Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Trent Crimm had a problem, and the problem was he had terrible taste in men.

No, okay, that—that actually wasn’t entirely accurate.

It was more accurate to say that he consistently made terrible choices as to which men to actually try and date. Because it wasn’t like he had really seen Geoff and thought ‘oh, he’s the one’ or even ‘oh, he is fit’. Geoff wasn’t particularly His Type, hadn’t stood out, hadn’t made Trent’s heart skip a beat.

It's just that—well, Geoff had asked him out, for god knows what reason, and he’d said yes.

It was pathetic, but it was the only way Trent really knew how to approach a relationship. He’d been in the closet for most of his life, hiding away from everyone, including himself. Trying to be a ‘real man’, trying to be good enough. He’d gotten into relationships only with women who pursued him, who usually dumped him when inevitably there was no spark, or they got weird about him being transgender, or simply because they got bored of him or angry with him or tired of him.

And then he married one of them, because she stuck around long enough and this was as close to love as he’d ever felt, and then things got complicated and he got pregnant and now here he was: a single father, freshly out of the closet, and somewhat estranged from his best friend and now ex-wife.

And he’d wanted—he’d wanted to try to throw himself out there, to be brave and face the world, to let himself be gay when he’d denied it for so long. But he had no idea how. It all felt so complicated.

He’d always been the late bloomer—he hadn’t had his first kiss until his late twenties, too busy figuring out other things, and he’d always felt behind his peers, always fumbling to catch up and never quite managing it. Realizing he was trans and fighting to even let himself admit it, suppressing his sexuality because it felt like he had to choose one, however unconsciously, constantly struggling against all the horrible, sour, sticky feelings in his chest and crawling up his throat and seeping into his mouth. About who he was, about his body, about his personality, his oddities, his heart. It was hard to feel things right. He never seemed to know how the song was supposed to go; he was never in step.

So finally arriving on the gay dating scene, well, he’d thought it’d be a breath of fresh air. Finally, truth; finally, himself.

Instead, it just felt suffocating in a new way.

Trent still didn’t know his own heart. He’d rarely had crushes—even in retrospect, although the very seldom few he was pretty sure had been childhood crushes had been on other boys—and certainly none recently, and it was hard to distinguish what he was supposed to be feeling. What was attraction, what was appreciation, what was desire. He understood being horny, wanting to be fucked, wanting—other things—and he knew he was gay, but he was also—broken, maybe? It seemed everyone else knew what they were doing while Trent was fumbling for an instruction manual that didn’t exist. As if he wasn’t already dully resigned to alienation of the body, the heart, the mind.

And more than that, he didn’t know how to reach out first, how to initiate, how anyone even figured these things out. He’d never been the one to kiss someone else first; no moment had ever felt right. He didn’t know his own feelings, didn’t know anyone else’s. And letting down his emotional walls didn’t seem worth it, not when he’d been burned time and time again. Too odd, too particular, too sharp, too irritating, too clingy, too—too much. And still not enough.

So the fact he’d managed to date any men at all was kind of a miracle. It didn’t help he was hardly an attractive specimen; he was a middle-aged transgender man, a single dad, hardly in peak shape, and he didn’t exactly have the personality to make up for it. Not exactly what a lot of men were looking for, in Trent’s experience.

He imagines Diana would say that he just hasn’t found the right guy, the right place to go, the right people. If she were talking to him much.

(Not that he blames her. And he does, honestly, truly think that they’ll get over this—if for nothing else, for the sake of their tiny daughter—but for now, the chasm between them yawns, and Trent feels so, so alone. He knows he deserves it—for lying to her for all those years, breaking her heart, taking away her husband and her life and hurting her—but it still stings, still steals his breath. He has no one to talk to about any of this, really. Not that it’d be appropriate to tell her about it, probably. Not that he’d ever gotten in the habit of telling her the ugly, burdensome truths in his heart anyway.)

Still. Occasionally, things happen. He tries Bantr. He goes on a few bad dates. And he never feels the spark.

Worse, apparently like attracts like because he almost exclusively seems to fall in with pricks.

There’s Gavin, who’s got salt and pepper hair and glasses and seems to think that Trent is stupid, who talks over anything Trent tries to say and gives him one kiss before telling him he’s “fit enough, I suppose”, which does not convince Trent into his bed, thanks.

There’s Thomas, who seems nice enough and polite but also immediately balks at Trent having a kid, promptly excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and never comes back. Trent supposes he may have his own issues, but it still didn’t feel great.

There’s Ben, who’s got nice biceps, an American accent, and a business degree he never stops talking about. He outright says Trent’s average at best, but he’s had a dry spell so he’ll do, which is. frankly, insulting in how blatantly rude it is. Unfortunately, Trent’s had a bad week at that point and is generally making terrible decisions and sleeps with him anyway. In bed Ben is, ironically, average at best.

There’s Philip, who’s got great taste in books, a beard that feels rather nice when kissing, and a nasty temper. Trent doesn’t really like thinking about him, even if the sex had actually been pretty good most of the time. That kind of made it worse.

There’s Roger, who’s tall and soft-spoken and actually kind of nice, but also completely ghosts Trent after two dates. This kind of hurts more than the rest, to be honest. It’s the same with David, who Trent actually likes, who tells Trent that he just doesn’t feel like Trent actually likes him, or anyone, and then leaves him standing stricken and alone at the bar.

And Stephen, who’s perfectly lovely up until he realizes Trent is trans, while they are getting hot and heavy, at which point he makes some rather nasty remarks and then leaves.

There’s even a few so unremarkable or bad that he can’t be bothered to recall their names. A chaser interested in Trent more as a kink than as a person, a date so tragically boring Trent genuinely wished he had a friend to fake an emergency and get him out, and a Bantr date that stood him up entirely.

None of them go well. Trent isn’t sure why he’s still trying. Diana, in an attempt at levity, at bridging the gap between them with gentle humor, notes his revolving door of dates with a teasing remark that he’s in his slut era. She says good for you and she means it, he thinks, but he still wants to crawl into a small dark space and never come out.

She seems to know the joke didn’t land, that she’s missed the mark somehow, but not why. Which is fair enough—he doesn’t know either. He truly isn’t mad at her, but it sours the rest of the interaction, and the awkwardness between them seems to worsen.

And Trent—he really isn’t sure why he’s still trying. Or maybe he isn’t trying hard enough. He certainly isn’t being particularly vulnerable with any of them—and none of them meet his daughter or Diana—but his longest relationships still hadn’t gone longer than a few months.

