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It’s three months later, three months since Jamie’s breakdown, and their making up, it’s been good. Been fucking incredible actually. And if he’d thought that what they’d had before had been nice? This whole being in a demonstrative, loving relationship thing was fucking heaven.
Despite assuring them repeatedly that he actually had felt loved before - that was part of the problem, he’d felt so cared about that it made him feel like he was going delusional - Roy and Keeley were very determined to never again let Jamie doubt how much he meant to them. Better still, he was allowed to act on every fond feeling that he’d been tamping down, and yeah, it had just been perfect. Not to mention Sexy December 28th. Jesus.
Jamie’s naked and lying on his stomach facing the foot of the bed, finally reading the Da Vinci Code. It’s a frankly terrible book about a holy grail and creepy monks and the Virgin Mary, and Roy swears it’s fucking brilliant. Honestly, Jamie is judging him a bit, but his enthusiasm is pretty endearing.
Roy’s sat leaning against the headboard, boxers on, one hand absentmindedly squeezing Jamie’s right foot as he browses on his laptop, thumb pressing into Jamie’s arch just right. Roy, Jamie has happily learned, adores taking care of Jamie’s feet. Keeley’s in the en suite doing her face. She’s got a product launch party tonight, but she’s taking Rebecca as her date, so Roy and Jamie are off the hook.
They’re planning on ordering takeout from that burger place that Keeley doesn’t like, and then Jamie’s hoping Roy’ll be up for round two, old man that he is. Though, he admits, just making out in front of the telly, with no urgency to it? Sometimes that's pretty fucking great.
And if it does get Jamie too worked up every now and then, well, Roy watching Jamie jerk off in the shower? Pretty fucking great too. What can he say? He's 25.
Roy swats Jamie on the thigh. “Oi, come up here and tell me what you think about this?”
Jamie grumbles, but he crawls up to sit next to him and looks at the laptop screen. “It’s a bed?” It is, indeed, a bed, covered in dark purple fabric.
“Yeah, but what do you think of it?” Roy pushes. He’s playing with options on the website, flicking between two massive bedhead add-ons.
“I mean it looks good? But what’s wrong with the one you’ve got? Got good memories of this one.” Jamie smirks, patting the padded pink headboard. Roy just rolls his eyes.
“Well, Jamie,” he drawls, “If you’re going to be moving in this summer, I thought maybe it was time to get a bigger bed. One that'll fit us all more comfortably. This is a custom size. From Sweden. There’s an 8 week lead time. It’ll probably get held up at customs. Fucking Brexit.” And Jamie’s heart is immediately in his throat.
“Roy!” Keeley shouts from the bathroom, and then she’s standing in the doorway glaring daggers at him. “Royston-”
“Not actually my name.”
“Royston Fucking Kent. Have you learnt nothing? Remember when had that very serious conversation about using our words, and not making assumptions, and being very fucking explicit about what we’re asking?”
And Roy actually flushes, looks sheepish. “Sorry, babe.”
Keeley just shakes her head. “Do you maybe want to try that again?”
Roy turns to Jamie, who’s starting to remember how to breathe again. “Jamie Tartt. This is me, Roy Kent, clearly and explicitly asking you if you would consider moving in with Keeley and I when the season’s over? We’ll have to be careful about how it looks, but we would really like it if we could always have you around. If that’s something you'd want, too.”
“Yes.” It took him a second, but Jamie’s caught up, and he doesn’t have to think about his answer. “Yes, I want that. I definitely fucking want that!”
And then he launches himself at Roy, kissing him, and pulls away to kiss Keeley too, who’s moved to join them on the bed. He hopes Rebecca won’t mind her being late. “I really, really fucking want that.”