy would dish right it back. But Jamie manages to under Roy’s skin, in the way only Jamie can, and instead of bantering, Roy heads into fucking battle. Within no time, Roy’s barking insults and growling as they shove out of Hus’s, and he won’t let it go, snarling until they’re both raging mad and arguing like they’ve done since the dawn of fucking time, no logic or sense spoken between either of them, Roy grumbling about what a rude twat he’s being as Jamie sends him the bird and walks the other direction.

Jamie doesn’t talk to him for a full two days, after that. 

It’s awful.

Roy is a massive idiot.

In the aftermath, Roy accepts that the only path forward is to make amends with Jamie before he can even begin to work out what to do or say about being in love with him, so after spending one particularly pathetic evening pacing for hours, he decides to call.

“Hey. It’s Roy.”

“I know, you twat. What d’you want?”

Roy’s rehearsed this bit at least.

“I…WantedtosayI’msorry.”

Jamie blows out a breath. “Ah, ’s alright. I forgot what I’m even mad at you for, to be honest.”

“Same old shit,” Roy replies. “Being a grumpy old prune.”

Jamie laughs, and Roy’s completely caught up in the sound. He sits down on his bed and tries to think of what to say to keep the conversation going.

“Right,” Jamie starts. “Look, I’m gonna g — ”

“Wait!” Roy interrupts.

“Er… What’s up?” 

Roy’s brain has gotten too comfortable being completely void of thought without notice, lately. 

“Uhhh. So, uh… I-I…” 

Like fucking shitting Christ, what has Tartt done to him? Roy’s flailing and heading down a hill, except this time he’s wearing a blindfold and his hands are tied, both things a recipe for disaster when you’re only narrowly managing to avoid tipping over into the Thames.

“Spit it out, man,” Jamie says impatiently. “I was about to take a shower.” 

Oh, god. Jamie Tartt in the shower. Naked. With his dick out. Firm, round arse. Shiny, wet skin, flushed. Roy’s mouth moving over his chest, his abs, his — 

Fuck.

This is very, very bad.

Roy needs boundaries. And whenever he needs boundaries, his mind jumps to football. He spins the wheel on possible excuses he has to call Jamie in the middle of the night related to football, then he blurts:

“Do you want to train?”

Jamie’s quiet for a moment.

“You’re… asking me, or telling me?”

Roy goes on blabbering like a knob. “Right, no. Yeah. It’s an offer. I’m asking. I… thought it’d be fun. Like old times. Because… I’ve been a prick and all.”

“Yeah, you have,” Jamie agrees, warm, like he’s maybe smiling. “But uh, yeah, maybe next week? Already ran 10k tonight, and I’m headin’ to SGP in a couple days.”

Oh, fuck. “Right.”

A beat passes. Roy won’t see Jamie for a week, and it should give him time to sort his head, but he’ll fucking miss him. He’s suddenly devastated.

“...There anything else?” Jamie asks tentatively. “‘Cause if not, I’m gonna shower and go to bed, yeah. Sleep’s been fucked lately.”

“Oh. Okay. I understand.”

Another beat of silence. Roy stares at his sushi-printed socks and wonders if Jamie even likes sushi. He imagines feeding him sushi. He’s not been keen on eating food off someone’s naked body after what happened at Drogba’s stag do, but he’s beginning to accept that he’d try a lot of shit if Jamie was into it. Lying naked on a table for Roy to eat sushi off his abs seems like the kind of stupid thing Jamie could be into, and maybe it’d end in laughter and fucking on the table. God, Roy would love to bend him over a table.

“Are you alright, man?” Jamie asks, interrupting Roy’s thoughts. “You’re acting weird lately.”

“Fuck, I know,” Roy blurts. “I mean, fuck no. I mean yes, fuck! You’re fucking weird! Sorry. Goodnight.”

Roy hangs up and slams the phone against his forehead, falling back against the sheets. 

“Fuuuuuck.”

That trainwreck of a conversation aside, they set an intention to start training together in the mornings, and for the most part, everything returns to normal. Or, as normal as things ever are between them. Because, as it turns out, they… are normally pretty weird.

With new awareness, certain things get emphasised. And Roy starts to notice that it’s actually relatively easy to imagine adding a romantic element to their dynamic, because as things stand, they kind of already… well. They’re doing about everything but fucking.