He knows there are good, kind people out there. It’s just none of them seem to like him. Which makes sense. He’s known from a young age he was almost impossible to love, let alone like. It was, selfishly, part of why he’d liked Diana—she’d liked him. Despite everything, she’d liked him.

(And god, even though it felt selfish to even think it, god, did it hurt that was probably going to be past tense forever.)

So maybe he just—maybe it’s just not for him. Love. He should stop, right? He’d had decades of trying to force himself into something that he wasn’t meant for, and maybe this was more of the same thing.

But… Trent wanted it. He wanted it so badly, and—okay, so maybe part of it was wanting to feel normal, to feel less alone, but. he also really did want it, in a way he hadn’t ever wanted before.

He wanted someone to kiss, to hold; someone to have sex with and someone to talk to late at night and someone to watch stupid cheesy movies with that no one knew he liked. Someone to read with, someone to debate silly things with, someone to make breakfast with. Someone to sleep with and wake up with and take showers with. Someone to raise his daughter with. Someone to love.

And he—he wanted that someone to be a man.

So he kept trying. A bitter, middle-aged transgender journalist, a single dad who was married to his job and didn’t know how to switch off, a sharp and aloof and generally prickly bitch of a man, still trying to go on date after date and never failing to push them away, to irritate or anger them, to alienate them.

Which is how he ends up here, in the Crown & Anchor, face hot—thankfully, he’s about ninety eight percent sure he isn’t actually blushing, because it takes a lot to get him to blush, he’s got a good poker face—and eyes prickling. Face stone despite the mortification and hurt welling hot and thick in his chest, threatening to flood his lungs.

“Do we really have to do this here?” he’d hissed, trying to be quiet even though people were already looking over.

“Yes,” Geoff had said, standing up, loud, loud like he wanted people to look over, like he was trying to humiliate Trent, “Fuck you, you—you cunt, you heartless—”

Trent stiffened further, resisting the urge to let his shoulders hike to his ears, instead setting them hard and tense, chin tilting up a little, remaining still. That hurt mortification is welling up, sour and thick in his throat, his mouth, sticking his teeth together like sticky, oily taffy.

“You don’t even care?” Geoff demands, loud, jabbing a finger towards him as he did. “I’m breaking up with you and it doesn’t even matter?”

Trent isn’t really sure what the right answer is here and honestly, he just wants to leave. This is already overwhelming in the worst way. He still can’t seem to speak.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled about Geoff telling him he’d met someone else, some fucking twink called Malcolm, no, but he wasn’t really surprised either. Or that upset, which probably wasn’t a good sign. Just sort of resigned.

He pries his jaw open, or that’s what it feels like. It’s practiced to look easy.

“Geoff,” he says, calm, voice remaining steady, “We should really—”

“No,” Geoff says, still yelling, jabbing a finger towards him as he did. “Oh my god, I am so done with you—”

“Yes, I got that,” says Trent, too dry, and Geoff plows right over him.

“I can’t believe—oh my god, you fucking bitch, why the hell did I waste three months on you—”

Trent’s face is hot, but he still doesn’t think it shows. The yelling seems almost distant, muffled, even though he can hear every word. His vision blurs just a little at the edges, and he blinks, hard, jaw still set, shoulders still straight, face still smooth and steady and stone.

“Always so fucking cold—”

It wasn’t as if he’d loved Geoff. He was—fine. A decent kisser, and overall nice enough. Trent hadn’t thought he’d been cold with Geoff. Maybe a little guarded, but wasn’t that normal? Was he really that bad?

He misses the end of whatever Geoff’s ranting about, because then Geoff’s staring at him—and so is half the fucking pub, minimum—and he says, calmer than he feels, voice barely trembling at all, “Well. I hope you and Malcolm are happy.”

And that’s that.

(There’s a muffled snort in the crowd—Trent had meant it, even if there was a touch of bitterness, but his cool, steady tone and almost prim delivery had unintentionally given the whole thing a sort of bitchy comeback vibe, and Trent is, whether he’ll admit to himself or not, too upset to notice.)

He turns on his heel and walks away.

Chapter Text

The cool night air hits him like a slap, but the sting is welcome. The door swings shut behind him and suddenly it’s quiet, and he’s alone, and god, it hurts. There’s a sharp pang in his chest, coupled with a painful squeeze.

It’s not that he thought Geoff was the one. But it seemed to just add to the ever-growing pile of evidence that he wasn’t meant for love, for relationships. He’d failed at being a heterosexual man for so long, it seems he couldn’t manage being gay either, even though he actually fucking was.

He only walks a few steps—he still has to go back in and pay, but he can’t imagine Mae will begrudge him taking a few minutes, considering—until he’s out of sight of the window, and then he just. leans against the wall. Lets his head fall back. Sighs.

Shoulders slumping, gravity dragging them down along with the corners of his lips, along with his eyelids. He stands there for a moment, almost wishing he still smoked, feeling the weight of the sky bearing down on him. He sinks down, sitting there leaning back against the wall. He pulls his knees up but doesn’t hug them, just. sits.

He’s back to where he always ends up. Alone.

He wonders where exactly he went wrong. Had it been a test? Was he supposed to fight when Geoff told him he was interested in someone else? Had he always been too cold? Should he have tried to connect to him more, tried—something, anything? When did he push Geoff away? Or was it just something about him that was wrong?

…then again. Trent had a history of attracting men who were bad for him, or who didn’t care about him, or who tired of him quickly. And it had not escaped his notice the insults Geoff had chosen for him. So maybe it was Trent’s fault for dating another prick in the first place, even when there hadn’t been a spark. Perhaps he just should have known better.

Trent’s ruminating on the possibility he really is just completely unlovable when the door opens again, and Trent turns away, almost hiding his face.

He draws himself up, tense, hoping it’s just someone leaving, not following after him—or god forbid, Geoff himself—but considering he is going to have go back in at some point, if only to close his tab, he just sits there, tense as a piano wire held taut, facing away and hoping they don’t approach.

And then—

“Hey there, Trent Crimm from the Independent,” calls a familiar voice, and without meaning to, Trent’s shoulders relax.

“Coach Ted Lasso from America,” he says back, and it comes out—warm, if tired, and after a moment of hesitation, he turns to look.

