Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

i.

The first time Trent Crimm has sex with someone, it’s. fine.

He supposes he’s rather late to the game, being in his early twenties, but he’d never been sure how his peers were even getting into that sort of situation.

He’d been awkward and strange enough in school that no one had ever seemed interested—or he’d been too oblivious to notice, at least—and certainly no one had ever asked him out. He hadn’t known how to go about asking someone else out, either, nor was there anyone he felt particularly inclined to try for.

He’d always suspected there was something wrong with him: or rather, many things wrong with him. This was just another for the list.

(A list his father wasn’t shy about adding to, either.)

It wasn’t as if he hated the idea of sex, or had never gotten, er, worked up. Although it made his face hot to even think of—British propriety and repression at its finest—he had touched himself before, had been through puberty and been a hormonal mess.

But his teenage fantasies were—vague. Inconsistent. And less about him so much as—just. pretending to be someone else, someone else who could and would do the things he didn’t have the courage to. Or didn’t want to? He didn’t know how to describe it.

(And while he wouldn’t have said any of this out loud, anyway, the worse unspoken secret was this: too often, he cast himself in the role of the woman, imagining not kissing a pretty girl with long hair, but instead imagining a man on top of him, hands in his hair, pressing him into the mattress.

But he wasn’t a woman, and he couldn’t—it was wrong. It was wrong, and he was wrong, just like he always seemed to be. Even if it made him breathless, the fantasies of a faceless man with big, gentle hands—)

He never pictured anyone he actually knew, though, woman or otherwise. The closest he’d come was remembering a scene from some old Western film he’d found a tape for at a thrift shop—the protagonist, some cowboy with stubbly facial hair and intense eyes, kissing his lady friend, and although it faded to black not long after she’d ended up laughing on the bed, Trent could very well imagine how it ended. And did.

(Only he wasn’t, of course, picturing the beautiful lady, with her low-cut velvet dress and black hair let down from elaborate braids to fall over the pillows, under him—he was picturing the cowboy, straddling him—or rather her, pretending to be her—and hands in hair, hands shoving up a velvet dress, a cock pressing insi—)

(No. Stop it.)

He shoves all of these thoughts down, hard, because it’s wrong, even if it’s hard to resist in the privacy of his own mind, in the shadows his locked room.

He tries, he tries to look at women the way he’s supposed to. He can admire their hair or their eyes or their clever, fun personalities, he can like them, truly, but—

He has no desire to be with them.

Still, though. He has to try, doesn’t he?

He remembers his father’s disdain for his son’s weakness, his inability to be sporty and athletic and strong, his sensitivity, his picky eating and aversion to alcohol. He’d never been a troublemaker, never gotten into fights at school, never drank or smoked, finding far more interest in his studies, in writing, in reading—and while his mother had called him a good kid, before she died, his father had always been disappointed that his son was such a weak little fairy. (His words.)

So he tries harder. And it never works.

He was bullied as a child, sometimes beaten, because he was weak. His father never seemed to care, only ask why he hadn’t fought back, damn you, boy, didn’t you even take one of them down? As if Trent could fight against five boys all far bigger than him, could have any hope of doing anything but making it worse.

But no, he’d always been the soft one, the odd one, the pathetic nerd—some of the girls liked him alright, but that only made it worse in his father’s eyes, that a girl might stand up for him when he wouldn’t do it himself. Trent hadn’t seen the issue.

He has strange habits, he moves strangely, he can’t stand seemingly random things, and he has meltdowns, sometimes, that he locks up tightly—runs away and curls in a ball and lets himself hyperventilate. They mostly stop as he gets older; he suffocates them out of himself, and ignores that it hurts.

And he keeps trying, even when he’s no longer that scared kid, when he’s barely an adult and scrambling off to university, eager to get away from where he’d grown up.

He gets asked out, and he’s surprised that anyone would want him, and awkward, weedy student studying journalism and English, he says yes, because Sarah has kind eyes and long, pretty hair, and he should try, shouldn’t he?

The date goes fine—he likes her, really, she’s smart and funny and he’s interested in what she’s saying, truly, but he still doesn’t want to. anything. He doesn’t want to kiss her, or fuck her, or anything.

He warns her he’s inexperienced, even though it’s embarrassing, because he’s half hoping it’ll scare her off, but if anything she seems more enamored.

In the end, he decides to treat it like he treats anything he doesn’t know: with rigorous study and willingness to listen to instruction.

Afterwards, Sarah says he’s real sweet, and most guys aren’t so nice. It sounds like a compliment, but she’s eyeing him with something unreadable in her expression.

She probably noticed there hadn’t been any, ah, evidence of arousal, before she’d actually started touching him. He supposed that it had felt nice, in a way—who didn’t like an orgasm? But it was just—

He’d felt worse, afterwards. Shaky and awkward and embarrassed and almost nauseous. It wasn’t fair to her, either, she was perfectly lovely, she’d done nothing wrong at all—it was him who was wrong.

Sarah kisses him and says she likes him, but neither of them seem to really be in a place for relationship, do they?

He’s grateful for the out, but the kiss lingers unpleasantly in his mind. He should have liked it. He should have liked her.

Instead he’s just ashamed.

ii.

Trent builds up an armor, as he begins to delve into the world of journalism.

No one listens to a dorky, awkward nerd in band t-shirts with pierced ears and bracelets, but Trent has gotten very good at pretending.

He develops a costume, of sorts—although costume isn’t entirely accurate. He truly does like the blazers, the professional clothing and styled hair.

He keeps the long hair—a defiance, he knows his father thinks he should cut it, but it’s one piece of himself he actually likes, so he keeps it—but instead of being messily tied back, he puts more effort into it.

The blazers are comfortable, and he likes how they make him feel: confident, academic, intelligent. He can be those things; and better, he can make other people see him as those things.

He develops a sharp tongue, and, more slowly, a reputation. He’s always had a quick wit, but now he learns to wield it, and it serves him well as an up-and-coming journalist.

He’s defensive and cutting: no one can hurt him if he hurts them first, and no one will dare to try if he can build a thick enough armor, sharpen a deadly enough sword.

Of course, all of this doesn’t exactly attract dates. But honestly, it’s privately a relief.

He’s terrified of the idea he might be gay.

It would be too much. The last straw, he knows; his father would just disown him outright. And it’s not that Trent needs him, but—he’s already alone, he already doesn’t know how to make connections, how to make friends, and at least he still has this, right? Someone who cares at all?

His mother died a long time ago, now, and his father—well, Trent was well aware the man had flaws, but he did love his son, in his own way. He didn’t want to lose that, too.

But. well. shouldn’t he at least know?

Which is how Trent Crimm, already developing a reputation as someone not to be messed with, finds himself in a gay bar, heart in his throat and uncertain anticipation fluttering through him. He keeps moving his hands in small, twitchy movements, like he’s trying to soothe himself with repetitive little actions.

He meets a man—tall, strong, green eyes—and he seems nice enough, and Trent has a wildly unromantic fuck in a club bathroom, which is probably not the best way he could have gone about this.

Regardless, when its over, he finds himself fleeing with his clothes disheveled and hastily thrown back on, and he nearly throws up in the alleyway outside.

It wasn’t that he’d hated it, necessarily. In fact, horribly, he’d rather enjoyed it.

But it was still—

He hadn’t been attracted to the man, either. He’d let it happen because he’d wanted to know, and he’d certainly enjoyed it more than any of his other quick and awful experiences, but—it had still been off. He still felt shaky and ashamed and he wanted to take a shower.

So was he not gay? Was it just the shame, the thinking about what his father would say (and doesn’t that send a painful spike of hot humiliation through him, the idea of anyone—of his father—knowing he’d just been fucked in the grimy bathroom of a hole-in-the-wall bar?) or was it—something else? Was it just how it had happened? Was it that Trent was simply broken, and couldn’t be attracted to anyone at all?

He felt hopelessly confused. He just didn’t know.

And if he’s especially nasty in his next few articles, well, it isn’t fair, but when has anyone ever been fair to Trent, either?

(He feels bad about it, sometimes, late at night, but—well. it’s just another thing Trent doesn’t like about himself very much, that he lashes out when he’s hurt and scared, and Trent has never liked himself much anyway.)

(Of course, he suspects that his younger self would absolutely hate who he is now—who isn’t kind, or soft, or good—but then, Trent highly suspects if he’d tried to stay the same, he would have been dead a long time ago. His younger self, after all, the kind of person Trent once was, was murdered.)

iii.

He pushes it all down. Tells himself most people experiment in their youth, and if he’d been a bit of a late bloomer on that front, what of it? He’d always been that kind of person, later than all his peers.

It was over now, and he wasn’t gay, and he’s a successful journalist and he can be as close to normal as he’s ever going to be.

His romance with Diana almost feels like a whirlwind: she sets the pace, and he lets her. In matters of the heart, he’s never been good at being proactive, always lost without a map.

He lets her take the wheel: she’s the one who asks him out, she’s the one who suggests they move in together, and while she doesn’t actually buy him a ring, it’s a close thing.

Still. He’s comfortable with Diana. She’s smart and beautiful and just as ruthless as he is; she never takes offense when they argue and he gets a little too nasty, nor does he take offense when she does the same. They understand each other, they bitch and gossip with each other, they know each other well.

And she sees the jagged edges of him, and although she doesn’t know what they are—the broken pieces sticking out—she loves him all the same. She doesn’t mind that he can be cold or snide or rude (both unintentionally so and on purpose), or his odder habits (moving his hands in awkward ways when he isn’t paying attention, chewing on pens, setting an alarm for 4:44 am exactly), and she knows he appreciates her, too. Their colleagues call her an ice queen, but he sees her in all her coldness and all her warmth and loves her anyway—or rather, not anyway, but because of it.

The gossip says they’re well-matched, two cold fish, but they’re very, very good at eviscerating anyone stupid enough to say things to their faces.

She’s his best friend, and he wants to spend all his time with her, and he’s never once wanted to fuck her.

Well, that’s not technically true—he wants to in the sense that he wants to want to, he wants it to work, he wants to be with her and love it, but he just doesn’t.

It’s one secret he doesn’t tell her. He’s very good at pretending, and he knows the script well enough by now to know how he’s supposed to be.

She tells him he’s sweeter than anyone gives him credit for, and it’ll get him hurt one day. He nearly freezes at the unintentional echo of what Sarah had told him, all those years ago, but covers his slip with an amused, I don’t think anyone’s ever called me sweet.

Which is not the only lie he’s ever told her, but one of the few. And anyway, he means the sentiment: no one has mistaken him for someone sweet or good or likable in a very long time.

She has her preferences, and he learns them well, learns exactly how she likes to be touched, and performs admirably. He thinks he’s actually rather good at this, considering, and it’s a lover’s duty he’s willing to perform, even if he isn’t eager.

He loves her, and he’s supposed to want this, and he knows he’s broken but he also knows she shouldn’t suffer for it.

Their wedding night is far from the first time they have sex, or the last. By that time he knows his role like the back of his hand, and he performs as he always does.

Usually, afterwards is the best part, when she curls up in his arms and they’re both warm and breathless. He likes the closeness, the intimacy.

(He suspects that she thinks he puts up with it for her, because she’s not a very affectionate person outside of bed, and assumes he’s the same. It’s a little ironic, darkly funny, even, because this is the part he enjoys: holding her close, and feeling intimate with another person. Sex is actually not a terrible price, for this.)