It does nothing to quell Roy’s infatuation to notice that Jamie more or less already acts like his boyfriend. He’s attentive, and curious, and consistently concerned for Roy’s wellbeing in a way that’s not overbearing, but caring and attuned. He texts Roy every morning and night while he’s away for International Break and calls him plenty, to ask about Phoebe, to ask how he’s been sleeping, to check in on that migraine. The day he gets back, he shows up on Roy’s doorstep with dinner, and they finish their samosas while debating between watching another John Cusack film or a replay of the match against the Netherlands. Roy ends the argument by putting on Serendipity, and Jamie sits too close to him on the sofa and tries to hide his pout whenever Roy doesn’t lean into his cuddle.

Roy considers the possibility that maybe Jamie’s just like this with his mates. He’s certainly an affectionate person — he’s always got an arm around Declan in the dressing room, lets Dani thread his hands through his hair on the bus, squeezes the shoulders of anyone an arms length away. He’s also undeniably flirty and cheeky with the general public, like the person taking their order at the cafe or the fucking Uber driver. Which means that his flirty affection could mean something, but then again, maybe it doesn’t.

Only one way to find out.

After their next win, Roy texts Jamie to see what trouble he’s getting into that night, and Jamie replies that he’s getting ready to head out with the lads to celebrate. Before Roy can reply, Jamie sends a selfie, sticking his tongue out. He’s got a few buttons undone on his shirt, necklaces dangling, fringe covering one eye. He looks well fit. Like fucking Christ, his lips are sin. Roy wants him so bad he can’t fucking cope.

- Put the tongue away Tartt

- Or what?

Roy raises a brow, then before he knows it, he’s typing out a filthy fucking text about sucking his face then his cock until his throat is so raw he can’t speak. Thankfully he comes to before he sends it, and realises he’s too fucking old to make his first move via horny sext, so he deletes it all and sends an eyeroll emoji.

Roy has to handle this like an adult, and he needs to put words to his feelings. Not horny words or babbling, stammering nonsense. Proper words, romantic and sincere. He’s just got to find the right ones.

So, Roy studies up. He marathons some rom-coms, taking notes and tearing up at all of them. He reminds himself that he’s very romantic, and he makes the conscious choice to avoid self-sabotage. Roy has to say his part, and he needs either the flirting to stop or something real to come with it, because he’s begun to care too much to go on like this for any longer.

It’s late when Jamie gets in, and he texts Roy to let him know he made it — also like they’re dating, Roy’s brain unhelpfully supplies. After a cuppa too late in the night, Roy decides that he’s not gonna go on letting his thoughts spiral, and there’s no time like the present to shoot his shot and tell the prick how he feels to his face.

And that’s the long and the short of how Roy ends up outside Jamie Tartt’s house, gazing up at his window.

He’s not got a fucking boombox, but he’s got his phone, which may or may not be loud enough, though when he’s scrolling through his library, he realises that he and Jamie not only don’t have a song, they hardly even have the same taste. Their latest debate about female pop icons of the ‘00s solidified that — they’d barely made it through that one without throttling one another.

Jamie’s questionable music opinions aside, Roy is determined to make his gesture as romantic as possible, and for that, he needs ambiance. And sometimes, that requires props and extra steps that are not inconvenient, per se, but rather additional elements that set a mood and transform what would otherwise be a doorstep emotional ambush into something undeniably sentimental and memorable.

So, instead of using the doorbell, Roy crouches down to scoop up all the pebbles he can find, and starts throwing them at Jamie’s window.

After the first few, nothing happens. Roy looks over his shoulder, ensuring no one is around, then throws a couple more.

He waits. He debates shouting Jamie’s name, but worries about the neighbours. Another pebble lands a little off-target, bouncing off his house before it falls into the shrubbery.

“Fuck.” 

Roy tries again, the next landing with a solid rap against his window. He paces a bit. Still nothing.

Another few and Roy’s a physical embodiment of supreme impatience. Dedicated to his prop, Roy pockets a few more pebbles, and, grumbling, he pulls out his phone to call Jamie. A compromise for his plans, but he can throw a few more once Jamie’s awake to ensure the gesture has a place in the story of Roy’s big sappy admission.

Jamie doesn’t pick up the phone. Roy tuts, trying again, tucking the phone between his cheek and shoulder to throw another pebble in the meantime.

