Jamie is dead fucking sure of it. Roy is going to walk it back, and say he didn't mean it or that Jamie should just fucking drop it, and Jamie will, of course he will, even if it feels like twisting a knife to do it. The rest of it doesn't really matter much when this isn't really something they can actually fucking afford, not when they're already constantly under fire by the press just for being footballers, hunted by paps for the perfect tabloid money shot and viciously picked apart by anyone with internet access that fancies themselves an expert, and everyone, everyone knows that putting a label on a good thing can ruin it faster than anything else. Jamie's greedy but not actually stupid, most of the time, because this is a good thing, better than anything he would have fucking thought he'd be able to swing when he came back to AFC Richmond, better than any long-shot fantasy or wild adolescent dream, and he doesn't need a label to enjoy it for what it is--
Roy is going to walk it back and Jamie is sure of it, because it really is the hope that fucking kills you and he doesn't dare fucking hope for anything else.
He should have just kept his mouth shut and taken the win, that Roy came all this way to see him just because Jamie told him that's what he wanted, just because Roy wanted to, and let whatever possessed Roy a moment ago to say what he said slide. Jamie knows that this thing between them, whatever it is, isn't just-- fucking easy hookups and a way to kill time between matches and training, even if maybe it was that for Roy, once. But Jamie knows that it's since evolved into something that he isn't sure he even has the proper words to really fit around when it's so much more intense and consuming than anything else he's ever experienced in his life, because Jamie's thought he's been in love before but never, ever like this, and he should have just shut his stupid fucking mouth and let it ride so he didn't have to watch Roy look at him white as a sheet like he's just seen a fucking ghost.
Roy is going to walk it back because he's already walking away, and Jamie, even now, doesn't blame him for the distance. It's fine, it'll be fine, and he's only vaguely aware there's a storm raging outside the building that probably lines up pretty well with the tangled up mess threatening to crack open inside of his chest, a knot like a fist swelling up in his throat, and it's fine. It's fine that Roy is on the other side of the room. It's fine that he's talking about fucking-- fucking water, it's fine that Roy looks more startled and unsteady than Jamie has ever seen him, it's fine that Jamie wants to fucking shout at him to just fucking talk to me, will you--
He tilts his face into the brush of Roy's fingers before he can help himself. Pavlovian, and fuck if he hasn't understood what that means more than he does now because the rest of him is wound so tight he feels like he might snap if he moves a muscle, jaw set, shoulders locked, and Roy is still talking about the wrong fucking thing, about Brazilians and apologies Jamie doesn't want, and when he starts his second sentence with another sorry, every inch of Roy looking like he's waiting for a fight, it takes everything in Jamie not to shove him away by the chest.
He's glad he doesn't, because the very next second he feels knocked flat. ]
Fucking hell.
[ It's the only thing he can manage before he all but launches himself at Roy for a kiss. It's too hard, too desperate, nearly clacking their teeth together as Jamie finds his mouth, pressing them together the way he wanted the second he saw Roy on the other side of the door. ] --don't say sorry, fucking dickhead--
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2023-06-25 01:22 pm (UTC)Jamie is dead fucking sure of it. Roy is going to walk it back, and say he didn't mean it or that Jamie should just fucking drop it, and Jamie will, of course he will, even if it feels like twisting a knife to do it. The rest of it doesn't really matter much when this isn't really something they can actually fucking afford, not when they're already constantly under fire by the press just for being footballers, hunted by paps for the perfect tabloid money shot and viciously picked apart by anyone with internet access that fancies themselves an expert, and everyone, everyone knows that putting a label on a good thing can ruin it faster than anything else. Jamie's greedy but not actually stupid, most of the time, because this is a good thing, better than anything he would have fucking thought he'd be able to swing when he came back to AFC Richmond, better than any long-shot fantasy or wild adolescent dream, and he doesn't need a label to enjoy it for what it is--
Roy is going to walk it back and Jamie is sure of it, because it really is the hope that fucking kills you and he doesn't dare fucking hope for anything else.
He should have just kept his mouth shut and taken the win, that Roy came all this way to see him just because Jamie told him that's what he wanted, just because Roy wanted to, and let whatever possessed Roy a moment ago to say what he said slide. Jamie knows that this thing between them, whatever it is, isn't just-- fucking easy hookups and a way to kill time between matches and training, even if maybe it was that for Roy, once. But Jamie knows that it's since evolved into something that he isn't sure he even has the proper words to really fit around when it's so much more intense and consuming than anything else he's ever experienced in his life, because Jamie's thought he's been in love before but never, ever like this, and he should have just shut his stupid fucking mouth and let it ride so he didn't have to watch Roy look at him white as a sheet like he's just seen a fucking ghost.
Roy is going to walk it back because he's already walking away, and Jamie, even now, doesn't blame him for the distance. It's fine, it'll be fine, and he's only vaguely aware there's a storm raging outside the building that probably lines up pretty well with the tangled up mess threatening to crack open inside of his chest, a knot like a fist swelling up in his throat, and it's fine. It's fine that Roy is on the other side of the room. It's fine that he's talking about fucking-- fucking water, it's fine that Roy looks more startled and unsteady than Jamie has ever seen him, it's fine that Jamie wants to fucking shout at him to just fucking talk to me, will you--
He tilts his face into the brush of Roy's fingers before he can help himself. Pavlovian, and fuck if he hasn't understood what that means more than he does now because the rest of him is wound so tight he feels like he might snap if he moves a muscle, jaw set, shoulders locked, and Roy is still talking about the wrong fucking thing, about Brazilians and apologies Jamie doesn't want, and when he starts his second sentence with another sorry, every inch of Roy looking like he's waiting for a fight, it takes everything in Jamie not to shove him away by the chest.
He's glad he doesn't, because the very next second he feels knocked flat. ]
Fucking hell.
[ It's the only thing he can manage before he all but launches himself at Roy for a kiss. It's too hard, too desperate, nearly clacking their teeth together as Jamie finds his mouth, pressing them together the way he wanted the second he saw Roy on the other side of the door. ] --don't say sorry, fucking dickhead--