But their wedding night, she falls asleep next to him and he stares at the ceiling and he’s back to being fresh out of school again, shaky and ashamed and frightened despite himself.

He blinks back tears he knows she won’t see, and hates himself for doing this to both of them.

iv.

He tells her the truth eventually, when he can no longer bear it, when he is too weak to hold it anymore.

First he tells her when they have a daughter—and he loves their daughter more than anything, adores her, and he can’t regret anything that led to her being born, but he also can’t—does he want his daughter to live in a world where her father hates his life? What if that seeping rot inside him grows, what if he grows so unhappy and bitter as his father did and hurts her?

For little Isadora, he’s brave enough to try. He tells Diana that he thinks he might be gay, or just broken, or something, and that he truly does love her but not the way he’s supposed to, and she—

Doesn’t believe him. She thinks he’s stressed, what with the new baby and their jobs both getting more intense lately, she thinks he’s scared, that he’s worried she doesn’t want him anymore, but of course she does, and he has nothing to be afraid of.

Well, two out of four isn’t bad.

(He’s surprised by how much it hurts, Diana not believing him—he knows it’s his fault, for not telling her for so long, for hiding such a huge part of himself. She can’t even consider the idea that he’s lied for so long, that he’s not the man she loves but a broken, hollow imitation. But it hurts, because she’s his best friend, and they’ve always confided in each other, and she doesn’t believe him.)

He accepts it, and gives up. It was hard to even try once, and he can’t bear to climb up that cliff again only to fall once more, so he gives up in more ways than one.

Slowly, their marriage gets worse. He draws into himself, pours more of himself into work, grows colder and sharper, and she, too, bites back.

He is sure, though, to never, never let any of this touch little Isadora. He dotes on that baby, and drops anything to be with her if he’s needed, and he’s always, always soft with her. Soft with her, and her alone, because he feels scared and alone and bitter and hurt, but he won’t let that touch Isadora.

That’s probably why Diana doesn’t divorce him sooner. She knows that he loves their daughter wholly and completely, and Trent knows that even if he isn’t a good husband, a good person, he is, at least, a good dad.

When she tells him she thinks they should think about getting a divorce he’s ashamed to say he only feels relief. A great and horrible relief, like coming up for air after years underwater, leaving him gasping and choking but alive.

It’s almost worse that she doesn’t sound angry, just tired. He’s terrified that she’ll hate him now, that he’ll never see his daughter again; he’s terrified of a thousand worst-case scenarios, but he’s still relieved, and although it sounds cruel even in his own thoughts, he can’t help but think, with profound relief, I’ll never have to have sex with her again.

Which is probably an unhealthy sort of thing to think, actually, now that he thinks about it.

So they talk. And in the end, he does something he hasn’t done in years, since he was much smaller and he just wanted his dad to hug him, just once, to tell him he was proud of him, knowing he never would say the words: he cries.

He cries, quietly and painfully, choked sobs forcing their way from his throat, and she hugs him tightly and he apologizes over and over.

She believes him this time, and she cries with him. He’s never seen her cry before.

She tells him he’s not broken, and that he’s still her best friend, and that she’s angry and sad but she loves him and they are going to work this out together.

They get divorced, and the lawyers seem slightly baffled by how they hug tightly and she kisses him on the cheek as they part, but are well-paid to say nothing.

And then Trent Crimm is a middle-aged, single, divorced father, and a cunning, cutting journalist that no one likes.

Well, arguably, the only people in his life who love him are his father, his ex-wife and his small child, and of them, only two can be said to like him at all.

And Trent—well, the divorce went about as well as it was going to, which is ridiculously well, considering, and he still has his daughter, and his father is extremely upset with him but when isn’t he, really?

He comes out—or tries to, because he has to simplify “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I like men but also no I don’t but yes I do?” into “I’m gay”, which, close enough—and his father is even angrier. But he doesn’t cut him out, not entirely, just seems to think I should have fucking known, and then, gruffly, in what was perhaps the most touching thing he’d ever said, not like it matters, you’re my son, and that’s not changing. Which might just be a sad indictment on their relationship in general.

But Trent loves him, despite everything, and while he hadn’t been the best father, it turns out he was a wonderful granddad—he loved Isadora, and he was willing to scoop her up in his arms and swing her around to make her laugh, he told her he loved her, and part of Trent felt horribly jealous.

Not of Isadora, necessarily, but of what could have been—maybe he should have been born a girl, and then everything would be right. Part of him froze, wondering if that was the answer, but—no, Trent didn’t feel like a woman, either. He just didn’t want to be a Man the way his father had wanted him to be. Still, the thought stuck with him.

Anyway, it’s free babysitting, which is always nice, and Isadora loves spending time with him, and Trent would never take that away just because of his own complicated feelings.

So he’s out, or as out as he can be, and, well. there are nasty jokes, but less than there would have been a decade ago. There are some rumors, but no one really cares that much about Trent Crimm, The Independent, so the second the next piece of hot gossip comes around, it’s forgotten.

Oh, he gets comments—from gaffers and players especially—but he knows how to defend himself, now, with sharp claws and sharper teeth. He’d always gotten comments of a sort, for his hair, his manner of dress, his manner of speaking, so while they get worse, it’s not as if he isn’t used to them.

Trent’s not exactly in the best place, regardless.

Throwing himself into terrible attempts at dating and worse attempts at one night stands are his way of attempting to get over it. Or maybe he’s just trying to hurt himself. Whatever the case, it’s a little painful.

He’s well aware that, as before mentioned, he hasn’t exactly got a lovely personality. Even as a child, when he’d been more awkward and supposedly sweet, he’d too often put his foot in his mouth with too many questions or unintentionally rude and blunt statements.

Now, he was less likable on purpose, because he was a journalist, and he needed to be respected—maybe even feared, on some level, so no one would mess with him in the world of rich, spoiled assholes filled to the brim with toxic masculinity—and his job was to essentially be a dick. And a good writer, which was the part he actually liked, but that was neither here nor there.

The point being, dates? Don’t go so well. Hook-ups? A little easier to find.

Of course, usually it’s people who don’t actually like him much, but that tends to add a little energy to it all, so.

Well, it ends up being complicated. Because it does feel good, physically, and there’s certain—power dynamics, to it, that can be. Hm. Interesting.

(Sometimes they want to throw him around, and he lets them, even when it hurts, and sometimes they want him to be exactly who they see him as, exactly who he is in the press room—someone confident and cocky and daring, someone very willing to take charge. And since he’s following a script, albeit a new one, he manages it admirably. Even when it hurts.)

Diana affectionately tells him he’s in his slut era. He laughs, because it is funny, and she doesn’t know all the details so she laughs, too. And he tries not to feel like he’s still lying to her.

Because he always feels worse afterwards, especially when they do hate him: more than once he’d practically been thrown out with his clothes, barely dressed at all, and he didn’t like how it made him feel, but. well. it wasn’t as if he didn’t deserve it.

And, well. it wasn’t as if he picked them because he thought ohhh, him. He usually picked them simply by who he thought would be interested. And he was careful, at first—propositioning someone in the world of sports without knowing damn well they were interested was dangerous as hell—but he became a little more reckless.

Maybe he really was trying to hurt himself.

Maybe that’s why when Roy Kent threw him against a wall outside of the now emptied press room Trent only daringly tilted his head and made some smart comment about a man getting ideas, half expecting a punch and half expecting to be thrown aside in disgust.

But Roy Kent, apparently a man of hidden and furious bisexual depths, growls at him and then kisses him, hard, and, well, who is Trent to do anything but kiss back?

He still half expects a punch afterwards, or a camera, or something, but somehow he ends up flat on his back on Roy Kent’s bed, because Roy Kent is the type who wants to fuck the smug smirk off of his face.

And, well, Trent will give him this: the man is very good at what he does. He fucks like he seems to do everything else, which is to say, furiously, but—

Weirdly, despite being rather rough, he isn’t actually. he isn’t outright cruel.

It doesn’t hurt, it isn’t bruising or painful, and, well. Trent’s heard some outright nasty things in bed, which one should expect when they start having hate sex with hot, athletic footballer and cold, sharp journalist types (albeit for very different reasons). But while Roy seems to share a lot of these sentiments (ie: wants to fuck the smug smirk off his face, which, fair) there are no comments as to his appearance or character, or at least, nothing actually that hurtful or that he hasn’t said before.

And when it’s over, he throws Trent’s clothes at him, but less in a get the fuck out you piece of shit way and more of a here’s your clothes, wanker kind of way. And he says something like, that was good, we’re never doing that again, say anything to anyone and I kill you, and then, seemingly more out of obligation than real poisonous intent, also, you’re still a prick.

Which, between Roy Kent’s general Roy Kentiness and Trent’s past experiences, is practically a warm goodbye kiss.

Weirdly, this is what makes Trent go home and put his head in his hands and let out a shaky breath, the way he does when he wants to cry but won’t, or maybe just can’t.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him, someone—a man—being nice to him during sex. Although, he supposes wryly, if he’s counting this as “nice” he has very low standards, indeed.

He thinks of that Western flick, from when he was a teenager, and the woman in the velvet dress. It had been surprisingly sweet, considering the genre and age—she’d laughed as he kissed her, and they’d fallen into bed like they really liked each other.

He wondered how that would feel, to fall back on someone’s bed and laugh when they kissed him and to mean it. How it would feel to love the person he was with, the way he was supposed to, to know them in and out and to be known in the same way, and to still have them want to kiss him. How it would feel if someone were tender and gentle with him, or how it would feel if someone were rough in a way that didn’t hurt not out of decency or restraint or not making the news or whatever the hell Roy Kent had been thinking, but out of care.

It hardly mattered, anyway, because if Trent was ever going to have that, it would have been with Diana.

He’d long suspected he was unlovable, and all of this only seemed to confirm it.

(Roy Kent doesn’t treat him any differently the next time they see each other, or ever. He never mentions it, and neither does Trent.)

v.

Trent Crimm had given up on sex, and romance. He should have given up a long time ago, but two things had always kept him going: first, the desire to be normal, for his father to love him, to be who his father wanted to be. This was eventually replaced with the desire to punish himself for being unable to achieve that.

But the second had always persisted, still persisted: Trent wanted it. He hadn’t had it—had never seemed attracted to people the way he should be, outside of fantasies where he was someone else, fantasies of men—but he’d wanted it.

He wanted romance, wanted to be loved, wanted to be touched, and wanted to enjoy it. But perhaps he was just incapable.

So he’d decided to try and deal with it. He could be happy without it: you couldn’t get everything you wanted. He still had Diana, a dear friend, and he still had his daughter, who was more important than anything else. He had his job, even if he was beginning to feel disillusioned and disconnected from it.

One didn’t need romance and sex to be happy. He knew that, logically, even if that had never seemed to apply to him, but—it had to.

So he learned, painfully slowly, to let himself be content.

And then Ted Lasso had crashed into his life and ruined everything.

Ted was—unbelievably wonderful. He was kind, and gentle, and soft, everything Trent’s father had hated in him. He was so unashamedly passionate, loud, goofy, unafraid to look silly or be insulted, unafraid to smile and care for the people around him.

He was almost magnetic; he had that quality in him that made people stop and listen. Trent could be reassured, at least, that he wasn’t the only one charmed, when he saw cold-blooded, battle-hardened journalists softening—even if only a little—under his beaming grin.

Trent had thought at first that he must be either insanely stupid, stupidly insane, or just extremely good at being a manipulative wanker.

