Work Text:
“First kiss stories, go,” said Beard, flipping his sunglasses down. Trent leaned back to observe, curious, but flipped his notebook shut.
“Nothing special, really,” said Higgins. His eyes went a little distant as he recalled. “Sally Jenkins, Year 9. Mm. Yeah.”
“That’s bullshit,” said Roy. “No details.” Then he scrunched up his face. “What am I saying? I don’t want details. I hate that you’ve pulled me into this.”
“Now, Roy,” said Ted, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly. “It’s a team buildin’ exercise!”
“He means your turn,” said Beard shortly.
“You haven’t even gone yet,” Roy protested, knowing he sounded like a child.
Beard pushes his sunglasses further up his nose, pressed to his face. “It was Halloween. Whoever they were, they were dressed as David Bowie. That’s all I know.”
Higgins made a face, Ted’s exaggerated baby-doll eyes and smile did not falter as if he’d heard this story before, and Roy frowned.
Trent had noticed the pronouns, seemingly left as such to be purposefully ambiguous, but as he had been doing, said nothing, only tapped his glasses against his lips curiously.
There was a beat.
“Fuck,” Roy said. “Fine. Her name was Claire, it was Year 12, and don’t you fucking say anything about that being late!”
“Wasn’t going to,” said Higgins, spreading his hands defensively. Ted nodded with an innocent expression.
“She was nice,” said Roy, almost defensively. “We were at a party.”
“Cheerleader?” Higgins asked curiously.
“That’s a stereotype,” Roy said. “She was top of the class.”
“Not mutually exclusive things,” said Ted wisely.
“Well, she wasn’t,” said Roy loudly. And then, quieter, “she wasn’t one of the popular types. She was helping me with algebra.”
Trent’s eyebrows raised—Roy Kent’s schoolyard sweetheart, apparently a math tutor—but he didn’t say anything.
“Sounds very nice,” said Higgins.
“Mm,” hummed Ted agreeably. He clapped his hands together. “Mine was actually a stage kiss.”
“A stage kiss?” said Higgins, raising his eyebrows.
Ted was in theater? Who was Trent kidding. Of course he was.
“Twas supposed to be fake,” said Ted, wiggling his eyebrows.
“Twas not,” Beard finished for him. They made finger guns at each other. Trent would never understand their relationship.
“We were the leads,” said Ted, “Since I was one of the only fellas who actually signed up, it being a Kansas high school. It was very awkward. Neither of us actually knew what we were doing.”
“Oh, first kisses always are,” said Higgins. “Sometimes sweaty.” He seemed to be speaking from experience.
“Our teeth clacked together,” Roy admitted, a little gruffly.
They glanced at Beard. He shrugged as if to say no idea, or possibly, knowing Beard, there was tongue.
“Fair enough,” said Ted.
“Don’t know what I expected,” said Roy.
“Thought there’d be something more exciting in there,” said Higgins. “Ah. Well.”
Trent thought he’d muffled the little amused noise he’d made, at the irony, but apparently not enough, because every single one of them, almost in scary unison, turned to look at him.
“Oh, um,” Trent said, fumbling with his glasses, “Don’t mind me. I’m not—writing anything down.”
“Oh, I didn’t think you were, Trent,” said Ted, beaming at him.
“I did,” said Roy, narrowing his eyes.
“I’m not,” said Trent, raising his hands and spreading them out, as if to say see? no pen.
“How about you?” piped up Beard. “First kiss?”
“Can you do us one better?” said Higgins, immediately joining the dark side.
“This is a judgement free zone,” Ted said, giving him a double thumbs up.
“I—I couldn’t,” said Trent, but he was very, very close to breaking.
The thing was, his first kiss story was—actually rather spectacular. Unorthodox, certainly. A little embarrassing, perhaps.
But there were two problems: one, he was trying not to get too close. Two, his first kiss had, of course, been with a man.
“We all shared,” Roy said, almost a growl, but he didn’t actually look angry so much as amused and mildly annoyed, which was worse.
“…Now fellas,” Ted said, sending Trent an almost baleful look, “If Trent doesn’t wanna share—”
Fuck. Trent actually did. What had these people done to him?
