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Stevie should have known better than to let Jamie into his house. Jamie had used a take-no-prisoners tone of voice over the telephone and Stevie knew that because he had been all out of sorts for the past week, all the signs were pointing to Jamie coming over in order to set him to rights, possibly via force.

But Stevie was apparently an idiot, and a pushover when it came to his friends, so he opened the door when Jamie knocked instead of letting the bastard face the stony silence of a locked front door and a chill January evening.




Jamie was downright cordial all through dinner (potatoes, broccoli, and chicken, a bottle of wine Stevie had rummaged from the back of the liquor cabinet. The regular wine drinker in his life hadn’t been by in a while) and nattered on about everything and nothing. It lured Stevie into a false sense of security, believing that perhaps he wasn’t about to get a dressing down about his lack of vim and vigour, until they were on the couch flipping through channels to see if there was a movie on, both of them being too lazy to get in the car and rent something from the video shop on the high street. It was then that Jamie launched his attack.




“It’s none of your business,” Stevie told him, stubbornly. “I’ve just been having a bad time of it lately. Everyone’s allowed to feel down, Carra.”

“Not the captain of Liverpool,” Jamie told him, which would have been infuriating from anyone else. But Jamie could say that sort of thing. “And especially not when the problem, as I see it, is very easily resolved.” He reached over and flicked Stevie’s knee. “So.”




“Fuck off,” Stevie grouched, swatting at Jamie’s hand. “Go annoy someone else.”

“No,” said Jamie ruthlessly, rubbing his open palm against the front of Stevie’s jeans more insistently now, “I won’t. You’ve been bloody impossible to live with, you know that? Mooning about, sighing like the world’s about to end. You need a shag, mate, and since Alonso won’t be the one to do it I’ll have to.”

“What a difficult time for you,” said Stevie, sarcastic but a little bit too short of breath for it to have any effect.

“Yeah, well. We’ve all got to make sacrifices.”




Jamie’s hand was big, rough with calluses along the curve at the base of his fingers but soft in his palms, smooth. He rubbed his thumb easily over the head of Stevie’s cock, spreading a pearl of precome over the skin.

“Just close your eyes and pretend I’m Xabi,” Jamie said, and it was a joke, Stevie knew it was a joke, but there was an edge of kindness in Jamie’s voice that cut him down to the core and made him feel a little bit ashamed.

He opened his eyes. “Nah. I’m thinking, he’s not worth the effort.”

Jamie laughed. “That’s the spirit,” he said, and kissed Stevie.

Stevie kissed him back.




“One day,” Stevie griped, balling up the mess of tissues and sending them in a neat arc into the bin, “you’re going to be all unbearably lovesick and you’ll finally know what it feels like.”

“Never, mate,” said Jamie cheerfully, settling back into the cushions with his arms crossed behind his head and looking supremely pleased with himself.

“And I will not let you forget it.”

“Keep dreaming, Stevie.”