But it quickly became clear that wasn’t the case at all. It quickly became clear that Ted Lasso was just like this, was just compassionate and warm and bright, and Trent was fascinated.

Ted had a way of giving Trent hope and shame in one, in a way he knew was completely unintentional. Hope that the world could be better, that Trent could be better (Ted made him want to be better), and shame that Trent hadn’t—tried harder, that Trent had given up and built himself tall and thick walls of cold, echoing stone.

(When Ted had complimented his glasses—the first words he’d ever really said to Trent—Trent had thought it was some game, some attempt at distraction, and had responded accordingly. And now he knew that Ted had meant it, and that gave him a funny feeling, something pleased and something ashamed.)

And the more Trent got to know him, the more drawn in he felt. Ted was layered, and every new layer of complexity made Trent want to look closer. He was smart, really smart, way smarter than he let people believe, and he wasn’t innocent or totally pure, he could even be an ass when he wanted to be and it was always funny because Trent was pretty sure most people couldn’t tell he was messing with them, and he was hurting, too, he had his own pains and Trent felt the urge to help him back.

Trent wanted to take care of him, and, selfishly, he wanted Ted to take care of him, too. He wanted to be Ted’s friend.

And Ted was just so—

Trent didn’t know how he felt, but it was confusing and exciting and strange, and somehow, it didn’t even occur to him that it could be a crush. He’d never had a crush, not a real one, not one he had chosen at random for when people asked.

He tries to go on a few dates again, and they all fail, and he keeps thinking of Ted, and isn’t sure why.

And then he’s handed a loaded gun and told to aim at Ted, metaphorically speaking, and he knows he has to do it, knows that if he wants to be kind he has to be the one to deal the blow even though it hurts like he’s cutting himself instead of Ted.

And he hates his job, he realizes, more than he hates himself. He hates hurting people. He always liked writing, liked stories, liked truth, and this? This wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted something meaningful, something deeper, something important. He wanted to stop hurting others. He wanted to stop hurting himself.

So he gets himself fired. He tells Ted what he deserves to hear, and fully expects this to be the end of their—whatever it is, and that hurts, it hurts far more than it should, but it’s worth it.

And then, suddenly, he’s writing a book. Ted smiles at him and lets him in to the community he’s built and everything moves fast, after that. Trent goes on no more dates, no more hook-ups (although when Roy corners him in the locker room showers, about eighty percent of Trent is expecting to get hurt—beaten or punched or slapped—and fifteen percent is expecting a verbal confrontation that is no less painful, and a hysterical five percent wonders if this is about to turn into Hate Sex With Roy Kent, Round Two, and then none of those happen, really, or at least, not how he expected, because it is painful but not at all because he’s being screamed at or insulted, but because of his own shitty fucking everything) and it’s all—

He’s friends with Ted, is the thing. Suddenly he’s friends with Ted, and now he lets himself be, lets himself tell him personal details, lets himself show that he’s interested, and—

Ted is, well, Ted. And Trent finds himself opening up. Letting down his armor, stripping it away and being brave. Even when it means Roy Kent scaring him and all the players ignoring him (up until Roy finally confronts him, anyway) and even when it means feeling awkward and out of place.

Because he starts to breathe easier. He lets himself relax more. And his writing? He’s never loved writing more. He goes home happier, he swings Isadora into his arms even though she’s grown a lot, and even Diana comments that this is a good change for him.

(She tells him she was right, all those years ago, that he was softer than people gave him credit for and she still thought it would get him hurt, but that, well. he’d been getting hurt anyway. And she liked that he was happier now, that he seemed more relaxed, that he’d lost tension she hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

She also tells him, sadly, that she thinks she never knew him as well as she thought. But she’d like to get to know him now, better, and he’s helpless to deny her. Somehow it only brings them closer, even when uprooting long-buried regret and pain.)

And as Trent begins to grow comfortable, as the community in Richmond begins to accept him into their fold, too—Roy actually seems to like him now, which is bizarre, and Trent tries to never ever think about the fact they slept together once, and Keeley Jones is an angel (she doesn’t work here but nonetheless always seems to be around) and even the players seem to tolerate him, even like him occasionally, and it’s an odd, alien feeling, not being hated. Being accepted, even.

Coach Beard takes to him much sooner than Trent would have thought, considering Trent’s actions—Trent wonders if Ted told him, considering Ted told no one else what Nate had done, as far as he can tell—and even Rebecca Welton warms up to him.

Trent… likes it here. He almost wishes he could stay forever, not just as a biographer, but—as something. Something useful, and something—apart of this. All of this. Because it’s just… nice.

And then, of course, Trent immediately ruins it, because it’s in the middle of a normal day that he suddenly realizes that he wants Ted Lasso to kiss him.

Ted is just being Ted, doing normal Ted activities, and Trent looks over at him and he knows he’s smiling fondly but can’t quite help it, and then Ted looks over at him and says something silly and wiggles his eyebrows and Trent thinks warmly god, I want to kiss him.

He waits until he can quietly excuse himself without suspicion, nearly vibrating out of his skin the whole time and unable to think of anything else, and then goes to hyperventilate in a closet. Which he then, of course, laughs a little hysterically about to himself, because of course it was a closet he stumbled into.

He catalogues exactly how he was feeling, and—nope. That was definitely. Oh god. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Because that wasn’t just—

He wanted Ted. He wanted him, he wanted Ted to kiss him and push him down on the bed and fuck him.

Trent wants to cry, because of course. Of course, the first time he’s ever felt this, he’s ever looked at someone and thought I want to kiss you, I want to get on my knees for you, I want to know what you sound like when you’re inside me, I want to get on top of you and kiss you, I want, I want, I want, it’s for the most unattainable person possible.

He's never wanted before, and now he wants so badly it hurts, and it can never happen.

And once he’s noticed, he can’t stop noticing, because Ted Lasso is a beautiful human being inside and out and Trent has literally never felt this way and the shame of it, almost every night in the shower (god, he feels like a hormonal teenager again) is suffocating.

(He thinks of that cowboy again, and the woman in the velvet dress; he dreams of them, but now it’s Ted above him, drawling out something about pretty ladies, and Trent is helpless to do anything but fall back and let Ted have him.)

Trent is, of course, going to suffer in silence, when Ted Lasso once again crashes into his world and ruins all of his pre-conceived notions, because one night they’re very tipsy after an away game and Ted and Trent are left alone—the players doing their own shenanigans, Beard doing god knows what, Roy having wandered off with Jamie, and Ted—

Ted Lasso, drunk, kisses him. And Trent, also drunk, eagerly kisses back.

It’s not the most romantic first kiss, it’s sloppy and a little rough and slightly out-of-sync but it’s the best kiss Trent has ever had. He feels his back hit the wall and he hears himself moan, breathless and high and he has never sounded like that before in his life.

Ted’s hands are in his hair and he kisses him again, deepens it, and Trent is completely lost.

They stumble back to Trent’s hotel room and Trent falls back on the bed and—

And lets Ted have him. Wholly and completely, lets Ted have him, and Ted is warm and eager-to-please, and Trent finds himself just as eager.

It’s uncoordinated, sometimes, and messy, and Trent finds himself laughing into Ted’s mouth as Ted makes some godawful pun, and Ted grins at him like he’s pleased, pleased with Trent for being here, for being in his arms, in his lap, and—

Trent sucks his cock because he wants to, wants to so badly, and Ted’s hands in his hair and his voice telling him he’s so good, sweetheart, is enough to nearly make Trent come just like that.

He’s never had sex like this, and even drunken, Ted touches him with big, gentle hands, and he touches him like he’s beautiful, and being the focus of all that attention makes Trent feel incandescent.

Trent kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. He’s never enjoyed kissing more, and he can feel Ted’s mustache and Ted’s smile, and Trent never wants to stop.

It’s never felt like this, felt fun and intense and freeing, and suddenly Trent understands like he never did why people like sex so much. Does it feel like this for them always?

Ted kisses him, too, pulls him closer and kisses him, and Trent smiles and feels so, so happy.

He falls asleep in Ted’s arms, and this part—the part he always liked the most—is even better, now, sleepy and easy to savor.

And then Trent wakes up alone.

He expects to feel refreshed, anyway, because he’d gotten what he wanted. Sex, good sex, sex that he wanted and enjoyed and liked, sex with someone who liked him, sex with Ted Lasso. He hadn’t expected anything else when Ted had kissed him, hadn’t thought this was some epic romantic gesture, so—

Why did he feel hollow and scraped out and awful?

Trent sits up, feeling sore and cold and alone, and stares at his trembling hands.

He wishes Ted were still here. He wishes he could kiss him good morning. He wishes they were getting breakfast together. He wishes—

oh.

Trent feels very small all of a sudden, because he was, of course, an idiot.

He didn’t want to fuck Ted Lasso. Or at least, he didn’t just want to.

He's in love with him.

Ridiculously, stupidly, ass-over-teakettle, hopelessly, helplessly, madly in love with him.

He hadn't even known he was capable of that.

Maybe that’s what the missing piece was: love, or at least, knowing someone well enough to love them. Trust. Something.

It hardly mattered. Trent Crimm was in love with Ted Lasso; Ted Lasso, who he’d had sex with last night, who had kissed him and told him he looked mighty fine tonight; Ted Lasso who was not here.

Because, of course, even if Trent truly was capable of love, that did not change that he was not capable of being loved.

Liked, maybe—which was a small miracle in of itself—but loved? Trent Crimm wasn't made for that.

Trent stares blankly at his hands, and then, silently, feeling stupid, stupid for being upset, stupid for having hope, stupid for being in love, begins to cry.

His shoulders shudder but he doesn’t quite sob, just cries silently.

Later, he dries the tears and hides the way his eyes have gone red-rimmed, and gets on the team bus like everything’s normal. Beard gives him a long, unreadable look, but says nothing.

Ted, cheerful as ever, says nothing, either.

Trent is silent, too.

Chapter Text

Trent knows he’s a wreck.

Part of him desperately wants to reach out. He wants, wants, so badly, to be loved: and although he’s doubted, he’s agonized, he’s wondered to himself if any of them even like him at all, he truly has come to accept that he is part of the community here at Richmond.

Against all odds, they do want him here. He’s pretty sure it’s to varying degrees—Ms. Welton seems pleased with his “girl talk” (and Trent is so, so humiliatingly pleased to be included, to not be on the outside looking in) but he’s hardly certain she would consider him more than one of Ted’s little projects. Keeley he would absolutely call a friend, although she seems to befriend everyone easily, so it’s less to do with him and more her own kind, likable nature. How she’s managed to forgive him despite her closeness to Roy and what Trent had done, he isn’t sure, but he has no doubt she knows.

Higgins seems wary of him, but friendly enough. Beard he thinks is a friend as well, and several of the players, well, he isn’t close with, but they seem to more than tolerate him. Nate mostly avoids him, and he mostly avoids Nate, but Trent doesn’t think there’s any hostility or resentment there, just awkwardness. Colin is certainly a friend, albeit through shared pain (part of Trent doubts Colin would want to speak with him if he had anyone else who understood in quite the same way, but he tries not to think about that because it seems rather unfair to Colin), and Roy—well, Roy is the most surprising, because despite having the roughest start, he might actually be one of the people Trent is closer with.

(He doesn’t deserve it—because Roy was right, he was a colossal prick, he had done horrible things and he’d deserved far worse than what he’d gotten so far with Roy, far worse than some jumping and cold shoulders and, well. the other thing. But he’s selfishly pleased, because he’s part of this, now, and Roy Kent is now, bizarrely, his friend. Trent has friends, as in “friends” plural.)

