Chapter Text
It wasn’t often a match left him feeling like absolute shit. Roy never liked losing. You couldn’t be a professional footballer and take losses easy. But today’s match was particularly awful, considering he’d come up with all their strategies for this one, and it had fucking sucked. Nothing he had come up with worked, and it really did feel like the entire loss could be blamed on him. And of course Ted hadn’t yelled, just smiled his kind smile, and reminded him of the fucking goldfish.
It wasn’t Roy’s fault that goldfish had terrible long term memory.
And honestly it was Ted’s lack of frustration that had made it all the worse. He needed someone to tell him the truth, cut him down and point out that he’d really fucked it all up. It was… a thing for him. When he fucked up, he wanted consequences! And, no, he wasn’t going to lie, it could definitely be a sexual thing. Getting told off when he’s been bad was really fucking hot. So, maybe it was good Ted hadn’t lectured him?
Regardless, Roy could feel the need pounding through him now, that gnawing feeling of guilt and the hot desire for someone to tear into him. Problem was, he couldn’t think of who he could possibly ask for help.
Keeley wouldn’t want to; she was mostly sweet with her dominance, demanding but fair, and liberal with her praise. Although maybe she’d consider it if he asked. But it would be a right prick move of him to go asking her now, after he ended things and all.
The fire was lit inside him, and Roy needed someone to fucking smother it out.
Ted could never, but Beard potentially? Fuck, Roy couldn’t even bring himself to imagine it, so that one’s right out. Trent could, likely, but Roy was just starting to know where he stood with Trent, and he didn’t want to ruin it just ‘cause he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants and his head on straight. Even if he didn’t care about that, HR violations limited so many options.
Twisting and turning through all the people he knew, Ted, Beard, Trent, Nate, Jamie, Rebecca— Hold on. Nate?
Roy considered it. Thought back to the infamous pre-match roasting sessions. The way Nate’s voice would get sharp and cutting as he hit his stride, cocky and incisive. He remembered the first roast Nate had done, how Roy had walked right up to him and demanded that Nate look at him while he spoke. How Nate, still so nervous about speaking up, had told him what everyone was thinking, what no one could bring themselves to say, dark eyes boring into his own. The hot flood of anger and something else he hadn’t acknowledged that fueled him to flip that bench and lead the charge onto the pitch.
Well, this was quite the predicament.
Roy was in his car and driving to Nate’s house before he could think twice about it. Hopefully the man still lived at the same flat.
Nate’s a traitorous backstabber, His mind helpfully reminded him. Roy growled. Yeah, he was fucking mad at the bloke, but he was desperate, okay? The more he thought about it, the more keyed up Roy became. He’d seen Nate with his fucking black suit, all buttoned up and perfectly fitted. His silver hair had gleamed in the sunlight. It’s not Roy’s fault that the man was fucking hot now. He imagined those dark eyes scrutinizing him while a hand wrapped around his throat and—
Roy barely managed not to run his car into a wheelie bin. Fuck.
Nate felt like he wasn’t going to get a wink of sleep tonight. He’d gotten home from work hours ago and hadn’t even changed out of his suit. He had gotten out his copper briki* to fix a cup of coffee, let the familiar process quiet his mind, then sat down at his ‘strategy table.’ He was laser-focused on the miniatures laid out in front of him, crafting and re-crafting possible plays for their next match. He felt like his eyes were going to fall out, but he was missing something here. Something perfect that would guarantee the win.
A knock at his door startled Nate out of his thoughts. Who the fuck…?
He walked over to the door and peered through the peephole. To his great alarm, Roy Kent was glaring back at him from the other side.
“He’s here to fucking kill me,” Nate whispered to himself, and accepted his fate. He opened up the door. To Nate’s mild surprise, Roy did not immediately shove his way in and begin choking him to death, but rather just upped his glare by another few notches. Nate didn’t really know what to say, so he didn’t speak, just raised his eyebrows, hoping he seemed a bit intimidating in his full suit. Thank god he hadn’t changed into his pyjamas yet.
“Nate,” Roy growled. “Long time.”