No answer. Jamie’s face doesn’t appear in the window. Fucking weird.

A third time to voicemail, and, very quickly, in the way that only the absolute thick of night seems to evoke, Roy’s thoughts narrow in on the worst case scenario, fearing that Jamie is either dead or in grave danger.

A blink until he’s at Jamie’s door, punching in the four-digit code that Jamie uses for nearly everything, the idiot. He lets himself inside, calling out for Jamie as he rushes to his bedroom, tripping over himself like his paycheck for the last thirty years wasn’t entirely dependent upon his grace and agility, and when he pushes open the door, he finds the stupidly handsome piece of shit alive and sleeping on his stomach, bum proudly on display.

Roy’s face burns.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he sighs, a little taken by the sight for a moment. Then, he remembers what he’s doing. “Oi. Jamie. It’s me. I let myself in.” 

Jamie goes on snoring softly, unmoving.

“Jamie. Hey. Wake up, will you.” 

Nothing. Roy pokes him in the leg a few times without any response. He smirks at the visual of dumping cold water on his head, then thinks better of it. 

That’s about all he thinks better of doing.

“Get up,” Roy says, barely suppressing a shout. 

Jamie remains motionless and unbothered. It’s not until Roy reaches out to shake Sleeping Beauty’s foot that he gets any feedback; Jamie moans, a sweet little grumpy waking-up sound. But he doesn’t move, and Roy’s patience has dwindled.

“Get up, you muppet!” he barks, reaching to shake Jamie’s foot again. 

Jamie fucking kicks at his hand.

Roy growls. “Don’t kick me, you — ”

“Shhh!”

Roy blinks, surprised by the sound. Jamie goes on tugging the sheets over his frame, moaning again and stubbornly burrowing into his bed.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

“‘M sleep,” Jamie mumbles, face smushed against his pillow. “Go ‘way, man. Not gonna.”

Another frustrated huff escapes Roy as he looks on at Jamie. He paces a bit, considering his next strategy to get this prick out of bed so that, hopefully, he can eventually join him and maybe ruin his sleep schedule in more interesting ways. As he’s chewing on that thought, he puts his hand in his pocket to look for the dumb little speech he wrote and finds the pebbles still there. He almost laughs at his own absurdity.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he mutters again, this time to himself, as he examines the unremarkable rock. Then a bit louder, “Oi. Tartt. You missed a proper fucking scene.”

Jamie groans like a wounded animal. “Fuck off, Roy. Not trainin’. Sleepin’.”

“Come on, get up for a minute. I have something to tell you. I wanted you to come to the window.”

Roy reaches for his leg again, but Jamie squirms away from his touch and grumbles into the pillow. Roy hears something like “annoyin’.”

Frowning at this half-conscious pick he’s fallen in love with, Roy tries to remind himself that the ice bucket approach might end in blood, and then his thoughts stop in their tracks. 

An illogical, impulsive, perhaps even worse idea occurs to him, one that only the most idiotic, repressed asshole could conjure up. But once the thought is there, it’s all instinct.

Roy throws the pebble right at Jamie.

Jamie startles when it makes contact with the side of his head. 

“Ow — wuh — the fuck?”

Roy winces — he was aiming for his back — and watches Jamie tilt up, movements heavy as he reaches for his ear.

“D’you — throw somethin’?” Jamie asks, blinking away sleep.

Roy glances around the room, as if he can blame it on Jamie’s overflowing closet.

He has lost the plot entirely. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he decides to say.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Jamie says, words drawn-out and trapped inside a yawn. He rubs his eyes. “‘S four a.m.?”

“Midnight,” Roy clarifies. His only chance to recover the sentimentality of the moment will require some backtracking. “If you want, I’ll go back down and wait for you to come to the window so I can do this properly.”

Jamie begins angrily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair is in a right state. “The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout?”

“I had a plan,” Roy says, still standing at the foot of Jamie’s bed. He takes a breath. “But I’ve clearly fucked it.”

Jamie huffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Look, Coach, I’m not trainin’, I got up with ya all week and I played the full ninety today, alright, so you ain’t gonna be an arsehole an’ — ”

“I’m not here to fucking train!” Roy shouts suddenly.

“Then why’re you here?!”

Roy chews on his tongue. He refuses to babble like an idiot, this time. He knows how to fucking speak. 