Ted is standing there, hands in his pockets, wearing his ridiculous backpack, and he’s got that ever-present smile but he’s peering at Trent with—worry? Is that worry?

It hits Trent a minute later than it absolutely should have that Ted must have seen everything. He thinks he vaguely recalls seeing Ted when they’d first walked in—maybe exchanging a smile or a nod with him—but honestly, the memories of the whole disaster of a so-called date were already a bit wobbly, and anyway, coming in, he’d already been occupied with Geoff’s odd mood, and he’d—

Well, he’d been considering talking to Geoff about his marriage. Geoff had asked before, but hadn’t pushed, and Trent hadn’t been sure he was ready to talk about it but it would have been nice, even if he maybe couldn’t get into everything, so he’d thought maybe he should just say fuck it and try, but then—well, then all of this had happened, and Malcolm and yelling and Trent being a cold, heartless bitch, apparently. So.

Anyway. Ted—Ted Lasso, ridiculous and kinder than he had any right to be and funny and unbearably good Ted Lasso—had just seen Trent get very publicly dumped for—for being a cunt, as Geoff had so charmingly put it.

Ted had already seen some—less savory sides to Trent. Trent had been frustrated and angry and incredulous when he’d heard who, exactly, had been hired to coach at AFC Richmond. He’d thought—assumed, although to be fair, not without any reason—that the man would be either an incompetent clown or a greedy prick or both, and he’d as such not felt bad about being vitriolic and cutting and maybe a little cruel. Trent wasn’t proud of that, and the fact that it had quite literally been weeks after his divorce hadn’t helped.

And yet, Ted hadn’t missed a beat, had been charming and almost stupidly sincere, had been kind to him. And Trent knew when he was wrong, knew when he’d misjudged. It had been too late to take back his words, but he’d been able to write new ones. And then they’d run into each other a few times, and Ted was always friendly, and Trent had thawed even further, and found himself… fond.

But that had been Trent’s vitriol, not the vitriol he seemed to inspire in others. In people close to him.

Ted steps closer, and Trent looks away again. He wants to put his head in his hands. God. Ted had seen all of that. It was embarrassing, and painful, and—

“You alright, Trent?” asks Ted, a little softer than usual, and Trent fights the urge to curl in on himself. “’cause that was pretty nasty, the way that fella was talking about you.”

Trent blinks, so caught off guard he looks back to Ted without thinking. That’s Ted’s takeaway?

“Fine,” he says at last, a beat too late. “Just—it’s not like we’d been together that long anyway, to be honest.”

Ted tilts his head in a sort of fair enough gesture, then says, deceptively casual, “Mind if I join you?”

Trent looks up at him skeptically—now that Ted’s close, he has to tilt his head back to meet his eyes, and Ted’s standing over him and something about it makes Trent feel all wobbly and warm and shivery inside, but he ignores it, because what. “I suppose,” he says, “but it’s not the most comfortable seat in the house.”

“Technically, it’s not in the house at all,” says Ted, somewhat cheerful as he swings his backpack off and lowers himself to the ground next to Trent, groaning a little as he does. “But the best seats have gotta be the ones next to you!”

Trent—ducks his head. His face feels hot again, but for an entirely different reason. “That’s kind of you,” he says, hedging a little because he doesn’t know how to say but what the fuck do you mean or why are you HERE.

It’s just Ted’s usual friendliness, he knows, but it’s—it’s nice. That Ted seems to enjoy his company, even if Ted enjoys everyone’s company.

Ted’s kind of dangerous like that. Disarming. But he’s so genuine it doesn’t feel threatening, just—it knocks Trent offbeat, but the way dancing does. Like being swung around on a dancefloor, laughing, not like being slapped to the ground. Not that Trent has any experience with the former.

He’s never danced with someone before, actually. What an odd thought. For a second, his mind jumps to it without his permission—what it might be like, arms around his waist or hands at his hips, being held close and spun around, and then, just for a flash, in the split-second daydream he catches the face of who he’s dancing with—warm brown eyes, sincere smile, mustache—and then it pops like a soap bubble and he’s blinking at Ted, who’s now settled in beside him.

He shakes the ridiculous thought off, swallowing hard for a moment, but Ted doesn’t seem to see anything amiss. It’s just that Ted is here, that’s all, and that Ted’s been nice to him. Nothing else.

Ted leans over and nudges him a little with his shoulder, and Trent can’t help the tiny little smile that rises to his lips. Ted’s making a goofy little face at him, like he’s prompting Trent to speak, and Trent shakes his head a little, still smiling slightly.

“If you want me to talk about it,” he says, quiet. “there isn’t much to say.”

“You can talk about it if you want,” says Ted, “or not. Break-ups—” he makes a face, “suck.”

Trent lets out a little laugh, startled. “They do,” he says to this massive understatement. “They really do.”

“You know what always helps?” says Ted.

“If you say talking about it—” Trent warns, but he’s still smiling a little. He can’t believe he’s smiling right now.

“No, no,” says Ted. “I mean, yes, but—”

Trent swats Ted’s shoulder with the back of his hand, lightly, and Ted laughs and says, “—I was gonna—actually, here.”

He twists to face Trent more fully and says, “Way I see it, we got a few options.”

Trent’s eyebrows rise a little at we, but less incredulous or amused and more—weirdly touched.

“One: we go back inside, and drinks are on me,” says Ted.

“Absolutely not,” says Trent, dropping his head into his hands, “I—honestly, I never want to go back in there ever again.”

He’s going to. But to stay? Now? No.

“Well, I suppose we could get a nightcap somewhere else,” says Ted, “but honestly, alcohol is, while effective, probably not the best option.”

“And the other one?” Trent says, lifting his head again to look at him with one raised eyebrow.

“Ice cream,” says Ted, firm but grinning broadly as he wiggles his eyebrows.

Trent can’t help but laugh again, an incredulous little thing. It’s shocking, how quickly his mood has turned—from grim and humiliated to hesitant but playful.

“I’m not five, Ted,” he says. Ha—to be cheered up with ice cream. He isn’t offended. He’s actually rather charmed.

“What, so you don’t want ice cream?” Ted says. “Ice cream is a classic break-up cure, ain’t it? Terrible movies optional.”

Trent didn’t know about that, but it didn’t actually sound unpleasant.

“…ice cream actually sounds nice,” Trent admits, and Ted—Ted wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugging him a little closer, and says, “I know just the place.”