Anyway, regardless of all that, Trent—Trent likes them. Trent likes them all. Hell, more than that, he loves them; they are wonderful and vibrant people and he loves spending time here, loves being with them, loves them all.

(They don’t love him, but that’s okay. He doesn’t expect him to. And they seem to like him, which is more than he could have hoped for.)

But the issue is: they are all Ted’s friends, too. Ted built this community. And if it truly came down to it, if they had to choose between them, Trent is absolutely sure they would pick Ted without hesitation.

(Colin, maybe. Maybe. But he has the team to worry about, and Trent’s supposed to be helping him, not—not dumping whatever this decades old thing that has taken roots inside of him is.)

He couldn’t blame them. He’d choose Ted over himself, too.

So Trent can’t exactly talk to them about Ted, can he? It wouldn’t really be fair, to any of them, or to him.

He could talk to Diana, he supposes, but he’s had a long time to talk to Diana. And he loves her, he does, but she wouldn’t understand. She’s never understood, even though she tries, and he is completely certain that if he were to tell her everything—everything—it would only hurt her.

(His father, is, of course, not even an option to be considered.)

Trent is finally ready to talk about this, finally ready to let it all out, and he finally has people he could even begin to think about telling. And he can’t, because he’s chosen the absolute worst man he possibly could have chosen.

(Okay, well, that wasn’t fair. Ted wasn’t Rupert Mannion or something. And Ted wasn’t—he wasn’t a bad choice because of Ted. Trent couldn’t imagine a more worthy and kind man. That was the issue, in a sense: Ted was far too good for Trent.)

…Regardless, those are the facts: Trent Crimm is in love with Ted Lasso. And nothing is going to change that. Trent thinks he might die still in love with Ted.

Part of him thinks it could never have been anyone else: this is not entirely accurate. He could have fallen for anyone, he thinks, if he’d trusted them enough, known them enough—any man who could make him feel safe.

But the trouble was, Trent Crimm hadn’t felt safe in a long time; it was no easy feat to be Trent’s friend, let alone one he trusted. And Ted Lasso was uniquely good at gaining one’s trust and admiration.

Maybe it really couldn’t have been anyone else. Maybe no one else would have been able to get past his walls. Maybe no one else would have bothered to try.

Whatever the case, Trent is a wreck, now, battered and ruined and in pieces.

He remains silent, as he must. He pretends everything is absolutely normal, and fine, and that nothing is wrong at all, and he doesn’t expect anyone to notice, or to ask, except—maybe Ted? Maybe Ted will ask?

(Ted does not ask.)

He’s fine.

He had taught himself to remain content with an empty heart, he thinks he can manage a broken one. It’ll hurt, and it’ll take time, but he’ll survive. He’ll grow around it, the way a tree grows around an abandoned bicycle in the middle of the woods: slowly, painfully, molding himself around the heartbreak until he is a new shape.

(Or maybe he’s the bicycle, alone and rusted, being subsumed into something else—a part of the forest, and yet irrevocably other, irrevocably apart.)

(Trent has always been fond of overwrought metaphors. He’s also been called “overly verbose”, which was fair.)

So he goes through the motions. He tries not to dwell on it, even though looking at Ted—who lets on nothing of their night together, never mentions it, but also, thankfully, never seems to treats Trent any differently or avoid him—makes something in his chest pang.

He doesn’t say anything to any of them.

He makes it about two days before one of them says something to him.

He is gently corralled into pretty much every other “Biscuits with the Boss” now (which is, by the way, a fascinating piece of camaraderie he had no doubt was unique to this football club alone) and he finds he rather enjoys it.

Today, though, he thinks the biscuits would taste like dust, and it’s hard to make himself focus. He’s fidgeting, he knows he’s fidgeting, but he can’t stop.

(Ted remains silent on the matter.)

When it’s over, he rises, ready to practically flee, but he’s interrupted before he can.

“Trent,” Ms. Welton says brightly, grin a touch too wide, voice a touch too casual. “Do you mind staying for a bit? I want to talk to you about something.”

Trent shoots a wide-eyed look at Ted, who just looks between them, beaming and unperturbed.

“Um,” says Trent, voice lilting with his uncertainty as he sinks back into his chair, “Sure?”

Ted says, sounding unbearably fond in a way that makes Trent’s chest hurt, “Look at you two! Like two peas in a pod. You have fun now!”

And then he’s out the door, only stopping to briefly high five the tree on the way out, because he’s terrible and Trent loves him so, so much.

Trent turns back to Ms. Welton, now alone in her office, vaguely wondering if he’s about to get yelled at for something. He feels like he’s a kid again and he’s been called to the principal’s office.

Has he forgotten something? Did he do something wrong? Did she notice he’s in love with Ted? Is she angry with him?

They stare at each other for a moment, Trent like a deer in the headlights and her like an awkward stepmother who doesn’t know how to talk to her new child but would desperately like to.

“Trent,” she says, and he can’t help but tense a little, brace himself—“Are you alright?”

He blinks. “…What?”

She tips her head. “Are you alright,” she repeats, a little impatiently.

When he just looks at her blankly, she sighs, snaps off half of her biscuit, and holds it out to him.

He looks at her like he’s she’s just offered him a small grenade to eat, or perhaps a live mouse.

Rebecca Welton does not share her biscuits. In fact, she’s liable to bite the fingers off anyone who tries. And more to the point, Ted made enough for both of them, and Trent hasn’t touched his.

Seeing his gaze dart down to the unopened little pink box in front of him, she rolls her eyes.

“You haven’t eaten yours yet,” she says. “I can pilfer one of yours later if taking a part of mine really bothers you. Come on.”

He takes the biscuit. It’s, as always, sweet and perfect and reminds him so much of Ted and Ted’s smile and Ted’s hands and the imagined scene of Ted in an apron—probably with a silly pun on it—baking and humming along to some song, a scene he’s lingered on so many times it feels like a memory, a scene he cannot be a part of—it reminds him so much of Ted that it hurts, just a little.

He has no idea what his face is doing when he takes a bite, but it makes her narrow her eyes, like she’s studying his expression closer.

“So,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

Ms. Welton looks honestly concerned. Genuinely worried. About Trent.

Does this woman care about him? Like, actually?

“Why do you care?” he blurts out, and then immediately regrets it when something like hurt flashes across her face.

“Because we’re friends, you prick,” she says.

“We are?” says Trent.

She looks almost offended, but then—well, Trent isn’t sure what expression he’s making, other than that it can’t be anything short of pathetic, because her expression softens.

“We are,” Rebecca says. “Now. Come on. Girl talk.”

She smiles, and pushes his own biscuit box towards him again, and takes a bite of the half she’s still holding.

He lets out a breath, and he thinks about how he’s felt like some unlovable sort of creature all his life, thinks about how he’s never wanted what he was supposed to or been who he was supposed to be, thinks about forcing himself to have sex he didn’t want, and thinks about falling hopelessly, helplessly in love with someone who didn’t want him back.

There’s so much he could say, so much he wants to talk about, so much just bursting to get out, so much that he shouldn’t let free, the least of which is that he actually managed to have a good lay for once, which is the biggest understatement he’s ever made, and burying the lede to boot.

Trent blurts it out before he can stop himself.

“I slept with Ted,” he says abruptly. His voice sounds calm and distant to his own ears, steadier than he feels.

That’s only the tail of the beast, he knows—the rest of it is a tangled snarl in his chest, a Gordian knot that writhes and wriggles in his ribcage, red and angry and in pain; a great snake coiled around his heart. To unspool it, to pull it hissing and clinging from Trent’s chest, is to perhaps pull his heart out with it.

Still, though: without the full story, this will make little sense at all. The magnitude of it will be unseen.

“…Ted?” says Rebecca, voice shooting up an octave. “You slept with Ted?”

Trent’s shoulders hunch miserably. “Yes,” he says. “I’m afraid so.”

Rebecca blinks at him, spine ram-rod straight. And then she says, “You know. I think this is a conversation for the couch. I’ll get Keeley to bring some wine.”

By the time Keeley arrives, Trent feels like he’s lost his nerve. He doesn’t want to say anything at all. He wants to go home and bury himself in his misery.

But Keeley and Rebecca are looking at him with genuine concern in their eyes, expressions open, and they care, and Trent thinks—

Trent thinks maybe he’s spent enough time buried in his own grave.

But where to begin? Ted? His father? His ex-wife? Sex in general? Roy?

No, not, Roy, that’s a terrible idea. Oh, right, Keeley, I know you’re here because I slept with Ted, but guess who ELSE I slept with? Your boyfriend. Years ago. What? Didn’t he hate me? Oh, yes, but you see, I was trying to hurt myself, so that seemed about right at the time, but then he wasn’t actually cruel to me and I didn’t know what to do with that so I ended up going home and crying. That would go over well.

…But all the others sound equally unappealing. And still, there is the issue of Ted: he doesn’t want to divide them, to make them feel as though there are sides. Not the least of which because he’s selfish, and he knows they wouldn’t—couldn’t—be on his, no matter how kind they were to him.

He thinks for a long moment, then says, slowly, “I’m… gay.”

Keeley and Rebecca exchange a look, having a light-speed conversation with their eyes that went something to the effect of (we knew this, yes?) (yes, we did, but don’t say that) (well I know don’t say that but what am I supposed to say, congratulations?) (Absolutely Not) (I don’t think this is a big coming out moment keeley we know and he knows we know and we know he knows we know and) (I THINK WE CAN JUST NOD) and then they both nodded.

“…but,” he said, and both of their chins lifted a little as if to say aha! see! “I don’t. I don’t think…”

He frowns at his hands as he tries and fails to put what he means to words. He’s struggling to articulate it, as he always has. As a writer, this is thoroughly disconcerting.

Having slept with Ted was complicated on multiple levels: emotionally, in several ways, and professionally, and it left Trent feeling more uncertain than ever.

Trent tells them this.

Rebecca looks like she’s beginning to understand that this is about more than just the workplace being made awkward by a one-time dalliance.

“Oh, shit,” says Keeley. “You’re into him. Like really into him.”

Trent sighs. “I’m into him,” he agrees, putting his head in his hands.

“And he doesn’t—?” Rebecca asks, trailing off without actually asking.

Trent shook his head miserably.

“Ah,” says Rebecca, overly crisp and articulate with her discomfort.

“It’s just—it’s not Ted’s fault,” said Trent. “Obviously. But. It’s more than that, I’m afraid. If it was just—an unrequited little crush, and that’s all, I could just. ignore it! But. it’s not.”

“You’re in love with him?” Keeley gasped, putting her hands over her mouth.

“No!” said Trent. “I mean. Yes. But that isn’t what I meant.”

He takes a frustrated breath, and says, “I don’t think I usually like sex much,” which is so far from what either of them are expecting it’s almost comical.

“…why not?” asked Keeley.

“I don’t know!” said Trent, waving his arms. “I just never really wanted to.”

“Don’t you have a daughter?” said Rebecca.

“I never said I didn’t try,” said Trent.

“Wait, so Ted is—Ted’s the first?” Keeley said. “Holy shit, Trent.”

“I know,” Trent said miserably. “I don’t know why. I suppose because I trust him?”

“You’ve… you’ve never trusted any of your other partners,” Keeley said slowly, so slowly it wasn’t even a question. “…ever?”