“No, no,” Trent said, before he could change his mind, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll share. It’s just—ah. Complicated.”
“How is a kiss complicated?” Beard asked.
Trent raised his eyebrows. “It actually shares more similarities to yours than any of theirs.”
“Ah,” said Beard. “Touché.”
He hadn’t actually told this story in a long time, and even then, only once or twice. But something about these people—the environment Ted had built—Trent found himself wanting to share. Wanting to make them—make Ted—laugh.
Wanting to be liked. Wasn’t that a little pathetic? Trent Crimm, feared and ruthless (ex-)reporter, desperately wanting to be liked.
“Perhaps ironically,” he said, “It started with a trip to America.”
Ted beamed.
It had been early in his university years, and his first time overseas. It was for a conference—Trent honestly barely remembered now, it had seemed so important at the time but now was completely irrelevant—and he was alone.
Much of the trip they had been left unsupervised, a hoard of British proto-journalists let loose upon the campus, and while most of them had stuck together in little packs (“What an image! Packs of feral, roving—did you say proto-journalists? You sure do have a way with words, Trent”) Trent had never been one to make friends.
(He intentionally kept his voice his light and his eyes off of all of them. He didn’t want to see their expressions at that.)
So Trent had been alone.
It was a nice day, warm but not unpleasantly so, and a cool, pleasant breeze blew, meaning that many people were out and about.
Trent didn’t have a hair tie, so his hair kept blowing in his face, which is what distracted him enough that he didn’t notice what was happening until it was too late. It being, he had walked a little too close to one of the little plazas or clearings between buildings where people tended to gather—and in this case, where a large crowd had begun to congregate.
He slowed, wanting to see what was going on (“there’s that Crimm curiosity!” Ted commented brightly, and Trent raised a brow as if to say who’s telling the story? and Ted raised both hands in a show of surrender) and quickly regretted it.
There was a man shouting at the center of the crowd, screaming, really, and holding a large sign.
(“Ah,” sighed Ted, “One of them types, huh?” “Sadly common in colleges,” nodded Beard, as if this were normal.)
A preacher of some sort. Shouting about sinners, and the like. Trent had quickly decided he would be moving on as fast as possible.
(“Homophobic?” Ted asked, making a face that said ew, gross. Trent nodded mutely. Everyone made a similarly disgusted face, and Trent felt slightly better about where this story was going.)
Just as he was deciding to speed up and look away, someone shouted Hey, you!
And Trent was face to face with—an interesting character.
Namely, a rather broad, tall man, about his age, completely decked out in all black, eyeliner, ripped jeans, platform boots, and a rather tall mohawk. If he had been going for “impressively Satanic” to piss off the preacher—as he had been one of the ones yelling right back a moment ago—than he was succeeding.
(“Was he hot?” Beard asked, something intense in his stare.)
Yes. Or Trent had thought so at the time; they were both terribly young. “Punk” had never exactly been his type, but this young man had made it work.
Anyway, you must understand the comedic picture they made—Trent was much shorter, scrawnier, and in a blazer and a baggy band shirt. He was practically hunched over and hiding behind his long hair. The stranger was built like an athlete and had his hair spiked up and dyed bright colors—albeit they seemed to be sprayed on—and, as beforementioned, much. ah, bolder.
(“Hmm,” said Higgins, like he didn’t know where this was going. “Hmm,” said Beard, like he did. If Trent had looked up, he would see Ted making a very strange expression.)
Trent pointed at himself silently, as if to say who, me? The stranger beamed, and said, “Yeah, you! Guy with the cool shirt!”
Trent looked down—ah, a Queen shirt—and hesitantly stepped forward, unsure what was happening here. The preacher was still shouting in the background, and someone younger than Trent by a few years was shouting back, their many bracelets clacking together as they gestured angrily. The crowd wasn’t thick, but it was enthusiastic.
“How do ya feel about kissing?” the stranger shouted over the crowd.
Trent, flustered, fumbled with his glasses and said, also having to awkwardly raise his voice a little in order to be heard, “I—just in general?”