Trent, who hadn’t been expecting the sudden warmth of being squished into Ted’s side, lets out a mortifying little squeak. His face feels hotter, somehow, like he might actually be blushing now, but Ted’s beaming at him and he can’t help but smile back a little. It’s just Ted’s friendliness—Trent’s seen him be casually affectionate like this before, he just hadn’t expected it to ever apply to him.

It--shouldn’t apply to him. He’s. Trent’s a journalist, Ted’s a gaffer, someone Trent’s supposed to cover and be objective about. They can’t really be friends, can they.

“Should we even do this?” he says, giving voice to his anxieties. “I mean, I’m—you’re—"

“Look,” says Ted, “How about—right now, I ain’t Coach Lasso, and you ain’t Trent Crimm, the Independent. We’re just—two friends, off the clock, talking about how men suck. Just us girls, huh?”

“At the risk of opening myself up for a terrible joke,” Trent says, and us girls should probably make him wilt into himself, but—Ted doesn’t actually know, Ted’s including himself as “girls”; it’s a cute ironic thing that’s, ironically, including Trent as a man, “I don’t actually think men suck.”

“Eh, generalization schemeneralization,” says Ted. “But fair enough. Still, my point stands. Ice cream. Two friends. Off the clock.”

Trent wavers. He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, especially because he has the strangest feeling he’s on the brink of something, poking some sleeping dragon inside him, but—

Ted’s looking at him like that, eyes big and beseeching, smile utterly sincere, like he actually wants to get ice cream with Trent of all people, like cheering Trent up after a humiliating break-up actually sounds like a fun time to him.

Trent can’t remember the last time someone other than his daughter wanted to spend time with him so badly.

He can’t help but give in.

“…well. Before we go anywhere, I do have to go back inside and close my tab,” he says, reluctantly pulling back. Lingering wouldn’t be proper, even though the ghost of the touch was still tingling and heavy on his shoulders.

Ted blinks at him, not resisting. “Oh, I’m pretty sure Mae is makin’ that other guy pay the bill.”

It’s Trent’s turn to be taken aback. “What?” he says. “Why?”

Ted looks at him a little closer, brows quirking. “Well, you came together, and he made kind of an ass of himself, didn’t he?”

Trent doesn’t even have it in him to be surprised at Ted swearing, however momentarily, too caught on the idea that Mae—that anyone watching—would have been sympathetic for Trent in that situation.

…sure, Geoff had yelled at him, made a scene, but. everyone knew Trent’s reputation. It wasn’t as if Geoff was wrong.

“I—I suppose,” he says, haltering, and Ted—Ted gives him a little smile, kind of sad, “but I should still—”

“How about this,” says Ted. “I’ll go back in there and take care of it, and you can—sorry, did you walk here, or do you have a car?”

“I’m parked a little way away,” he says, “but my flat isn’t actually far.” He’d been Geoff’s ride, actually. He supposed Geoff would have to get a taxi or a rideshare now.

Ted nods. “Alright, alright,” he says. “You can just wait here then, is that okay?”

He goes to get up and Trent—catches his arm. Surprising himself a bit with how easy it was to reach out. Ted pauses, even though Trent isn’t really holding him back.

“Why are you doing this?” asks Trent, tilting his head. He wants to know, genuinely—why? Would he truly do this for anyone, give away his time like that?

“Why wouldn’t I?” says Ted. And—

Trent thinks he means that. Really. He is actually just that nice.

But.

“There’s something else, though, isn’t there?” Trent says. The words come out before he can stop it, speculative and curious, because he’s always been too damn curious for his own good, always pushing, and he almost immediately regrets it, but he’d spotted the slight tightness around Ted’s eyes, the way Ted looks kind of tired, too, and he’s—he’s kind of worried.

Ted doesn’t seem upset, though. He just says, “Bringin’ that heat, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” says Trent, quieter, and he withdraws, “You don’t have to—”

“It’s nothing too important,” Ted says, interrupting him, “Nothin’ really new. But you’re right. Honestly, I could go for some ice cream, too.” He smiles, and the slight tiredness, wariness, is more visible now that Trent knows to look. But the smile looks real despite that as he catches Trent’s eyes. “And good company don’t hurt.”

He stands, and Trent’s left looking up at him again, breathless and missing the heat of him.

“Back in a tick,” Ted says, and then Trent’s alone again, but with a decidedly less bleak air about it.

Chapter Text

When Ted returns, Trent’s still there, staring at his hands.

He’d honestly considered leaving. He didn’t want to, but perhaps he should have. It would have made everything a lot less complicated.

But he hadn’t been able to resist, both selfishly—he actually, he was beginning to realize, really wanted to spend more time with Ted Lasso—and simply because the idea of hurting Ted’s feelings made his heart squeeze painfully.

He had half expected Ted to offer his hand or his arm—he would have taken it embarrassingly quickly—but Ted just walks beside him, hands at the straps of his backpack. Still, they walk rather close together on the empty sidewalk until they come to a little ice cream shop Trent’s never really bothered to notice before.

Ted chatters about everything and nothing as they walk, and Trent listens. It’s all off the record, of course—that is the point—but Trent’s fingers itch to take notes. Not so that he can write an article, but just to catalog this moment, this memory, to save it clear on paper like proof that it happened. Make sense of it, even, with ink on paper.

But he doesn’t take notes, of course, he just listens, and finds himself drawn into quiet, companionable conversation.

Trent actually rather likes hearing Ted talk—he’s full of charming anecdotes and interesting references, of course, but also the more rambling tangents that never really come to his usual clever, fine point, the times he loses his train of thought and doubles back, the musings on anything from plot holes in movies to philosophical questions of the universe to silly questions and curiosities about how a centipede would wear pants or how fish sleep. Not that all of these come up on their walk—it’s not that long—but over the course of the night, and things Trent’s noticed in their previous meetings.

Trent finds himself relaxing, actually loosening up. Ted has a way of putting him at ease that few others—if any—have managed. He even starts answering questions, if only because it’s Ted, who wouldn’t use his honesty against him, and because, well. he isn’t used to someone asking about him, let alone asking because they genuinely want to know him better.

Even his dates—the ones who pretty much always asked him out first—hadn’t shown such earnest interest in learning about him. Some of the questions were silly (what’s your favorite color? favorite dinosaur? smart kid once told me everyone should have a favorite dinosaur) and others more thoughtful (if you could recommend a book that everyone should read, what would you choose? do you have a favorite song?) but none invasive or insistent or indecent.

