Work Text:
The first thing Ted thinks, when he sees the guy leaning proprietarily up against the door to their bus, is that he’s got a goddamn beautiful head of hair. The dark, soft-looking fall of it over his face makes Ted’s fingers itch and his stomach roll over in pleasant ways.
The second thing he thinks is: Crap, that’s Trent Crimm, from Independent.
He imagined meeting Trent in many different ways, but none of them involved a solid week without a shower and a shirt that’s got mustard stains all over it.
He shoves his hands as deep in his jeans pockets as they’ll go, clears his throat, and is privy to a blink and you’ll miss it baby-deer widening of eyes behind Trent Crimm’s almost comically enormous glasses.
“Lasso,” Trent says, straightening both his stature and his handsome face. He’s lanky, with sharp shoulders under a worn Greyhound ringer shirt that Ted’s aware predates his tenure, and probably means absolutely nothing. Might even be sort of a snub, if he’s honest.
Ted starts forward, holds out a hand, because there’s no excuse for bad manners, and says, “Trent Crimm, Independent guitarist.”
Trent shakes it with a bemused, upward tilt to his mouth - Ted takes that as a win.
And then Ted says, “Pleased to meet you,” collar hot at the sight of that smile, and all Trent says back is, “We’ll see.”
*
“It doesn’t matter if he likes you, Ted,” Rebecca says, looking genuinely baffled.
Ted can’t explain that Independent’s blazer phase sparked his high school bisexual awakening. Well, he could, but he’s got a feeling Rebecca really wouldn’t appreciate it. The fact that Trent Crimm, international rock star, probably thinks he’s a hick and a half, and a hack to boot, makes him feel--indescribable. It’s a problem.
“This isn’t going to be like high school,” Beard says, and Ted points at him and says, “Oh, this is going to be exactly like high school.”
Beard makes a face.
Ted amends, “I promise not to ask anyone to marry me.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows disappear into her extremely fashionable bangs. “Excuse me?”
Beard makes another face.
Ted says, “I will try my very best,” throwing up his hands. He wasn’t always so affably self-aware, you see, and part of his bisexual awakening may have manifested as panic attacks and asking his then-girlfriend, Michelle Hanson, to marry him. Luckily, she was a smart-as-a-whip fifteen-year-old who told him he was crazy. She’s turned into a smart-as-a-whip aerospace engineer going for her masters who still sends him an anniversary card every November, for giggles.
Some of the panic attacks remain, for entirely different reasons.
*
Greyhound’s technically ska punk, but their first breakout semi-hit was Ardently, a mellow piano number with a catchy chorus that ex-frontman Mannion claimed writing credits for, so they can’t even play it at shows anymore.
It makes Rebecca seethe and huff like a magnificient angry dragon, but according to Roy, “Rupert Mannion’s a fucking cunt with a thin fucking voice whose solo career is based solely on massive amounts of his daddy’s money.”
Ted doesn’t like to think ill of folks he hasn’t met yet, but there’s something about Mannion’s slick smile in pictures that gives him the heebie jeebies, so he bows to Roy’s superior knowledge on the subject.
Ted is also technically Mannion’s replacement, but Rebecca makes a heck of a better frontman than he’d ever be. If it wasn’t for Mannion’s noisy departure, Ted Lasso, concert pianist turned UK-based band keyboardist, would’ve hardly been a blip on anyone’s radar. For one, mid-level concert pianists don’t normally get a lot of international press. For two, Greyhound is more of a locally famous, festival kind of band, which was, from what Ted could gather, one of the bigger complaints from Mannion all along.
Opening for Independent on the European leg of their tour is just about the biggest gig they’ve gotten to date, and if Ted had been just the tiniest bit thrilled to have the opportunity to get Trent Crimm’s autograph, well. He’s pretty sure Beard hasn’t been tattling, but Ted’s been told before he’s got a very expressive face.
*
Ted will say this for the English countryside--it sure is rainy.
He’s already practically full-sweat, after the show. He’d been watching Independent from the wings, admiring the fine fit of Trent’s t-shirt around his biceps, the raw rasp of Ella’s vocals, and Benjamin’s near overwhelming thunder on the drums--he’s always thought percussion’s the backbone of any band worth its salt.