“I don’t know,” said Trent, “Not really? It might be more than that, but… Most of them hated me, and my wife was—well. A woman. Clearly I wasn’t trusting her completely, considering.” He made a general gesture that vaguely encompassed you know, the whole gay thing.

“Most of them hated you?” said Rebecca.

Trent glances at Keeley, winces, and tactfully doesn’t elaborate.

“If someone showed interest, and wanted to… I just sort of—let them,” he says awkwardly. And then, seeing their expressions, added almost hastily, “I did provoke it, sometimes. On purpose.”

He says provoke it—not like “I initiated a thing we did together” so much as “I provoked a thing they did to me”.

“Trent, babe,” says Keeley. “That’s kind of messed up.”

“Mm,” says Trent. “I’m wildly aware.”

“So not only did you sleep with Ted, and I’m assuming it didn’t end well, but you’re in love with him, and you’ve never felt like that before, ever, with anyone, and therefore are afraid you never will again?” Rebecca summarizes.

“…yes,” says Trent.

“That fucking sucks,” says Rebecca.

“I noticed,” says Trent.

“…how did it end, anyway?” asks Keeley curiously. “I mean, Ted wouldn’t have been mean about it, right?”

“Oh, no,” says Trent, “I imagine he would have been painfully, earnestly kind about it, and let me down extraordinarily gently, had he stuck around afterwards at all.”

Rebecca winces. “Ouch,” she says.

“He just left?” Keeley says, voice going high with indignation. “What the hell, Ted?!”

“He stayed the night,” Trent says, as if that helped. “I just… woke up alone. And then he never mentioned it again. And he acted like it never happened. But—I didn’t push. So.”

“That’s such a dick move!” exclaims Keeley. “Oh my god. You deserve better.”

Trent didn’t really know what to do with this reaction. He’d been so worried about them—well, he didn’t even know. Rejecting him? Judging him? Agreeing that Ted did the right thing in leaving him? Well, he’d been so worried about whatever-it-was that he hadn’t considered the horrible alternative of him somehow turning Ted’s friends against him. That felt far worse, and wasn’t at all what he wanted.

“Are you sure,” says Rebecca, “that he doesn’t just want to talk about it later?”

“It’s been a few days,” says Trent. “This was at the away game.”

“…hm,” she says. “Well, he might just be processing it. Or he doesn’t think it was a big deal—” Trent flinches, and she gives him an apologetic look, “—but if you say something…” Seeing his doubtful expression, she sighs. “There are other possibilities, is all I’m saying.”

“I know,” says Trent, and he gives a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “But it’s not as if… I don’t think there’s a happy ending in here for me, is all.”

Because Trent is in love with him, wildly in love with him, and even if Ted deigned to give him scraps of attention, Trent was not worthy of the whole thing. Trent had always either been too much or not enough, and this was no different: he was fully aware that Ted had changed his life far more than he’d changed Ted’s.

Trent was a blip on the radar if he was lucky.

“Trent,” said Keeley softly, and he looked up at and saw they were watching him with sad eyes.

Oh. He hadn’t meant to sound so pitiable.

He gave a tight, slightly-forced smile. “It’s alright,” he said, brightening his tone a little. “I’m—” used to it, “—independent, as Ted would say. I’ll get over it. I just need time.”

Time wouldn’t fix anything, didn’t heal all wounds. But if it didn’t stop the bleeding, it might at least numb the pain.

Keeley looked unconvinced, but Rebecca nodded.

They, mercifully, dropped the subject.

(Anyway, there was gossip to be had, and Trent was happy for the distraction.)

Really, it should have ended there. It was more than Trent had expected, to be confronted once.

This is why he was not expecting to be confronted twice.

It’s not Ted (of course it isn’t Ted, why would it be Ted) or Beard or even Higgins—it’s, and perhaps Trent shouldn’t be surprised, Roy.

They’re in the office, it’s a little late, and it’s quiet. Peaceful, really. Ted and Beard have their heads down, muttering about god knows what, Roy is at his own desk, and Trent is scribbling away at his notebook, pretending like he’s actually getting work done and definitely not stealing sad glances at Ted from across the office.

Roy growls softly, and Trent jumps slightly, looking up—but Roy’s not moved, and he looks as though nothing’s happened, and Trent wonders if he imagined it, and goes back to his notebook.

And then, about two minutes later, Higgins bursts into the room, Nate trailing shortly behind.

Ted and Beard look up with surprise, and Trent jumps when the door all but slams open.

“Diamond Dogs,” pants Higgins, leaning against the doorframe. “Oh, I’ve got to stop running to these—”

“Diamond Dogs,” says Nate with an awkward little fist pump, smiling, “…uh, yay?”

He looks nervous, but also pleased, almost vibrating with energy. Trent isn’t actually sure he’s had a Diamond Dogs meeting with Nate, yet—he’s only been present for a few at all, and Nate’s only been back for a little bit—so he wonders if this is the first one Nate’s had since he returned.

“What?” said Beard, at the same time as Ted perked up and said, “Oh?”, apparently assuming Higgins and/or Nate had an emergency on hand.

“What have you got for us?” he asked, leaning forward, ready to listen and eager to help.

“Us?” said Higgins, “No, we were called here.”

Roy stood, ominously standing in the doorway like a horror movie antagonist standing behind his oblivious victim.

“I called them,” he said.

Ted lit up with delight. “You did?” he said.

“You did?” said Beard at the same time, with more suspicion and doubt. He was eyeing Trent.

Trent awkwardly cleared his throat, gathering his things in his hands—steady hands, steady hands—and said quietly, with a wry little smile, “how about I step out, so you can all have a proper reunion?”

He wasn’t replacing Nate, after all, not permanently, and—well, Ted had welcomed him to Diamond Dog meetings, but Roy wasn’t likely to, and Trent wasn’t sure why Beard was looking at him like that but it couldn’t be good.

He didn’t want to intrude.

“Sit down,” barked Roy, and Trent sank back into his chair almost on instinct, face heating up slightly at the unthinking, embarrassing obedience. No one else seemed fazed. “This is about you.”

Trent’s eyes widened, his breath leaving him. Me? He mouthed, pointing at himself. Oh, god. Had he done something wrong? Had he pissed Roy off again? Worse, had he hurt someone without realizing? Did they know he’d slept with Ted? Did Keeley tell him and now he was pissed? Were they angry?

“Something’s wrong,” said Roy, “You’ve been acting fucking weird. That’s the whole point of the stupid Diamond Dogs, isn’t it? To talk out your fucking feelings when you’re—hurt or upset or whatever? So talk.”

…oh. oh. Roy was—Roy was worried about him.

That. Trent didn’t really know what to think about that.

“I’m fine,” he managed, sounding small.

“No you’re fucking not,” said Roy.

“…you have been acting kind of weird,” said Higgins, giving him a look.

“You can talk to us about anything, you know, Trent?” said Ted, bright and sweet but with the sort of weight that said he absolutely meant it.

Trent wanted to cry a little bit. “…alright,” he said, “I’ve been—upset, I suppose, but it’s not—it’s not important, it’s just. I’m thinking some things through, that’s all.”

“You can tell us,” said Nate earnestly.

“I know,” said Trent quietly, because he did, normally he would, this was just—it was a little hard to navigate, wasn’t it?

“Trent,” said Beard, touching his shoulder, and his tone, his expression, the touch, everything, was so painfully, painfully gentle. “Is this an issue for the Diamond Dogs?”

He knew. There was no way he didn’t know. Trent felt humiliatingly close to tears, unsure if it was out of embarrassed fear or the small, touched feeling that Beard cared enough to be kind to him about it.

“Yes,” he said at last, because—this wasn’t about Ted. Or at least, not just about Ted. And anyway, they were all looking at him and backing out seemed impossible—no, not just impossible, although it’d be graceless and awkward if he tried. It seemed wrong. Hadn’t he been letting himself trust them?

He hadn’t actually brought a problem to the Diamond Dogs before, and it felt—odd. Exposing. Vulnerable. But that was the terrifying joy of it: he knew that, at the very least, they wouldn’t judge him. The point was the vulnerability. He was included, part of this community, trusted—he wanted to trust them, too.

Beard searched his face, then apparently found what he was looking for, squeezed gently and let go, giving him a short nod.

Trent warns them it’s not short, and it’s not pretty. They don’t care. Ted says they can get comfortable, because he’s worth listening to, and Trent’s heart clenches, but the others all jump to agree, and Trent knows they mean it.

So he takes a deep breath.

Trent doesn’t know where to begin, so he decides to try and start with Sarah. He imagines they weren’t expecting him to blurt out something along the lines of the first time I ever had sex with someone it was fine, I guess, but in retrospect it sort of set the tone for my relationship with sex in general. Which is to say, forced, awkward, and altogether painful, but in the sort of way that I couldn’t claim was actually traumatizing, just—uncomfortable. But they take it in stride; even Beard, who is beginning to realize that whatever is going on between him and Ted is more complicated than he’d thought.

They let him speak, fumbling, in starts and stops, for once not interrupting with snappy advice bounced between each person in the room, but just—listening. Not unkindly—not a single face in the room looks judgmental—but still, Trent finds it hard to bear the scrutiny. Their scrutiny. He cares about these people; he cares what they think of him.

They’re not entirely silent, but they don’t really keep a commentary, either—there’s just winces in the right places, or a murmur of appreciation when appropriate; little things that he hardly notices as he keeps going, the words coming now like if he stops, he’ll never start again.

Trent tells them about Diana, about his father, about the woman in the velvet dress. He tells them about his divorce, and about after; tells them about first trying to fix himself and then trying to punish himself.

For most of this, he’s been avoiding looking at Ted, but as he gets to this point, he means to avoid looking at Roy. Unfortunately, he can’t help but nervously glance at him—quickly enough that it’s unlikely anyone would have made the connection, had Roy not made the connection right as Trent happened to look at him.

Trent watches it click, watches his expression crumple and twist up.

“Fuck!” shouts Roy, slamming his fist on the desk, and Trent winces, because he sounds more devastated than pissed. He supposes it isn’t pleasant to learn someone used you to hurt themself, that someone assumed you would hurt them, even if that someone might have deserved it at the time.

Roy shoots to his feet and storms out. Trent can’t blame him. He curls in on himself a little, shoulders hiking up to his ears.

He glances up and the others look mystified, even Beard. Trent doesn’t know what to say—if Roy would be okay with him explaining—so he just gives a miserable little shrug.

He isn’t sure if he should go on, or if they should wait, but before he can make the decision, it’s made for him. Barely a minute after Roy had been out the door, he’s stomping back in, still furious and hurt, but, miraculously, somewhat cooled down.

“We’re fucking talking about this later,” he said, pointing at Trent. “Because it’s—fucking—healthy and shit. Fuck.”

Higgins looks between them both, and then says, slowly, “Did you and Trent…?”

“Yes,” said Roy, tightly.

“…ah,” said Ted. There’s so much emotion packed in that one word that Trent doesn’t even know what to say. He can’t imagine what Ted must be thinking now, because of course, they, too, had slept together. Trent hadn’t even gotten there yet. He hoped Ted didn’t think he’d hurt Trent, too.

Even though he did, if only in an entirely different way.

“It wasn’t—personal,” Trent said, haltingly. “I didn’t think—it was just…”

“Later,” bit out Roy. And then he added, softening a little, “I know. I’m not fucking mad at you.”

…oh.

“It’s okay if you are,” said Trent, a little small.