“I need to tell you something.”

Jamie scoffs, seeming exasperated. “Right. Tell me something, then.”

Roy hesitates for long enough that Jamie rolls his eyes. He sighs, frustrated, falling back to the sheets. He lands with a wince. “Ow, fuck!” 

Jamie bolts back up, scowling, shifting to dig in the sheets. He finds the pebble, and turns to Roy, incredulous. 

“You threw a fucking rock at me?!”

Plausible deniability is Roy’s closest ally.

“I told you to get up.”

Jamie scoffs down at the pebble then glares at Roy. “You are fucked in the head, man!”

“Fuck off,” Roy growls. 

Jamie heats quickly, shoulders rising. “Why the hell are you ambushing me in me own fuckin’ bed?! ‘Cause if it ain’t a bloody emergency, you better get the fuck out ‘fore I call 999 for breaking and entering.”

Roy grinds his teeth. “You’re being a prick.”

“I’m the prick? You just threw a bloody rock at me!”

Roy pauses, setting his jaw. “It was a gesture.”

Jamie’s anger swells as his arms fly out, eyes widening. “What kind of a gesture is that?!”

“I was throwing them at your window!”

“My window? You threw it at my fuckin' head!”

Before Roy can respond, Jamie pelts the pebble right at Roy.

Roy manages to dodge it. “Stop it, you twat!”

“Make me,” Jamie retorts, lip curled. He turns to pick up a pillow, wielding it threateningly. 

“Don’t,” Roy warns.

And Jamie lifts a brow, and, without hesitation, launches it right at Roy’s head. 

A growl rips from Roy as he catches it and throws it to the side. Something clatters to the floor, but Jamie’s reaching for his next bit of ammo, so Roy doesn’t even hesitate before throwing the remaining pebbles in his pocket at Jamie.

“Ow, ow! Oh — Roy — stop it!”

“You’re — such — a prick!”

“I’ll — ow — I’ll smother you with a pillow next, mate, so you should — ”

Roy scrambles onto the bed before he can even get a chance. Jamie gasps in surprise when Roy climbs on top of him, and they struggle for a minute, knees bumping in the tangle. 

“You fuckin’ arsehole — ”

Roy growls, pinning Jamie’s wrists to the bed successfully. 

“Shut. Up.”

Jamie blinks up at him, furious. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

“You!”

“Me?!”

“Yes, you! You make everything so fucking difficult! I feel like I’m getting a fucking aneurysm every time I look at your stupid face! And I haven’t been able to tell you the truth and it’s driving me fucking mad!”

Jamie writhes under him. “You’re not making any sense! And I ain’t gonna let you come in my house and bully me outta me own bed ‘cause you don’t know how to communicate like a normal fucking person!”

Roy’s got fuck all to say about that. Also, their crotches are touching, causing a bit of friction with Jamie’s wiggling. This is new and distracting. 

Jamie is still resisting Roy’s hold on his wrists. “Fucking — let go of me!”

Releasing him, Roy rolls off Jamie and lands on his back with a dissatisfied huff, ignoring the pebbles digging into his traps. He takes a moment to stare up at the ceiling and consider how hopeless he is. A lost cause. Jamie’s currently heaving breaths to settle himself, and Roy wonders if he’s got his wires crossed, if all the time they’ve spent together has conflated annoyance and anger with affection and he just can’t tell the difference anymore.

Roy clears his throat, a breath sticking in his chest.

“Sorry for throwing rocks at you,” he says eventually. “That was… unnecessary.”

That earns an unimpressed scoff from Jamie, who’s rubbing at his face. 

“Mate, why're you even here? Like, what’s so important you had to come into me house and wake me up?”

Suddenly the ice bucket seems like it might’ve been the gentler approach.

And that is important, how the flood of bliss and joy he’s forever associated with the love of his life, football, and the other love of his life, winning, somehow seems intertwined with how he feels for Jamie Tartt in quite a visceral way. A lifelong intuition and passion that he’s known, chased, for his entire life. 

He thought he’d forgotten how to be in love, but maybe this, too, is all instinct.

“Tell me the truth,” Roy says. “Would dumping ice water on your head have been a better or a worse strategy?”

“I really think I might kill you,” Jamie says earnestly.

Roy barks a laugh. “Me fucking too,” he sighs.