And Trent made sure to turn the questions back, because—well, he was actually interested in Ted, too. Ted the person, how he ticked, Ted the vulnerable, squishy human being under the bombastic, brilliant Coach Ted Lasso.

Trent liked Coach Ted Lasso. But he suspected he’d like Ted even more.

And somehow he’d ended up in an ice cream shop with him, one open far later than you’d expect from an ice cream parlor of all things—sharing a table, tie undone and sleeves rolled up and notebook away and gesturing with his spoon as he argued passionately for “centipede pants would include all of the legs, not just the last set, or what would be the point”. And if Ted pointed out that centipedes don’t need pants anyway, so centipede pants are already pointless, he might get a fleck of ice cream on his forehead.

It was towards the end of this—whatever this was, when their bowls were all but empty (Ted had stolen a few bites of Trent’s, to which Trent had retaliated by stealing some of his, only to discover he actually kind of liked Ted’s better, not that he was going to admit it) and the shop really was probably going to be closing soon, that it struck Trent.

This… this was the best date he’d been on in some time.

Or. possibly ever.

His immediate reaction to this thought was denial and self-scolding. It wasn’t a date, obviously, Ted hadn’t meant it like that, and it couldn’t be a date even if he had, and—it wasn’t.

But the thought persisted: even if it wasn’t meant to be, the fact stood it outshone all the actual dates he’d been on. Just hours ago, he’d been humiliated and hurt, and before that, he’d been queasy and tense and altogether not that happy in his relationship.

And Ted had just… swept that away. It wasn’t that the feelings weren’t still there, but Trent—Trent had been happy. The whole time he and Ted talked, he’d found himself relaxed, slowly dropping the snark and steady mask and letting himself smile, letting himself talk. Hell, just moments ago, he’d been gesturing wildly with his hands—something he thought he’d trained himself out of doing, something he normally only did when wildly excited or extremely drunk—and he hadn’t even thought anything of it.

And he’d gotten to know Ted better—he felt like he knew Ted better than he knew Geoff, even just from these few hours alone. He certainly liked Ted more, even trusted him more. Although perhaps the second was hard to judge, now that Geoff had dumped him so rudely and so spectacularly, however deserved.

Date or not—and it was (probably???) not—this was the best date Trent had ever been on. And he wanted another one.

His throat closed up. He couldn’t have another one, though, could he?

Right now, they were in their own little bubble. Each not quite looking like themselves—Ted without his usual distinct colors, having pulled on a hoodie from his bag, Trent without his tie or his blazer and his hair disheveled—and sitting there, late at night with no one around but the old shopkeep, who had gone to the back of the store and left them in peace. Just two friends, Ted had called them.

And Trent wanted to kiss him. Like, really wanted to kiss him. He didn’t even quite know what to do with the feeling. He knew want—horniness, desire, that vague itch to be scratched. This was different. All warm and tingly and wobbly, butterflies in the stomach and warmth in his chest. He wanted to climb into Ted’s lap and sling his arms over Ted’s shoulders and kiss him; he wanted Ted to pull him in by the hips and kiss Trent.

“You alright?” Ted asks, raising his eyebrows a little, and Trent realizes he’d been staring, mouth still slightly open.

“Um, yes,” says Trent, slightly strangled, a little too late, then he swallows, and says, steadier, “yes. Sorry. Just—they’re closing soon. Should probably, uh. go. at some point.”

Christ. He’s a disaster.

“True,” says Ted, and he licks off the last of his spoon with a pop! and Trent’s eyes can’t help but follow his lips before he quickly looks away, hoping he isn’t flushing. “Hey, Trent?”

“Yes?”

Ted lowers his spoon, making eye contact, and it feels—purposeful. Intimate. Trent’s mouth feels dry.

“I really enjoyed this, you know.”

“Me too,” says Trent, almost a whisper, instead of how he feels: an echo, a quietly incredulous you really mean that, don’t you?

Ted, improbably, against all odds, seems to actually like him. Maybe even as a person, rather than just because Ted’s the human personification of sunshine or a puppy that likes everyone or what have you.

And Trent thinks—he’s never asked, never reached out, and—he doesn’t think Ted likes him like that, doesn’t think any of this was intended—this isn’t a date. But he can still—

“Do you wanna come to mine?” he blurts out, sounding considerably less refined than he normally might. It’s artless and awkward and genuine. “For—a nightcap. Or. something.”

I just don’t want this to be over yet, he doesn’t say, but Ted seems to hear it.

There’s a beat, and then a grin blooms on Ted’s face. “Sounds great, Mary-Kate,” he says, and Trent can’t help but beam at him, relieved.

Trent insists on paying for the ice cream, and when he comes back from the bathroom—a very brief visit, half of which was spent staring at his reflection and noting his own wide, hopeful eyes and still-fading blush with a mix of pleased mortification and incredulity—Ted’s waiting for him, hands on his backpack straps, beaming.

Again, some silly part of Trent half-expects—or maybe half-wishes, half-dreams—that Ted will offer up his hand, wiggle his fingers to prompt Trent to take it. But Ted rocks back and forth on his heels, smiling at Trent like he really means it, and that’s enough to warm Trent’s heart anyway.

Chapter Text

Getting back to his flat is, shockingly, not an ordeal. The companionable conversation continues, and when the door to his flat opens, laughter spills in with them. When the door shuts behind them and Trent is left truly alone with Ted—not in public, not on an empty sidewalk, but here, where no one could possibly see.

He wants to kiss Ted even more, but he’s… not going to do that. For so many reasons.

Still, he leads Ted to the kitchen—Ted’s looking around his flat with wonderous eyes, taking in every detail as if there’s anything interesting about the mismatched, stuffed bookshelves, the scattered toys on the floor that are mostly in one, non-tripping-hazard area near a toy chest, the stack of records, the mess of scribbled notes on the coffee table with a mug of cold, forgotten tea next to them, and so on.

He gets them both drinks—no tea, obviously—and they end up on the couch, sitting closer than Trent would have dared hope, and it’s… comfortable. A little awkward, but comfortable.

Ted Lasso in his home, on his couch, and it’s comfortable.

And they—talk. It’s kind of amazing they haven’t run out of things to talk about yet, but Trent’s still just as engaged as he was in the ice cream parlor, the sidewalk, outside the Crown & Anchor.

