When Life Gives You Lemons

by Springandastorm

Summary:

Trent snorts, which is a sound that Ted has trouble believing he's able to make. "You didn't want to touch the knob?" He repeats.

"Nah, it's got all kindsa nasty germs on it, and I know that you bake 'em out anyway, but this one time in college I got food poisoning from a bad donut and spent about two days straight on the—wait."

Trent waits patiently for Ted to finish realizing, arms folded. Ted feels his face break open wide. "Trent Crimm, are you making a dick joke?"

"...I'm attempting to."

Ted thinks that if there were a little meter for how much he likes Trent, that might've just broken it.

Notes:

so uhhhh i love these two so much <3 writing in this universe is fun bc i get to ham up the dialogue and rest easy knowing that ted actually talks like that

Trent Crimm smells like lemons. 

Ted notices every time he's close enough to smell him, which isn't very often, but has happened enough to make an impression regardless. 

The first time Ted picked up on it was when Trent caught him outside in the car park, the light breeze swirling vaguely-lemony wafts in Ted’s direction. Ted hadn’t paid much attention at the time, a bit busy with the whiplash of Trent writing that damning article while respecting him enough to not only give up his source but, apparently, get fired for him. Ted had preferred not to think of it as Trent getting fired for him—that was a bit dramatic, especially when Trent was clearly in need of a career redirect anyway. Ted had just been the straw that broke the camel’s back. He’d only remembered the smell when he’d had the craving for lemon scones later and flipped through some recipes online before deciding to buy some from the cafe down the street instead as a treat. 

Ted had eventually forgotten to try out a recipe of his own and had filed lemony scones away with all of the other baking experiments he’d been meaning to try: cream horns, Italian meringues, and basically every single technical from every single episode of Bake Off.

The next time Ted sees Trent is when he’s dropping off some biscuits for Malia’s birthday. He texted Trent beforehand to check if it’d be alright, receiving only a cryptic address in reply, which, now that he's on Trent's doorstep, he's hoping counted as a yes. 

Ted met Malia the year before in the park, toddling around on little legs and attempting to kick a football around with her other dad but looking every bit like Trent’s daughter, bespectacled and somehow already serious and intimidating. She’d warmed up to Ted after a little bit of coaxing and a lot of Ted using up his arsenal of child-impressing tricks in one go: he’d stolen her nose, praised her intelligence and natural football skill, pretended to crack an egg on her head, and done his “silly seagull dance” all just trying to get her to smile and stop hiding behind her curtain of dark hair. 

The seagull dance had been what did it, earning a giggle from her and a hint of a maybe-smile from Trent. Ted hadn’t paid much attention to Trent’s partner at the time, a tall, clean-cut man who’d scooped up the football and ducked away to make a phone-call after a polite introduction, a bit different from the bookish look Ted would’ve expected from the kind of person who’d earn Trent’s favor. His name was something like John or Joseph or James—the kind of name that Ted normally wouldn’t have much trouble remembering considering the amount of bible-named young men back in Kansas, but for some reason hadn’t stuck. 

Ted doesn’t know if John-or-Joseph-or-James will be there this time, just that he has the probably-rude hope that he isn’t. He supposes it’s because he’d like to have a chance to talk to Trent one-on-one, banking on his British politeness winning over and him inviting Ted in. Trent’s is within walking distance, but that doesn’t stop Ted from getting lost twice and having to resort to google maps for help. He eventually finds his way after realizing that he had the map flipped upside down (thanks to auto-rotate). Trent's place is nice. Ted expected it to be, given Trent's car and Trent's appearance and Trent's…everything. It's in a slightly less busy part of London, nestled closely against the other dark brick houses along the way. 

The bricks are dark brown and it has little shrubs and little lanterns hanging by the door. There's a mat in front of the door that appears to have been coated quite liberally in glitter that sticks to Ted's shoes when he drops an experimental foot down. Ted loves it. He smiles, rocking on his heels, and gives the door a complicated little knock to the opening beat of Paul Simon's Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover. 

Trent opens the door, his lips pulled up in a small smile, and Ted can hear Malia before he can see her, the sound of bare feet slapping against hardwood stairs spilling through the door before Malia appears behind Trent, standing behind his tweed-covered legs and peering up at Ted with dark eyes. 

"Sorry I'm a lil late, I got more turned around than a mouse in a cheese-maze."

Trent blinks then nods, a familiar look of amusement and confusion flitting over his features. He's dressed only slightly more casually than usual, a faded dark jumper over houndstooth trousers, but he's currently shoeless, the boney lines of his feet snug in bright stripey yellow socks that clash a bit with the faded greys and blacks of his outfit. "I'm a bit behind on laundry." He says, something almost like self-consciousness creeping into his tone. His left big toe twitches. 

Ted grins. "Hey, no judgement here, every pair of socks I've ever owned has been split up by those pesky sock goblins." He looks down at Malia, giving her a smile. "Y'all got those here too, right, birthday girl?"

Malia giggles. She looks older than she had the last time Ted saw her, slightly taller and more sure of herself. She still looks serious and intelligent like Trent, a round pair of dark glasses perched on her nose. 

"We do." Trent confirms. "Though I suspect the reason these two are matching is because they're too ugly for the sock gremlins to want." He looks down at his sunshine-y feet, shaking his head slightly. 

"Shoot, y'all got sock gremlins, too? No wonder that movie wasn't popular over here."

"What's a gremlin?" Malia asks, shuffling out from behind Trent's legs.

"Well, they're these lil fellas who ki—ah, who cause all sorts of mischief if you feed 'em after midnight." 

"Sounds like pop." She says, making Trent huff a laugh that blows a few loose strands of dark, silvery hair out of his face. 

Ted smiles. "Ah, the other Mr. Crimm isn't too fond of a midnight bagel or two?"

"Mr. Alwyn, actually. And no." Trent doesn't elaborate, pulling away slightly, which Ted notices and files away for later with all of the other little bits and pieces he knows about Trent. He sneaks a glance down to his ring finger. Bare. He doesn't remember if it was already bare before or not, but there's every possibility that it was and he hadn't noticed. Hm. 

"Yeah, well, working with athletes I get alotta health advice, and they all tell me to stay away from a midnight bagel, but how's a man supposed to resist a bagel by starlight? You ever had a bagel by starlight, Malia?"

Malia blinks at him, but her eyes are fixed on the pink box in his hand, not his face. "Are those for me?"

"Speaking of healthy food, they are indeed, miss Malia!"

Trent watches the interaction, the corners of his eyes slightly wrinkled. He jerks his head. "Come in, then."

Ted thinks a silent thank you to the predictable stability of British politeness and follows them inside, handing Malia the box as he does so. "What do you say, love?" Trent asks her, giving her a stern look that looks a bit more familiar on his face than his smiles do. 

"Thank you, biscuit man!" Malia says, mouth full of crumbs. 

"Malia."

"Thank you, Ted!" She corrects. 

"She knows my name?" Ted asks, surprised and slightly pleased. 

"Of course." Trent says, leading Ted through the foyer into the kitchen, which leads down into the living room. It's a seventies kind of look, sunken and angular and all shades of brown and orange interrupted by the bright colors of Malia's toys. Ted loves it even more than the outside. He whistles. "Woo-ee, Nanny McPhee. This place is lush."

Trent looks proud of himself, gazing around his house with fresh eyes. "Thank you, Ted. I've had far too much free time to redecorate lately and went a bit mad at Alfies Antique Market." 

"Alfie who?"

"That's just the name. Dunno."

Trent's hands are in his pockets, a studiedly casual pose that, if anything, makes him look less casual. Ted's never seen him at home like this, hair mussed and his glasses remaining securely nestled over the noble arch of his nose. "Well, I'm glad you're using your free time to do something fun." Ted offers, hovering awkwardly as he wonders if it'd be rude to sit down. 

"That's one way to look at it." Trent says, voice creeping into the tone of someone who's judging themselves for no good reason. "I've felt a bit like it's just me filling the void with increasingly abstract coffee tables." 

Ted looks out over the room, at the three separate wooden coffee tables in angular mid-century shapes, one of them so sharp that Ted's not sure you could set anything on it at all, which does defeat the purpose of it being a table. "Maybe a little, but of all the bad habits to have, I'd take this over my addiction to youtube videos of people eating popcorn into a microphone."

Trent opens his mouth then closes it again, seemingly at a loss. He gestures vaguely. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes, please." Ted says. He sits on the couch, a comfortingly worn sag to the cushions that Ted knows only comes from children using it like a trampoline. There's a curry stain on one of the couch's arms, hidden haphazardly behind a pillow, and Ted is relieved to see it. He likes the little reminders that Trent is just a person, not a terrifying figure of razor-sharp journalistic fervor who's aging way better than Ted is. He wants to ask about that, curious about what Trent's plans are now that journalism's off the table, but Malia interrupts him by sitting next to him and solemnly handing the pink box over, nothing remaining but some scattered crumbs and sprinkles. 

Trent's eyebrows shoot up. "You finished it already? Love, you'll be too full for cake."

"No I won't." She says, so certain that Ted can't help but believe her. 

"That's the right attitude." Ted says, chuckling. "Always room for cake."

"Exactly." Malia says, promptly wiggling right back off of the couch again as something occurs to her. "Wanna see my presents?"

"Heck yeah I wanna see your presents!" Ted says, moving to stand back up. 

Malia stops him with a hand on his knee. "No, I'll get them."

She takes off up the stairs, almost tripping when her socks slide on the hardwood. Ted and Trent are both silent for a moment, which doesn't last long once Ted's inability to sit in silence for more than ten seconds kicks in. "What typa cake is she getting?"

Trent finally sits down next to Ted in the spot Malia had been, and that's when Ted notices it again: a stirring of lemon-scented air, bright and fresh and a little bit spicy. He wonders if it's Trent's aftershave, if that'd be a weird thing to ask. He doesn't think it would be, but he doesn't ask regardless. "Tiramisu." Trent answers. 

"Mm mm mm." The noise is inspired more by the lemony smell than the cake flavor, but Ted doesn't say that. "Coffee-cake, huh? Better than tea-cake, that's for sure. She's got good taste." 

"Yeah, well, we'll see if the other children agree."

"Are y'all having some other kiddos over?" Ted asks, hooking his legs at the ankles and turning to face Trent more fully. 

"We are at Joe's house later this afternoon, yes." 

"Oh, you two don't…"

"We're split up." Trent says, giving Ted a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Have been for the past five months."