Jamie elbows him. “That why you’re torturing me with rocks and shit? Trying to say you want me dead?”

A sharp growl rips from Roy’s throat. “No, I don’t want to actually kill you, you prick, I’m — ” Roy breaks off as he looks over, noticing that there’s only a sheet around Jamie’s hips, and he knows that under that, Jamie’s not wearing pants. But he shuts his eyes, trying not to think about that right now, because the entire point of this is — “I’m trying to be romantic!”

Jamie chokes out a surprised laugh. “You what?”

“I wanted to do the stupid rom-com shit,” Roy grits out, shoving his palms against his eyes. “And I keep ruining it. I wrote a whole speech and it’s probably fucking terrible but it’s got all the shit I want to say about how I fucking feel about you.”

“Whoa.”

Jamie rises beside him. Roy can’t look at him. “Yeah. I fucked it.”

“You… whoa,” Jamie says again. “So wait… that’s what’s been goin’ on?”

Roy drops his hands, blinking up at the ceiling with a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Figured it out a couple weeks ago. Thought you ought to know.”

He can’t say he expects Jamie to snort a laugh.

Right, so Roy’s going to be let down easy, then. Maybe Roy doesn’t deserve easy; he did undoubtedly manage the singlehandedly most unromantic love confession of all time. Fucking harassment and violence and shouting like a dickhead. Jesus Christ, Roy would laugh, too, if he wasn’t so devastated.

“Right, then. Go on,” Jamie says.

Roy takes another breath and chances a look at him. Jamie is nearly smiling down at Roy, tilting his head, expression much softer than it’d been a minute ago. From this angle, Roy can’t tell if he’s taking the piss or not.

“Go on with your speech,” Jamie nudges lightly. “I wanna hear it, Roy. Least you can do.”

Roy’s lips twitch. Okay. He can do that. He nods, then shifts up and digs around his pocket for a moment. He turns to Jamie, sobering. 

“I think I left it in the car.”

Jamie barks another laugh. “Jesus.” He rolls his eyes again, this time fonder. “Just tell me, you numpty.” 

Roy growls, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we pretend this didn’t happen?”

“Oh, come on. You embarrassed or something?”

“I’m not fucking embarrassed,” Roy snaps, infuriated by Jamie’s devilish smirk. “You’re — I — well, now I don’t wanna fucking say it!”

Jamie’s smile falls, brows narrowing. He crosses his arms. “You know what, Roy? This is your entire fuckin’ problem, you dunno how to communicate!”

Roy’s chest vibrates with another agitated growl. “Fuck! I fucking used to be able to do this shit! Or at least I could — I’ve never — this is the first — fuck. You broke my fucking brain and now I can’t stop thinking about you, and I don’t even know what to do with myself if I have to go a single fucking day without putting up with your shit. Which is — fucking — scary!”

“Roy,” Jamie sighs, trying to pull Roy in by the arm. 

Roy resists, reclaiming his wrist. “Stop.”

Jamie’s jaw tightens as he pulls back. “Y’know, this ain’t that complicated, you big baby, we can — ”

“It is! How does this make sense?! You fucking infuriate me like no one else! You make me wanna bash my head into a wall! I’m sick of fucking dealing with you, but without you, I get even fucking sicker of missing you, because being around you is — ” Roy breaks off. “You make me feel so — and your face is — you fucking — I can’t even talk to you without — without — ”

“Without what?”

Roy falls quiet. It’s like all those times before, meeting Jamie’s eyes and being stunned silent. He’s stammering, he’s fucked it, he’s an absolute idiot.

Jamie smirks, like he can see through Roy and all his bullshit, and slowly, he slides to hover over Roy.

“What is it, Kent?” Jamie says, leaning in, breath tickling Roy’s mouth. “What’ve you come to tell me, huh? How do I make you feel?”

Roy makes a weak sound that was intended as a growl, but he can’t muster any more than that. He doesn’t remember being this spellbound by someone before.

“God, I hate you,” Roy mumbles.

Jamie hums, practically a purr. “Mm, you don’t even know what you wanna say, do ya?”

“I fucking do,” Roy grits out.

“Then come on, out with it,” Jamie eggs on, so close. He lifts his chin, smirking. “What is it? Cat got your tongue? You — ”

“I’m in fucking love with you!” Roy blurts. 