Now, though, an all-day overcast sky has morphed into a swift and sudden downpour in the wee small hours of the night. Ted’s nursing a beer under cover of a picnic table, considering making a run for the bus. His companions have already fled, but he can’t help it if his first instinct is to duck instead.
So here he is, cross-legged on muddy ground, looking forward to washing his jeans out in a sink at the next venue. It’s mostly dark, but kind of not, since there’s street lights; he’s thinking about, of all things, his mama’s peach pie, when another body worms its way in next to him.
“Well, hell,” Trent says, flinging his hair back in a way Ted would love to see under bright lights. “Who’d have thought, right?”
“I would think you would,” Ted says, “given we’re in your home town, so to speak.”
“Point taken.” Trent huffs, but in a settling on the ground kind of way, and not like he’s itching for an argument. “We should probably run for the buses.”
“We probably should,” Ted says. Neither of them move, though.
After a moment, Ted offers Trent his half-drunk beer, and he’s entirely surprised when Trent actually takes it. Drains it dry, too.
And then Trent says, “Tell me, Lasso. You’re here to replace Mannion, obviously, but I’m at a loss of what Beard is actually doing.”
Ted laughs. “I could leave it at a lot, but that won’t do him any justice.”
“Enlighten me, then,” he says, and there’s just enough warmth in his tone to make Ted think maybe he’s interested, and not just making smalltalk.
It’s late enough to be called early, at what’s probably close to nine pm, central time, and Ted’s eyes are the kind of dry they used to get after pulling all-nighters in college. His body has yet to figure out when it’s the right time to be asleep.
He rubs his hands together, grinning. “Are we doing something here for your blog? Sort of a new kid on the block who’s who of Greyhound?”
Trent lights a cigarette without asking, and Ted’s not real appreciative of the smell, but certainly the sight is nothing to shake a stick at; anything that emphasizes Trent’s fingers and mouth, well. High school wasn’t that long ago, really.
The flick of the lighter’s gone and done too fast for very much admiring, though, and Ted clears his throat and says, “So. Beard.”
“Beard,” Trent echoes, nodding, and then it’s off to the races.
*
“Crimm’s music blog,” Beard says, sitting down across from Ted with a couple of sorry looking kabobs.
“Oh, indeed I saw,” Ted says. He knocks his knuckles on the worn, split wood of the picnic table, shave and a haircut, and tries not to grin too hard. “He called me charming.”
Rebecca looks up from her phone, quizzical. “He called you a yokel.”
He did. Tempered with the words bizarre kind of charm, so Ted’s near giddy about it.
“Only Crimm would think it a good idea to insult his opening act,” Rebecca says.
Roy’s gruff, “Fucking wanker,” is more absent than heated, Ted thinks, for the fact that the lovely Ms. Keeley Jones is walking toward them in nothing more than sequined scraps and a bright ray of sunshine on her face masquerading as a smile.
“Roy,” she says, and Roy grunts in an affectionate way that Ted really sort of admires.
“Pretty as a picture, as always, Ms. Keeley,” Ted says.
She settles on Roy’s lap with a, “Thank you, Ted,” and Ted genuinely thinks the best of people until proven otherwise, but he has to admit no one ever thanks him quite so earnestly as Keeley has since joining this outfit. It’s not exactly what he would call refreshing, but he truly appreciates it.
Keeley takes one look at Ted’s face, glances at Beard, and says to Rebecca, “We’re talking about Crimm, then.”
“Unfortunately.” Rebecca grins at her, though, and pushes over her napkin piled full of biscuits.
“Settle something for us,” Ted says, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table. “On a scale of one to tickled pink, how pleased should I be about Crimm calling me a--”
“Charming yokel,” Keeley says. She leans in, too, conspiratorially, and Roy has to wrap his hands around her waist to keep her from toppling over. “Seven and a half.”
Higgins says, “Oh ten. Absolutely.”
“Eh.” Keeley makes a bunny face.