A bit before Trent quit his job for Ted to chase his bliss, then. He wonders if that had something to do with it, if Trent had been in the middle of his own midlife crisis and had dealt with those feelings by upending his career, as well. He's tempted to ask when Malia reappears at the top of the stairs, a laundry basket in her hands to properly carry all of her things.

"You got it, Lia?" Trent asks her, looking especially worried about the load combined with her socks combined with the slippy stairs. 

"I've got it!" Malia says, voice only slightly strained. Ted's a little worried too, remembering a time that Henry had decided to sled down their (thankfully carpeted) stairs and banged up his leg pretty badly. 

"The weight of guilt presents." Trent sighs, earning a surprised laugh from Ted. 

"Oh, believe me, I know all about guilt presents. Learned the hard way that you should buy drones with a warranty."

Thankfully, Melia makes it down the stairs without incident and proceeds to show Ted her impressive wealth of gifts from Trent (and a few from relatives, including Trent's parents). There are books, dolls, Lego sets, you name it. Ted is as enthusiastic and attentive as he can be (which is very), oohing and awing over each and every gift. Trent proudly tells Ted that she's already reading on her own, the picture books stacked in the basket thick and fancy, the kind you get at the more expensive little bookshops scattered throughout London that have all kinds of embossed children's books. 

Ted, a Lego expert thanks to Henry's own interest in them, distracts her long enough to open up one of the Lego sets, a castle complete with its very own dragon. He works on the castle while she builds the dragon. Trent, who declares himself useless when it comes to Legos and "anything that requires putting things together", opts to watch instead, glancing down at his phone and pretending to be engrossed every time that Ted looks up at him. 

Ted can tell Trent's only pretending to be engrossed because, in his periphery, he can feel Trent's eyes on him, quiet and discerning as Ted babbles away, talking two times as much as Malia does, who's too focused on her Legos to talk much. 

At one point Trent gets up to make tea, not even bothering to ask Ted if he wants any and bringing him a glass of water instead, which is when Ted knows for certain that they've somehow stumbled into a tentative friendship.  

"Why thank you, Trent Crimm." Ted says, reaching up to take the glass and tipping his head back to take a long drink, only realizing how thirsty he'd been when he feels a few errant droplets escape from the glass and trickle down his neck. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, setting the glass down on the table and making some joke about how thirsty he was, a joke that dies in his throat when he sees the look on Trent's face. 

Trent looks…stricken, almost, like he's upset or maybe surprised, his lips parted and his dark eyes intense, fixed somewhere below Ted's face. The look is gone after less than a second, smoothing back into his usual impassivity, and as he steps forwards to hand Malia her tea his foot lands on a stray Lego. What follows is a hissed "Bugger!", a sloshed-over splash of tea that lands on the tip of Ted's trainers, and a comically pained twist of Trent's face as he simultaneously hops backwards and tries not to spill more tea. 

When Ted and Malia are finished laughing, which is at least a full two-and-a-half minutes later, Ted offers to help Trent get the tea out of the rug on the floor. Trent, who's been standing with his arms crossed and an irritated expression on his face while waiting for them to finish laughing, lets him. Malia is content to continue building her dragon, still giggling every other breath like there's nothing she enjoys more than seeing her father's usual grace undermined. Ted thinks he feels the same way, the glimpses of the real Trent buried underneath his usual aloofness particularly compelling. 

"I've been victim to many Lego-attacks in my own lifetime." Ted says, dampening a hand-towel in the sink and accepting the bottle of white vinegar that Trent hands him with a knowing smile. "Your mom has the same stain trick, huh?"

"I'm quite sure that everybody's mother uses vinegar." Trent says, an eyebrow arched. "My mother's other stain trick involves a lot more bleach and prayer." 

"Fair enough." Ted says, carefully avoiding the scattered Legos on the floor to kneel down and dab at the stain. 

"It feels a bit rude to have you clean up my mess." Trent comments, hands back in his pockets, and Ted looks up at him, shaking his hair out of his eyes. 

"You know, I could make a real selfish joke right now, if I wanted to." 

Trent looks guilty the second what Ted says dawns on him, which Ted enjoys just a little bit. "...That you've already had to clean up messes I've left for you?" 

"That's the ticket, Jiminy Cricket."

Trent sighs. "I never said…you know. I never got the chance to—"

"Trent." Ted says, stopping him before he can work himself up. "Nothing to say."

"What are you talking about?" Malia asks, dragon now finished as she looks between the two of them, eyes big and owlish behind her specs. 

"Nothing, love." Trent says, crouching down to look at the dragon and holding it up. "Wow, look at this! The purple on the wings is an excellent touch." 

"Now all it needs is some glitter." Ted says, thinking of the glitter all over the doormat. 

Trents face darkens. "Do not encourage her, Ted, I've been finding glitter in places it absolutely should not be for months."

Ted giggles. He likes this version of Trent. A lot. "I always thought I missed out on finding glitter everywhere, having a son. I know it's bad for the environment, but it's so dang sparkly."

Malia seems to agree, digging around in a bin of art supplies tucked under one of the coffee tables and pulling out a plastic container of silvery-purple glitter. "Look, Ted!"

"Wowee, there it is!" Ted says, reaching out to gently tilt the container, the iridescent flakes winking at him in the light. 

"You're going to regret this." Trent murmurs. 

"No, Sir, I will not." Ted says, watching Malia pop open the container. "What's there to regret?"

An hour later, Ted sneezes yet another glitter-filled explosion into the elbow of his sweater. He's beginning to think he really shouldn't have let Malia put glitter in his mustache—he's genuinely not sure he's ever going to be able to get it out again. Trent hasn't said I told you so exactly, but he's definitely thinking it, biting down on a smile every time Ted accidentally inhales another piece of glitter and splutters as he tries not to sneeze again. Malia's also enjoying it, so much so that Trent had to confiscate her glitter for fear of her pouring even more all over Ted. 

Soon enough it's time for her to get dressed for her party, and when Trent asks if she wants any help she just gives him a look, making her own way upstairs and leaving a trail of fairy dust behind her. 

"She's frighteningly independent." Trent opines, scooping the excess glitter into his hands and frowning at the way half of it sticks to his skin. 

Ted feels a grin creep over his face. "So I guess you could say that she's—"

"Malia Crimm, independent." Trent finishes for him, shaking his head to himself. "I don't know why I set you up for these things."

"Because you've got a good sense of humor, that's why." Ted answers, swaying slightly closer to him and enjoying the slight heat that creeps into Trent's cheeks. He must not get nearly enough compliments on things that aren't his hair or his journalistic know-how.

Trent clears his throat and stands up, making his way back to the kitchen to sweep the extra bits of glitter sticking to his hands into the garbage. He washes his hands next, not looking up, and Ted waits patiently next to him to wash his own hands. 

Ted catches a whiff of lemon again as Trent pumps hand soap into his hands, and that's when he realizes where the smell's partially coming from: the fancy golden-colored soap that looks like it's from the same boutique Keeley got them all fancy Christmas presents from (she'd gotten Ted a cinnamony bottle of aftershave that he rarely uses just to make it last as long as possible). 

"So that's your secret!" Ted says, inhaling deeply and ignoring the glitter that that dislodges. The lemony goodness fills his nose, distinct enough to remind him of Trent (and of those scones he'd meant to bake), citrusy and warm. 

Trent's shoulders go tight, his eyes skittering towards Ted's. "What's my secret?"

"Your soap! It's why you smell so lemony delicious all the time!" Ted realizes only after the words have left his mouth that it might be a tad strange to describe another man as smelling lemony delicious, but he likes the look that it puts on Trent's face so much that he decides it was worth it; Trent looks confused, thick eyebrows drawing together then up. 

"I wasn't aware that what hand soap I use is a secret." Trent says lamely, looking like he's not entirely sure what else to say. 

"I just wasn't sure if it was your natural aura or what." Ted says, temporarily forgetting the glitter on his hands and leaning back against the counter. The look that Trent gives him makes him quickly lift his hands and clean the counter, a silent request in the twitch of his lips. Ted doesn't know how Trent does that without needing words, just that it reminds him of Rebecca, that silent self-possession that makes it easy to command an entire room. 

"My natural aura." Trent repeats, deadpan. "No, it's just this lemony themed toiletry set I picked up a while ago. Soap, aftershave, hair stuff. The works."

"Ya like lemons a lot, Trent?"

"...They're alright." Trent says, not elaborating. 

"Well I've been meaning to bake some lemon scones—sorry, scones"—Ted re-pronounces it in the English way, ignoring the silent E—"sometime, and maybe you'd like to join me. Or I can just bring you some and you can enjoy the fruits—heh—of my labor." 

Trent stares at Ted for a long moment, his face impossible to read, before he slowly shuts the water off, turning to face Ted more fully. "Maybe." He leans in awfully close, making Ted's breath catch in the split second before he realizes that Trent's just reaching for a towel behind him to dry his hands with. 

After Ted's washed his own hands (using more soap than he needs), there's an awkward moment where him and Trent just look at each other, unsure what to do. "Well, I'd better skedaddle—" Ted starts at the same time as Trent says "We'll have to be getting to Joe's—"

Ted nods. "Right. Joe Alwyn. Hey, have I heard that name before? It's awful familiar."

Trent sighs, eyes shutting for a brief moment, before he very seriously deadpans "You know I love a London boy."

Ted, wondering if he inhaled too much lemony soap, tumbles into a confused laugh. "What?"

"Oh, I thought you'd get—it's Taylor Swift. Her boyfriend is an English actor. Same name as my Joe." Trent hesitates, then adds: "Not that he's mine, not…oh, you know. He's had to start going by Joseph again." Trent is far more uncertain than Ted is used to seeing him, and Ted feels like he's stumbled upon a wonderful side of Trent that he's been keeping hidden away. 

"Oh, right, that's that song that y'all hate over here, right? It's the one T-Swizzle song that Keeley won't play."

"Yes, well, the lyrics are particularly egregious—I mean, nobody likes walking Camden Market in the afternoon or watching Rugby in the West End, but Malia loves it. You can imagine how many school friends she's bragged to about his name, which really used to cause confusion when they found out I'm not a blonde white popstar dating him."

"I dunno about the blonde or white part, but I'll bet your singing isn't half bad." Ted says, tickled pink by this entire interaction. "Maybe you oughta sing the next bit, remind me of the tune." 

"Absolutely not." Trent says, looking at Ted with something that he'd swear is fondness. 

