Chapter Text
Jamie Tartt's Richmond residence was nothing short of a shrine to minimalism. The extensive hardwood floors mirrored his soul in a sense—both vast, a bit empty, and echoing with the remnants of unspoken feelings. It's a testament to the youthful vigour and the not-so-subtle dash of arrogance. But today, those floors were witness to an entirely different Jamie.
Upon waking, Jamie had the gleam of an adolescent—giddy, euphoric, and dare we say, in love? Our dear Jamie would never say so outright, for Jamie, with all his intelligence or lack thereof, had decided that his sweat-inducing run had cleansed his feelings. But who can blame him? After all, a hug, a brunch, a few flirty texts, what was that but two men sharing space and time? But, sometimes, it's in the most mundane gestures that deep-rooted passions find their way to the surface.
In just his socks, Jamie pranced, twirled, and leapt, using a hairbrush as his make-believe microphone. One could argue that his jig had a touch of the ridiculous. Yet, his ardour was unmistakable. He daydreamed of warm winter nights, hot chocolate, shared scarves, all with Roy. If one listened closely, you could almost hear the soft hum of "Roy and Jamie" in every note that resonated in the air.
Then, a forceful pounding echoed through the house, clashing heavily with the light-hearted notes of Jamie's playlist. Reality, often in its most inconvenient form, was making its presence known.
Isn't it just like life, though? Just when you're engrossed in your own delightful world, reality comes knocking, sometimes quite literally.
If ever there was a time that Jamie wished he could slip into the wooden floor of his expensive Richmond home, this was it. Though quite forceful, the pounding was the least of his concerns now. ""Oi, who's the fuckin' muppet knockin' on me door at this time? Proper cheeky, that!" Jamie grumbled, his Mancunian accent lending a musical annoyance to the statement.
And thus, without the usual peek into his state-of-the-art security system, Jamie dashed towards the door, the swish of his hastily worn dressing gown echoing his brisk pace. One really shouldn't get too lost in thoughts of scowling, handsome individuals when there's a mystery guest at the door. But alas, the heart, or in Jamie's case, the slightly distracted mind, wants what it wants.
However, the handsome smile, the very one that would rival the brightness of the morning sun, faded rather quickly upon opening the door. It wasn't the chiselled face of a certain Roy that greeted him, but the stern, unyielding visage of his father, stinking of stale whisky and the floor of some shady pub.
"Morning, son," the elder Tartt sneered, the tone dripping with unspoken critiques. "Why're you prancing around dressed like a poof, eh? And what's with that bloody music? I didn't raise me a fucking queer!"
The world, Jamie felt, must have an odd sense of humour. Of all the mornings to be caught in the midst of his private euphoria! And by his dad, no less.
Jamie swallows thickly, the taste of his morning protein shake lingering, making the lump in his throat more pronounced. His knees betray him, shaking slightly, which in itself is ridiculous – wasn't he an adult? But then, life, with its ironies and seemingly outlandish jokes, had a way of reminding you of how fragile you were, especially when you stood in front of James Tartt. Memories, those malleable bits of past, flooded him – of a younger James, looming and fearsome.
"Dad?" Jamie's voice, usually so filled with self-assured arrogance, wavered. The Mancunian accent he carried thickened under the pressure, like cream about to curdle. "What d'ya want?"
James, older now but no less intimidating, stepped closer to his son. There was a slight disparity in their heights, but James never saw it that way. He tilted his head upwards, looking directly into Jamie's eyes. The intimacy of the proximity was stifling, and the noxious smell of James's breath did little to alleviate the unease. There was a hint of stale alcohol and days of disregard. "Don't be such a little prick," James spat out. "Invite me in. Am your dad, ain't I? Not going to stand 'ere on the bloody doorstep of your ickle faggot house. No offence, no offence, kiddo, only joking, innit."
The word 'faggot' was thrown like a grenade, a reminder of the world he came from, the world he was very much still in. There was resentment there, a gap that had grown over the years. There were so many things unsaid, years of accumulated baggage. A lot like the unresolved tension brought forward by Roy. But now, in the wake of James' arrival, they became mere footnotes.
Wouldn't it be something if life were more straightforward? If people just said the first stupid thought that fell into their heads, like James? But that wasn't the case, was it? Everyone was always dancing around the truth, always afraid to cross that line. As for Jamie and Roy, well, they had their own dance to finish.