The stranger gave a dazzling grin, and said, “Me—to piss off that guy,” and jerked his head to indicate the preacher.
And Trent, in a moment of insanity he had never quite regretted, said yes.
(Beard started laughing. What started as a low ha ha ha ha was quickly building into something louder. Higgins seemed to give a few uncertain giggles, too.)
It was all quite dramatic. Since the point was to cause maximum drama, that is, it was all very—showy. Trent had not expected his first kiss to come with a background soundtrack of a cheering crowd and a screaming preacher.
It was just one kiss, of course, but—
(“Did he have an accent?” called Beard, still laughing, and Trent frowned.)
It was America, they all had accents.
(“Was it a good kiss?” Higgins asked curiously, and Roy rolled his eyes, distracting Trent from how Ted looked like he might choke.)
Yes, it was a good kiss. Very nice, 10/10, is that what you wanted to hear?
(Beard was straight-up fucking giggling. Had Trent looked up, he would have seen that Ted had his head in his hands, and Higgins was looking between him and Beard with confusion.)
They had talked a bit afterwards, which was a little strange, but then he’d gone off and joined the crowd again.
Trent had stuck around a little longer, watching the crowd—and the stranger—fight the preacher right back. At some point, another man had come in on what seemed to be one of the campus staff’s golf carts, in what looked to be a bedazzled bee-themed stripper outfit, voice blasting through the megaphone what seemed to be the script for the Bee Movie, and the stranger had gotten in the passenger seat, wooping with his friend—again, Trent cannot emphasize enough how surreal this was—as they drove in circles around the crowd, careful not to go too fast but nonetheless being extremely obnoxious.
The speakers were so loud the preacher couldn’t be heard at all, which was, of course, the point. Trent hadn’t been able to stop himself from laughing—but then not too long in, he’d gotten a call and he’d had to go, and reluctantly, he’d left.
He’d, of course, never seen the stranger again. He’d gone home shortly after. But it made an excellent story to tell, assuming he was in company who could hear it.
“That’s a fucking great first kiss story,” said Roy. “Fuck.”
“I’d say it was made up if it wasn’t so…” Higgins trailed off.
Trent shrugged, leaning back in his chair, a little smug. “It was a strange experience. But a good memory, overall.”
Ted made a weird, strangled noise, and Beard started laughing again.
Trent finally looked up, noting that Ted seemed to be shaking a little as he buried his face in his hands.
“Are you alright?” he said, suddenly concerned.
Higgins and Roy exchanged a look. Roy mouthed what, is he fucking jealous? And Higgins shrugged, eyes wide.
Beard patted Ted on the shoulder. “He’s fine,” he said.
“I forgot about the bee-kini,” wailed Ted. He put his hands over his face again and squirmed like he was trying to get the feeling out.
“Coach, is that really what you want to focus on?” Beard said. “That? Nothing else?”
“No,” said Roy, with a dawning realization. “You’re fucking kidding.”
Trent refused to consider the implication of this. No. Nope. Absolutely not.
“He’s not,” said Beard. “And I looked great in that bee-dazzled bee-kini. Booyah.”
“You sure did, Coach,” said Ted, not lifting his head.
Absurdly, the only thing that came to Trent’s mind was but the stranger didn’t have a moustache.
Higgins was making an uncomfortably high-pitched string of giggles. Roy was also beginning to grin.
“You’re fucking with me,” said Trent, desperately grasping at straws. They had provided absolutely no evidence or information he hadn’t already mentioned. This was a fucking prank. “You’re fucking with me.”
“Would the man who dipped you in front of a screaming preacher lie to you?” said Beard, and despite the fact it was said with little expression and an even tone, he somehow managed to convey a shit-eating grin with his words alone.
“He dipped you?” Roy said. “There was a dip?”
“It was for maximum drama,” mumbled Ted into his hands, almost a whine.
“I’m more interested in the, ah, outfit,” said Higgins. “Mohawk and eyeliner, Ted?”
“We all have phases,” said Beard sagely.
“You know damn well it was for that night specifically,” said Ted crossly. Beard didn’t even flinch at the curse word.
“Ah,” said Higgins wisely, “So you don’t normally kiss strangers in front of screaming preachers?”