They say their goodbyes after that, Ted calling a final Happy Birthday to Malia up the stairs, and Trent sends him off with a hand on his elbow, fingers warm even through Ted's coat. "Love our chats." 

"Me too, Trent Crimm, me too." Ted says, lighter than he's felt all week. 

When Ted gets home that afternoon, he presses his hands to his face and inhales deeply, enjoying the lemony goodness clinging to his skin. When he drops his hands, they're sparkly again, and it's only then that he remembers he'd walked the entire way home with a phenomenally glittery mustache. No wonder he got twice as many wankers as usual. 

 

 ✧

 

Ted hadn't been fully expecting for Trent to take him up on his offer, which he'd reminded Trent of in a text a few weeks after Malia's birthday.

Trent's justification for it is that he has way too much time on his hands without deadlines to worry about, and that if he doesn't get out of the house he'll end up buying another geometrically-complicated coffee table. Ted smiles when he sees the message, and he may or may not spend the morning before Trent arrives whistling to an oldies playlist and cleaning his entire flat. He doesn't always clean before people come over, especially because the functional status of the flat means that he hasn't really settled in enough to make it too cozy (and slightly messy, which is how he's most comfortable), but there's something about Trent that he can't help but want to appeal to, to impress. 

Ted's favorite type of people are the ones he has to win over, a bit like those old lollipop commercials with the owl: How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie pop? Ted's always enjoyed the process of figuring that out, of getting people's guards down so that he can wiggle his way into their hearts like a particularly persistent parasite (or at least that's how Roy had described him once). Ted's gotten used to England, to its hard-won people: Rebecca, Roy, Jamie, Sharon. People who take time, a little elbow grease. Trent's no different. Ted's been liking the process of winning him over quite a lot, and now that he's no longer sniffing for blood in the water like a journalistic shark, Ted likes it even more. 

Ted feels oddly self-conscious as he fiddles with his appearance, adding a little more gel into his hair than usual then wondering why on Earth he did that and scrubbing at it to make it look more normal. He even leaves a pair of dirty socks right by the door to show that he's casual. Jesus, he's not usually this in his head. 

Trent doesn't bring Malia, who's currently with Joe, but he does bring a bag of lemons that he holds up in the doorway, bright yellow against the faded brown of his blazer. He's a bit more formal today, but he does shrug off the blazer once he gets inside and then complain about it being far too hot to leave it on, leaving him in another faded T-shirt (of which he seems to have an endless amount). He has colorful bracelets on both wrists, another one of the things that Ted had noticed about him from the jump that had made him trust him implicitly. 

"When's Malia gonna make me one of those?" Ted asks, reaching out to tap on the green one with his left hand while he takes the lemons with his right. 

"She'll make you as many as you want if you pay her." Trent says, letting Ted take the lemons and gazing around his flat with a kind of perceptive interest that makes Ted wonder if he's going to pull out his little notepad and start writing stuff down. 

"A woman in business, huh?" Ted jokes, plopping the lemons on the counter next to the ones he'd procured himself. It's far more lemons than the recipe calls for, but he figures he can make some lemonade or something to go with the scones. 

"She wants to be just like Keeley Jones." Trent hangs his blazer over the back of the wooden chair and leans against the counter. 

"Well they both like glitter an equal amount." Ted says. It might just be the excess of lemons rolling all over the countertops, but the smell of lemons is even stronger than usual, sharp and tangy and coming from Trent, whose hair has even more volume than usual, pushed back and curling up at the ends. 

"Still finding it everywhere?" Trent asks mildly, peering closely at Ted's mustache like he's looking for glimmers. 

"You bet." Ted says, certain that Trent'll probably spot at least one or two. "Found some in my peanut butter the other day." 

"Do you think that maybe that's because you leave it open on the counter? Are you sure it wasn't a particularly shiny insect?"

Ted, to prove a point, sticks a finger into his peanut butter and shoves it into his mouth. "No."

Trent stares at him for a long moment. "...Right. So…this recipe. Is it your own?"

"Mhm." Ted says around his finger, turning to wash his hands and the lemons in the sink. "Partially, at least. Half of it's my own scone recipe and the lemon-y parts I got from a website. Hey, d'ya ever notice that they take multiple paragraphs just to get to that actual recipe?"

"That's the worst part about online recipes." Trent says, wrinkling his nose. 

"No, I love it. I like hearing about whose grandma did what and why it's tangentially related to the fall of the Berlin wall and what that has to do with making soup." 

"...Fair enough." Trent says, giving Ted the same assessing look, the one that makes him feel perpetually underdressed. 

Ted has Trent peel the lemons to blend up into a lemony mush while he works on the dry ingredients, humming under his breath. 

"What's that?" Trent asks, peeling a lemon with nimble fingers and tossing the peeled lemon into the trash and the peel into the blender with a kind of effortlessness that would've been more impressive if he hadn't accidentally switched what was meant to go where. 

"Good thing you brought extras." Ted says, handing him another. "And it's The Lemon Song. Led Zeppelin."

"Ah." Trent says, inclining his head in approval. "Fitting."

"I always loved the lyric Squeeze me 'til the juice runs down my leg as a kid." Ted says, smiling at the memory. "There's nothing like toilet humor in a song that's supposed to be serious when you're that age." 

"I don't think that's quite what Robert Plant meant." Trent says, tossing the lemon and the peel and getting it right this time. 

"Oh, I know, but it's fun to pretend it is." Ted starts to whisk the wet ingredients. "What kinda music did you like as a kid?"

"Everything, really." Trent gives him a small smile, his hair falling into his face. "I was a bit goth, if you can picture that. Loved The Cure."

"We talking happy Cure or sad Cure?" Ted asks, head tilted. He looks Trent up and down. "...Never mind. Stupid question."

"Indeed. There's nothing like maximum angst at that age. At any age, really."

"I'm a Friday I'm in Love kinda guy myself." Ted admits. "But I do think that—" He's interrupted by the doorbell. "Hold that thought." 

Ted leaves Trent in his kitchen, hands held carefully out in front of him to avoid touching anything. He tries to open the door with his foot, the sock sliding uselessly on the handle before he gives up and opens it with his hands, getting flour all over it. He signs for the package and resists the urge to make small-talk with the delivery guy (a nice man called Dev) the way he normally would, knowing that Trent’s waiting. 

Ted holds up the package, leaning against the wall and watching Trent finish up on the last lemon. “Hey, good lookin, whatcha got cookin’?”

Trent blinks, startled. “Huh?”

Ted realizes how that sounds out of context far later than he should’ve, fumbling with the package. “Oh, it’s—it’s an old honky-tonk song. Too American a reference, I guess.”

“Most of your references are.” Trent says, looking at the package. “What’s that?” 

Ted, thankful for the segue, grabs some scissors and tears the cardboard open, holding up the amber bottle with a flourish. “Orange liqueur. Ta-da! Ordered it all the way from France. It’s for the glaze.”

“And also for drinking?” Trent asks hopefully. 

“...And also for drinking. Okay!" Ted claps his hands together before making his way back to the sink. "Mixing time, but first I gotta wash my hands. I didn't wanna touch the knob but I had to."

Trent snorts, which is a sound that Ted has trouble believing he's able to make. "You didn't want to touch the knob?" He repeats. 

"Nah, it's got all kindsa nasty germs on it, and I know that you bake 'em out anyway, but this one time in college I got food poisoning from a bad donut and spent about two days straight on the—wait."

Trent waits patiently for Ted to finish realizing, arms folded. Ted feels his face break open wide. "Trent Crimm, are you making a dick joke?"

"...I'm attempting to." 

Ted thinks that if there were a little meter for how much he likes Trent, that might've just broken it. 

The rest of the baking process goes quickly, Ted folding the ingredients into the dough with a practiced ease and returning to his humming as he forms the scones, Trent peering at the printed-out instructions with his glasses sliding over his nose. 

Ted puts the scones in the oven and scoots next to Trent to finish the glaze with him where he's already almost done. Trent lifts a hand to push his glasses up, smudging lingering baking powder onto his nose. 

"Here, you've got a little—" Ted reaches up to wipe it off, thumb brushing across the tip of Trent's nose. Ted's hand feels tingly where it rests against Trent's cheek, his thumb lingering for longer than it should. Ted gets the unfamiliar urge to trace Trent's nose, his fingers itching, and drops his hand. 

Trent looks uncharacteristically thrown, eyes dropping to follow Ted's hand as his own lifts in an aborted movement, hovering uselessly in mid-air. 

Ted takes a breath, pivoting to grab the liqueur like it's a lifeline and holding it up. "Last ingredient."

Something like relief flickers behind Trent's glasses. "How much?"

"Just a splash or two." Ted says, pouring it into the glaze as Trent stirs. 

Warm fingers wrap around Ted's wrist as Trent lifts his hand to splash more into the glaze, a wry twist to his mouth that Ted's never seen before. He's making a lot of new faces today. 

"We're about to drink it anyway, you know." Ted says, finding it strangely hard to breathe. 

"I know." Trent gives Ted an out, looking at the extra lemons scattered on the counter. "Is that what the rest of the lemons are for?"

"Mhm. I figured we'd make a boozy little beverage inspired by Beyonce's best album."

"...Lemonade?"

"That's the one."

So, they juice the rest of the lemons and mix the lemonade with the liqueur to make particularly sour drinks, ones that make both of them pucker their faces up when they try them until Ted dumps enough sugar in them to balance it out. It's only mid-day, but Ted feels a little bit like he needs this right now, needs to soothe the unexpected jittery feeling in his hands with something. Trent's far from his old intimidating self, warm and open, but Ted still feels like he's being tested, like Trent is filing away everything he says and does to look back over later. 

They make a solid dent in their drinks while waiting for the scones to bake. "So." Ted says, adding even more sugar to his, "feel free to tell me to hush up or kick me in the shins if you don't wanna talk about it, but how's the job search going?"

Trent promptly downs the rest of his drink in a move that reminds Ted a bit of Rebecca. Ted whistles. "That bad, huh?"

"It's not the search so much as it's the"—Trent spreads his arms, sweeping them out around them—"paralyzing fucking possibility." 

"I know that life." Ted says, pouring more from the pitcher into Trent's glass. "You don't have any leads or anything? You wanted something deeper, right?"

Trent looks into his glass for a long time before lifting his gaze back to Ted's, oddly intense. "Right."

"Maybe you oughta write a book, or something." 

Trent's lips go thin, his eyes sharp and probing. "Yeah?"

"Sure thing, Carole King. If anyone should write a book it's you."