"Why're you just standing there gawping, eh?" With its tone of menace, James's voice wrapped itself around the words, squeezing them tight before they were released. Without warning, he took a swing at Jamie, the impact landing on Jamie's stomach. It was meant to be playful, or so James's mind might have rationalised, but intentions and reality are often at odds. With James, his 'playful' was another man's painful.
The wind left Jamie in a rush, replaced by a sharp pang of distress. It was more than just the physical pain; it was the accumulated weight of years, the times when words became fists, when love was expressed as dominance. It was all there, in that single punch.
"Man up," James sneered, as if the force of his blow could somehow forge resilience in his son.
As the elder Tartt walked past his son, he looped his arm around Jamie's neck, pulled the shaking younger man into the house, and kicked the door behind him.
James tightened his arm around Jamie's neck, a vice of dominance, remnants of years of unspoken conflicts. And as the older man's arm flexed with the strength of years of pub brawls, he ruffled Jamie's hair, each motion rough, a gesture that might have been affectionate between others but was clearly nothing of the sort now.
"Where are your fancy Richmond bodyguards, eh?" James laughed, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed the alleys of Jamie's memories. "Got so high and mighty, and can't even handle your old man, you poof."
With a swift, brutal motion, James's hand shifted from Jamie's neck to his hair, yanking him downwards. The world tilted for Jamie, and then he was on the cold, hard floor, the familiar and contemptuous face of his father leaning close.
"You punch like a pussy," James whispered, his voice dripping with derision. "Oi, lad! You listening? Need a whole bloody footie team behind ya just to face your old man, eh?"
Inside Jamie, the turmoil was profound. Each taunt, each cruel jest, was a knife twist, unravelling him thread by thread. He was trapped, not just by his father's physical dominance but by a labyrinth of emotional wounds and unspoken words.
And yet, the ghost of Roy Kent hovered on the periphery of Jamie's consciousness, a silent witness to this tragic mess he became, a reminder of a recent moment when touch was not about power, but vulnerability.
With a cruel satisfaction, James applied more pressure, pushing Jamie's face harder against the unforgiving floor. "Oi, Jamie boyo, why you always playin' like a soft git?" he growled. "Always passin', eh? Think you're bein' a team player? That's for mugs, not for my lad. Not for the son of James bloody Tartt."
It was clear that Jamie's professional accomplishments were mere reflections, distorted and twisted in the tarnished mirror of James's ego. Every accolade, every move on the field was taken as a personal affront, a betrayal of what James believed to be the Tartt legacy.
In a swift, vicious move, James grabbed Jamie's hair, pulling him upwards momentarily, just enough to offer a brief respite before violently smashing his head back down. The contact was brutal, a blinding difference from the fleeting moment of kindness Roy offered a few days ago, and Jamie couldn't suppress the instinctive cry that escaped his lips.
James leaned in, a smirk playing on his lips. "Eh? What's that then?" He mocked, the tone dribbling with ridicule, and the smell of years of poor oral hygiene. "Oi, you blubberin' now, are ya?"
Somewhere in the shadowed corridors of Jamie's mind, amidst the pain and humiliation, the thought of Roy lingered. Would Roy ever understand the weight of these moments, the heavy yoke of family legacy? Or would he forever remain an outsider, disgusted by how pathetic Jamie was?
James's mirthless laughter echoed in the spacious hall as he stood tall, taking a step back and casting a sneering glance at Jamie. To add insult to injury, he hawked and spat contemptuously on his son's face, the glob of saliva landing with a sickening splat. There's something inherently degrading about being spat on — even more so by a family member. A gesture intended to debase, to belittle.
Attempting to distance himself from this figure of cruelty, Jamie began to shuffle backward, as he rubbed the spit of with the back of his hand. But before he could find a safe distance, the dirty sole of James's boot came down hard on Jamie's ankle, effectively immobilising him. The weight was unbearable, and Jamie's voice broke into a desperate plea. "Dad, just leave off, please!"
Yet, the plea was met with laughter, cold and sadistic. "If you're gonna play soft, might as well do it on one bloody ankle. Still play better than the rest of ya so called team mate," James taunted. The intense pain, the merciless mortification, Jamie's opposition started to crumble, and tears slopped down his cheeks. His father's relenting was brief. "Just a joke, son," he said with mocking levity, releasing Jamie's ankle. But there was no real respite in that act.
