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It's when Roy tears open a man's torso that Jamie starts to really understand.
It was stupid.
Roy and Jamie were fooling around at a big, dumb, charity thing, where they definitely shouldn't have been fooling around. They snuck away to a back room—some sort of storage situation, with furniture, tablecloths, kitchen supplies, an old ping-pong table, and a door with no lock.
Jamie didn't think that would matter. He was sure no one would come.
Opposite the way they came in, there were glass doors, with sunshine bursting through the curtains. Jamie got naked, and laid back on an old settee. Put down one of them tablecloths first, because he's an animal, but he's not an animal. Roy tugged off his shirt, tie, and jacket, and knelt down. After a few beautiful moments of bliss, the fucking door busted open, and there was old Wes Pollock—a striker from Roy's early years at Chelsea. The type of bloke a normal person might call a mate, but if there's anything Roy isn't, it's normal. Used to be strictly business and seemingly above all the Prem bullshit. Jamie knows—from knowing his man, and knowing himself—that it were much more about disgust, and self-preservation.
Roy stood up, and faced Pollock. Jamie covered himself up with the tablecloth, just sitting there stunned as Pollock started spouting nasty fucking nonsense.
In response, Roy was steady, and said, "Yeah, and I was actually really enjoying myself. Very fucking disappointed that I was interrupted."
More shit from Pollock, that Jamie only remembers as a mesh of shouted sound.
Roy grabbed something off a waist-high shelf to his right. Jamie barely noticed him do it.
"Say it again!" Roy demanded. "Fucking say it again! It'll be music to my fucking ears! Say it—"
Pollock did like Roy said, with a cruel grin, like he as the pissed gay-basher had the upper hand. Roy burst into motion—stepping forward and widening his stance and swinging his arm up and across.
Then there was blood. A lot—a lot —of blood. Jamie jolted, gripping the tablecloth tight.
Pollock screamed, and fell to the floor, clutching his stomach.
Roy picked up his shirt, wiped the handle of a big fucking chef's knife, and dropped it. The clatter rang out, along with Pollock's anguish, and the thundering of Jamie's heart. Roy put on his shirt, and nodded at Jamie. Jamie scrambled to get his clothes back on.
When Roy finished knotting his tie, he picked a ping-pong ball up off the table. "Don't get any ideas," he told Pollock, and tossed it at his head.
And then he just—walked outside.
Jamie's somehow remained totally fucking calm up until now—two days after the fact, sitting in the driver's seat of Roy's car in the hospital car park while Roy's having physical therapy.
He said he were gonna run errands during. He's not moved in forty-five minutes.
He balls up his fists, clawing at his own palms.
"Fuck!" he shouts, and pounds the wheel. "Fucking Jesus fucking Christ! Shit! God fucking damn it! Fuck! Fuck me! Oh my fucking God!" He shoves the horn, until he collapses, and cries.
Through all the excitement and contentment of getting together with his best mate, he lost track of exactly who that mate is—has been. But Jamie's always known, with over a decade of fandom under his belt, because the stories in the papers weren't just "Kent Spent After All-Night Clubbing Event", but also "Kent Trial Dismissed Due to Lack of Evidence". It's just easy to forget that shit, with how fucking domestic Roy's gone. It's strange, reconciling these two different ideas of Roy. One's the sweetest, most caring uncle the world's ever seen, the dorky coach who doesn't use a fucking whistle 'cause they give him "mouth hives", the cunty fashionista who either dresses like a goth Kardashian or a punk Skywalker. The other...Jamie and the academy lads used to put money on who Roy Kent would fuck up next. Jamie's still astounded he never got his arse beat their first season together at Richmond. Hell, Roy's sister got kicked outta academy at Tottenham for fighting, and he's got family in America because his Yiddisher great uncle had to flee the country.
Roy's gotten older, and wiser. He picks his battles. Personally and professionally, he's often in a role where he has to be the voice of fucking reason.
They don't really talk about it—how Roy used to be. How the fuck are you supposed to bring that shit up? "Which bar fight were your favourite?" "You ever think about how if red cards were donuts, you could buy yours by the fucking dozen?" "Roy, mate, remember when you almost went to prison, 'cause everyone thought you killed that bloke who stalked your nan?"