“Cute proto-journalists,” added Beard, tone equally faux-even and sage, but with a touch of the kind of gleeful mischief that came with being a little shit to your close friend.
Trent’s head was spinning.
“Who said anything about cute?” barked Roy, which—Trent would be offended, but he was a little too busy feeling like his entire world was being rearranged around him.
“Ted did,” Beard said, even more gleefully. “Right after. What was it you called him? That cute British fella?”
Trent was sure he was blushing. God damn it. This was embarrassing; he wasn’t a teenager, why was he fucking blushing?
“Well!” said Ted, with great cheer and dignity that it was clear he was valiantly holding up, as if he weren’t embarrassed at all, “I stand by that statement!”
“Are you fucking blushing?” said Roy, staring at Trent with his brows furrowed impressively.
Trent was definitely blushing, god fucking damn it.
“We-ell,” said Higgins, seeming vaguely nonplussed but overall annoyingly unfazed. “What are the chances of that? That you two know each other all these years later?”
“Astro-fucking-nomical,” said Roy.
Trent still hadn’t said a word since you’re fucking with me, since it was becoming increasingly clear that Ted wasn’t, in fact, fucking with him.
And it was still sinking in:
Ted had been his first kiss.
Ted Lasso had been his first kiss.
And within the context of what Trent’s first kiss was—
Ted Lasso had apparently cheerfully and easily pissed off screaming homophobes by kissing male strangers. Ted Lasso had looked unfortunately fucking amazing decked out in what had looked to be some sort of punk gear.
Jesus, he didn’t even know why he was surprised. This was exactly the sort of batshit thing Ted would do. He was always bringing up out of pocket nonsense anecdotes.
…Ted Lasso had thought Trent was cute.
(Now maybe that was the real surprise.)
Anyway, so Trent was going to fucking explode.
“Now I want to hear your side of the story, Ted,” said Higgins, tone mild and not at all hiding his mischievous, nosy ways.
And, well. The thing was.
Ted did remember that day. He remembered it pretty well.
It had gone something like this:
Beard was late, and Ted didn’t know anyone else here.
It was then he spotted someone—a stranger as much as the rest of the crowd, but this one stood out. He had long hair (currently blowing in his face, and he was trying to tidy it with his hands, but one was currently holding his glasses—green frames, very cute—and it kept getting caught) and he was. pretty.
Pretty in that handsome kind of way, if that made any sort of sense.
He was wearing a Queen shirt, so he had good taste, and when he looked up and saw the preacher—the tell-tale instinctive look of disgust.
(And if Ted thought the little nose-scrunch was kind of cute, he kept that to himself.)
Whatever the case, Ted—a little high on the adrenaline of it all—thought what the heck? He shouted “HEY, YOU!” and the cute stranger jerked, looking up at him with wide eyes.
He curled a finger to point at his own chest, as if to say who, me?
Ted couldn’t help but grin at him. “Yeah, you! Guy with the cool shirt!”
And the stranger—the stranger blushed, just a little, and yes, Ted absolutely wanted to kiss this man on the lips. He adjusted his glasses and stepped forward, as if ready to listen. Surprisingly keeping his cool, apparently in favor of being curious. Ted loved a curious sort of person.
“Yes?” he said, and—well, heck, he was British. How odd.
“How do you feel about kissing?” Ted shouted.
The stranger fumbled with his glasses for a moment, but his voice was smooth—if a little high pitched—when he said, voice almost lost to the noise of the crowd, “—in general?”
“Me,” Ted beamed, “To piss off that guy!”
The stranger fixed him with a searching look, and apparently finding whatever he was looking for, let the steady stare break into an almost coy smile. He folded his glasses and tucked them neatly into his blazer—blazer, what a guy—and said, cool-as-you-please, “Who am I to turn down a charitable cause?”
Coolest. Person. Ever.
Ted vaguely recalled getting the preacher’s attention—probably shouting something along the lines of HEY, DICKHEAD! which he would definitely not be telling the others—and then. Well.
Kissing Trent Crimm.
