emrys-in-paris

[emrys-in-paris]

The Quiet Things

Pairing: Jamie Tartt x Reader - Second person Word count: ~1.1k Rating: T Setting: Post-Wembley (Season 2), AFC Richmond bus ride Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, soft slow burn Summary: After Wembley, Jamie sits next to you on the quiet bus ride home and you both open up about your families.

Content Warnings / TWs:

Parental abuse (physical and emotional; scars mentioned)

Emotional neglect from parents

Mentions of sibling death (overdose)

Guilt / trauma / sport burnout

Mental health themes (depression, grief, identity loss)

Indirect suicidal ideation (“prayed for an injury”)

The bus is quiet.

Someone laughs near the front — probably Isaac or Sam — but the noise doesn’t reach the back. It doesn’t touch where you and Jamie sit, pressed into shadows and exhaustion.

He sat down next to you without asking. Just dropped into the seat like gravity pulled him there, like he was looking for the heaviest place on earth to sink into.

You didn’t ask him to leave. You never would.

His shoulder brushes yours. The silence is thick, but not uncomfortable.

"I ever tell you I hate buses?” he says suddenly, voice rough.

You turn to glance at him. “Because they remind you of away matches or school field trips?”

He huffs — a sound that could’ve been a laugh, if it didn’t land like a sigh.

"’Cause they remind me of comin’ home.”

You don’t ask him to explain. You already know what he means.

His eyes are on the dark window, the reflection of streetlights slicing across his cheekbones. He looks like someone cracked him open earlier and forgot to put him back together.

"He did it in front of everyone,” he says. “My dad.”

You nod. Not sympathy. Not shock. Just… recognition.

"I’ve had worse,” he adds, like it’s a badge of honor. But it cracks. You hear it.

You sit in that space with him, let it breathe, let the silence carry more weight than your words ever could. Until your voice breaks the stillness — soft, steady, like a confession:

"I made every national volleyball team from the time I was eight.”

Jamie blinks. Looks at you.

"Started in the best clubs when I was in second grade. Got scouted early. Stanford, UCLA, Texas — full rides. Pick one.”

He tilts his head a little. “You played?”

You nod. “I was supposed to go to the Olympics. That was the plan.”

You swallow hard. "My older brother died the summer I turned seventeen. Overdose. He was always… different. Quiet. Sensitive. They never saw him.”

Jamie’s still now. Completely still.

"They were too busy molding me into some perfect machine. Every win bought me silence. Every medal meant they didn’t fight. If I was good enough, he’d be safe. That’s what I told myself.”

“He wasn’t,” you whisper. “And neither was I."

Jamie doesn’t interrupt. He just shifts a little closer, like he knows what it means to be the one holding up a crumbling house with your own body.

“When I quit,” you say, “my mum slapped me so hard I had a migraine for a week. My dad didn’t even yell. He just said, ‘What a waste.’ And walked out of the room.”

You keep your voice low. Controlled. Like if you let too much in, it’ll all come pouring out.

"They used to beat me. Mostly my back. Easier to hide the bruises. I’ve still got scars.”

Jamie’s eyes drop to your hands. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask to see. He just breathes in sharply, like it hurts him to imagine it.

“I hated the sport by the end,” you admit. “But not because of the game. Because it made them love me.”

He nods. Eyes burning in the low light.

“They didn’t love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “They loved what you could do.”

“I was good,” you whisper. “So fucking good.”

There’s silence after that -- a heavy, aching silence.

“I used to pray for an injury,” you say eventually. “Not something to ruin me. Just enough to make it stop. Just… a way out.”

Jamie exhales like you’ve punched the wind out of him.

“You don’t need an excuse,” he murmurs. “You survived them. That’s enough.”

And then — softly, gently — his hand slides over yours. Warm. Calloused. Steady.

He doesn’t grip, doesn’t squeeze. Just rests there. Like he’s saying I’m here without speaking.

You don’t pull away.

His knee touches yours, and neither of you moves. There’s nothing flashy about it. No grand gesture. Just presence.

Then he says your name — just your name — and it sounds like something holy.

“You ever want to be seen again… not for what you can do, but just for being you — I see you.”

You look at him.

And for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

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Anyways, i hope you liked it!! feel free to leave me advice on my writing in the comments and thank you for reading!!