Jamie’s eyes widen, face gone slack. He pushes up, eyes darting all over Roy’s face.

“You… what?”

Roy’s heart is thundering in his chest. “I can’t remember the rest of it. Something about how much of an idiot I’ve been for not realising sooner but. Yeah. That was the gist.” 

Jamie sets his jaw, looking rather serious as he looks down at him. “Shit.”

Roy sniffs, twitching under Jamie’s stunned gaze. He squirms a bit. “Can you move? There’s a rock digging into my shoulder.”

Jamie moves off of him, and Roy’s immediately in mourning for the lost proximity. He moves through the stages of grief as he wriggles around the bed, tossing stones to the floor. He hangs onto the last one, fidgeting with it as he drops back against the pillow. 

Relief washes over Roy as Jamie’s ankle links with his over the sheets, the only point of contact. Jamie folds his arm on the pillow, propping up his head. They stare at the small rock together.

“Is that really what you came to tell me?” Jamie asks after a moment. “Like, you planned to shout it up to my window like we’re in fucking Romeo and Juliet or summat?”

Roy drags out a sigh, dropping his hand to his chest. “Yes.”

Jamie breathes out a laugh. “Fuckin’ hell, Roy.” 

Still horizontal, Roy lazily throws the final stone in the direction of Jamie’s window. It skitters across the hardwood floor for one of them to trip over later. “Was a stupid idea,” he says.

“Wasn’t. I think that’s actually really sweet.”

Roy swallows. “Yeah?”

Jamie nods, chewing on his smile.

Roy is in love with Jamie, which unfortunately means the sight of his smile is rather contagious. He puts up a fair fight, though, jaw shifting, and then Jamie reaches out, cradling Roy’s face.

Then they just look at each other.

It’s silent for a few minutes as they drink each other in, and it’s like nothing Roy’s ever experienced. He expected the first kiss to be something to write home about. Roy’s fucking awesome at first kisses. But holding Jamie’s eyes in the dark and watching a slow, serene expression slowly melt into his features soothes something in Roy, deep down to his core. The enduring gaze is more intimate than Roy can fathom. He feels all that clarity of the initial realisation, but instead of the shock of ice, or even fucking lightning, given all the thunderclouds of the night, Roy feels a strange calm that comes after a storm has swept away all his thoughts. They go on smiling at each other, and Roy doesn’t feel like an idiot at all, anymore. He’s totally at peace.

“I love you, Jamie Tartt,” he whispers. “And if you’re into it, I’d like to make out about it. And… other stuff.”

Jamie grins, leaning over to press his forehead to Roy’s, fingers curling around his neck. “Fucking finally,” he sighs, gaze lingering on Roy’s mouth. When Jamie meets Roy’s eyes again, he inhales sharply before crashing their lips together.

Turns out Tartt’s a world-class snogger. Who fuckin’ knew. Roy doesn’t mean to smile through their first kiss, but he can’t help it. Jamie whines and nips impatiently at his lips until he’s grinning, too. Jamie's fingers twist in Roy's shirt as Roy moves to pepper kisses across his cheek, his temple, his brow. 

“So you’ve been waiting for me to catch up, then?”

“Mm, yeah, but ‘s alright,” Jamie says, shifting a thumb to Roy’s bottom lip. “You could definitely use a lesson on romance though, old man.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “We’ve been watching all those cheesy films. Fucking unrealistic.”

“So why d’you like ‘em so much?”

“You like them.”

“Uh, I mean, they’re alright, but I was watching ‘em ‘cause of you. You’re always making references to one’s I ain’t even seen, so like. Thought it was subtextual.”

“You mean, subliminal?”

Jamie brows knit together. “Uh… no. I mean subtextual. Pretty sure.”

Roy tilts his head, squinting. “Subtle?”

“Nah, not that.” Jamie shifts his head on the pillow, hands sliding down to tickle under the hem of Roy’s shirt. “I mean, I wondered if that was your way of sayin’ you fancied me. Like, maybe I was meant to read between the lines, y’know?”

Roy bumps their noses. “You realise all these words are basically synonyms, right?”

“Uh, no. They’ve got nuance.”

“They all make sense, though.”

“That’s not the point! And why the fuck are we arguing about words right now anyways?!”

“Because I fucking love arguing with you,” Roy growls, and bites into another kiss.