Struggling to gain some semblance of control, Jamie hoarsely said, "Please, just leave."
His father's response was immediate. "Once I get what's due to me, lad. Your old man's owed a bit after that cheap shot you gave me. You punch like ya mam. Always was a soft lad, eh? Cover yourself up ya queer!"
Jamie swallowed against his bone dry mouth as he pulled his dressing to cover his modesty.
It was always about money with James, and Jamie, though broken and in pain, understood this. His voice quivered, but it carried a tinge of defiance, "How much?"
But before the question was fully out, James lunged forward, sending a brutal kick into Jamie's abdomen. As Jamie doubled over, James leaned down, his voice menacingly soft, "Twenty grand, lad. Transfer it now. And watch your mouth, kiddo. Don't forget who you're chattin' to. I brought you into this world, I can take you out."
Stifling his pain, Jamie nodded and retrieved his phone, his fingers trembling as he accessed his banking app. But the cruelty wasn't over; a warmth, vile and unexpected, splashed near Jamie. Glancing up, Jamie's face contorted in revulsion — James was urinating on the floor, moving closer, with each step an act of dominance. The boundaries of father and son, decency and debasement, blurred into an unfathomable atrocity as James moved the stream to splash in Jamie's lap.
James laughed, the shrill sound made more vile by the notification ping from his phone, signifying the received payment. Straightening up, he gave Jamie a final contemptuous look as he directed the last of the stream in Jamie's face. "Show some backbone when you play, lad. I don’t wanna have ta give you another lesson," he said with a snide grin, making his way to the exit. "Catch you later, son."
The polished floorboards of the room, replete with their wear and tales of years gone by, seemed to groan in sympathy as Jamie's tears cascaded, each one a testament to his broken spirit. The sharp stench of the piss clung to him, a cruel and disgusting reminder of his father's hatred. Every instinct, every fibre of Jamie's being was pushing him towards escape, withdrawal, anywhere but here — the nexus of his suffering.
Unexpectedly, James turned and clicked his dirty fingers, an abrupt sound in the heavy silence that had Jamie's muscles coiling in anxiety. The father's command was barked, devoid of warmth or patience: "On your feet." Like a puppet on strings, Jamie complied, though the posture he assumed was one of defeat, of utter weariness.
The ensuing moments seemed to stretch, each second heavy with tension. Navigating around the acrid pool he'd created on the floor, James's voice, edged with that dangerous tone, sliced through the air, "Say sorry." It was a demand, not a request.
Confusion mixed with the fear evident in Jamie's voice. "You what?" The words came out, incredulous, as Jamie tried to process the brashness of the demand.
His father's face — a terrain of scars, both emotional and physical, and traces of habitual drug abuse — tightened. A deadly silent communication passed between the two, and Jamie, feeling the weight of his father's glare, surrendered. The words were whispered, almost lost in the vastness of the room: "Sorry, Dad."
Then, as if the cruelty wasn't enough, James smiled — a gesture that should signify warmth, but in this instance was anything but. It was a harbinger of something more sinister. Before Jamie could register the movement, a fist connected with his nose. Pain exploded. The world tilted, and Jamie, off-balance, lost his footing on the wet floor. The sound of his father's mocking laughter followed him down, as pain burned in his hip, the foul liquid coating his well trained legs.
Then, with the abruptness of a summer storm, it was over. The slam of the door, forceful and echoing, signalled James's exit.
The room around Jamie seemed to close in, the muted shades of the walls blurring as the coppery taste of blood mingled with his salty tears. The contrast was palpable: the cold touch of the wall against his skin, the fiery sting of his wounded pride and broken body and the noxious smell of piss that betrayed the poor health of the body it left. The oppressive silence was interrupted only by the rhythmic drip of blood from his nose, each droplet echoing the profound sadness and humiliation he felt.
How did it come to this? The young Mancunian, so often filled with bluster and arrogance, was now reduced to a trembling wreck. It had been years since Jamie had been at the mercy of his father's volatile temper to this extent. Those memories, seemingly buried deep, now resurfaced, hitting him with the force of a freight train. It was a bitter pill to swallow that despite Jamie's professional growth and the facade he displayed to the world, he was still a helpless child in such moments.