He’s having fun. And—he’s pretty sure Ted is, too. Ted seems relaxed, less smoothed over and perfectly cheerful and more human, somehow more Tedlike, and Trent likes it. Trent likes it so much. He likes it when Ted slips up and gives a far more blatantly snarky quip than usual (it’s even funnier because Ted’s eyes widen immediately afterwards, like he’s panicking or worried he’s offended Trent, and then Trent can’t stop himself from giggling, which sets Ted off laughing, too, and he seems to loosen up even more after that) and he likes it when Ted tells him about a book he read recently or about a famous baseball game he knows far too much about or anything, really.

And somehow they gravitate together, leaning in as the other talks and never quite leaning back out, readjusting their position and falling into place just a little closer, and they’re still talking—now debating if they should put on a movie and if so, what kind and which one—but Trent can’t remember the last time he sat so casually and intimately and affectionately with someone other than Diana. He doesn’t think he’s ever sat like this with another man, not for long. For all the dates and relationships he’s had, and this—this, sitting on a couch and talking—feels pathetically, heartbreakingly new. And real. Like this is what has been missing the whole time—and it can’t be, not when it’s Ted he’s sitting with, Ted who is Ted Lasso, a gaffer, someone Trent is supposed to be objective about, Ted who is certainly heterosexual and kind, yes, friendly, but that doesn’t mean he likes Trent like that.

But as he sips wine, and feels the low, warm burn of it, a fuzzy heat suffused through his body, feels the way he can’t stop—doesn’t want to stop—the little smile tugging at his lips, feels how easy it is to lean into Ted like a sunflower following the day, feels how Ted doesn’t flinch away—

The conversation’s lulled but the moment still feels almost unnervingly peaceful, and Ted’s squinting at the TV and scrolling through the queue and Trent just. can’t take his eyes off him.

And it’s hard to remember why he shouldn’t get closer, why he shouldn’t reach out and touch, when Ted’s right there and so beautiful and within reach, when Ted’s touch is so casual and fond and affectionate as he pats Trent’s thigh as he speaks—Trent’s completely missed the words, now caught in his thoughts, in a heavy fog, dense and warm and heavy in his mind; his thigh tingles a little where the warm weight of Ted’s hand had rested a moment ago, and—

They’re just sitting so close, and Ted’s legs are tangled up with his—it’s all too much, and it’s so easy to just. set his glass down with a muted clink and then lean forward, hand gently tilting Ted’s head to face him, and kiss him.

Ted seems startled, but doesn’t immediately push him off, and for just a moment, it’s—warm, and a little awkward, and Ted’s lips are soft and parted slightly and Trent can feel his mustache, but—he’s still, he doesn’t kiss back—and then Trent’s pulling away, nearly scrambling back as he says, “I—I’m sorry, I—”

It’s a bucket of ice water poured over his head, plastering his hair to his skull and dripping down his nose and sending full-body-wracking shivers rattling through his bones. Ted hadn’t kissed back—what had Trent been thinking—he’s ruined it, of course he has, he ruins everything—

“Trent,” Ted says, and Trent’s so cold, so small and so stupid, he just shakes his head hard enough his disheveled hair all but flies back and forth, saying, “—I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

And then Ted all but falls forward, climbing half on top of him, and kisses Trent square on the mouth.   

Trent makes a muffled little noise of surprise against his lips, but then softens, relaxes, kissing back and leaning up into it eagerly, and Ted kisses him deeper, harder, and—Trent’s brain has basically melted at this point, warm and liquid and sweet, because Ted is kissing him and he’s never had a kiss like this before.

He can’t even begin to process the improbability of Ted Lasso kissing him, because he’s rather preoccupied with the reality of it.

Ted coaxes apart Trent’s lips, kisses him open-mouthed and hot, deepens it, and Trent’s all little noises, fluttering hands, trembling. Little by little, the other sensations trickle in, filtering past his overwhelmed, dazed senses: Ted’s hand is on his thigh again; as he leans in, he’s putting his weight on that hand and effectively pinning Trent to the couch. Ted’s warm over him, close, caging him in.

His whole body is—lit up, suffused with warmth. He’s never felt like this before, all glowing and butterflies in his stomach, heart tripping over itself, breath caught in his throat. His hand, shaky and hesitant, comes up to lightly cup Ted’s face, as if to guide him closer.

They break apart for a moment, but it’s only a moment, a wet little breath, before they’re kissing again, drawn together. One kiss, and another, and another. He thinks he makes a breathy little moan, half a whimper, and Ted presses closer, kisses him harder, and his head is swimming with heat.

They kiss and kiss and kiss, and it can’t have been that long but it feels like a small eternity. Finally, some semblance of thought begins to pierce through the veil, stirring under the surface of Trent’s mind.

“Fuck,” whispers Trent against his mouth, hot and quiet and shaky, dizzy with want, “oh—we—” Ted kisses him again, and Trent can’t help but kiss back without even a hesitation, tilting his head back with a soft, pleased sigh, letting Ted deepen it.

It’s surreal—he’s the one that started this, but here’s Ted, kissing Trent like he’s devouring him, and Trent’s blood is tingling and lit up, he feels like he’s on fire, Ted’s hands clutching at him, Ted’s mouth on his. And Trent can still—still feel it, feel Ted’s warm face under his hand, feel Ted’s weight on top of him, feel the way Ted’s breathing against his mouth and how occasionally a little noise slips out into the kiss and Trent is just. losing it.

Trent manages to tear himself away, just barely, lips slick and parted. But he freezes before he even can get any more words out, because Ted’s—Ted’s looking at him. Looking at him all—eyes heavy-lidded and pupils big and cheeks a little flushed and hair askew, looking at him all. all dazed and lips barely parted and red, and. and. god, Ted’s looking at Trent like he’s beautiful, like he’s the sexiest goddamn thing Ted’s ever seen, and Trent feels hot all over, feels wobbly inside in the best way.

Ted looks gorgeous, like this. All. all rumpled, a little messy, and wanting. Looking at Trent like that. God. Trent absolutely cannot be held responsible for how he immediately shifts to sling his arms over Ted’s shoulders and kiss him again.

Ted’s arms slip around his waist and pulls their bodies closer together, presses them all along each other, and Trent gives a soft little sigh and lets his lips part, lets out a little moan into the kiss, pushes up into it.

And then Ted pulls away, big hands framing Trent’s face and keeping him from following, and he says, voice utterly fucking wrecked and a little too breathy, “Sorry, you—uh, you got. somethin’ to say?”

