#90n

Roy, gripping his phone like he'll die if he lets go, shakes his head and turns away, making his way to the corridor on shaky legs. From very far away, he thinks he hears Phoebe ask if he's alright, but Roy pushes her out of his mind as soon as Jamie says:

"I'm sure."

"Jamie," Roy hisses, "it could end your career."

"So what?" Jamie says, and Roy almost ask who the fuck is possessing his partner.

"Jamie."

"Roy. I'm thirty-four. I've won the Premier League, the Europe League and the fucking World Cup. I'm in the fucking Olympics. Once I've won that, who the fuck cares if I get a goodbye tour?"

"You do," Roy says. Then Jamie grunts and Roy adds: "I'm with you. You know I am, always." Jamie hums, but it sounds like he's relenting, not skeptical, so Roy makes himself continue despite the risk of Ruth or Phoebe overhearing: "I just don't—I don't want you to regret it."

To regret me, Roy is surprised to mean. After all, they've been together for almost ten years now. Any coming out Jamie makes is likely to result in their relationship becoming public, and Roy...Roy has apparently not quite managed to get over their age difference as thoroughly as he thought he had.

"I won't," Jamie promises, the sound of his voice suddenly echoing, like he just stepped in a bathroom. "I really won't. Just 'cause I'm buzzin' doesn't mean I don't know what I'm doing."

Roy can't help worrying anyway, but he still makes himself breathe in, and then out, and then say:

"Okay. Then I think you should do it."

"Oh, I was gonna," Jamie says, playful, and Roy smiles at his sister's bathroom door like an idiot. "But also. Em. I don't—if I'm gonna come out publicly, I don't wanna have to like. Pretend like I'm single or whatever. Or like. If I do get my fucking retirement tour and we meet in a game or whatever, I don't wanna have to pretend like I'm not dead gone on you, you know?"

Roy's heart expands in his chest, like it's trying to make a run for it through his ribs or something, and he knows he's full-on grinning at the bathroom door when he says:

"Me either. Please feel free to mention me by name."

"Grand," Jamie says over the sound of a shower turning on. "Great. Well. I gotta go soon but uh. Wish me luck?"

"Good luck," Roy obliges. And then, because he's had nearly ten years of practice to make this bit easy, he adds: "I love you."

"Love you too."

*

"What a game," Arlo White shouts on TV a few hours later, while Ruth and Phoebe do a victory dance around the couch, where Sam and Keeley are singing Jamie's stupid fucking chant along with the crowds in the stadium.

"What a game! What a play! What a goal! And what an ovation for Jamie Tartt, indubitably the man of the match!"

"I agree," Chris Powell adds, sounding almost excited for once, "I'd even say: what a career! Jamie Tartt won it all! Honestly Arlo, I wouldn't be surprised if he decided to retire soon, I mean at this point what else does he need?"

"Oh shut the fuck up," Roy yells at the TV, earning himself a playful shove from Phoebe and a prod in the ribs from Keeley. "Stupid fucking pundits," he mutters into his champagne.

"That would be so much more convincing if you weren't pink with pride, babe," Keeley teases, and Roy grunts without heat.

The truth is, now that White and Powell have announced a transition on the ground and the camera switched to Barbara Carnahan on the side of the pitch, Roy feels himself tense with anticipation. Everyone here knows about him and Jamie, of course, but they don't know what he's planning to do. That leaves Roy alone to deal with the nerves of Jamie's impending announcement, and holy fucking shit, they're a lot.

"First of all," Carnahan says when she catches Jamie and gets him to stand in front of her camera, "I want to congratulate you on an absolutely marvelous game!"

Roy watches Jamie's tongue dart out in celebration, like he's a goddamned emoji or something, and finds himself gripping Keeley's hand out of sheer need to share the moment with someone.

"Thanks," Jamie says, sobering up a little bit, "We did really good, yeah!"

"Oh, definitely! How does it feel? Did you expect this when you woke up this morning?"

"Well, you know," Jamie says, running a hand through his hair, "nothing's ever certain, but I knew our chances were good, yeah, so I was like. Fairly optimistic about it."

"And you were right!" Carnahan agrees with a little bounce. "I'll admit I was nervous when the first half ended at one-one, but that goal in injury time was magnificent!"

"Yeah, Satō gave me a great assist there, that kid's gonna get far," Jamie says, wiping at his brow.

To Roy's left, Sam coos a little, happy to see one of his Marseille teammates get some recognition. He hasn't looked that cheerful since he busted his knee right before the Olympics started and he knew he had to sit the competition out.

"What was going on in your head at that moment?" Carnahan asks Jamie. "As the whistle blew and you realized you'd won, where did you mind go? Is there anyone you thought of in particular?"

"Well there's me mum, of course," Jamie says. "She's in the stands, and I'm really glad she could be here for this. And then there's my partner."

Around Roy, the living room falls into the most intense silence he's ever heards, even as Jamie adds:

"Actually, is it okay if I talk to him for a sec?"

"Him?" Carnahan asks, at the same time as Keeley and Phoebe shriek:

"WHAT?"

"Yeah, him," Jamie says, prompting Sam to shout and grab Roy's left shoulder. "Can I talk to him?"

And this. This wasn't the script, right? Roy thought—usually—this isn't. No. No!

...no?

"Oh my god, uncle Roy!" Phoebe is saying, gripping Roy's right shoulder, "Oh my god!"