But the mind has its own peculiar ways of seeking refuge. Jamie's consciousness began to pull away from the pain, taking him back to the simpler times. Times when football was just a game, and Roy Kent was merely an idol, not the complex individual who'd come to mean so much more. The very thought of Roy seemed to provide a balm to Jamie's wounded soul.
Yet, that temporary reprieve was fleeting. The raw truth of the present moment pulled him back, and all Jamie could do was rest his head against the cold wall, shutting out the world as he let the numbing embrace of shock envelop him.
A slender shaft of pale sunlight sliced through the gloom, casting a diffuse glow upon Jamie's quivering hand. The phone, an extension of Jamie's persona, now became a lifeline, its buzz an alarm bringing him back from the bleak abyss he had sunk into.
The name 'Roy' flashed on the screen. Ah, Roy. In its cruel jests, the universe had a way of mixing pain with relief. Just hours ago, the very proximity of Roy Kent had been a source of such bewildering confusion for Jamie. And now, the mere name on a screen threatened to tear open all those carefully sealed emotions.
No longer masked under the ironic 'Grandad' moniker in Jamie's phone, Roy's presence was now naked, unfiltered. A simultaneous source of solace and anguish. A text, so insignificant in the grand tapestry of life, but in Jamie's current state, it felt monumental.
What did Roy want? Why now? Did he sense Jamie's distress? Or was it a simple message, ignorant of the storm Jamie was weathering? These questions pierced Jamie's mind with the sting of a thousand needles.
08:43
Oi you little shit! Where the hell are you hiding? Drag your lazy arse to training, you bloody prima donna.
BW - Roy Kent
The digital realm of Jamie's phone promised an escape, but instead, it became a theatre for his mental conflict. Torn between wanting to maintain the facade with Roy and the trauma of his dad's visit, Jamie's fingers hesitated over the screen. The room bore silent witness to this battle, where words became both a weapon and a shield.
As he began to type, memories of James' mocking jeers intruded, uninvited, into his consciousness. The word 'poof' echoed grotesquely, the ridicule clawing at Jamie's self-esteem, stripping him of his bravado. The sharpness of those insults contrasted jarringly with the soft warmth he had felt with Roy the day before. It was a seesaw of emotions, tipping Jamie this way and that.
The message he typed was far from what he wished to convey, but it was shaped by raw anger and pain. A flick of a thumb sent it, not to Roy but into the ether of unsent frustrations. Then, with a surge of exasperation, he hurled his phone. The resulting thud was a tangible manifestation of his internal disarray.
Determined, Jamie stood, his every step toward the shower echoing the urgency of a man wanting to wash away the day's events. The idea of scalding hot water seemed inviting, not for the pain it promised, but for the temporary relief from his chaotic thoughts.
08:52
Why don't you just do one Grandad? Try one of my leftovers you can actually handle. Might be your speed you washed up relic. 💀
Roy's phone buzzed, a concise message from Jamie flashing on the screen, sharp and unlike the boy's usual teasing nature. The words, "washed up relic," stood out, stinging more than they ought to. It wasn't in the playful jabs they so often threw at each other. No, this felt raw, aggressive.
He observed the team from a distance, their movements fluid and rehearsed, punctuated by the odd command of Coach Beard. Meanwhile, Ted's enthusiasm echoed, misplaced and incongruous in its brightness.
Something had shifted. As Roy's mind continually replayed the unexpectedly prolonged embrace, the surge of emotions it roused, he found himself continually drifting to Jamie and that insufferable chiselled jaw. As much as he resisted, concern gnawed at him. Jamie was a lot of things: daft, cheeky, impudent. But to fire off a message like that? It didn't sit right.
"Hey there, buddy, you seen Jamie around?" Ted inquired, approaching Roy, a small bounce in his step.
It wasn't like Roy to shelter Jamie from any kind of consequence, but the unsettling weight of the previous day's brunch, combined with this new twist, had him on edge. "Said he's not feeling well," Roy grunted in reply, "Won't be coming today."
Ted's brows raised in concern, that characteristic optimism burning as ever, "Well, I reckon I'll head on over and bring him some soup. I mean, who doesn't love a good bowl of soup, right?"
Roy could only manage a curt response, the walls he had erected around himself long ago pulsing with vulnerability, "The fuck you will. Leave him alone."