“We saw each other a week ago,” Nate clarified, clearly recalling Roy’s pissed off expression at the West Ham/Richmond match.
“Well, we didn’t have a fucking chat, did we?” Roy crossed his arms and glowered. Given his apparent lack of murderous intent, Nate only felt vaguely threatened.
“No, I suppose not. Didn’t think you’d want to chat.” Nate cocked his head at him, ready to receive any sort of explanation for Roy showing up unannounced at 10 o’clock in the evening.
“Yeah, well, I’d also not like to chat,” Roy pronounced the word derisively, “on your fucking doorstep, so how’s about you invite me in.”
Nate thought about refusing, but something in Roy’s eyes stopped him. The man’s posture was classic Roy Kent, tense as hell, nearly buzzing with anger, but his eyes looked vaguely pained. Nate had almost forgotten, he’d seen on the telly about Richmond’s latest loss. They’d replayed the reaction from the Richmond sideline. His heart couldn’t help but hurt at the expressions on their faces, Ted’s resignedly flat expression, Beard’s scowl under his sunglasses, and the murderously disappointed grimace on Roy’s face.
Making up his mind, Nate stepped back and gestured him inside. Roy brushed past him, and Nate was uncomfortably reminded how tall the other man was. Roy murdering him was really still on the table, wasn’t it.
Roy stepped into the kitchen-slash-living room, looking around, pausing when he saw the kitchen table turned model football pitch, complete with miniatures.
Nate leaned against the kitchen counter, watching him. “Hope you’re not here to spy.”
“Like I fucking care enough to decipher this shit,” Roy waved his hand at the miniatures.
Nate’s ire rose suddenly, annoyed at Roy’s fake flippancy. “You’ve played football for years, you dipshit, I think you could figure it out.”
Roy turned abruptly to face him, eyes on fire, and Nate felt his soul leave his body in preparation for the end. But Roy didn’t move toward him. Instead, his teeth were bared in a growl and his breath was whistling through his teeth as he seemed to restrain himself. Nate wasn’t sure what the fuck was going on.
“Sorry, what the fuck is going on?” Nate asked, because if he’d learned anything over the last several months, it’s that he had the right to ask questions, and people actually tended to answer if the answers weren’t uncomfortable.
But Roy clenched his mouth shut, jaw working under his skin. So, maybe the answer was uncomfortable? For a moment, Nate considered dropping it, but no, Roy had interrupted his evening barging into his house, he deserved some damn answers.
Nate straightened up and stalked over to Roy, who was practically vibrating with whatever the fuck. “Roy,” Nate hissed through his teeth. “Spit it out.”
It was like the angels had descended and hell’s maw had opened up beneath him at the same time. Nate looked fucking furious, and he looked fucking fit, and his tone was perfect, it was everything Roy wanted and he didn’t know what the fuck to say. Nate was glaring directly at him and Roy was drowning in the abyss of his eyes.
“Call me ‘dipshit’ again,” Roy managed. He was glad his voice always managed to sound put together, even in circumstances like these.
Nate narrowed his eyes incredulously. “What?”
Roy grit his teeth. “Call me. Dipshit. Again.” He was pretty sure it sounded like a threat instead of a plea, which was unfortunate.
Nate shook his head slightly and smacked his hands against his thighs in an ‘I give up’ fashion. “Okay,” He half-whispered bemusedly, and then enunciated, “You are a fucking dipshit.”
Roy’s breath silently shuddered out of him. “Yeah?” He goaded Nate on. Take the fucking bait.
“Yeah,” Nate repeated, confidence growing. “You barge into my fucking house, insult my miniatures, and refuse to tell me what’s going on! So yeah, I’d say you’re a fucking dipshit, and a prick,” Nate raised a hand to push a finger into his chest, and his eyes looked so dark and his hair just gleamed in the low light of the kitchen. “And I want to know what the fuck you are doing here, Roy fucking Kent.”
And just like that, Roy had maybe found a way to ask for what he wanted. Without asking, exactly. He licked his lips, and poked Nate back, right in the sternum. “That. Is exactly what I’m here for.”