“Well, I’m not,” said Roy. “Mostly. …Fuck. Later.”

He makes an impatient gesture that says fucking go on.

Trent goes on.

He describes feeling confused, about realizing he was attracted to someone for quite possibly the first time ever, and not knowing what to do about it.

At this, he hopes that because he’s been avoiding looking at Ted—at all of them, really—this whole time, it won’t seem any more suspicious now if he won’t look at Ted. He hopes Ted won’t make the connection. He hopes Ted will.

He says he slept with a man and it was different than it ever had been.

Beard asks him why, and his eyes bore holes into Trent, dark and intense and knowing.

Trent gives him a horrible, self-deprecating little smile. “Because I’m in love with him, of course,” he says, and as he does, he knows it’s true.

Ted takes in a breath, and Trent doesn’t look at him but can hear his chair creak as he leans back in it.

“oh,” says Nate, sounding small.

Trent hasn’t said who he was talking about—he wouldn’t—but he’s sure most of them have guessed. Beard definitely knew, and Roy probably did, too. Higgins and Nate he hadn’t been sure about, but Nate is looking at him like someone has just punted a kitten into the sun, and Higgins just looks terribly old and terribly sad.

So they all know, then. Except perhaps the man himself.

Great.

“I don’t know why he’s different,” Trent says, painfully aware that they know, they know, they know, who ‘he’ is. Painfully aware that ‘he’ is sitting only a few feet away. “But I suspect it has to do with trust.” He gives a little shrug, almost painful in its attempt at projecting some casual air. “He makes me feel safe.”

He finally, for the first time since he’d started talking, steals a quick, precious look at Ted.

Ted’s staring at him like he’s a particularly stubborn puzzle, brow furrowed and face set. Uncharacteristically, he is not smiling.

Trent looks away as though the very sight of him burns.

“But,” he says, almost brightly, and all fake, “he doesn’t—it isn’t. Like that! So. It just figures the one time I—if I ever—that—” To his horror his voice breaks, but he manages to stay steady on his course and say, “—well, it’s just my luck, really. There’s nothing really to be done about it.”

“Trent,” says Higgins, and it’s uncomfortably close to pity.

“I’ve never been one for matters of the heart,” Trent says, and his voice doesn’t break again, even though he wants to cry I’m unlovable, I always have been, it’s what my father saw and it’s what you might see, too, one day, if I stick around too long.

He isn’t sure if he means that he isn’t lucky in these things, or if he means that he’s stupid about them, or if he just isn’t meant for them. But they’re all true, he thinks; he knows that love is something just out of reach.

“If that is why,” Beard says after a moment, and again, it’s so very gentle, “then there could be someone else. If that’s what you want.”

“You’re a fucking catch,” said Roy, “You could find someone.” He scowls, then admits, “Trust is the hard part.”

“It’s hard to find, but worth holding on to,” said Higgins wisely, and then he looks to Ted slyly, from the corner of his eyes, and says, “are you certain—?”

“I’m certain,” said Trent firmly. He left, he doesn’t say. He left and he never mentioned it again; he pretended it didn’t happen; I know a mistake when I see one and I see one in the mirror.

He isn’t sure if Ted’s going to speak now—he’s been unnervingly quiet—but before he gets the chance, someone else speaks up instead.

“Um, Trent?” says Nate, quietly, like he’s asking for permission, and Trent motions go on. “Have you heard of demisexuality?”

Trent blinks. “No,” he says.

“Right,” says Nate, “That was mostly rhetorical. Sorry. It’s just—my niece—I—and—so. Asexuality is when you’re not attracted to anyone. At all. I mean, it’s a spectrum, some ace people are almost never—it’s complicated, but. That’s the idea.”

Nate wasn’t usually so nervous anymore, but he never seemed to know how to talk to Trent specifically, which Trent couldn’t exactly blame him for. He didn’t really know how to talk to Nate, either. The article lay unspoken between them, like a dead beast on a dining room table—not the sort shot and put on a platter, so much as the sort that had flown through the window and collapsed dead in the middle of your lunch. Awkward, unwieldy, and giving off a bad smell. The metaphorical beast was, of course, an elephant.

“There’s also aromanticism, that’s like—not being romantically attracted to anyone? And, uh, again, it’s kind of a spectrum, you can be, like, a lesbian but also aromantic, or, greyrom—sorry, I’m overcomplicating it again. Basics. Right. Basics.”

He was gaining steam, though, and he had Trent’s full, rapt attention.

“Demisexuality, though, that’s like—only being attracted to your friends? Sort of. No, that’s wrong. I mean—”

“The quality or characteristic of being sexually attracted to only people with whom one has a close emotional relationship,” Beard said, in a monotone, and Trent looked over and he was reading from his phone. Presumably the google definition. “and not on the basis of first impressions, physical characteristics, etcetera.”

He looked to Nate. “I assume this also can apply to romantic attraction?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Nate. “For sure, definitely.”

Beard nods once, firmly, with the face of a man who is going to be finding a lot of books on this topic later.

“…oh,” said Trent. Because—that fit.

That fit.

Trent is a writer: it has always bothered him that the labels he wore, that marked him as part of a community he’d been trying to find, were ill-fitting at best. He is gay, but it isn’t quite—it doesn’t encompass the whole of it. He likes having the words to communicate what he means, who he is, and he’s never had one that quite describe this. The matters of the heart, as he had called it.

And suddenly, from an unexpected place, one has been served up to him on a silver platter.

Demisexual. Demiromantic, possibly. Probably.

Demi. Trent is—demi. The word fits.

“Um, did that—does that help?” said Nate, hopefully.

If it wouldn’t be incredibly awkward and probably weird, Trent would hug him.

“Yes,” he said, almost distantly. “It helps a great deal. Thank you, Nathan.”

Nate beams at him. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “Anytime, Trent.”

“Well,” said Ted, clapping his hands, and Trent jumped. “I think—this fella of yours—he’d be real lucky to have you. And if he can’t see that, well, that’s his problem.”

Trent wanted to laugh. Or cry.

“And—I’m sorry. That you went through all that. That must’ve been tough, especially alone. But hey now—you’ve got us now, alright?”

“We’ve got your back,” Higgins chimed in, giving Ted a sidelong look. “No matter what.”

He put a strange, gentle emphasis on those last three words.

Roy nodded sharply. Beard pointed at him. Even Nate was nodding along.

“Right. Yes. Thank you,” said Trent.

Beard was giving Ted an odd look, almost considering.

“Diamond Dogs,” he said. He glanced at Trent, raising a questioning eyebrow. Trent shrugged, then nodded. “DISMOUNT!”

A cacophony of barking and howling—Ted didn’t seem to have his whole heart in it, and Trent still couldn’t muster much more than an almost shy woof woof—and it was over.

Trent had told someone, and the world hadn’t ended. He had a word now, even.

They’ve mostly all gone their separate ways—Ted had fled surprisingly fast, Beard hot on his tail, Higgins had gone to his office and Roy seemed to have vanished—but as Trent lingers a little, Nate remains close outside the office.

Trent looks at him for a moment, and thinks that he’s been trying not to let being awkward stop himself lately, anyway.

“Uh, Nate?” he says, stepping out of the office fully, and Nate turns to look, and Trent steps forward and hugs him.

Nate is surprised and still for a moment, then slowly relaxes and hugs back.

“Thank you,” Trent says, muffled, “really.”

“You’re welcome,” says Nate quietly, a little pleased, a little surprised. He awkwardly pats Trent’s back.

Trent pulls away and then positively flees, before his impulsive actions can make anything too weird. He doesn’t regret it, though.

It had meant a lot to him, and he was trying to be—braver.

Unfortunately, he flees right into a private conversation.

“Ted,” Beard is hissing, “what the hell are you talking about, of course he was talking about you—”

“You don’t know that,” Ted is saying, low and more serious than Trent has perhaps ever heard him, “makin’ that kind of assumption—”

“You’re assuming that it isn’t!” Beard said, louder, and he bangs his fist down loudly against the door, and Trent—squeaks. He’s never liked loud noises, especially not unexpected ones, and even though he’s beginning to relax here, he’s kind of emotionally fraught at the moment, and so remains jumpy.

They both whip around to see him, staring, wide-eyed.

“Oh, fuck,” says Beard.

“Aw, hell,” says Ted.

“I can go,” says Trent meekly.

“Absolutely not,” says Beard, grabbing first Ted’s hand and then Trent’s, dragging them forwards, “You two are talking.”

Neither of them yank their hands back even as they both protest.

“Now,” said Beard, practically shoving them into the boot room.

The door slams shut.

“You’re lucky I don’t LOCK IT!” shouts Beard from the other side.

“I don’t think that door locks,” Ted tells Trent, as if that’s even mildly the point.

Trent sighs heavily. He should sit down, but he feels too wired, too nervous, too ready to launch himself out the door at a moment’s notice.

After a moment, it’s Ted that breaks the silence.

“I think I owe you an apology,” he said softly.

“No, no,” said Trent, “You don’t, you absolutely—you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I left you,” corrected Ted. “I wasn’t there when you woke up, and I didn’t—we didn’t talk about it. You didn’t know where we stood. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m sorry.”

“I could have said something,” said Trent quietly, “And I didn’t.”

“Because I left first,” insisted Ted. “I get it, Trent, I do. I’m sorry.”

He means it, too. He means it, and it breaks Trent’s heart a little. He isn’t used to being apologized to.

“Why?” he asks before he can stop himself, and it comes out thin and high, almost desperate. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” says Ted, too-loud, and then he winces and lowers the volume. “No. Honestly, I guess I just—I just freaked a little, that’s all. I didn’t want it to be somethin’ you regretted, or somethin’ that might hurt our friendship. I’m a bit of a mess, see, and I didn’t wanna—”

He looks embarrassed, and Trent thinks he hears what Ted’s saying: I didn’t want to touch you and ruin you; I didn’t want to make you part of my mess. I didn’t want things to change.

“We’re all a bit of a mess, Ted,” says Trent, not unkindly. Lord knows he is.

“Yeah, well, I’ve clearly made a mess of things anyway,” says Ted glumly.

Trent doesn’t know what to say. What is Ted even thinking? Does he think that Trent slept with him because he felt like he had to, or out of yet another half-hearted attempt at exploring his sexuality? Or does he realize that Trent loves him desperately, irrevocably, without hope for or promise of more?

Is he uncomfortable with Trent’s pain or with Trent’s adoration?

Ted shifts his weight from toes to heels and back again, looking down at his feet, and then, finally, he speaks again.

“Was Beard right?” he asks, very quietly. “Were you talkin’ about me back there?”

A direct question. Trent can hardly avoid that.

(He briefly, as more of a half-hearted fantasy than an actual idea, imagines just turning and running away, kicking open the door and scampering down the hall like a monkey with a pilfered banana, but he dismisses the thought immediately. Ted deserves better.)

“…yes,” says Trent, looking at the wall instead of him. “I was talking about you, Ted.”

“Oh,” says Ted, sounding terribly sad. Trent wants to go home and hide in the smallest, darkest space he can find, like under the bed or in the closet or wrapped up under every single blanket in the house, like he can smother himself out of existence if he tries hard enough.

“I suppose,” he says, distantly, “Now that the cat’s out of the bag, you deserve to hear it anyway: I love you.”

Ted makes a noise like a trodden-upon squeaky toy, and Trent, who is so fine and okay, keeps going like he hadn’t heard.