Because he now knew it had, in fact, been Trent Crimm who he’d kissed. Trent Crimm who had made a cute little startled noise despite knowing it was coming; Trent Crimm who Ted had put his hands in the hair of; Trent Crimm who Ted had actually spun into a dip and deepened the kiss with; Trent Crimm who had looked very pretty just-kissed and flustered and still in Ted’s arms.
(And it had been his first kiss? Jeez Louise. At least he hadn’t seemed to have regretted it—although he might now, with full context.)
Ted remembered kissing Trent Crimm (he also remembered Beard—Beeard? No, that was dumb—in his wonderfully terrible “bee-dazzled bee-kini”, disrupting the rest of the preacher’s shouting, a sort of activity they had frequently joined in on with the other groups on campus (although this particular campus hadn’t actually been theirs, but one they were visiting for a game). But honestly, he was a little more caught up on the first part, quite understandably.
Ted wasn’t going to say all that, though, because while Beard looked as though Christmas had come early and Higgins looked thoughtful and Roy looked almost sadistically thrilled… Trent looked utterly mortified. He still hadn’t said a word.
Ted didn’t want to embarrass him.
Well. Embarrass him any more, that is.
Beard, thankfully, being quasi-psychic (Ted was joking—uh, mostly), seemed to catch on to his thoughts exactly.
“As great as it would be to interrogate everyone involved until we have a nice Rashomon narrative,” he said dryly, “We do, actually, have jobs to do. DIAMOND DOGS, DISMOUNT!”
Over Roy’s “fuck’s sake” he, Ted, and Higgins burst into raucous barking, although Higgins seemed mildly disappointed. Trent, still with his face buried in his hands, let out a little woof. Ted had the absurd thought that he would like to kiss him again, actually, which he promptly buried as deeply as he could.
Ted gratefully took the excuse to leave and distract himself and finish processing this later, thanks, but as they were bustling out the door (and he was avoiding Beard’s knowing eyes and waggling eyebrows) he happened—definitely just accidentally, mind you, and not at all on purpose—to look back at Trent.
No one else left in the room, Ted the only one looking back, and Trent lifted his head and for a second they made eye contact.
Trent, in what was a delightful turn of events, blushed.
Ted got the impression Trent Crimm was not much of a blusher, nor the easily flustered sort. Here was a man who knew how to keep it together. And yet here he was: Ted couldn’t help but remember a decades younger Trent Crimm, smaller and awkward and long hair blowing in his face, blushing the same way after Ted had kissed him.
And they were both, of course, thinking of that particular kiss at the same time.
And then Trent hurriedly looked away, still uncharacteristically flustered, and Ted let his feet carry him out the door and after the others.
Well, shoot. They’d have to talk about this, wouldn’t they?
Will overhears a great deal of things in the boot room, and just in general, to be honest. He’s very good at overhearing things. One who wasn’t being generous might call it eavesdropping, but Will was generous with himself because it was healthy to be generous with yourself sometimes.
So it wasn’t eavesdropping. It was innocent overhearing. It was hardly his fault if people kept coming into his boot room while he was doing his job and didn’t check if he was in there first before having personal conversations about anything from their tragic backstory to their dick and where it’s been lately to their secret love of baking shows.
(Will knows a truly frightening amount of information about everyone at Richmond, from the players to the janitors to the owner herself. He won’t ever use it, of course, or tell anyone—but he does know it. The wise Richmond-goer should learn to fear the kitman. Most of them don’t, but that’s alright, because they’re nice, anyway, and even if they weren’t, Will isn’t in the business of telling secrets. Just knowing them.)
So he was minding his own business, innocently so, when he overheard something very interesting indeed.
That being, Trent Crimm, their resident ex-journalist and current biographer, furiously dragging Coach Lasso into the boot room by the wrist.
Coach Lasso gamely let himself be dragged in, and the second the door shut, Crimm was demanding, uncharacteristically shrill, “What the hell, Ted.”
Oh, this was going to be fucking juicy. Will settled in for the ride, wondering if it would be worth the risk to get the almonds he had in his pocket out in lieu of popcorn.
“In my defense,” said Coach Lasso, “you didn’t remember either.”