"Whatever would I write about?" Trent seems like he's angling for something, but Ted doesn't know quite what. 

"Hell, anything. Sports, politics, comedy, romance. You could write the phone book and I'd read it." 

Trent gives a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, looking…disappointed? Ted's trying to figure it out when Trent moves the conversation along by asking about Henry, clearly not interested in spending any longer on the topic despite the way it's so obviously eating at him. Ted lets him steer, sipping at his drink and letting the pleasant buzz make him looser, easier, the twitch in his fingers settling down a little bit. 

Soon enough the scones are done, the ding of the oven making both of them jump, and they linger over the tray as they wait for them to cool, the entire kitchen thick with the smell of them. Ted's mouth waters as he drizzles the glaze over them, making a mess but not much caring, and he scoops a few onto a plate even though they're still hot enough to burn his fingers. He settles at the table with Trent, who's eyeing the scones with just as much impatience, and Ted eventually gives in and takes a huge bite of one even though he has to suck in air as he tries to chew to keep his tongue from burning. 

Trent watches, eyebrow raised. "Worth it?"

"Worf it." Ted says through a mouthful of food. 

"You and your hot foods." Trent says, sounding exasperated in a way that Ted is beginning to recognize as fond. He waits a bit longer for the scones to cool before biting into one himself, and Ted wants to memorize the expression on his face as he does: his eyes slipping shut, his tongue darting out to collect the extra crumbs. He takes his time to chew, really savoring it, before fixing Ted with a glare. "...Damnit, Ted, is this how you win everybody over?"

Ted doesn't even try to deny it. "Pretty much, yeah." He loves baking for people, especially when it's something in specific he knows they love: shortbread for Rebecca, cinnamon rolls for Keeley, cake-pops for Henry. This isn't any different, except for all of the ways that it is. He feels himself smile, dopey and earnest. "Is it working?"

Trent reaches for another scone. "Maybe." 

 

✧

 

They lose their first match against West Ham. 

Ted knows it's his fault, that he'd been more thrown than he should have, seeing Nate out there across the pitch with his hair silver and back straight. He hadn't looked back at Ted once. 

Ted's been fighting off a cold all week, sniffly and sore-throated, the anxiety over the upcoming game only making it worse, but he still thought he'd been ready for it, that he'd worked through his feelings with the (now Nateless) Diamond Dogs, who were similarly perturbed about going up against him. It had been different to be out there, though, to see it firsthand. 

Ted should've paid more attention to the team, to what they needed, not to how he felt in that moment, which was sheer all-consuming guilt, enough to choke on. He'd been addled because of it, losing track of plays and desperately trying to staunch the shake in his hands before he had another food poisoning incident. 

Ted barely made it through the game, much less trying to be there for everybody afterwards. He'd snapped at Beard when he'd asked him if he was okay and if he wanted to do something so he wasn't alone, and he'd ducked out on Rebecca before she'd been able to pin him with the stare that could pull everything out of him like unraveling yarn.

Ted had tried to walk home, get some fresh air, but the amount of people yelling wanker at him hadn't been much help at all, the ringing in his ears increasing until he'd barely been able to hear the sounds of people or traffic at all, his breathing going sharp and shallow and making him cough, the cold air stinging the sensitive inner skin of his throat as he'd gulped in air. Then, he'd gotten lost on purpose just to have something to focus on. He'd settled on a bench on a less-populated street, the light from the yellow street lamps bouncing off of the wet cobblestones, and he'd finally let everything come crashing over him all at once. 

That's where Ted is now. This one's been building for a while, he's felt it in the tenseness of his muscles, the tremor in his fingers, the scattered way his thoughts haven't quite been able to pull together. He watches the world go wobbly around him, smudgy like an impressionist painting, and feels his breath punch its way out of his chest like it's fighting the whole way out. 

He should've said something, he thinks. Sent Nate a note the way he sent Jamie one during that Man City match. Even a text would've been something. Maybe he can still send one. Even trying to think what he'd say makes Ted's breathing get even choppier, but he tortures himself with the thought anyway: could he congratulate Nate on his win? Give him props for the play he orchestrated that won West Ham the game? Apologize?

Ted's not sure what he'd even apologize for—everything, maybe? Or nothing at all. He let Nate slip through his fingers, and that's on him. He has to live with that. 

The few people who are around give Ted concerned looks as they pass by, thankfully too hipster-y to recognize him. He counts out his breathing for a little while, trying to get it under control, and when he thinks he can speak without coughing he pulls out his phone with shaky fingers, ready to call Sharon. His finger is hovering over the call button when he hears his name in a familiar warm British timbre. It sounds uncertain at first, like it isn't sure it's him, then it sounds warm, like Ted's mere presence is a pleasant surprise, then it sounds concerned, repeating his name a few times as Ted tries to get his bearings. It's Trent, his face coming into focus as Ted blinks stupidly at him, hoping he doesn't look as ragged as he feels and knowing that A) he does and B) Trent would notice even if he didn't. 

"Trent-o." Ted says flatly, trying to muster the energy to say something funny or friendly or borderline functional and coming up short. "What brings you ‘round these parts?"

"Do you even know where 'these parts' is?" Trent asks, sitting next to Ted on the bench and looking for more concerned than Ted would like him to. 

"Oh, you know," Ted gestures vaguely, "...West…North…London."

"Mhm. Lost?" 

"Maybe." Ted says, sniffling miserably and wishing he wasn't dealing with a cold on top of all of this. "What brings you round West or maybe North or—I'll just say Northwest London?"

"Seeing a friend." Trent says, tilting his head towards the restaurant across the street from them, a small, upscale Indian joint. 

"A friend." Ted asks, trying to subtly sweep his eyes around them. "I don't wanna hold you up if you've got some fella waiting for you, or something—"

"Her name is Samara and she's a lesbian." Trent says, picking up on what Ted was implying. "And she's already left."

"Don't suppose you caught the game?" Ted asks, coughing into his elbow. 

"Turned it off halfway through and called Samara for an emergency dinner to distract me." Trent admits, looking apologetic. "But I thought about you the whole time."

Ted says towards him. "You did?"

Trent looks at him like that's the stupidest question he's ever heard. "Of course. Are you ill?"

“Oh, you know, just a little under the weather. Caught something from one of the team, probably, there’s been somethin’ goin’ around.”

“You’re doing alright, though?” Trent asks, concern creeping onto his face and into his eyes, which are searching Ted like he’s worried he’s going to fall over dead at any moment. 

“Fine as dandelion wine.” Ted affirms. “Except for the royal ass-kickin’ mister Rupert Mannion handed us about two hours ago.” 

“Psh, that ass-kicking doesn’t belong to him. That man wouldn’t know actual strategy if it dropped onto his head like an anvil. It’s why he had to pilfer your AC.”

“My air conditioning?” Ted asks, affecting an innocent look. 

Trent rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to write it down, you know. You can talk about Nate.” He looks down at his hands, fingers curling. It’s a strangely self-conscious movement, one that Ted isn’t used to seeing from Trent. “...If you want.” 

“I was about to call my therapist, actually,” Ted starts, trying for light, but Trent’s face immediately goes tight as he stands oddly formally. 

“Oh, I see, I wouldn’t want to delay—”

“Sit down, dummy.” Ted says, without any bite. “What I was trying to say was if you wanna play therapist and dig into this ‘ol can of worms”—he taps his own head—”then you’re free to.” 

“...Oh.” Trent tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, sitting back next to Ted. Now that Ted’s vision is clearer it’s easier to focus on his face—Trent’s skin glows amber in the streetlight, silver cutting through his hair like moonlight through the trees, and Ted's mouth feels dry. He's probably dehydrated.

"I get it." Trent says, looking out over the street, his arm coming up to rest on the bench. "Sometimes I feel like my brain is hanging upside down." He sneaks a glance at Ted, like he's checking to see if he got it.

"Trent Crimm, did you just reference the Ramones at me?"

"Your song references are wearing off on me, I guess. Did you know that that song's about—"

"Ronald Reagan. Don't get me started on him, we'll be here all night."

Trent settles in closer next to Ted, something passing over his face. "I wouldn't mind that."

Ted ducks his head and laughs, feeling strangely shy. "You say that now, but if you give me permission to talk I might just never stop again."

It feels surreal to sit here with Trent in the low light, a cold breeze slithering its way under Ted's jacket and making him shiver even as the worst of the tremors subside, Ted's hands dug into his pockets to keep Trent from seeing the shaking. Drunk people trickle out of the bars around them, talking and laughing loud enough for it to echo down the cobblestones, and Ted can't bring himself to look away from Trent even once. 

"As…weirdly…appealing as that sounds, you shouldn't be out in this chill with a cold." 

"It's hardly a chill." Ted says, words punctuated by a shiver and a loud sniffle. Damnit. 

"It's going to rain, anyway." Trent says, squinting up at the hazy sky. "Best to get ahead of it." 

"How can you tell?" Ted asks, looking up and seeing no particularly incriminating clouds. 

"My hair goes all frizzy." Trent says, his hair looking perfectly fine. "Can't you tell?" 

Ted can't tell. He doesn't want to be alone right now, not after Trent dropped out of nowhere and saved him from himself, so he plants his feet firmly on the ground like a kid throwing a tantrum. "Are you…going home, then?"

Trent seems to know what Ted's asking, his lower lip between his teeth as he mulls it over. "How about we stop by a shop? Get you some lozenges, or something?"

"How'd you know I don't have cough drops?" Ted asks, voice coming out gravelly. 

"Lucky guess."

They find a small shop a few blocks down that's still open. The sign in the window boasts that they're always open, but the disgruntled employee in the middle of closing up clearly disagrees. Ted stocks up on a basket of all the cold stuff he might need, half of it at Trent's insistence, who marches through the aisles and tosses things into Ted's basket like he's on orders from the Crown: tissues, antihistamines, honey for his throat, VapoRub, and, the cherry on top, lemon flavored cough drops. "How about that?" Ted says, tapping the box. "The perfect flavor."

"Precisely." Trent says, his hand landing on Ted's shoulder for the briefest of moments as Ted pulls out some notes to pay the clerk. 

"Shit game tonight." The clerk comments, handing Ted his change. 

Ted hands it back. "I know. Keep the change."

"I'll walk you home." Trent says once they're back outside, sounding more decisive than he looks, his eyes still searching Ted’s face like he’s waiting for something. 

“I have no idea which way that is, so feel free to lead the way.” Ted says, giving him a reassuring smile. 