“You’re loved,” he says, “You’re loved, Ted. You deserve to know that.”

“Trent,” Ted breathes, sounding stricken, and Trent has to fix this for him, goddamn it.

“It’s okay,” he says, trying very, very hard not to let his voice break. His voice is steady, and he is shattering inside. “You didn’t know, you didn’t—you didn’t do anything wrong, alright? It’s okay. I’ll be—I’ll be fine.”

God, he’s an idiot. He shouldn’t have let this conversation happen at all. He’s going to break Ted’s heart and Ted isn’t even in love with him. He just feels so deeply for the people he cares about—no, for everyone.

Ted is looking at him like Trent’s just told him that one of them has kicked a puppy.

“I’m sorry,” Trent blurts out, and he tells himself he absolutely cannot be on the verge of tears right now. “Really, it’s…”

Ted would feel bad even if they were strangers. This is worse. Oh, god, Trent’s fucked up so badly.

“It’s really okay,” Trent babbles, and he doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about how wrecked he sounds, too caught up in the feeling of bright, burning shame, “it’s okay, I wasn’t—I don’t expect anything—it’s—”

Ted’s looking at him with wide horrified eyes, exactly how Trent never wanted to see him. Of course he feels bad; of course he wishes he could give Trent what he wants, but he can’t, he can’t, and he shouldn’t have to feel bad about it.

Trent takes a step back and he’s still talking, he thinks, but he isn’t sure what he’s saying, and Ted steps forward in sync with him. Again Trent steps back, and again, Ted steps with him, not insistent enough to get close, but persistent in at least keeping the same distance between them.

“Trent,” Ted says, soft and horrified and trying to affect a soothing sort of tone that makes Trent want to cry, “Trent, Trent, hey—”

“I’m fine,” Trent says, and he hates that his voice cracks, and Ted steps forward again—Trent forgets to step back—and then Ted is kissing him.

For a moment, Trent forgets himself. He melts.

Ted is kissing him, and it sparks something in him that nothing else ever has. He’s warm, and it’s like his body lights up. He isn’t sure how much of it is the emotion—Ted is kissing him, Ted is kissing him, Ted is kissing him—and how much of it is that foreign feeling of want.

He kisses back. He kisses back unreservedly, kisses back like it’s his first breath of fresh air, kisses back like it’s a relief. Ted’s hand cups his face and Trent shudders and leans into it.

It’s the most heartbreaking kiss he’s ever had.

And then reality crashes down on him, and he tears himself away.

“No, I—I can’t,” he said, “you can’t—you don’t have t—”

Ted looks stricken, and worse, like he might actually cry. “I’m sorry,” he says hopelessly, voice thick with unshed tears, accent thick with emotion. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

Trent’s face crumples, because he knows that he’s a mistake, that kissing him is a mistake, but it still hurts to hear. He’d tried to steel himself against it, though, but it was too late: Ted had seen.

“No no no no no, sweetheart,” he says quickly, stepping forward again, and once again, Trent steps back. “That ain’t—I didn’t mean it like that, sweetheart, I just—you’re upset, shoot, kissin’ someone when they’re crying ain’t as romantic as the rom-coms make it look—”

“I don’t want you try and just—give me what I want,” Trent says.

“I want,” Ted says. “I want you. Trent, darlin’, of course I want you.”

“…what?” breathes Trent.

Ted gathers Trent’s face in his hands, thumbs gently resting on his cheekbones, calloused palms cupping his jaw.

“Trent,” he says, and Trent’s breath catches in his throat, “I love you, too.”

Trent’s first instinct is to deny it, not because he doesn’t believe Ted, but because it can’t be true. He isn’t that lucky. He doesn’t deserve this.

The door opens and Will walks in with an armful of towels.

This is so absurd that Trent essentially freezes.

Will takes in the sight: Trent Crimm, visibly in tears, and Ted, crowding him against the wall and gently cupping his face.

“Uhh,” he says.

“Hey there,” says Ted. “Sorry, you mind comin’ back later? I know you got a job t’do but.”

Trent gives a wet little laugh, letting his head fall forward on Ted’s shoulder. Ted puts a hand between his shoulder blades, easily and unthinkingly giving a little shh, shh, you’re alright, the kind of shushing meant to comfort rather than actually quiet.

“Yeah, no, no problem, nope, fine, uh huh, sure,” babbles Will. He backs out a little too fast, nearly trips, rights himself, then hastily adds, “uh, sorry,” and then sort of makes a face like why am I apologizing and then shuts the door with himself on the other side.

“We should probably—go,” says Trent, still hoarse, a little tearful, but clearer. “I…”

“This boot room has seen worse,” Ted says, but he’s still rubbing his palm on Trent’s back, and when his hand sweeps upwards his fingertips brush the nape of Trent’s neck under his hair and Trent shivers a little, distracted.

After a moment, when Trent doesn’t say anything, Ted’s hand stops moving—Trent wants to keen—and then there’s a gentle, firm pressure and Ted is pulling him in.

Ted was already standing close, but now Trent collides with his chest, and Ted’s arms wrap around his waist in a proper hug, and Trent just—collapses into it, curling in closer to let Ted hug him tightly.

His arms are bunched close to his chest between them, but he squirms to extract them and hug Ted back, a little weakly, but nonetheless clinging to him, arms looped over his shoulders.

And Trent just—breathes. In Ted’s arms, face buried in his shoulder, shuddering a little, he breathes.

“I meant what I said, y’know,” murmurs Ted into his hair. “And I’ll say it as much as you need to hear it, and then some. I love you, sweetheart. I’m real sorry I didn’t make it clearer, and I’m even more sorry I ran away.”

Trent shivers a little and presses closer, and Ted leaves a kiss in his hair.

He was just—he couldn’t believe he was here. That this was real. This had to be dream, didn’t it? Ted Lasso handing him everything he’d ever wanted on a silver platter, and tying it up with a bow—the bow, in this case, being his arms, wrapped snugly and securely around Trent.

Like a marionette with tangled strings, hanging midair, Trent feels adrift. Hanging, helpless. Just trying to process that—Ted loves him. Ted loves him.

Ted loves him, of all people.

It feels too good to be true, and in Trent’s experience, that usually meant it was.

But—

He is tired, so tired, of fighting good things. And Ted—Ted wouldn’t lie.

“I thought I was a mistake,” he mumbles into Ted’s shoulder, and he isn’t even sure if he means to Ted, or just in general. He isn’t even sure he meant to say it out loud.

Ted makes a heartbroken little noise and hugs him tighter. “No, sweetheart, not at all,” he says. “Not at all.”

(Ted kisses his forehead before they pull apart, and it lingers on Trent’s mind until late in the night.)

Trent’s exhausted from—multiple revelations, and his embarrassing crying fit (Ted insists it’s not embarrassing and is in fact healthy, and Trent’s sure he’s right but it doesn’t stop him from feeling mortified)—so they don’t talk right away. Obviously they don’t jump to sex again right away, either, even if Ted follows him home.

(Beard watches them go, first with a narrow-eyed look of examination, and then a Nod Of Approval, his usual sternness actually marred by a genuine smile, albeit a small one. He won’t tell; he flips his sunglasses down and returns to his book as if he saw nothing.)

Ted only comes with him because Trent is still shaking a little and he’s not crying anymore but his eyes are red-rimmed, but Trent silently invites him inside and in the end he climbs into bed alongside Trent and just curls up next to him, and Trent rolls over to press close to him and falls asleep to the sound of Ted’s breathing, thinking about all the ways he thought he was broken, and all the hope he never thought he could have.

He's Trent Crimm, demi, and gay, probably, and he’s madly in love with Ted Lasso, and Ted Lasso loves him back.

(Trent had only known about two and a half of those things about himself when the day had started, and one of them being his own name wasn’t exactly impressive.)

Ted doesn’t kiss him again that night, not on the lips, but he does stroke his fingers through Trent’s hair and say, y’know, Trent, you’re real beautiful.

Trent has never been called beautiful before.

(He thinks he likes it.)

They talk in the morning. And there is a lot to talk about: their relationship, where they want it to go, their children, their future, if they are to have one together. But it’s a talk done with Trent leaning into his side (Trent is reluctant to part from him, as if he feels that if they stop touching this will all dissolve away, and Ted doesn’t seem to mind, being the sort of touchy person himself that is used to being considered a little too clingy) and both of them holding warm mugs (hot cocoa, Trent actually isn’t the biggest fan of tea, either, although he doesn’t mind it, and Ted crows that it’s good to see someone else with a lick of sense, even if it’s only a lick, and Trent tries not to think of the potential innuendo) so it’s not so bad.

Obviously, not everything is or can be worked out immediately, but it’s a start.

And a start is far more than Trent had ever dared to even hope for.

(On that couch Ted kisses him, gently, and Trent’s breath catches and part of him is still just incredulously whispering at the back of his mind is this really happening? How on earth could I possibly deserve this? But he closes his eyes and leans into it, kisses back, relaxes: deserving or not, he has this, he has this.)

They don’t have sex right away.

It’s kind of mind-blowing, honestly, because—Trent does want Ted, want Ted like that in a way he never has before, but he’s still got a lot of… hang-ups, he supposes. Sex is still very wrapped up in—expectations.

He’s ready for the vulnerability of it, ready for Ted to touch him again, to see him laid bare, and he’s ready to reach back, to kiss Ted and make him feel good and take care of him, too.

But still, there are the hang-ups: he’s considered sex a punishment or a requirement so long it feels difficult to just jump into it without liquid courage helping it along.

And there’s so much to handle, to sort out, that—no, at first, they don’t have sex. And it’s kind of mind-blowing, he must reiterate, because they don’t have sex, and there’s no expectation he has to have sex with Ted, but they’re still—

They’re still gloriously, gloriously together.

Trent wakes up in the same bed as him, tangled up in his limbs, and it’s warm and intimate and it takes him a moment to remember he’s awake, that this isn’t a dream.

They make breakfast together, and they move easily around each other, domestic—not a perfect, well-oiled machine yet, but the makings of one. Ted kisses him again, and Trent smiles and asks if there was a reason, because they’d just been waiting for the water to boil, and Ted had just said quietly no, I just remembered that I could. And Trent couldn’t help the positively dopey, lovestruck look that crossed his face at that.

Trent kisses him before they leave for work, gently, and Ted takes his hand as they leave.

Trent asks him how much they’re going to tell everyone, if anything. They’ve already agreed to try and keep it on the down-low from the press—for their families’ sake if nothing else, and for privacy, and, Trent privately thinks, in case this all goes South—but what about Nelson Road?

And Ted tells him that he’s okay with keeping it private if that’s what Trent wants, but that he—he doesn’t want to hide.

Trent knows they both know that it’s not that it’s unsafe—he had told the Diamond Dogs everything already, really, and while the players could sometimes be careless or crude, not one of them were cruel-hearted, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t already know about Colin, and likely at least suspect Trent wasn’t straight. He wasn’t hiding it.

Trent had just thought—well, he didn’t know what he’d thought.

…No, that wasn’t true. It was just that it had been a rather unkind thought, borne not from a low opinion of Ted but a low opinion of himself. Would Ted want them to know he was with Trent, of all people? Would they think less of him?

But that wasn’t fair. They weren’t those kinds of people, and neither was Ted. Self-deprecation was no excuse.

So they go to work, together, not bothering to pretend they were coming at different times—Beard bites back a smile and does not comment—and Trent expects that they’ll simply act as usual, but with more smiles, more lingering touches. Not hiding it, but not advertising it, either. Let them guess, if they’re brave enough to.