“Excuse me for not making the connection,” Crimm said, “When you were decked out as a punk. And sans stache, I might say.”
Ohoho. What fresh hell.
“Fair,” admitted Coach Lasso. “You still looked very… you.”
“What, cute?” said Crimm, and then his immediate wince was almost audible, so it seemed clear that he hadn’t meant for that to slip out.
“Yes,” said Coach Lasso, equally automatically, and then there was another beat.
“Well,” said Crimm finally, with some failed attempt at dignity, “…thank you.”
A deeply uncomfortable pause. Even Will was fighting the urge to shuffle awkwardly, and he was decidedly not a part of this conversation.
“…was it good, at least?” Coach Lasso said quietly. “I mean—I didn’t know it was…”
Crimm gives a sigh, part fond and part awkwardly mortified. Will is not sure how he managed that. “Yes,” he says, just as low and hushed, so much so Will almost has to strain to hear it—almost, “as far as first kisses go, it was excellent.”
Will nearly choked, suddenly glad he hadn’t tried to eat any almonds, because he almost certainly would have inhaled one.
(Kitman Chokes To Death On Nuts In Boot Room would have been a terrible headline.)
He scrambled to peek over at them—keeping as small and still as possible. Something as good as this required visuals.
“Still. First,” said Coach Lasso, sounding almost troubled, and this time when Crimm sighed it was just fond. Unspeakably, unbearably fond.
He shook his head, amused, and said, “Ted, really. It’s fine. If nothing else, it’s a hell of a story, isn’t it?”
“What, the screaming preacher or the kiss?” said Coach Lasso. “Or is it Beard’s bikini that makes it?”
Will desperately wanted to know what the fuck that meant. And why he’d pronounced bikini like that. And why Beard had a bikini at all.
“All of the above, I should think,” said Crimm mildly. “I still remember it, don’t I?”
“I think the bikini was more memorable than any kissing I can do,” said Coach Lasso with a self-deprecating smile.
“I strongly disagree,” said Crimm, too quickly for it to have been anything but his first thought.
“…strongly, huh.”
Crimm made a quiet strangled noise.
Yeah, Will was embarrassed on Crimm’s behalf, too.
“You,” said Crimm, slightly strained but valiantly standing by his initial answer, “are a good kisser.”
Coach Lasso’s eyebrows flew up and he rocked back on his heels for a moment.
Will had never witnessed more painful and awkward flirting in his entire life.
“It’s been decades,” Coach Lasso said, which—wow, seriously? Will had figured that whatever the fuck this was must have been some time ago considering “sans stache” plus the fact they’d both been married at some point, he was pretty sure, but that seemed like a lot. “Technically, I think that’s outdated information.”
“Mm, and a good journalist—or biographer, I suppose—always keeps up to date sources,” said Crimm, and, okay, that was. considerably smoother, at least.
If it worked, anyway.
There was a moment of silence—Will couldn’t see what expression Coach Lasso was making, but he could see how Crimm’s faltered—and then Crimm said, uncertainly, “Ted, I was onl—”
And then he was cut off with a little mmph because Coach Lasso had stepped forward and kissed him soundly.
Will resisted the urge to leap from his hiding place and whoop.
He did look away, though. Silent cheering aside, it felt kind of weird to just watch them kiss. Especially when they just sort of. kept. kissing.
…Will was beginning to slightly regret not leaving when he could. Just slightly, mind you, because this was juicy and he did not regret knowing, but they didn’t seem to be stopping and goddamn it if they started losing clothes he was standing up and leaving regardless of the consequences.
There was a muffled thump as Crimm’s back hit the wall, and a breathless noise from him that Will couldn’t unhear, and then suddenly, a groan and whispered swearing. Fuck, someone hissed.
No more kissing noises. A quiet thud. After a moment, Will cautiously poked his head out to see.
Crimm was still leaning against the wall, head fallen back—probably the source of the thud—and now his face was tipped towards the ceiling, eyes closed, looking deeply exasperated.
Coach Lasso’s expression was still obscured, but while he was still pressed fairly close to Crimm, he was not actually kissing him. Lips or otherwise. Thankfully.
