Chapter Text
Apparently there are a number of things that Ted Lasso does not consider worthy of reunion status. The gala wherein Ted is wrangling cats (women) and only gets a moment to take a sip of Trent's warm champagne before being dragged back to the dance floor is not that moment. The brief question that Honey is able to raise her hand and to slip in from the back of the press room after one particularly grueling game is very sweet, but it is not that moment. They are excused along with everyone else and Ted is carted away. Thus.
It is also apparently not the night Trent comes across Ted and Beard–who is absolutely beside himself with grief and at least drink, if not more. Ted assures Trent he has control of the situation and Beard will better deal if Ted is able to get him home to monitor the man. Though Trent offers to stand guard with him, Ted absolutely rejects the premise that this will be their reunion. The kind voice mail the next morning assuring everyone is alive and in one piece is a nice balm over the selfish dejection Trent spent a significant amount of the night trying to fend away.
In each of these moments, the thing they all hold in common, the thing that keeps Trent from reaching out with a goddamn calendar, is the hope, bright with surprise in Ted's eyes each time they stumble into one another and the sheer regret every time they part. The stubbornness of Ted to hold onto it, like he doesn't particularly want to leave Trent standing alone. Trent doesn't hate that he cannot seem to shake the disappointment, because hope blooms so small in his own stomach. It is perhaps the most alive he has felt in the quiet, ephemeral comings and goings of his life since he spent every day in Ted's company. The promise of Ted, it seems, though mildly pathetic to keep so close to his chest, makes every day a bit brighter. Makes the rain a little more bearable. Makes sitting alone in a white box while his little girl is with her mother an exercise in potential.
Because Ted could happen at any moment.
Trent is bent over loo roll trying to do his very least favorite thing, toilet math. His bidet is awaiting maintenance and the utter nonsense of how many rolls is how many rolls is how much paper is how much money has him convinced it would actually be more cost effective to directly use paper money to wipe his ass.
"Psst!"
It isn't even anything more than air, but Trent closes his eyes against the utter embarrassment, being caught with his proverbial pants down, ass out, in front of Ted.
Tucking his chin away from the direction of Ted's voice, Trent's voice is laden with great pain when he says, "I will catch up to you in the next aisle, Ted. Unless I can find a hole to crawl into. I will not une with you in front of the loo roll."
Ted's nimble fingers clamp onto a package of pillowy white, plastic wrapped rolls and offers, "There's no shame in being human, but I understand. I'll meet you in the, ahhh, Pet Food aisle."
Just as there was no sound of any cart approaching, there is no sound of any cart departing. No soft clop of a leather shoe, no squeak of a rubber sole. Only the subtle crinkle of thin plastic against something soft. So when Trent stands, he knows he will be looking directly into the sun. Making them one idiot staring dumbly at another idiot.
It's not so bad. Ted is very pretty with his expressive brown eyes and generous smile, even when he plays dumb. And it is a relief–that Trent cannot run his hands through his hair to muss it bigger, cannot make doubly certain his shirt is properly tucked, nor the cuffs of his denims equally tall. Then Ted does the unthinkable and places his basket and the package of loo roll on the ground.
Trent does not know if he has ever been hugged before. He cannot remember anything before this moment. Ted's arms wrap securely around him without restraint. Certainly without consent. But Ted needn't ask. Trent is so thoroughly surprised at how welcome the crossing of boundaries is that he holds Ted back so completely, resting his head on Ted's shoulder without thinking twice. It has been so long coming that Trent will admit a hundred times how Ted feels like home before he can stop himself. Trent will invite Ted into his life. Invite Ted to know his heart, considering this to be every bit as romantic as anything he has ever imagined. Until Trent's brain finally quiets in their lingering connection.
"Marion. Clean up in Produce."
The speaker overhead chirps, ending the announcement. And Ted makes one last tight grip into Trent's back, driving the softness of their bellies to meet before Trent has to give up the solid, firm, warm, Ted-shaped body in his arms.
They stand, staring in silence for a moment, both smiling in utter lunacy, utter bliss, until Ted says, bending down to gather his things, "You wanna do a little light grocery shopping together?"
"So long as we both shall live?" Trent mumbles it quietly to himself, rolling his eyes at his own pure insanity–doesn't mean it, but means every word of it as serious as a heart attack.
"What?"
Trent dives into the loo roll to grab the first package his hands touch, refusing to meet Ted's eyes a moment, lest the American gather that Trent's fancy is back in a very big, very peculiar, Ted-sized way.
"Yes. Oh. Ehm, yes."