And then Ted kisses him on the mouth right in the middle of the locker room, and Trent’s too new to Ted kissing him to do anything but melt, and the room immediately erupts into chaos.

(The players don’t care, of course, but apparently there was a fucking bet going on, which Trent had some mixed feelings about, and Colin actually almost tackles him in a hug and it’s over-exuberant and exaggerated but as he gives him that tight bear hug and ignores Trent’s laughing protest, he actually murmurs—low and quiet and serious—in Trent’s ear, I’m really happy for you, boyo, and then he’s pulling away and laughing and telling him he’s going to badger him for details later and Trent feels so light and overjoyed—)

Nate puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes gently and says quietly, beaming at him, “I’m—I’m really happy for you, Trent,” and then he awkwardly freezes and pulls away, and Trent just returns the smile and says, just as quietly, almost shyly, “Thank you.”

(Nate hugs Ted tightly, and Ted laughs and hugs back, and Trent is once again struck by how warm it is here, how this community has thrived.)

Roy just grunts something along the lines of about fucking time but he does look pleased, really, and Trent knows he’s going to have to have the world’s most awkward and painful conversation with Roy eventually (well, maybe not most, one can’t easily beat telling your wife that you’re a gay man) but for now it’s enough that he’s in love, and Ted loves him back, and everyone knows.

…He also has a feeling this might come up in a Diamond Dogs meeting later, or at the very least, that individual Diamond Dogs will be quietly pulling him aside about this.

And he’s partially correct—but only partially (although that might still happen later) because it’s Keeley who abruptly texts him GIRL TALK!!!!! followed by a string of emojis and honestly he thinks he’s lucky she didn’t take notes from Roy and manifest behind him in a dark room, or perhaps simply drop from the ceiling. (Who told her already???)

‘Girl talk’, as it were, is mortifying—in the sense that he can’t stop blushing (he is a grown man, goddamn it) but he also can’t stop smiling (and whether it’s because Ted loves him and he still hasn’t processed that, or if it’s because they care and he has friends to essentially gossip with, he isn’t sure) and they demand details, damn it, and Rebecca doesn’t actually say I told you so but she snatches a biscuit from his box and winks at him in a way that says it for her.

It's wonderful. Trent wouldn’t trade this for anything.

It does eventually get out, to the general public, that they’re dating. It’s a shitstorm, of course, but nowhere near as bad as it could have been—it’s a scandal, sure, but first of all, they’re hardly two hot and fresh football players. They’re two middle-aged dads, even if one of them is at least moderately famous and the other is a well-known ex-journalist and current author. And secondly, it’s a new age: while there is definitely a lot of fucking shit, it’s also, at least moderately, good press.

(Trent gets multiple messages from ex-colleagues—which vary in energy from ‘obviously fishing for a quote while pretending like they’re just chilling at the water cooler’ to ‘NICE! HIGH FIVE’—most of which he doesn’t respond to.)

Ted handles it in the press room deftly as always, even when some of those ex-colleagues get fucking nasty, all under that polite guise of sharp-edged, wide-eyed curiosity, and Trent can tell it upsets him more than he’s letting on (can tell in a way he didn’t use to be able to, when they’d first met) and resists the urge to grab the microphone and lay into them.

He gets the chance, or something like it, when one of the bastards (although to be fair to his ex-colleagues, there are ex-colleagues like Marcus and Lloyd who are generally not all bad, and there are ex-colleagues like Ernie Lounds and this fucker who probably shouldn’t even be lumped in the same group) tries to ambush them.

He sees how Ted’s posture tightens, how he keeps up the affable smile but his fingers twitch at his sides, and—some of that old steel straightens Trent’s spine, and he hasn’t unsheathed his claws in a while (he generally preferred not to, nowadays, he didn’t want to be that person again, didn’t want to hurt anyone, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to defend the people he loved) and in a move Rebecca would be proud of, calmly spins on one heel and basically eviscerates the tabloid writer in a few short, sharp sentences.

Ted looks a bit gobsmacked—this is the meanest he’s seen Trent since their very first meeting, and Trent almost feels bad—but the reporter just gives some slimy grin and makes an even slimier comment (and it’s homophobia-flavored, too, how thoughtful) and even Ted, who’d been trying to de-escalate, falters, and Trent—

In a move Roy would be proud of, he swipes the recorder hard and fast, and crushes it.

Oops, he says, as if it were an accident.

And then he grabs Ted’s wrist and practically drags them away.

(He’s not surprised at himself when the insecurity creeps in, once they’re away and the protective fury fades, but he tries not to let it show. And then Ted pulls him aside, somewhere a little more private, and Trent is pretty sure they’re about to have to have a Conversation about this, right up until Ted crowds him against the wall and kisses him senseless.

Is it bad, he later asks, breathless, that I kinda like it when you’re a little mean?

Trent gapes at him and he says, really, I’m not sure if it’s the whole furious, righteous angel thing, or if I still find the whole snarky reporter thing kinda hot despite myself—and Trent kisses him, this time, because of course Ted isn’t mad or disappointed, the ridiculous creature, of course he isn’t.)

(Still? He asks later, teasing, and Ted blushes a little and says uh, well, let’s just say Beard got tired of hearing your name after a bit, and Trent laughs and leans into him and it’s lovely, perfectly fucking lovely.)

Diana asks him if he’s happy, and he can be honest when he says yes.

(She meets Ted and they get along well enough, but Diana keeps sending Trent incredulous looks—not disapproving or disdainful, mind you, just confused—this is your type, she seems to be asking, ridiculous and sweet and energetic? It was almost like she’d been expecting a male version of herself, which Trent supposed wasn’t a completely unfair assumption.)

(He wins over her fast, though, because of course he does, and he thinks it’s watching Ted interact with Isadora that does it. Trent wouldn’t lie, Ted being such a good dad had certainly charmed him, as well.)

He thinks maybe one day he will tell her—not all of it, but some of it. More of it. When it no longer aches for them, anymore, when it’s an old, old pain.

For now, though, they’re friends again, and she pesters him for details and tells him about her own dating life and they can be friends again, just friends.

They watch movies on the couch and it used to be that he’d grown so used to holding back, to forcing himself not to be affectionate or close, to not bother anyone, that they’d sit on opposite ends of the couch, allowing only their legs to brush or their hands to rest together. Now, he’s no longer used to it, and he barely catches himself in time to stop from tucking himself into her side.

He sits closer, instead, as a compromise, unsure what would be welcome, and they end up gravitating closer over the night just naturally, and when Ted comes home—Isadora had spent the day with him and her Uncle Beard (whom Diana had been quite impressed with) and Trent has the momentary, instinctual fear that this will look bad, but it fades before it can even begin to take root, because it’s Ted.

Ted, sure enough, doesn’t so much as blink at Trent with an arm around his ex-wife, and instead leans down to kiss him—just a quick, gentle, close-mouthed hello kiss, but he smiles and leans into it, shoulders relaxing.

(Diana watches with something like realization in her eyes, something a little sad but a little happy, but Trent doesn’t see.)

Isadora clambers to squish herself between him and Diana and they laugh and let her and she asks if Teddy and Uncle Beard can join and Trent sends Diana a cautious look, questioning, unsure if she’d want that, but she laughs and invites them to sit down and it’s wonderful, truly wonderful, being surrounded by people Trent loves so much, people who loves him, too, people who like him.

Trent falls asleep with Ted’s arm around his shoulders, Diana’s thigh pressed to his and Isadora dozing between them, Beard leaning into Ted’s other side and his arm around the back of the couch, fingers just barely brushing Trent’s hair, and it’s warm and lovely and Trent could never have imagined it, even a year or two ago.

(Diana hugs him when she goes and tells him she approves of the new boyfriend, that they fit perfectly, and he can tell she means it. The confusion and surprise is gone. She understands them, now. Maybe she understands him a little better, too.)

The thing is, when it comes to sex, they start out slow. Trent isn’t even really sure it “counts”—they’ve had kisses that turned into kissing that turned into, well…

(Late, on the couch: Trent climbing into Ted’s lap and deepening the kiss; Ted’s hands at his waist, hips rocking together until they pull away with a gasp)

(Waking up in bed, after a good morning kiss: Ted rolling them over and pressing Trent down against the mattress, kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him, Trent’s hands wander under Ted’s shirt and Ted moans)

(Going to sleep together, kissing, and kissing, and Trent gasping into Ted’s mouth can I—? and Ted answering, almost a whine, please—and Trent slipping his hand under Ted’s waistband and taking him in his hand, Ted rocking into it and his hand gripping Trent’s ass and they kiss and—)

…more.

Still, it’s mostly just making out, touching, and—okay, so a little action, but the pants never come off, the clothes stay mostly on, and okay, so maybe it’s a little silly, acting like it doesn’t count if it’s not All The Way, but it helps.

(And Trent’s never had this feeling, never had the experience of being a teenager fooling around and giggling and happily overwhelmed and new to all of this, and that’s how it feels, like they’re young and ridiculous, and he likes it. It’s a good start.)

And then, Trent, embarrassingly, has a, ah.

particularly good dream.

He wakes up before Ted does, a little embarrassed when he realizes what’s happened, and takes a shower, thinking about being flat on his back with his legs hooked over Ted’s shoulders, Ted’s warm hands petting his thighs, palms sweeping back and forth, back and forth, and then gripping tighter as he fucks into Trent harder, slides in deeper, and—oh, fuck, that’s good.

…He thinks it’s a fluke.

And then it happens again, and this time, he wakes up to realize he’s practically grinding against Ted, and he goes red and Ted—voice rough, still half-asleep himself—tells him he makes the prettiest noises, and Trent kisses him and Ted rolls them over.

Trent arches into him, moaning, and he feels Ted’s big, warm hands at his waist, under his clothes, shoving his shirt up, exploring more of him.

He feels like his whole body has lit up. He reaches for Ted, hands shaking with how much he wants, trying to guide his head down to Trent’s.

Ted kisses him, hard and deep, pressing him down with the force of it, and Trent melts under him.

They barely manage to pull apart when the second alarm goes off, the if you’re not already out of bed get out of fucking bed alarm, and they groan.

“Surely we can miss just one day of work?” says Trent without any real hope. “Be late?”

He’s not really serious, but he still doesn’t expect Ted to duck down and kiss his forehead and say, almost casually, “I don’t want to have to rush, sweetheart.”

Trent laughs, a little incredulous, and Ted pulls back to look at him properly and says, “I want to take my time with you, this time,” with such perfect sincerity and simplicity that Trent can almost forget that a minute ago he was so turned on he was almost dizzy with it.

Ted is looking at him with such love that Trent can’t help but reach up to cup his face, as if he can communicate how much he loves him with a simple touch, a wonder-touched smile.

Ted leans into it, grinning at him and putting one hand over Trent’s.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s not be late.”

(It is not the last time.)

Trent has sex with Ted Lasso for the second time—if you, ahem, don’t count all those little things—and it is the best sex he has ever had.

(It’s a record they will beat over and over again.)

Afterwards, they lie curled up together, and Trent turns his head to bury his face in Ted’s neck, and sighs contently. He feels whole; he feels safe, loved.

Trent knows who he is, now—maybe not all of him, not every question answered, but he knows he isn’t broken. Trent’s loved, the way he always wanted to be, and he has friends, and he isn’t alone.

Ted will be here when he wakes up.