"Yes, sure," Barbara Carnahan says with the dazed look of a reporter who's just been hit with the exclusive of the decade, "go ahead."

Jamie grins, and thanks her, and then he takes a deep breath—Roys mirrors him, can't help it, feels like he's about to explode, or melt, or both—

"Roy," Jamie says on the screen, eyes turned straight at the camera so it looks like he's actually watching Roy in 16:9 format, "it's hard to remember what it was like to hate you enough to nearly fight you right on the pitch."

Someone says a very strangled 'what the fuck' and it takes Roy a second to realize it's Keeley, but also the reporter on the telly.

"Turns out you're actually one of the best men I've ever fucking met—" ('Oh my god!' Says Keeley, slapping Roy's arm.) "You support me and challenge me all the fucking time, you're funny, and the grumpiest arse in the morning." ('OH MY GOD!' shouts Phoebe from behind Roy.) "I've spent nine years of my life loving you to your face, and you've taken it like a champ so far...so what do you say we make it official and tie the knot?"

"OH MY GOD!" Screams the living room, pushing and pulling and slapping at Roy.

He can barely breathe, feels himself grow twice, thrice, ten times bigger than he normally is, floating like a bubble of champagne as Phoebe nearly breaks his nose trying to shove his phone against his ear—"YOU HAVE TO FUCKING CALL HIM, UNCLE ROY!"

And then there's a dial tone, and some spluttering on tv, and more shouting, and a phone comes into view, lands against Jamie's ear, and then—

"You motherfucker!" Roy yells into the phone, and Jamie-on-the-screen blinks and grins, and Jamie-on-the-phone gives this little hitch of breath he does when he thinks 'I love you', and Roy is saying: "You absolute wanker! No fucking warning—"

And Jamie-on-the-screen scrunches his nose and grins harder, and Roy's heart goes into fucking overdrive, his pulse loud in his ears and in his palms, and Jamie-on-the-phone asks:

"So like, that's a yes, right?"

"Yes! Of course it's a yes you gigantic prick!" Roy yells, and Jamie-on-the-screen fist pumps while Roy's world turns into one giant shriek of joy, and then there's champagne popping, and four different footballers bursting on the screen to hug and jump up and down and shout so loud Roy hears them even when Jamie has to take the phone away from his ear.

"Oh my god!" Keeley shouts, muffled, into Roy's neck when he hangs up, knowing full well there's no way Jamie's getting back to his phone until much later tonight. "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!"

"Did you really not know?" Phoebe asks, shouting into his other ear.

"I knew he wanted to come out and go public about us," Roy says, falling back from the adrenaline-induced shouting to the best sort of daze. "I didn't know he was going to propose!"

"Could we what?" Charles asks eventually, his voice quiet in the dark.

He sounds... Tender, yet nervous, and when he hooks one of his fingers around Edwin's the gesture feels tentative, like he's still not sure he's allowed. Oh, how Edwin loves him.

"Could we... Spoon?"

Charles chuckles, soft against Edwin's shoulder. He pushes himself on his elbow as Edwin does, and Edwin sees the darker outline his arm reach for his waist.

"Oh," he say, catching Charles' wrist as delicately as he can, "no, I meant—"

He doesn't dare say the rest, half afraid to wake himself up if he speaks too much. Instead, he gives Charles' chest a gentle push, first met with resistance and then the sort of tension born of incertitude. Gently, so gently, Edwin coaxes Charles to lay on his left side, head resting on his arm as Edwin slowly slides down to mold himself to Charles' back, curling his legs up until he can tangle them with Charles' own.

Charles has always been on the leaner side, elegant and gangly in turns, but solid also. Strong in ways even Edwin's wider, stockier frame doesn't manage. Tonight, as Edwin settles behind him, he feels delicate in a way he's never felt before. Edwin loops an arm around his chest and feels it move under his hand, oddly bird-like and so, so regular.

"Is this alright?" Edwin whispers, barely daring to rest the full weight of his arm over Charles.

"Mhm."

Charles' breathing continues in the same slow, one-two-three-four rhythm. He still feels so fragile, here in Edwin's arms, like a figure of spun sugar. Edwin, unsure what to make of that, makes himself ask:

"Charles, are you—"

"I'm fine," Charles cuts in even as the up and down of his ribs speeds up. Deepens.

"Charles..."

"It's fine," Charles says, strangled with the urgency of someone trying to speak before emotion overtakes them. "Just don't. Don't make me talk."

"Oh, Charles," Edwin sighs, finally bringing his arm down to pull Charles to his chest and hold him closer. "I love you."

A harsh sob erupts from Charles' throat, deep enough to shake his entire frame, fast enough that he can't prevent the sound from echoing around his bedroom. Edwin presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and Charles sobs again, right arm coming up to lay on Edwin's, his hand gripping Edwin's hand so tight it feels like it'll bruise.

Edwin kisses the back of Charles' neck again, kisses the top of his shoulder, kisses the joint where the delicate lines of Charles' new tattoo are still fresh enough for Edwin to feel them with his lips.

Charles Rowland once jumped into a pool to save a teenager he didn't know, even though he knew it could cost him his life. He laughed in the face of bullies, and he built a life for himself after his father destroyed the one he should have had at home. He faced years of prejudice beaten into him, just for the sake of not hurting Edwin more than he had to.