“So,” Trent says as they start walking, “anything other than the obvious bring you to that bench?”

“I think you can probably guess.” Ted says, digging out the cough-drop box and popping one out of the foil and into his mouth. He swirls it around as they walk, letting the candy-sweet taste of the menthol soothe his throat and numb his tongue. He doesn’t have to say the word panic attack for Trent to know that’s what it was. He didn’t have to see Ted’s hands shaking for it to be obvious, which sends a ripple of embarrassment through Ted along with gratitude for Trent talking him through it without even trying to. 

“Have they gotten more manageable?”

Ted shrugs. “A little. Therapy’s really helped, believe it or not. I always thought it was one of those made-up professions like being a chiropractor or a stock-broker, but Doc Fieldstone totally changed my mind.”

Trent laughs softly, a sound that Ted can’t get enough of. “I’m glad to hear it, Ted.” 

“Have you ever gotten on the ‘ol therapy horse?” Ted asks, sneaking another look at him, at the way the light reflects off of his skin and hair, half of his face silhouetted in shadow. He hesitates, then: “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that, I forget that the English hate feelings-talk just as much as we d—”

“It’s quite alright, Ted.” Trent interrupts. “And…yes. I’ve needed it a few different times in my life, actually.”

“Yeah?” Ted tries to look the normal amount of curious, not like he’s absolutely dying for Trent to tell him every emotional struggle he’s ever had. 

“First time was in secondary school.” Trent sighs, pulling his hands from his pockets then immediately putting them back again like he doesn’t know quite what to do with them. “I was—the other kids were—I got a split lip or two.”

Ted’s mouth drops open. “Really?” 

Trent’s face twists up and he’s suddenly incredibly interested in reading the names of every storefront they pass instead of looking at Ted. “Mhm. I was an easy target. Shit at athletics in primary school, and a posh boarding school dropout in secondary. They gave me counseling rather than deal with any of those nonces, if you can believe it.”

Ted very much can believe it, having split up more locker room fights over the years than he can count. “Young boys tend to defer to violence when somebody threatens them.” He says.

“Very wise.” Trent says, tilting his head and finally looking at Ted again. He carries on after a moment of silence: “Second time was when I had something of a nervous breakdown at university over switching my major from journalism to business then back again.”

Ted wrinkles his nose. “You? Business?”

“My dad wanted it.” Trent shrugs. “I went to a therapist on my own for a completely objective perspective and switched back within a week.” 

“Good on you, Bob McAdoo.” Ted says. The cough drop on his tongue has finally dissolved, leaving nothing behind but a lemony film that dissolves over his tongue. His throat feels a lot better than it had, and his voice is slightly less rough when he speaks. He’s still pretty sniffly, but Trent doesn’t point it out. “...Just outta curiosity, when was the most recent time?”

“The most recent time?” Trent pretends to think about it, stroking his chin and giving Ted a funny little look. “Well, that’d be when I split with my long-term partner and quit my job within the same few months.”

“Ah.” Ted says, nodding along. “Just some minor life decisions, is all.”

“Minor.” Trent echoes. “I’m still going, actually. My doctor’s rather lovely.”

“They helping you figure out what something deeper might look like?” 

Trent slows to a stop even though they aren’t at Ted’s flat yet, the neon sign of a chinese place lighting him up from behind, and looks at Ted for a moment that seems to linger into infinity. “Maybe.” Before Ted can ask what, Trent’s talking again: “You know the reason I started going again in the first place? Because somebody made a very compelling case for men’s mental health awareness at a press conference or some rubbish like that, I can’t quite remember.”

Ted’s insides go all warm. Maybe even a little fuzzy. “Really?”

Trent nods. “I was sorry I couldn’t cover that story. You made a very compelling case.” 

Ted’s cheeks feel warm. “...It means a lot to hear that, Trent. Really. That’s exactly the kind of good I’d hoped would come out of everything.”

Ted feels oddly disappointed when Trent begins walking again, the moment passing them by, but the small smile that lingers on Trent’s lips is comforting enough that Ted feels alright. He’s felt alright ever since Trent showed up at that bench, actually—the game already feels like a distant memory, every burning memory of Nate a little bit less heavy to carry. 

When they get to Ted’s flat the streets are mostly empty, the pubs all closed and the windows all shuttered. “Thank you for walking me and loading me up with all of the fixins I could ever need.” Ted holds the bag aloft, giving it a little shake. “And for…keeping me company. I think I needed it more than I realized.”

Trent’s face goes all soft and he leans almost imperceptibly closer. “Of course, Ted. I’m glad I ran into you.” 

Above them, rain starts to fall. It’s a light drizzle, not too terrible to be caught in, but Ted is glad that Trent had saved him from having to walk in it. 

“Your psychic hair called it.” Ted says, holding a hand up to let the cold water dapple his palm. “But I’d hate for you to have to walk home in this after saving me from it.”

Trent’s eyes linger on Ted’s door, then on his face, somewhere below his eyes. “I’ll be fine. It can be nice to walk in the rain.”

“You want me to lend you an umbrella, at least?”

“...That’d be lovely.”

So, Ted brings Trent an umbrella. When he gets back outside there are droplets caught in Trent’s hair like a crown of dew, shiny and delicate. “Don’t worry about getting it back to me.” Ted says. 

“I will be getting it back to you.” Trent asserts. “Get some rest, okay? Go…go easy on yourself.”

“Same to you.” Ted says, trying for a friendly smile and feeling like he might look exceptionally sappy. 

“You more.” Trent argues, oddly childlike. 

Ted shakes his head with a laugh. “Yes, sir.” 

Something about that makes Trent look pained, his legs wobbling as he lurches towards Ted then away again, eyes dropping as he opens his umbrella in an almost panicked movement. “I’m going—I’m going to go, now. Goodnight, Ted.”

After Trent’s turned and taken a few steps, Ted calls his name to get him to stop. Trent looks at him expectantly, his umbrella shadowing out most of his expression. 

“Be sure to feel the rain on your skin.” Ted says, biting down on a smile. 

Trent lowers his umbrella, his lips upturned. “Because no one else can feel it for me?"

Ted does a little fist pump. “I knew you’d get that reference. Nothing like a 2004 pop song to give you life advice, huh?”

Trent just shakes his head, looking fondfondfond in a way that makes Ted near-giddy. “Goodnight.”

 

✧

 

Ted thinks he might need some advice. Some substantial advice. 

He just isn't quite sure how to put words to what he's feeling. 

He needs the Diamond Dogs, he knows that, but the kinds of things they talk about are usually straight middle-aged-man things like divorce and the pressures of masculinity, not.

Not.

Not the fact that Ted is maybe less straight than he thought. Either that or he likes Trent a hell of a lot more than he's ever liked another man, and that's including Beard, who he'd walk into Mordor with. 

Ted is an avid believer in Rom-Communism, particularly the idea that you shouldn’t ignore signs from the rom-com universe blinking right in your eyes like big flashing traffic signals. Signs like getting caught in the rain and charming repartee. If it was someone else asking Ted what he thought about those kinds of things, he’d probably give them as many nudges (or shoves) as it took to get them to cross the rom-com line of miscommunication and confess their feelings to the other person at an airport or something. Since it’s him, Ted doesn’t know what the hell is going on with his feelings other than that there sure are a lot of them. 

What Ted should probably do is work through this by himself before taking it to Sharon or even a more local therapist to unpack over the course of multiple sessions. He should probably also familiarize himself with certain circles of the internet designed to help one…figure out this sort of thing. Ted’s not sure that part’s even needed, though; does he really need to click around on sites that’ll most certainly give his computer a virus when he can just as easily look back at his love for Matthew McConaughey movies with a new, more updated assessment on why exactly that is? 

Ted spends a solid weekend revisiting every relationship he’s had with every man (including ones from movies that he’s rewatched a million times), looking for clues as to how on Earth he never realized this about himself before. Yes, he’s been married to Michelle for half of his life and he’s a one-person kinda guy, but still—if Orlando Bloom is onscreen in the Lord of the Rings movies, he’s not looking at anybody else. Not even Arwen. That’s maybe less of an objective opinion and more a subjective one that has to do with his own tastes, and that’s okay, it’s just something he probably should’ve realized before now. He doesn’t want to burden Trent with all of the baggage that comes with a sexuality crisis; even he knows that that’s something queer people don’t particularly appreciate. 

Ted doesn’t call Sharon. He’s not entirely sure he can handle her perceptiveness right now—this is something he needs to articulate himself, not have pulled out of him. Also, he’s kind of scared of what she’ll say, which is stupid, he knows, but he doesn’t want her to ask any questions about what he’s going to do about this. He needs to try saying it out loud first. 

On Monday, he doesn’t even have to say it for Beard to know what he needs. “Diamond Dogs in ten?” He asks, looking up from where he’s been reviewing last week’s failed plays. 

“Please.” Ted breathes, relieved that he didn’t have to ask. 

“I’ll grab Roy.” Higgins says, already off. 

Roy arrives with his arms crossed, a thick eyebrow raised. “Is this going to be a big one? Your face looks like it’s going to be a big one.” 

Ted ignores that question, unsure how to answer, and gives some half-hearted barks to start the meeting more officially. 

“I dunno which part to say first.” He admits, pulling the sleeves of his jacket down over his hands and feeling slightly ridiculous. “But I guess I’ll preface by saying it’s about Trent Crimm, who I know that some of us”—Roy growls on cue—”aren’t too fond of.”

“Oh, is this about wanting to hire him on?” Higgins asks, casually pulling out a tuna sandwich like he hasn’t just introduced an entirely new variable to the situation that Ted has no idea what to do with. 

“Sorry, what?” Ted asks, shifting forwards in his seat. “Is that a thing that’s happening?”

“Well—not exactly—” Higgins tries. 

“We thought you were going to ask us if you could hire him.” Beard says, expression giving nothing away. “Either in Keeley’s old role”—another growl from Roy—”or to write a book, or something.”

“What? A book about what?” Ted asks. 

“About you.” Beard says, slow like he’s talking to a child. 

“You’re kind of like his muse.” Higgins points out, only gagging a little bit at having to tell the truth. “Basically eighty-five percent of his articles last year were about you. He’s the Ted Lasso reporter. Or, he was.”

“I can’t help but root for him.” Roy grinds out, strangely solemn. “You Ted Lassoed all over him and made him quit his job, and shit. Why did you think that was?”