And why would Jamie even bring that shit up? Roy's just his silly boyfriend, who watches a lot of old Nigella cooking shows, treats Kermit the Frog like a holy man, and somehow seems to have more of an appetite for sucking Jamie's dick than Jamie has for getting his dick sucked.
From the start, Jamie's thought that them being together might be too good to be true. Maybe he's right.
No—it's just—
Jamie never met his grandad on his mother's side. Mummy and him are estranged. She ain't talked to him since Jamie were a twinkle in her eye. But she says he was mean. Actually, doesn't even say that—just tells Jamie horror stories about him like they're no big deal, and it were just a different time.
But it weren't just another time. He was cruel, angry, the stuff of fucking nightmares, and every reason Mummy thought James Tartt was worth shacking up with.
He fucking primed her. Taught her love is violence.
Jamie's not sure how many times his dad screamed at him over nothing, black-out drunk, until Jamie was a hyperventilating, weeping mess in a corner on the floor. How many times he knocked Jamie around a bit too hard for it to be funny.
What did that prime him for?
What did that teach him?
Is he safe?
He doesn't want to be thinking like this. He loves Roy. Ain't nothing ever felt as right as being with him. Roy must be good. Jamie must be safe.
Fucking why did Roy do what he did to Pollock?
Maybe it was all those years in the closet, not out to anyone, including himself. Jamie gets to feeling fucking mad about all that shit, too—it's not like he's had it easy, it's not like things now are anywhere close to easy—but Roy's got over a decade more of it. That's one of the only ways their age difference actually seems to matter. Roy started at academy at nine, back when academy was really fucking nasty business. He was alive, when Fashanu killed himself. He was paying attention to the news, when the Civil Partnership Act passed. He felt all the years of absence, before Rogers came out.
As much as it fucking rattled him, Jamie really can't blame Roy for making a bigot bleed—protecting them, and getting revenge on one man for four decades of torture.
Jamie leans his head back. He glances at the rearview, and sees Roy walking to the car.
Roy taps on the passenger window with a smile. Jamie unlocks the door. Roy gets in, and swings his cane around to put it in the back footwell. Jamie leans away to give him room, but he doesn't flinch.
"Didn't end up doing a shop," Jamie mutters.
Roy looks at him. "No worries." He shrugs. "We'll order groceries."
"Even though that means a stranger will have to pick out your tomatoes?" Jamie knows Roy fucking hates that.
"Who gives a fuck about tomatoes?" Roy leans over to kiss Jamie's cheek.
Jamie heaves a big sigh—something that feels like genuine calm, and reassurance. He starts the car.
The next day, Jamie's sitting on the couch watching The Frisco Kid, while Roy sits on the carpet in front of him like a fucking dog, and reads his book. He's doing A Wrinkle In Time again. He reads it every year now, on account of how much he fucking loves it, and how quickly he can get through it. He says it centres him.
Jamie's fingers are in Roy's hair. He's lightly dragging his nails across his head. He'd play with the curls, but Roy says it reminds him of all the people that used to touch his hair without permission; including his mum, whose eyes Jamie would press his fucking thumbs into given half a chance.
Roy's phone dings. He groans, and walks over to the kitchen to grab it. He comes back into the living room, staring at his phone. He stands next to the couch, at the end opposite Jamie. He scoffs, and shakes his head.
"You...fucking...arsehole..." Roy mumbles as he types. "You're not...going to fucking...blackmail me. I will...cut out...your fucking tongue...you bastard. I hate you. You are...the worst. Go fuck yourself...you disgusting...waste...of flesh."
That pulls a laugh out of Jamie, 'cause if there's one thing his baby can always do, it's make him laugh.
But he ain't smiling long. He swallows, and stares out the window. It's a beautiful fucking day out. It almost don't feel right.
"Roy?" Jamie starts, fixating on the light of the lime tree out front.
"Yeah?"
"Did you murder that bloke, back in the day?"
At Roy's silence, Jamie turns to see Roy's expressionless face.
"No," Roy says. Jamie doesn't know how to feel.
Roy walks back over, and lowers himself to the ground. He picks up his book, opens it, and leans back against Jamie.
"It's like my nan taught me," Roy says. He turns a page. "It's not murder when it's a fucking Nazi."
Jamie rubs his lip, and looks back out the window. He smiles, returning his hand to its rightful place on Roy's head, knowing he's perfectly safe.