“What?” says Trent dumbly, brain far too busy with more important things, namely, cataloging ted’s hands—big, warm, a little calloused; pressing, firm; framing his face, thumbs under his eyes, palms to his cheeks, last fingertips brushing under his ear and over the hinge of his jaw—and ted’s body pressed close and ted’s face near his, ted’s eyes, earnest and watching him, ted’s lips, swollen from kissing his.

Ted gives him this breathless little grin again, like Trent acting like a complete idiot is endearing somehow.

“I kinda distracted you,” he says, and Trent gives a small laugh, a breathless, disbelieving little thing, but sincere nonetheless. He tries to gather himself, to force his fizzy thoughts to connect and form into something more solid.

“I—right,” he says after a moment. His arms are still around Ted. Ted’s hands are still on his face. “I—as much as I’m—god, I’m really loving this, we—we probably—shouldn’thavesex. Is all.” He gives a little cough.

Ted blinks, but he doesn’t look upset, or angry, or disappointed, or even confused. He gives a thoughtful little nod and says, “Yeah, uh. yeah, that’s fair.”

His voice is still a little rough, and it’s so sexy Trent wants to die.

“I’m sorry,” Trent blurts out before he can stop himself.

Ted gives him a lopsided smile and then—leans down and kisses him gently, hands tilting Trent’s chin up as he did. Trent pliantly goes with it, but the kiss is over almost as soon as it began.

“Don’t be sorry,” Ted says. “We gotta talk a little, huh?”

Trent bites his lip, but nods.

Lying here, half under Ted, pressed close, he’s never felt so shaky and vulnerable. Wide-eyed, guard down, heart hesitant but open.

Ted—tucks a curl of hair behind Trent’s ear. Gentle, careful. And then he pulls back, climbing off Trent and letting him sit up. Trent misses him immediately, misses the weight and heat and presence of him like it burns, a cold and pressing absence. He hadn’t realized how much he missed being touched.

Part of him wants to just climb into his lap and say nevermind, nevermind, can we keep kissing, please? because if they talk, they’ll have to admit they can’t, can’t do this, can’t have anything permanent, not really, not now, maybe not ever, and Trent doesn’t want to. He just doesn’t want to. He wants to be here a little longer, with Ted in his arms, and not worry about the outside world.

No exes that hate him and jobs that hate him more. Just Ted, and his kind eyes and his smile and kissing that smile.

“…was this a date?” is what Trent somehow ends up blurting out, just a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Y’know,” says Ted after a moment, sounding genuinely thoughtful. “I’m not actually sure.”

Trent can’t help but smile. “I liked it,” he says quietly, like it’s a confession and not something that’s been written all over his face the whole night.

Ted leans in conspiratorially. “Me too,” he says with a little grin.

And then he hesitates, so Trent doesn’t speak, until finally he wets his lips. “I didn’t mean for it to be—” before Trent’s heart can fall, he quickly adds, “but, it kinda. Mm. Well, it uh, kinda started being one, didn’t it?”

“I wanted it to be, at least,” Trent says, still quiet, confessional. Hopeful, despite himself.

“I, uh. I guess I kinda surprised myself,” Ted admits after a moment. “Since, um. since my divorce, I’ve only tried dating or—or anything like it just about once, and it didn’t… didn’t go too well.”

“Well,” says Trent, blowing out a breath, “You’ve seen how well my dating life’s been going before now.”

He almost winces—he hadn’t meant to make it sound like a competition, just comforting, commiserating, but when Ted’s face falls a little, it’s sadness softening his expression, not discomfort or offense.

“He was real awful to you,” he says softly.

Trent shifts a little, uncomfortable. “I tend to provoke that reaction,” he says wryly, but Ted doesn’t smile.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says instead, and he leans forward and gently puts a hand over his.

Trent stares at him for a moment, eyes widening slightly at the quiet weight of his utter sincerity.

Ted has a gift for doing that: taking his breath away.

So they talk.

They talk, and it’s—it’s lovely. It’s lovely and intimate and they’re still so close, and sometimes they lean closer like they might kiss again but never quite do.

But Trent still remembers. He still remembers how that kiss, those kisses, felt.

Still, even when his mind wanders occasionally, it’s not hard to stray back to the moment. Because that’s where Ted is, Ted, and that’s where Trent wants to be.

So—they talk. They’d already been talking, but now it’s deeper, closer, and it feels as though the whole world is just the two of them. The couch is an island on a dark and starlit sea, and they talk.

They talk about:

A date isn’t really a date unless both parties agree it’s a date, preferably before or during the date. Regardless, their evening had been suspiciously date shaped, and they both had enjoyed it, but there were other things to consider.

Divorce, and how hard it is. The loneliness and anxiety of the aftermath, and of trying to date again, feeling ready again.

Geoff and what a prick he is. Other breakups Trent's had, attempts at connection that failed.

Ted quietly, almost hesitantly tells him a little about his divorce, about feeling like he’s a mess. And Trent tells him about feeling alienated, not quite understanding himself or anyone else.

They talk about anxiety, and they get closer together, legs tangled up, warm and close. And Ted holds Trent’s hand—fiddles with his fingers, strokes over his palm—and Trent lets him, hand pliant in his, fingers twitching towards him.

They’re both lonely, and longing for each other’s company and delighting in it now that they have it.

So they talk, on their little island, about so much, leaning inwards and barely taking their eyes and hands off each other...

and yet they still don’t talk about the elephant in the room.

They go to bed together, and they only sleep.

The lights turned off, tangled close...

Trent lies there, Ted's arm around him, feeling the warmth radiating from him, and the foreign feeling of a man in his bed, a man he likes, a man who wants him, a man he feels safe with, echoing in his head, settling in his body like a cat settling into a sunbeam.

This is nice. So nice.

He wants this so badly. He wants Ted.

Wants to have this, wants to keep it. 

It all feels so close, so reachable, so tangible, the years laid out before him in a sun-soaked dream, and yet—

And yet.

(Why, oh why, do their jobs have to be what they are?)

Chapter Text

Trent wakes up alone.

The bed’s still warm, and he only has a moment to feel crushed before he spots the note left on his bedside table.

Sorry, honey, had to run—you know my number, but just in case?