Ted blushes at the choice of words. “I didn’t anything all over him, I just hung around like a bad smell until I won him over, which I did with you, too, Roy, so don’t even—”

“The job-quitting thing was pretty big, Ted.” Higgins says, a little more sympathetic than Roy and Beard are being. “What was it he said to you? He wants something deeper?”

“You deeper, maybe.” Roy snickers. 

Ted’s cheeks go even hotter. “You’re getting ahead of me there, Roy, because that’s the part that I wanted to talk about.”

“...What?” Roy asks, eyes widening. “Really? I was joking.” 

“But now we’re on the job thing and I have to worry about that.” Ted sniffs. “Because maybe he’s just been angling for that and I’ve been blind as a bat in wraparound shades to see it.”

“Has he said anything a fisherman would?” Higgins asks. 

Ted blinks at him. “Huh?”

Higgins gives a sheepish smile. “Angling. Fishermen angle, right? I’m terrible with American expressions."

“Ah!” Ted says, giving him a reassuring thumbs-up. “I see what you’re getting at. Good one, Higgins!”

“Oi.” Roy interrupts, clearly impatient about this entire thing and far more interested in the second bit of what Ted wants to tell them. “Answer the question.” 

“...Oh. I mean, maybe? When I ask him about his job he does get a little…indirect, which is weird for him, because he’s usually about just as blunt about things as you are, Roy. He asked what he should write about and I told him anything and he seemed a little disappointed in that, maybe.” 

“He’s angling, Ted.” Beard says, almost disappointed. “That’s what angling looks like.”

Ted chews at his lower lip, frowning. “Well that kinda throws a wrench in the spokes for the thing I actually wanted to talk about.” 

“Get to that bit, please.” Roy says, shifting forwards with his arms crossed expectantly and looking the closest Ted thinks he’s ever seen Roy look to someone very invested in a bit of juicy gossip. 

"Basically…" Ted coughs into his arm to buy time even though his cold has mostly faded (partially thanks to his trip for supplies with Trent). He coughs for a solid minute, ending up actually irritating his throat and needing water to soothe it, and Roy and Beard both watch, unimpressed, as Higgins fusses over Ted with a water bottle. 

"You dying?" Roy grunts. 

"I'm—I'm good now." Ted says, his voice coming out rough and scratchy. "Thank you for the TLC, Higgins. That's TLC as in tender love and care, not the nineties girl-group, but I would love to hear you sing Waterfalls sometime." 

"Stalling." Beard says, the one word alone damningly true. 

"Alright, alright, call the truth undercooked meat, because I'm boutta spit it out." 

They look at Ted expectantly. 

"In fact, consider the truth a precariously balanced bowl of beans, because I'm boutta spill them—"

"Ted." Roy says. 

Ted looks at the floor. "I think I might have romantic feelings for Trent Crimm." 

Ted waits patiently for that to sink in. Saying it out loud actually makes him feel a little better, a little more certain that he means it. It's not a big deal. Not at all. He watches their faces, but they're relatively impassive, save for the way their eyes flit towards each other's for a split second glance. 

"He's a wanker." Roy points out. 

"He has written some particularly unkind things about you." Higgins adds. "But he's a lot more tolerable now that he's not a journo."

"He's alright." Beard says. He even seems like he means it, which is practically a gold-star compliment when it comes to Beard. Especially for someone with a history like Trent's. 

"He's also a man." Ted says, feeling a little bit like that's an elephant in the room that they're just not acknowledging to be nice. 

"That isn't the important part." Roy says, looking at Ted like that should be obvious. "I mean, this isn't the first man you've ever—"

"It is." Ted says, determined to not be embarrassed about this.

"You were always enthusiastic about Matthew McConaughey." Beard offers. "And Orlando Bloom. And Viggo Mortensen. And Robert De Niro. And Al Pacino. And Ethan Hawke. And there was that barista at the Starbucks back in Kansas who you always—"

"Okay, I get it, I'm somehow the only one who didn't notice my own—my own…"

"Bisexuality?" Higgins offers. 

Ted tries a smile on, finding that it isn't very hard. "Yeah. That." 

"Well, we're…." Roy looks like he's having to force the words out, teeth grit, "proud. Of you."

"I appreciate you, Roy. Your support means a lot."

Roy growls again. 

"We are." Higgins seconds. Beard nods, giving Ted a little look that says more than words could. It means a lot, and Ted feels okay for a short minute, his chest warm and his shoulders lighter. He knew they'd come through for him. 

"Even if you chose him." Roy adds. 

"That's the problem, though." Ted sighs. "I might be really off the mark here. Especially now that I know he's angling for a job and a fella like him is all business." 

"He could be all business during the week and all party during the weekend." Beard offers.

"You're the rom-com expert, Ted. If you've been picking up signals I doubt they're just in your head." Higgins is thoughtful, head tilted. "He always seemed like a party on the weekend kind of guy to me."

"Any additional wisdom, Roy?" Ted asks, hopeful. 

Roy holds his gaze for a long time, and Ted almost thinks he's building to something, but he just rolls his eyes. "Ask Keeley."

Ted can't argue with that. 

With the logistical side of things handled, Ted does think it'd be better to get a more intuitive perspective. Besides, he's heard plenty from Keeley and Rebecca about their own love lives, it'd be nice to cash in some of their romantic wisdom for something of his own, for once (at least something that isn't him awkwardly trying to dance around the fact that he's slept with Sassy even though everybody and their mom knows it). 

Keeley's pretty busy with her new job, so Ted texts her to ask if she's free to take an extended lunch break and come visit, adding a congratulations on her status as a girlboss, which he follows up with a question about if that's an appropriate term to call a woman in business or a regressive one that defines her by her womanhood. She responds with a laughing emoji, a very good, ted! and a confirmation that she'll use her power to sneak off for a far longer lunch than she should.

Ted spends the rest of the morning with the team, who're all still hurting pretty bad from the game, and it's easy to lose himself in focusing on their needs over his own, pushing them to get back on the horse, be goldfish, and all of his other failure metaphors that he's starting to worry are already losing their power. The only one who seems to notice Ted's off is Zoreaux, who says he has the "look of a man who is missing a beautiful woman", which Ted supposes isn't entirely inaccurate. 

Roy and Beard are blessedly focused on training and not on Ted's earlier admission, but Ted does occasionally catch them whispering to each other, always falling silent the second that he's within earshot. That's fair. 

Rebecca lets Ted into her office with an already raised eyebrow, like she knows what Ted's holding onto and can't bear to wait for Keeley to show up for him to let go of it. 

"I'm going to sit here very politely and make small talk with you until Keeley's here." She says, holding out a glass of water for him and lifting a mug of tea to her lips, french-tipped nails tapping on the pink biscuit-box in her lap. 

"Sounds good, Elijah Wood." 

"...The weather is, um…" Rebecca looks out the window, her dark eyelashes pulling together in a squint. "Wet."

"Yup." Ted says, nodding agreeably. "My mom used to say that rain like this sounded like a cow peein' on a flat rock."

Rebecca doesn't even deign that with a response, which is fair. Ted tends to get even more Kansan when he's nervous. 

"Oh, fuck it." She says, shoving one of her biscuits into her mouth and talking as she chews. "You have to give me at least a hint, Ted. I can't stand it."

"Wow," Ted says, already enjoying this, "I don't think I've ever seen you this interested in my personal life."

"Well, this is the first time you've had an interesting little morsel that doesn't involve my best friend." Rebecca looks slightly sick at the memory. "Or…it doesn't, right?"

"No ma'am." Ted says, relieved that it doesn't. He likes Sassy a lot, and she's been there for him in moments no one else has, but she's not close by the way that Trent is, plus she's not someone he thinks wants him around all the time. Not that Trent necessarily does, either, but Ted thinks he'd like to try and find out.

"See?" Rebecca says, leaning forwards intently. "Look at you, you're all in your head! I've never seen you up there this much!"

"Hey," Ted says, frowning, "I use my brain sometimes."

"You have seemed more introspective lately." Rebecca says, looking at Ted like a puzzle she can't quite work out. "Staring off into space with this odd little smile on your face." Her eyes widen as a realization seems to strike her. "Oh my god. Who is she?"

"Who's who, Nancy Drew?"

"Oh, don't give me that. Damnit, where's Keeley when you need her?" 

The door bangs open like someone's kicked it. "Here's Keeley when you need her!"

Keeley hobbles in, lamenting her idea to kick in the door with heels and her now-bruised toes, and Ted waits patiently while her and Rebecca go through their greeting ritual of squealing and hugging and catching up in rapid-fire half-sentences, trying to take the opportunity to work out exactly what he's going to say but getting caught up in the lovefest and letting them distract him instead. Keeley talks about her job for a while, both Ted and Rebecca shooting questions at her about how she's liking it (shitloads), how she thinks she's doing (so well that she feels like she's cheating), and how things are with Roy now that the season's started again and he's had all summer to soul-search (surprisingly zen). 

Finally, when Keeley's able to catch her breath and take in Ted more fully, her mouth drops open. "No."

"I didn't say anything."

"Did you invite me here to tell us you're shagging someone?"

"...What?"

Keeley gives Ted an assessment that makes him feel a bit naked. "No, not shagging. Yet, anyway. You've just…"

"You've got this glow about you." Rebecca fills in. "Like you can't stop thinking about someone."

Ted wants to argue, even opens his mouth to do so, but his attempt at speaking is overtaken by his own massive grin. "...Really?"

"I knew it!" Keeley says, grabbing Ted's shoulder and shaking him around like a dog with a toy. "Come on, you've got to spill it now!"

"Y'all are getting ahead of yourselves." Ted says, though he can't help the way he's giggling too, pulled into Keeley and Rebecca's excitement orbit and touched that they're both so happy for him. "When I start squealin' your opinions might just change." 

"They won't." Keeley says firmly. 

"...They probably won't." Rebecca amends, which is probably sensible. 

"Fine." Ted says, holding his hands up. "I warned you. First, some clues. They have long hair. They're independent. They smell like lemons…"

Keeley makes an inpatient noise. "Bloody hell, Ted, just say the nam—"

"Trent Crimm."

"Pardon?" Rebecca's smile is frozen on her face. So is Keeley's, whose eyes close then open again in a slow blink. 

"Trent Crimm as in… Trent Crimm?"

Ted shifts, uncomfortable. "Is it really that bad?"

"Not bad!" Keeley hurries to assure him. "Even though he is a bit of a prick, as far as I remember, but…"

"Roy felt the same way." Ted says. 

Keeley nods seriously. "I'm sure he did." 