Ted paused, a hint of surprise and hurt in his eyes but quickly masked by understanding. "Well, alright then. Just wanted to help out, but I'll respect that. Let me know if there's anything else I can do," he said softly, nodding.
Roy turned back to the field, thoughts consumed by the complexity of emotions stirred up by that Mancunian fool. His mood, already on the fringe from the earlier exchange, took a step forward. The intensity in his gaze, fierce and unyielding, was impossible to ignore. "Whistle!" he bellowed, his voice slicing through the air.
The team, mostly like ducks awaiting command, halted. Their bodies, tense with anticipation, looked on.
"Why fuck does it look like my fucking niece's Sunday fucking league team warming up?" The tone of his voice made it clear; it wasn't a simple observation but a call to arms.
Isaac, perhaps mistaking the biting remark for jest, let out an audacious chuckle. Without missing a beat, Roy's glower fixed on him. "What the fuck are you laughing at, McAdoo?"
A simultaneous, playground-like "ooo" emanated from the rest of the team. "Whistle!" Roy shouted again, silencing them. He commanded the sternest of exercises: "Ten suicide sets, then twenty burpee circuits. Last bastard to finish? Well, enjoy washing the kit for a week."
Montlaur muttered something under his breath. His French accent was thick, but Roy's ears caught a familiar name: "Jamie."
Roy's posture stiffened, his patience wearing thin got right up in the Frenchman's face. "What the fuck did you just say?" he inquired, squaring up to Montlaur.
"Why is it that Jamie, he skips the training?" Montlaur retorted defiantly.
Roy's glare intensified, but inside was a turmoil of emotions, primarily driven by his complicated sentiments for Jamie. The exterior, however, was pure Roy Kent: "For that fucking cheek, you can do an extra ten sets of suicide runs. And good fucking luck on where you finish."
With another sharp cry of "Whistle!", Roy watched as the men immediately scattered, attempting to meet his demanding standards.
The field buzzed with the hum of Roy's drills and Ted's incessant optimism. But as Roy stood, central amidst the chaos, he felt like an island, isolated by the rush of thoughts centred around Jamie. Ted's broad grin, which seemed to stretch from one end of Richmond to the other, did nothing to quell the uneasy knot forming in Roy's gut. In fact, it made it tighten.
The morning air, bracing and chilly, slashed across Roy's face, waking him up to the present but also serving as a painful reminder of the years he had spent on this field, and the toll it had taken. A sudden pang in his knee acted as a grim reminder, drawing out a muffled curse. "Fuck," he growled, more out of frustration at his distracted mind than the physical discomfort.
Training sessions without Jamie's cocky presence were rare, and today, it was unsettling. Was it the prolonged hug? The brunch? Or the lack of Jamie's sharp-witted retorts? It was hard to tell, but Roy could no longer feign indifference.
"I'm going to check on Tartt," he muttered, almost an afterthought, to Ted.
Ted tried to reply, likely with his ever-present optimism, but Roy was already gone. Each step toward Jamie's residence felt like he was grappling with the very nature of their relationship. Jamie fucking Tartt, of all the people, had found a way into Roy's angst-riddled thoughts.
In Richmond's rather posh abode, Jamie knelt amidst the cascading water, the shower's mechanical hum and the drop-pat of droplets providing no comfort. Nearby, a dressing gown, muddied with his father's disgrace, sprawled like a rejected lover. Was this what it had come to? Using a household scourer in a desperate bid to wipe away memories, to erase the touch, the shame? A cleaner meant for shower limescale formed bubbles on his skin. Jamie grappled with the intangible, wishing that mental scars could be rubbed away just as easily.
Though meant to be soothing, the water felt like a torrent of emotions washing over him. But no matter how much he tried to rinse away his past, his history, his very essence, some stains refused to be cleansed.
Twisting the taps to their maximum, Jamie allowed more water, hotter and more forceful, to pour down upon him. Two empty bottles of some exquisite body wash—gifts, perhaps, from past lovers or just indulgences he afforded himself—lay defeated on the floor. They were empty, much like him.
His tears—indistinguishable from the shower's water—flowed freely. It was a silent scream, a raw, primal pain; a wounded animal's cry echoing within the confines of ceramic tiles. He gazed down at his reddening skin, momentarily finding aesthetic value in the hue. But that fleeting admiration was overshadowed by his overwhelming self-loathing.