“Will,” said Crimm, sounding incredibly put-out, “I swear to god.”
Fuck.
“In my defense,” said a pile of boots, “I was here when you came in.”
Trent, whose head was still spinning from getting pushed against a wall and kissed senseless by Ted Lasso, did not have the mental energy to deal with this right now. Pretty much every single braincell was currently being dedicated to a long and spiraling train of thought labelled Ted Lasso just kissed me; Ted Lasso has kissed me before; Ted Lasso kissed me again; I have been kissed by Ted Lasso two (2) whole times, technically more than that because just now was really more like several kisses than just one; Did I mention I’ve been kissed by Ted Lasso?
Trent was aware that it was not, in fact, a pile of boots speaking, but Will Kitman, likely just around the corner. Regardless, it was to the pile of boots that he spoke next.
“Yes, I see that.”
“Should we leave?” said Ted, always more polite than Trent was. “I know you got a job t’do—”
“No, I can leave,” said the pile of boots. “I can come back later. Hey, can I ask why Beard was in a bikini?”
“Bee-kini,” Trent corrected absentmindedly, and Ted beamed at him, and Trent wanted to kiss him so very extremely badly.
“What,” said the pile of boots.
“It’s a long story, involving a preacher, the Bee Movie, and a bedazzling gun,” said Ted, “And perhaps! A story for another time!”
“Right,” said the pile of boots, and then Will stepped out from around the corner. A kitman, miraculously produced from thin air and a pile of boots. Splendid. “I’m going now. Sorry.”
He awkwardly bounced in a sort of half-bow, then visibly regretted the action but said nothing about it.
“Nothin’ to apologize for,” said Ted, more cheerfully than he probably actually felt. “Kinda our bad.”
Will smiled awkwardly at them, just sort of lingering, and Trent realized he was waiting for them to move. He awkwardly (and very reluctantly) extracted himself from Ted’s arms, and they both moved away, and Will slipped out of the room immediately. Trent could not hope for so easy an escape.
“We probably could have picked a better place for this conversation,” Ted said.
“He’s seen worse, I’m sure,” Trent said.
Ted hummed, rocking from toe to heel and back again. “Mm, well,” he said, and then nothing else.
The distance between them felt like a yawning chasm. Just minutes ago, Trent had been caught between the wall and Ted—warm and unyielding and kissing him deeply—and any thoughts that weren’t of Ted had been chased from his mind completely.
Non-Ted thoughts had yet to approach him again, save for the brief mortification at remembering the likelihood of Will Kitman’s presence, but regardless, the warmth was gone, and suddenly, Trent was longing to be touched again.
(No one ever thought of him as much of a touchy sort of guy—even his ex had assumed he wasn’t in want of much affection. This was, unfortunately, patently untrue. And now there were two hungers awoken in Trent, twin desperations: a want to be kissed again, and a need to be touched.)
It’s partly this—his selfishness, the echo of Ted’s hands at his face, his waist—that drives him to step forward, and partly the look on Ted’s face, like he’s lost, too; the look that says maybe Trent isn’t delusional, maybe Ted wants this, too. Wants him.
So Trent steps forward and this time he’s the one to kiss Ted.
This proves to be the right move, because Ted kisses him back, and once again the only thing Trent is thinking of is Ted, Ted, Ted.
It’s perfect. There’s no screaming preacher of bee-dazzled bee-kini-clad Beard to be seen, and Ted’s wrapped his arms around Trent’s waist to pull him closer—Trent’s arms are draped over his shoulders, wrists crossed behind his head—and it’s warm and Ted is close and in his space and Trent has been kissed before, but he’s never felt quite this thoroughly entangled.
After what feels like forever—not just one kiss, but a kiss and a kiss and a kiss, Ted’s smiling now and Trent can’t help but return it until he’s almost giggling because they’re fucking ridiculous, aren’t they—Ted pulls away. Not a lot, just enough that their lips aren’t quite brushing and they’re still too close. When Trent goes to chase his lips, Ted gently but firmly holds him in place. They’re still close, but they’re both smiling, and his eyes are twinkling, and Trent couldn’t fight it if he wanted to.