"It's the hair, isn't it?" Rebecca asks. 

"Of course it's the hair!" Keeley tilts her head musingly. "He is quite fit, actually. Good sense of personal style. You know what, Ted? I support this."

"...Honestly, he was a bit kinder to you than a lot of those other vultures were. Even when he broke the panic attack story." Rebecca says, tracing a finger around the rim of her mug. "Better writer than ninety percent of the British press, anyway, him leaving that cesspool was definitely for the best."

"Oh, good, so you wouldn't mind if I offered him a job?"

A little bit of tea dribbles down Rebecca's chin. "Sorry?"

"Beard thinks he might've been angling. Either for Keeley's old gig or to write a book, or something."

"Sorry, you want to take the person you're interested in romantically, a person who cares about journalistic integrity and all that, and ask them to compromise themselves by writing a book about you?" Rebecca's frowning. 

"Rebecca, did you or did you not have an affair with Sam?" Keeley counters. 

Rebecca's face goes very, very tight, a cringe stretching her lips out and tightening her shoulders. "....Fair enough." 

"Not about me." Ted says, patting at his hair in a nervous gesture. "About Richmond. I just thought I'd offer, you know, because he's been dealing with this job search. But it's more important to me that I don't bottle this up like everything else and I have the chance to…that I can maybe tell him…"

"That you tell him how you feel." Keeley fills in with a dreamy sigh. "Okay, I'm totally warming up to this, that's so romantic. He is gay, right?"

"He is, I recall there being a fuss about him having a partner a few years back." Rebecca answers. "You haven't ever asked a man out before, have you, Ted?" 

Ted shakes his head, pressing his fingers together. "No I have not. That's partly what's got this feeling more complicated than a music video by Ok Go." 

"It doesn't have to be." Keeley says brightly. "As long as you're serious about this and not just experimenting. Not that experimentation is bad"—she winks at Rebecca—"but I don't think that's what he's looking for." 

"How does he make you feel?" Rebecca prompts. "You could always just tell him that."

"I mean…" Ted says, rubbing his hands over his knees. "He sets me back on my heels. Unsteady, but in a good way. I like being around him, and I think I wanna be all the time."

"This is sickening." Keeley swoons, somehow meaning it as a compliment. 

"Does he make you feel like you've been struck by lightning?" Rebecca asks, almost businesslike. "It's this thing Roy said that's stuck with me. About Keeley, of course."

Keeley's cheeks go rosy, her eyes swimming with love, and she leans into Ted on the couch. "Exactly. It should feel like that."

Ted nods, biting his lower lip. "I think…maybe it could feel like that." 

Keeley and Rebecca exchange a look, bright and sparkling, and Ted's never felt lighter. 

 

✧

 

Ted has two different texts to Trent drafted. 

The first is at the suggestion of the Diamond Dogs, a simple Hey, wanna grab drinks this weekend? 

The suggestion from Keeley and Rebecca has a bit more thought put into it: Hey, Trent, I was wondering if you wanted to go out for dinner and drinks this weekend. You can pick the place. :)

Keeley was adamant that he leaves the smiley face in because it's "flirty but friendly", and Ted's inclined to agree. He's never romanced a man before, but if anyone knows a thing or two about that, it's Keeley Jones. He deletes the first draft and sends that one. 

Trent doesn't text back for an entire day. A horrible, anxiety-inducing, nail-biting day in which Ted checks his phone more in one hour than he normally does all day. His pocket dings while he's in the middle of helping Jamie with his form, who must be able to read on his face that he's trying desperately not to check his phone. 

"You can check your texts, mate, I really don't need your advice on how to hold my shoulders."

Ted pulls his phone out, grateful, and scans the message: I can do Saturday. I'll pick a place. 

If Ted was alone, he'd do a little dance. Because he's not, he just sucks in a breath, schools his smile into one that's only a little bit insane, and tucks his phone away. Jamie looks at him like he's never seen him before. "Did you just get a nude? You look like you just got a nude."

"I did not just get a nude." Ted says, shaking his head. He leans closer, conspiratorial. "I got something better."

"A nude video?"

Ted pulls the football from Jamie's hands and drops it onto the pitch. "No." 

 

✧

 

On Friday, Ted uses his one haircut from Isaac. He refuses to tell the team why, though they've all worked out that it's probably for romantic reasons. Ted doesn't care; his hair has never looked better, falling artfully over his forehead almost like he has any idea what he's doing with it. Isaac had even trimmed his mustache for him. 

Rebecca tells Ted to wear green. ("Emerald. Not forest, not olive, emerald.")

Ted has to go out and buy an emerald-green button-up specifically because he trusts her judgement, wearing it with a simple black tie and his nicest trousers. He staves off a panic attack by talking to Henry on the phone for an hour, listening to his favorite Phil Collins songs, and remembering his night with Trent in the hazy streets as they'd ambled home, talking about everything. It gives him new resolve, affirming his feelings; he's about to wine and dine the hell out of Trent Crimm. 

The place Trent sent him to meet at is the same one he'd run into him outside of, nestled in the hipster-y part of London where Ted doesn't have to worry about people recognizing him, which he appreciates. It's dim and cozy, part bar part upscale Indian joint, and Ted's reminded of their first dinner together. 

He's planning to make a joke about it when he sees Trent, but his mouth goes dry. Trent always looks nice, like he's put effort in, but tonight he's gone the extra mile, wearing a rich red button-up that makes his skin glow and is unbuttoned by a few buttons to reveal a slice of collarbones and chest. Ted ends up saying "No spice tonight!" (which isn't even really a full sentence and makes Trent's face scrunch in confusion, his own eyes jumping back up to Ted's face before realization dawns).

"Oh. Because of your unfortunate first encounter with Indian cuisine last year."

Ted nods. "Still have nightmares. My toilet probably does, too." He curses himself inwardly for making a toilet joke within two minutes of the evening, but he supposes that it's best to go into these things as yourself and nobody else. 

To his surprise, Trent laughs, shaking his head. "I can only imagine." 

They choose a table near the back, snug against the wall, and both study the cocktail menu in silence. Ted lays his menu flat, pointing to the lemon drop martini. "What do you think?"

Trent wrinkles his nose. "The last time I had one of those I ended up having about four and a half more then spending an entire weekend trying to recover." 

"Sounds fun to me." Ted says, snapping the menu shut. "How about we both try one then stick to wine for the rest of the night?"

Trent's lips twitch at the edges. "Fine." 

They have the waiter bring the wine and cocktails at the same time so they have something to wash them down with. Ted scrunches his face up, the bitterness of the lemon juice not doing a particularly good job at blending with the sting of the vodka. Trent reacts similarly, coughing once at the burn in his throat and shaking his head as he reaches for the wine. "Yeah, no more of that."

The vodka helps Ted feel more relaxed, finding it easier to fall into conversation with Trent the way he usually does when they're together, and he pretends that he isn't going to say anything at all, toying with the idea that maybe he actually won't. He thinks he just might have to blurt it out, though, the words heavy in his mouth in their jumbled order. Ted's never been good at holding his tongue. 

"Can you, uh…" Ted holds his menu out. "...Can you point out the ones that aren't gonna melt my tongue?"

Trent smiles, warm, like he'd been expecting that. "I was going to anyway." 

At Trent's recommendation, Ted orders Biryani. Trent orders something more complex and a little more spicy, and when the waiter leaves them with a plate of poppadoms he leans forwards, intent in his eyes. "Ted, can I ask if there's a reason you extended this particular invitation?" 

Ted chokes on his wine. "Uh, why d'you ask?"

Trent leans back. "Just curious. You have the look of someone holding onto something."

"And you have your journalistic hat on, I see." Ted responds. 

"I'm afraid I can't take it off." Trent seems at least a little apologetic, swirling his wine in his glass. "Would that I could, but I'm afraid I'm hard-wired to think this way. It's a bit exhausting, really, like I'm always…looking for something."

"Have you ever found it?" Ted asks, embracing the earnestness of the moment in full measure. 

Trent gives him an enigmatic look. "Maybe." He reaches out to karate-chop the poppadoms for them, seemingly accepting that Ted isn't going to answer his question. 

When the main dishes come Ted digs in, enthusing over how delicious Indian food is when he can actually taste it. He eyes Trent's curry. "Can I…"

Trent pushes his plate forwards. "Go for it." 

Ted sneaks his fork over to Trent's plate and scoops up some of the curry. He tastes it thoughtfully, licking over his lips. "Hmm. This is pretty good…" the heat kicks in mid-sentence, making Ted trail off, but it isn't too hot to enjoy, clearing his sinuses and making his tongue tingle. "Oh—that's—" 

"My mother insists that growing up here made me too sensitive to spice, but I like a little kick now and then." Trent shrugs. 

"Oh, here we go, I love learning about people's moms." Ted says, leaning forwards. "What's Mrs. Crimm like?" 

Trent looks slightly surprised, but the expression quickly fades, like he knows he should be used to Ted's genuine interest in every aspect of a person's life by now. "Well…" He wipes his fingers on his napkin. "I've always gotten along better with her than my father. She always had less expectations than him, much more interested in me being happy than me being successful. Especially when it came to anything athletic."

"Your dad's the sportsman, then?"

"Big time. He wanted desperately for me to be good at it, but I never had a knack for anything physical."

"Anything?" Ted asks, feeling bold. 

Trent blinks, surprised again. Ted likes surprising Trent. Trent takes a moment to respond. "...Not anything." Uncertainty flickers over his face as he pulls back from the flirtation, like he's second-guessing. "I'm half-decent at Skittles."

"The candy?"

Trent sighs. "You'd know it as bowling. Malia loves it. She's too small to be able to really lift the ball, though, so I've gotten a lot of practice."

"Who knows, maybe she'll bring bowling back to the Olympics." 

"Maybe. What about you? Was your father a sportsman?"

Ted smiles. "Yeah. Loved football—the American kind—a lot, but he'd play anything from darts to hockey."

Trent nods. "Sounds like he was a good man."

"He was." Ted's pretty sure that Trent knows what happened. He's a good journalist; he does his research. He's surprised to find that he doesn't mind, that he wants Trent to know, to talk about it with him. Maybe not here, maybe not tonight, but someday. 

Ted's also pretty sure he has Biryani in his mustache, confirmed by Trent's hand reaching out to point it out in a mirror of when Ted had wiped the flour from his nose. "Oh, you've got—" 

"Where?"

"Left side." Trent says, finger hovering in mid-air. 

Ted lifts his napkin to try and wipe at it, flopping his hand around like an idiot and completely missing his mustache. 