He stood up, as if trying to regain some semblance of control or dignity, hastily wrapping a towel around his waist. The mirror revealed a visage marred by life's cruelties; eyes reddened and swollen from tears, and the bridge of his nose slightly misshapen. Staring at his reflection, Jamie whispered his self-condemnation: "Ugly. Such an ugly boy."
Disgusted with the face that peered back, he spat at his own image, the thick saliva trickling down the glass. "You fucking faggot".
With a weary sigh, he exited, leaving behind a steam-filled room and a shower that wept its endless tears, much like its user.
The vastness of his home seemed, in some perverse way, to mirror the emptiness Jamie felt within. Every corner echoed the fragility of a self-image that wavered with the slightness of a cobweb in the breeze. Did he truly earn any of this? Or was it all just a facade, like the grandeur that surrounded him? Such thoughts haunted Jamie, like persistent shadows that even the brightest lights couldn't chase away.
His footsteps, hesitant at times, carried him to his drinks cabinet—an ode to his frivolous spending. Rows of meticulously curated, expensive bottles gleamed at him. Each one had its own story, its own lure. But it was the vanilla vodka, with its incongruous mixture of innocence and bite, that he felt drawn to. It seemed, at that moment, the perfect emblem of his own dichotomy: a supposed man with the spirit of a confused child.
Walking with the bottle cradled like a precious relic, Jamie reached the fireplace. With a mere click, flames arose, casting dancing shadows and momentarily banishing the room's gloom. The fire's warmth, however, was a stark difference from the chill he felt deep in his bones.
Seating himself with his back to the large sofa, cushion nestled beneath him, Jamie unscrewed the bottle cap. The first swig was an assault, a mix of scalding burn and the deceptive sweetness of vanilla. He coughed violently on his second attempt, the liquid refusing to go down smoothly. Through watering eyes, he mocked himself: "What's become of you, Tartt? Can't even stomach a bleedin' drink anymore. What a bloody disgrace you are."
Jamie's innards had been relatively devoid of nourishment, save for that solitary protein drink. Therefore, the vodka's assault was both swift and potent, coursing through his veins, blurring the edges of his reality. Each subsequent gulp, while no less harsh, seemed to slide down easier, probably aided by the numbing haze settling over him. Yet the revolt inside his belly reminded him of the discord that seemed to rule his life.
His hands flailed about, almost comically, in search of his phone—a lifeline to the world outside this room. But then, like a bolt, the memory struck him. In a fit of anger and desolation, he had hurled it, all because of a message from Roy. The madness of it all was not lost on Jamie. That the very person whose validation he unconsciously sought was also the trigger for such outbursts.
Thinking of Roy stirred a mirthless chuckle from Jamie's lips. The idea that someone like him could match Roy Kent's stature was ludicrous. In Jamie's besotted eyes, Roy was the archetype of manhood. A figure who exuded strength, yet beneath that gruff exterior, one could sense glimpses of a kind-hearted soul. And intelligence? Despite Roy's limited words, his sharpness was evident. The divide between them, in Jamie's intoxicated perspective, seemed as vast as an ocean.
In a moment of raw, inexplicable emotion, Jamie's laughter pierced the room's melancholy stillness. There, amidst opulence and isolation, he found the world's absurdities laid bare, and how could he not laugh? How could he not mock the grand theatre of existence, where emotions played hide and seek, and relationships were the cure and the ailment?
It wasn't a joyous sound but a laugh that tore at the seams of sanity. Jamie, caught in the whirlwind of his life's contradictions, found everything—his heartache, his ambitions, the very fabric of existence—so incredibly, ludicrously senseless.
Roy's fingers paused over his phone, rereading Keeley's stark reply: just an address and gate code. Their communication had been reduced to this terse exchange, a reflection of the chasm that had grown between them since their last brunch. While the casual observer might mistake his muttered "Fucking hell" for a mere reflex, the truth was far more profound. It was an acknowledgment of his blunders, a sting felt keenly by the typically stoic Roy Kent, and a yearning for some semblance of redemption. What a prick he was. Texting Keeley for Jamie's address was the first thing he had texted since their spat at the 144.