“Is this the part where I dip you?” Ted murmurs, teasing, “or do you want to have a go this time?”
“Maybe not here,” Trent says breathlessly, and he’s suddenly struck with the image of dancing with Ted at home, in the kitchen, the kind of domestic fantasy he’d always wanted but had never quite achieved, the kind of thing no one would expect him to want. Chest to chest with Ted Lasso, hands clasped, some old record playing. Ted would be the kind of person to insist on trying a spin, and he’d make Trent laugh, and maybe it would be Trent who would suggest dipping.
“Some other time, then,” said Ted, voice low and a little rough (didn’t that just do something funny to Trent’s insides) and then he—brushed one more kiss to Trent’s lips, and stepped back, easily slipping from Trent’s arms.
(Trent felt colder, almost bereft, but it had to be done, he knew.)
“I stand by my statement,” Trent said, still unfairly breathless. “You’re a good kisser, Ted Lasso.”
“You, too,” Ted says, lips quirking upwards.
Trent smiles, feeling—downright giddy, it’d be embarrassing if he were with anyone else—and then Ted says, too casually to be anything but Not At All Casual, “y’know…”
Trent raises his eyebrows as if to say yes?
“I actually thought about askin’ you out,” he says, and Trent’s eyes widen. “Back then, I mean. But you were gone.”
Last day there, I’m afraid, Trent wants to say, but what comes out is, “I think I would have said yes.”
He’s shocked to find he means that. And while his perspective is undoubtedly colored by present day bias, he can’t help but think it’s true anyway—that maybe he would have missed his flight for a silly, ridiculous American who gave him a hell of a first kiss, if only he’d been asked.
It seemed like such a missed opportunity, even though, realistically, neither of them could regret it, considering where they’d ended up. (Namely, their respective children were the most important thing, but also—here. They’d still ended up here, hadn’t they?)
Still, it was a nice thought. A young Trent Crimm and a young Ted Lasso, on a date on some random campus in the Midwest of the United States, sharing tikka masala (that wasn’t impossibly spicy, as far as Trent recalled) or something like that. A second kiss that didn’t come decades later.
“Would you say yes if I asked now?” asked Ted, and how in the world could he look so hesitant when there was no possibility that Trent would say anything other than yes?
“Yes,” said Trent, warm and happy and a touch disbelieving that this was happening, because yesterday he’d been content to nurse a completely unrequited and helpless crush, and now Ted Lasso had kissed him and was (albeit indirectly) asking him out and Trent couldn’t stop smiling. “Absolutely, Ted. Yes.”
“Oh, good,” said Ted, a little faintly. “In that case, thoughts on getting dinner?”
“Ted,” said Trent seriously, “I think I should be clear and say I’m so far gone on you that you could suggest the spiciest Indian restaurant you know, again, and I’d still say yes. And that was before I knew about—the other thing.”
“I jus—are you sure?” Ted said, almost concerned, or guilty, and Trent wanted to shake him and/or whoever had made him feel like this. “I’m. well, I’m kind of a mess. It’s… a lot.”
“So am I,” said Trent. “Terribly so. I’m a lonely, divorced ex-journalist with self-esteem issues and a tendency to assume the worst about the world. I’ve certainly been called ‘a lot to handle’ before. My best traits are my hair and my ability to eviscerate someone in print.”
“Now hold on—” said Ted, looking genuinely upset, and Trent held up two fingers in a gesture that said let me finish. Trent was ninety percent sure Ted would be bringing that up again somehow later, but that was an issue for Later Trent.
“—but,” he said. “I’m working on it. And no one’s perfect. No one’s really all that neat or tidy. And we both have problems, but—we can help each other with them, can’t we?”
Ted’s eyes looked suspiciously shiny. “Yeah,” he said, finally. And then, like he was quoting someone or echoing something, “a work in progmess.”
Trent couldn’t help but huff out a laugh. “Right,” he said. “I like that.”
Ted beamed at him, and then took his hand and squeezed gently. “I guess we can both be a handful,” he joked, and Trent’s fingers curled around his and squeezed back. "I certainly am."
"How's the saying go?" Trent asks. "I've got two hands."