"You're doing a shit job on purpose." Trent accuses, reaching out to grab Ted's wrist and steady his hand. 

"Am I?" Ted grins, embracing the rom-com moment with full gusto as he lets Trent take the napkin himself and wipe at the left side of his face. 

"Mhm." Trent stays focused on the task. His thumb reaches out to stroke the corner of Ted's mustache, pushing the hair back into place, and he makes a small, considering noise. "Softer than I thought." 

"Thanks." Ted mumbles, his amusement fading into a dizzy kind of heat that isn't from the spicy food. 

When Trent leans back, they share a long look that Ted is almost certain means they're on the same page. Almost. 

Ted still doesn't say anything about how he feels, not through the rest of the meal or through them finishing the bottle of wine or through the tables clearing out as the people there to eat leave and the people there to drink arrive. The waiter brings them the bill, which they argue over for a while before splitting, and it's apparent that neither of them want the night to end, lingering at the table until they eventually end up outside in the streetlight, both slightly drunk and giggly. Giggly is a good look on Trent, who Ted's not used to seeing smile quite so much, his hair pushed out of his face and his usual laser-focus slightly more scattered.  

Ted finally pulls himself together enough to pull Trent to the side of the street, and he feels his hands go tense as they walk, trying to force himself to speak. He finally manages it after a few minutes. "So I, uh, wanted to ask you something."

Trent's voice sounds far more measured than it had a few seconds earlier when he responds. "Oh?" 

"It's fine if you're not, you know, interested, though." Ted hates the waver in his voice. This is supposed to be the easy part. 

Something like recognition sparks in Trent's eyes, and he slows to a stop in front of a currently closed yoga parlor, green plants illuminated in the dark window. "Alright."

"Yeah, it's about…well, I was talking to Rebecca about, you know, job opportunities, and she said that Keeley's old spot is still open. Or, if someone wanted something more abstract, to maybe…write something…"

Trent looks confused, the recognition in his eyes fizzling out. "Oh. Oh, that's what you—I thought—um. Yes, that's very generous of you, Ted."

"I thought for sure you were angling for a job…" Ted says, now feeling like he's the confused one. "Beard said you were."

"Well…I was, I mean, I've definitely been considering it, but that was before…"

"Before?" Ted asks, holding his breath. 

"Before I admitted to myself how biased I am."

"Biased?"

Trent takes a deep breath, his brown eyes intense and fixed. "Ted. Of course I'm biased. I was biased before, I'm even more so now." 

"You're the most profesh guy I know." Ted points out. "If anybody could stay objective, it's you."

"I used to think so, too," Trent begins, removing his glasses, "...but you don't get it. You're good with my daughter and you say things like"—he poorly mimics Ted's accent—"'ain't that just awful falafel!' and you make strange references and I can't stop listening to happy Cure songs and—"

"I'm gonna have to stop you there, Trent, because I'm more lost than a fart in a fan factory." Ted says, hearing the low, whispery way his voice comes out. 

Trent groans. "See, you say things like that and I still want to kiss you, it's unbelievable."

"You still want to—"

"Sorry." Trent says, stepping back. "I shouldn't have said that."

"You should've." Ted counters. "I couldn't've found the right words for it myself if they were stamped on my forehead."

Trent tucks his glasses into his pocket in a slow movement, taking that in. "You mean that you—"

"Call me an *NSYNC hit, because I'm bi, bi, bi." Ted answers. 

Trent huffs a laugh, squeezing his eyes shut like he can't believe where he is, and shakes his head. "Ted bloody Lasso."

Ted, not entirely sure where to go from here, chases the impulse that hearing his name from Trent's lips inspires, and sings Destiny's Child: "Say my name, say my name, when no one is around you, say baby I lov—"

Trent kisses him to shut him up. That's fair.

It's a good kiss, one that Ted hadn't dared to think would happen until it actually is happening. Trent's only the second person he's kissed since Michelle, but he thinks he doesn't want to kiss anyone else ever again, the newness of feeling a firm jaw and a stubbly chin scratching his only adding to the rush that surges through him, the certainty that this is right. 

Ted forgets where they are, that they're on an open street against the glass of a yoga studio, and threads his fingers through Trent's hair, reveling in the feel of the thick, soft, silvery strands. He hadn't known how bad he'd wanted to touch it until now. Trent tastes like wine and spiced curry, warm and sure, and he smells so delicious that Ted feels ravenous in a way he hasn't in years. Trent's hands are on Ted's cheeks, and he mumbles something against Ted's lips about his mustache with a hungry kind of amusement, making Ted breathe in a sharp laugh. 

Trent pulls back first, and Ted worries that his clumsy enthusiasm has made itself apparent, but Trent doesn't step away, just holds his face for a moment before sliding a hand down to Ted's, wrapping their fingers together and tugging him into a clumsy walk towards the direction of Ted's apartment. 

They get distracted a few times along the way, kissing in front of a shoe shop, a different restaurant, and very nearly in front of the Crown and Anchor before somebody comes out and they stumble to Ted's door instead. 

Once they're there, caught in that awkward space where they're unsure if Trent should follow Ted inside again, Trent presses a long, lingering kiss to Ted's lips, fingers firm and insistent where they hold the back of Ted's neck, which makes him shiver. He slinks back, dropping his hand. His eyes glitter. "I love our chats."

"You've totally been waiting to say that." Ted accuses once he regains the ability to speak. 

"...Maybe."

"Have breakfast with me." Ted says, apropos of nothing. 

"What, now?"

"No," Ted says, leaning against his door. "In the morning. We can go to a diner and keep the rom-com going, if you want."

"Is that what's happening here? A rom-com?"

"Mhm." Ted says, smiling so wide he thinks his mustache might be touching each ear. "Quitting your job for someone is a very rom-com thing to do."

"It wasn't just—" Trent starts to argue, immediately caving in and giving up. "...Fine. Offering someone a job then kissing them is a very rom-com thing to do, yourself, you know."

"So you're considering it?"

"Good night, Ted."

 

✧

 

They meet at a diner. 

Ted picks the most American looking one he can, hankering for scrambled eggs and toast with absolutely no beans anywhere near it, and when he gets there Trent is already at a booth, a mug of tea in front of him. He lifts a hand in a wave, somehow looking put-together despite being tired and slightly hungover. More put-together than Ted does, at least. 

"Morning, sunshine." Ted says, sliding into the booth. 

Trent returns the sentiment, a quirk to his lips. He looks so open, far from the guarded, searching way he used to talk to Ted. It's enough to make Ted's stomach flip, though that might just be the hangover. He drums his hands on the table, grabbing at a menu. "So, what're we ordering?"

"I suppose you'll suggest the lemon meringue pie." Trent says dryly. 

Ted lights up. "Wait, they've got that here?" He widens his eyes, pleading. "We gotta get that, come on now." 

Trent sighs. "I already ordered it. You don't mind sharing?"

"I don't mind sharing."

They share lemon pie. It's not the highest quality, but it's still sugary and tart and delicious, and Ted enjoys it every single time he bumps his fork into Trent's. "You know, once in college me and some friends went to Perkins for dinner and I had lemon meringue pie, and it messed me up so bad that I almost didn't make it home in time to—"

"Do you always talk about gastrointestinal distress on your dates, Ted?" Trent interrupts. 

"Only if I really like someone." Ted answers, enjoying this extended chance to charm Trent on purpose instead of on accident. 

"Your lemon scones were better than this, I think." Trent says a bit later, scraping yellow frosting off of his fork. 

"Why, thank you. I knew you'd really like lemon scones, you know." Ted says thoughtfully, sliding more pie onto his fork. "I have a sixth sense for this kinda thing."

"Yeah?" Trent prompts. 

Ted nods. "It's like astrology but more accurate. Pastrology."

"As in pastries and astrology? A bit on the nose, don't you think?"

"You and lemons is what's on the nose." Ted says, amused. "Tart at first then…"

"Don't say sweet." Trent interrupts, looking nauseous. "I can't bear it." 

"I'm afraid it's true. You could also be a lemon biscotti, maybe. Hard at first but somebody's just gotta dip you in some nice warm milk and soften you up." 

Trent covers his face with his hands. "You're incorrigible."

"You knew that already. What pastry d'you think I'd be? I've gotten a lot of 'em, over the years, so don't be afraid to be honest. Doc Fieldstone got so annoyed that I kept asking her that she called me an undercooked mug cake." 

"Because you're a mug?"

"Yup."

Trent thinks it over for a minute, not trying to rush one bit, which Ted appreciates, before triumphantly declaring him, without question, "A cornbread mini-muffin."

"Why?"

"Most American Midwest sounding thing I could think of." He answers. "And because they sound quite homey."

"You think I'm homely?"

"Homely means ugly," Trent corrects, a tick in his eyebrow like the misuse of the word is something that's bothered him for ages, "and you're not that." His cheeks look the way Ted's feel. 

"You think I'm homey, then? And not bad-looking, either? You're laying on the praise today."

"Don't get used to it." Trent says dryly, his eyes saying the precise opposite, warm and crinkled at the edges in a very get used to it sort of way. 

"Well, I'll take it. Maybe I can bake some with you and Malia when you have her next week, huh?"

"I'd like that."

Ted takes a breath. "I uh, I know that you're Trent Crimm, independent, and everything, but I was wondering if you wanna…be independent with me?" 

Trent very carefully sets his tea down. "Ted, are you asking me if I want to go steady?"

"Yeah, I think that I am." Ted says. He hadn't been planning on asking, not wanting to freak Trent out with his need for commitment, but it feels too right not to. 

"Then I think I'd like that, too." 

They finish the pie together, taking as long as possible to do so, their feet knocking underneath the table. Trent's wearing another jumper, his silvery hair curling up at the ends where it touches his shoulders, and Ted wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the entire world than here.

Later, when they go back to Ted's and while away the entire Sunday on the couch, he'll notice that Trent tastes just as lemony as he smells. 

 

 

Notes:

mix for this fic:

1. 50 Ways to Leave your Lover - Paul Simon
2. London Boy - Taylor Swift
3. The Lemon Song - Led Zeppelin
4. Hold Up - Beyonce
5. Unwritten - Natasha Bedingfield
6. Friday I'm in Love - The Cure
7. Hey, Good Lookin' Hank Williams
8. Bonzo Goes to Bitburg - The Ramones
9. Waterfalls - TLC
10. Say My Name - Destiny's Child
11. Lemon Glow - Beach House

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