He’s scrawled out his phone number, his personal phone number, which Trent technically does know but now it’s been given to him, with the implicit permission to use it—

He’s signed it with a little x (a kiss? Is it really, really stupid that Trent feels a butterfly or two?), and his name. Not Coach Ted Lasso from America. Just Ted.

And then, under that…

P.S. Check your freezer ;)

He’s drawn the little winky face and everything. It’s so ridiculous (and he thinks that affectionately, so affectionately) Trent kind of wonders if he’s still dreaming, before realizing that he’s been smiling all big and lopsided like a lovestruck idiot the whole time he was reading the note.

A warm, fuzzy feeling has lazily risen up in his chest, making his face feel warm and his limbs relaxed.

Nothing’s solved, exactly. He still doesn’t know what the future holds.

But for now—hope. Light at the end of the tunnel.

Ted wants to see him again, wants to keep talking to him. Ted had kissed him last night.

Trent honestly feels like falling back on the bed and giggling or kicking his feet or just flapping his hands excitedly because god, that really happened, he’d—he’d fucking made out with Ted last night, they’d cuddled, they’d kissed and talked and Ted had touched him and they’d been—

just. undeniably together. Trent had felt the opposite of alone.

It was a foreign feeling even as he recalled it with a fond, barely-believing awe, and—yeah, he was still smiling like an idiot, rubbing a thumb over the note in his hand.

Deep down, some little voice keeps whispering, it’ll never work, you know it’ll never work, you’re going to get burned, you can’t have him, you can never have him, it’s too much, you’re too much, you’re not worth it, there’s so much between you, just a neverending slurry of sharp, pessimistic doubt—but for once, it’s not hard to ignore.

He can hardly think past the butterflies, the soft warmth he feels in his chest.

Ted likes him. And Trent likes Ted. So, so much.

Maybe… he has no idea how, but maybe, just maybe, they can make it work. Somehow.

Make something work, at least.

“You’re in a good mood,” Diana observes, sounding amused. Trent may or may not have been humming. He’s a stereotype and he doesn’t even care.

Trent hesitates, worrying at his lip, but he can’t hold back. He wants to share it with someone, and he wants to trust her, and—he just blurts it out.

“I met someone,” he says, not quite looking at her even as he manages to keep his voice even.

“Oh?” she says. And then, “Wait, what about Geoff?”

“Geoff, er. broke things off,” Trent says.

“Ugh,” says Diana. “Fuck him. Good riddance.” She freezes. “Wait, I can say that, right? We don’t like Geoff?”

“We don’t like Geoff,” Trent agrees.

“Thank god,” says Diana.

“You never even met him,” Trent protests, more on principle of the thing than actual annoyance or offense.

She sighs. “Yeah, but he didn’t make you happy. Like, at all. Certainly not like Mr. Has You Humming And Shimmying In The Kitchen.”

Trent—may or may not blush. His face feels warm but he’s conceding nothing.

“Mr. Makes You Blush Just By Thinking About Him!” Diana says delightedly, lighting up a bit. “Oh my god, spill!”

“It’s not even a relationship,” Trent says, a little too quickly, but he’s still smiling, he can feel it on his face, and she’s looking at him like she’s won the lottery. “Not really, I mean, it’s really complicated—”

“But you like him?” she says.

Okay, so maybe Trent’s blushing a little bit. He feels a bit like he’s gossiping with a friend about boys, something he’d never really had growing up—god. He is gossiping with a friend about boys, isn’t he?

“He’s different,” Trent says finally, a bit softer. “He’s really, really nice.”

“Good,” Diana says, raising her mug as if in a toast. “You have terrible taste in men. You keep dating pricks.”

Trent brushes over the prickle of discomfort he feels at this… not-untrue assessment. “Well, this one isn’t like that,” he says. “He’s… he’s really sweet, actually.” A soft laugh, humorless but also free of bitterness. Just wry. “Probably too sweet for the likes of me.”

He can’t help the self-deprecation. It’s just there, true and obvious. Not bitter, not angry, just… wry.

She swats his shoulder. “If you want sweet, you deserve sweet,” she says reproachfully. “Come on.”

He ducks his head for a moment, but with a tiny, nearly-aborted shrug and an equally small smile, he says, “You deserve sweet, too, you know.”

Sweeter than me, certainly, he wants to say. (Some nice man who’s actually nice, and also not gay. Not Ted, though. That one’s Trent’s.)

She gives him a look like she knows what he’s thinking. “Course I do,” she says. “But I’ve got high standards.”

Which you passed, obviously, she clearly wants to say. Dummy.

They’d been friends long enough—let alone married—for them to have at least some unspoken communication down.

“…I’m happy for you, y’know,” she says, giving him a little smile.

And Trent can tell she means it.

...

"...So... complicated, huh?" Diana says. "Are you boning Roy Kent? Because you legally have to tell me if Roy Kent is about to become our daughter's stepdad."

Trent splutters out a laugh. "What? No!"

"Jamie Tartt," she continues mercilessly, despite knowing damn well he's far too young for Trent. "Mikel Arteta. Zava."

"No! Are you crazy?" he demands, but he's still laughing. "And what makes you think it's someone from work, anyway?"

"You know everyone through work," she says, waving a hand. "And anyway, how else would it be complicated? Also, would it be insensitive to jokingly guess Rebecca Welton?"

"Not exactly my type," Trent says a touch dryly, but he's still grinning, not quite able to stop. He hasn't seen her quite so delighted and happy and grinning and at ease with him in a long while, and it's nice. He, of course, doesn't consider she may be so delighted because she hasn't seen him so delighted and happy and grinning and at ease with her in... possibly ever. 

"Ted Lasso," she guesses next, and she's probably joking, poking fun, but he goes bright red.

"No comment," he says, far too quickly.

She lights up, grinning widely. "TED LASSO??" she practically shouts delightedly, and he says, much louder and higher-pitched, "NO COMMENT!"

Later, looking at the note again, he realizes he forgot to check the freezer.

He opens it, and finds a little takeaway cup of ice cream that hadn’t been there before. He opens it carefully and peers inside—

It’s the ice cream Ted had gotten, that Trent had liked just a bit better than his own. A little serving just for Trent.

Ted must have gotten it while he was in the bathroom. He’d noticed Trent liked it, and had gone to the trouble of sneakily getting another just to surprise him.

That big, dopey smile is back; he can feel it. He digs out a spoon and scoops out a little mouthful and—

It’s cold and sweet and melts in his mouth. And despite that, Trent feels nothing but warm, warm, warm.