#spurious handling of timeline bc of Vibes

[thetarttfuldickhead]

They’re not quite friends. Not yet.

The January light is distant, and cold. Pale dawn over damp pavements as Jamie pulls his knees higher, and higher, and higher, just ‘cause Roy said so. “Once more,” Roy says, and Jamie doesn’t protest. Does it once more.

Roy doesn’t tell him well done. Roy doesn’t invite him for breakfast. “Go fucking shower,” Roy says, and tells him not to be late for training.

They’re not friends.

February, and if Roy brings a bottle of sports drink to silently hand Jamie once he’s finished with his last bout of jumping jacks that’s still not friendship. That’s… reason. Precaution. Ted will have his ear off if he breaks a player and fucking Tartt can’t be trusted to call it quits before he collapses, so.

In March, weeks after Zava, Jamie scores a brace against Wolves and when he walks off the pitch Roy gives him the tiniest of nods. Hard work paying off; he can acknowledge that. And Jamie nods back, curt, but then – before Roy can look away – there’s a smile growing on his face, bright and wild and—

Roy looks away.

It’s April and Roy goes down with a cold. Doesn’t call his sister, ‘cause she’d be a pain about it, and doesn’t call Ted, because Roy can get away with not doing that, and doesn’t call Keeley, because he doesn’t get to call Keeley anymore.

He doesn’t call Jamie either, because why the fuck would he. They’re not friends. Little prick will be ecstatic for a lie-in.

Painkillers and water and back to his bed and it’s a quarter to five when a furious pounding on his door wakes him once more. The knocking doesn’t cease, no matter Roy’s spat curses, and when he pulls the door open with murder in his mouth there’s Jamie, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Jesus, man,” Jamie says, somewhere between accusatory and alarmed. “The fuck happened to you? I was waiting, but you didn’t—”

“I’m ill,” Roy snaps. The admission should cost him something, maybe, but he manages to turn it around, twist it, and shape shame into admonition.

The bile rolls right off Jamie, who rolls his eyes. “Yeah, mate, I can see that.” He cocks his head to the side, hesitating. “Do you. Um. Can I get you anything? I should get you something, right?”

“No,” Roy say, because fuck no, and what is Jamie even doing here, why does he even—

“I’m making you tea,” Jamie declares, and he pushes past Roy and past Roy’s incensed but fever-weak protests.

They’re not friends, so it doesn’t make sense for Roy not to throw Jamie out, so Roy decides not to think about that as he sinks down on his coach and lets Jamie bring him tea.

Come tomorrow, they can both blame it on the fever.