Within minutes of popping the prick's address into his satnav, Roy was weaving through the labyrinthine streets of Richmond, which became an unexpected reflection of his tumultuous inner state. On the surface, there was the sharp focus of his intent: find Jamie, discern the cause of the abrupt change. Beneath, however, lay a more complex terrain. Concern wasn't merely propelling him; it was curiosity and an undeniable pull towards the young footballer.
The Da Vinci Code, with its layers of mysteries and betrayals, became the unexpected backdrop to Roy's own convoluted narrative. As Jeff Harding's voice spun tales of secrets and societies, Roy felt a strange kinship with the story. He too was embroiled in a tale of emotions and misjudgments, teetering on the brink of revelations.
Roy furrowed his bushy brows as he approached Jamie's residence: a fortress-like edifice that oozed opulence, barricaded by dark iron gates. For a brief moment, the audaciousness of the structure struck Roy as a physical representation of Jamie's inflated ego. "What a fucking prick."
But beneath that thought, a tinge of envy, perhaps, or an admiration that Roy would vehemently deny. After all, the walls we build, be it of bricks or iron or pride, are but defences against the vulnerabilities we harbour.
With a heavy sigh, the gruff man muttered another curt remark as he punched in the access code and waited for the ridiculous gates to open before driving down the long driveway.
Roy's gaze settled on the extravagant sports cars lined up with an ostentation unmistakably Jamie as he parked his G63. The young man's propensity for splurging was unmistakable. "Should've had a fucking word with the prick about this ages ago," he murmured, his boots crunching against the gravel as he swung his legs out of his car.
The oversized front door, designed more for show than function, loomed in front of him. The silence that met his ring was irritating but predictable. Moments spent waiting felt like hours. He knocked, then waited again. Silence. An impatient grunt escaped him as he checked his phone, realising he'd changed Jamie's contact name from "Prince Prick" to just "Jamie." The voicemail, filled with Jamie's Mancunian drawl, did nothing to improve his mood. Almost as a final attempt, Roy tried the door and found it unexpectedly ajar. The rich scents of vanilla and sandalwood enveloped him as he stepped in, but beneath it all was a jarring stench, sharp and unpleasant. Piss, or something akin to it, Roy figured.
Roy's eyes scanned the overwhelming accumulation of trainers in the unforgiving coldness of Jamie's grand house, with the historical walls bearing silent witness to countless private turmoils. It was the sort of opulence that brought him amusement and a subtle disdain. Life had taught Roy to find meaning in simplicity, and the sight of those shoes was everything but that.
"Christ," he thought, with a twitch of his eyebrow, "how many fucking trainers does the prick need?"
Yet, as the grandeur of the entrance hall tried to impose its significance on Roy, the same invasive odour clung to the air, stronger now, a scent rousing his deepest worries. It hinted at degradation, of something amiss. The stench was unsettlingly familiar from years on the field and in the locker rooms — the distinct smell of piss, as Roy had suspected.
Scanning the hall, Roy could see the dried remains and wondered if Jamie had gotten so steamed he thought his hall was a toilet, just as Roy heard a voice.
With each step, he traced the soulful echo of the voice — Jamie's voice. It was more of a wail than a song, imbued with sorrow and coated in alcohol. The acoustics of the house magnified the pitiable melody, leading Roy to its origin. What met his eyes was a scene quite contrasting to the grandeur he'd walked through.
There, in the middle of a room as vast as a ballroom, was Jamie, stark bollock naked, vulnerable, with a bottle cradled close. Life, it seemed, had stripped Jamie of more than just his clothes. Roy's eyes widened in shock, but he was careful not to let his gaze linger for too long on the naked form before him. Still, there was an unvoiced acknowledgement of Jamie's physique, a blush he wouldn't admit to, and certainly wouldn't allow Jamie to see.
"Fuuuuuk," Roy exhaled, the syllable stretched in disbelief. It wasn't a mere expletive but an encapsulation of every complex emotion storming within him.
Taking a step, cautious and weighed with concern, Roy managed, "Tartt, what the fuck?" It wasn't just a question; it was an attempt to bridge the gap between them, to pull Jamie out from whatever abyss he'd fallen into.
At his voice, Jamie, like a scared animal caught off guard, jumped. He staggered, clumsy and panicked, seeking refuge behind the large sofa. Roy's heart ached seeing Jamie, the arrogant young man he knew, so broken.
The room remained charged with tension, two souls grappling with emotions neither were ready to face.