Rebecca says, “For fucks’ sake, why? ”
Higgins has wide eyes, but says with a funny kind of conviction, “He’s a fine writer, you know. I thought everything was shaded in a very fond light.”
Keeley says, “Eh,” again, but more speculative.
“Ugh, it’s a tumblr blog.” Rebecca waves a hand. “Everything he writes gets immediately lost in the ether, anyway.”
Ted feels irrationally offended by that on his behalf. “Hey, now. He’s got a tiktok, too.”
“That isn’t much better, Ted, and you know it.”
“We have a tiktok,” Keeley says.
Higgins looks the good kind of surprised. “We do?”
Trent’s tiktok Ted’s intimately familiar with; the soft lighting, the ducked head, face hidden by his lion’s mane of dark hair, the acoustic guitar. It’s most likely purely performative, but no matter what Ted tells himself, he still gets a warmth buried low in his chest whenever he watches.
Ted was as unaware of their own as Higgins, though.
Beard says, “It’s mostly just Roy’s anger fits,” and Rebecca immediately goes to find it with one of her happy little seat wiggles that Ted will always find endearing.
*
“If you were a dog,” Ted says, hands in his pockets, watching Trent tune his guitar, “what kind do you think you’d be?”
Back curved over, Trent looks up at him through the fall of his hair. “Hmm?”
“Me, I’d love to be one of those beautiful setters. Maybe an English one, with all the speckles.” He shimmies his shoulders a little.
Trent straightens up a little. “An English setter,” he echoes.
Ted nods, says, “Higgins here is a…” and Higgins pauses in anticipation on his way past across the stage while Ted snaps his fingers and says, “Collie.”
“Like Lassie.” Higgin’s mouth spreads in a pleased smile.
“Exactly like Lassie,” Ted says. “Now, Roy’s one of those grumpy little things, with the walrus whiskers.” He waggles his hands up at his face.
“Uh.” Higgins says, “Brussels Griffon?”
“That’s the one. Looks like a pug with too much hair and ornery about it.”
“I’d be a fucking doberman pinscher,” Roy shouts from where he’s helping Benjamin with the drumkit, and Ted makes a face and mouths grumpy walrus at Trent, who actually seems to be trying to smother a smile.
“What about me?” Trent asks.
Ted doesn’t even hesitate to say, “Afghan hound,” and he’s not embarrassed about it in the least.
“Really? Is it the...” He motions to his hair.
“No. Well, mainly. But also on account of your aloof, independent nature.”
Guitar now placed safely back in its holder, Trent tucks his hands in his pockets and says, “You know a lot about dogs.”
“Beard will attest to the fact that I know a lot about a lot of things for no other reason than knowing them.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Come on, I’m willing to be wrong here. What d’you think you’d be?”
“I don’t know,” Trent says, contemplative, and Ted’s tickled that they’re even having a conversation this silly. “I’ve always liked bulldogs.”
“A classic, I dig it.” Ted rocks back on his heels. “And I think we can all agree that Rebecca’d be a cat.”
“Oh yeah. One of those fancy, poofy ones,” Keeley lifts her palm up to her nose, “with the smooshed face.”
“Persian,” Beard says, barely looking up from his book, perched on the edge of the stage.
“A blue one, right Trent?”
“I’m not sure how I got roped into this discussion,” Trent says, but he definitely doesn’t seem unhappy about it.
And then Rebecca swaggers onto the stage and says, “I’d obviously be a big jungle cat of some sort. A lion. Which is why I’m in charge.”
“Lions aren’t technically jungle cats.”
“Yes, thank you for that, Beard. Ted,” Rebecca says, tilting her head toward the exit, “mind helping me find lunch?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ted says, and hops to it.
*
Some venues they have the pleasure of getting to earlier than needed, and at one such beautifully ornate hall, Ted finds a piano. Sitting pretty in a front corner of the stage--shiny, like someone’s just been through to polish it up. Ted’s been on the electronic keyboard, exclusively, for more months than he can remember, and the ivory keys feel both familiar and painfully odd under his fingers.
The building’s far from empty; home staff, event security and whoever’s been along so far for the ride busy coming in and out of possibly every single exit point. But for the most part Ted’s alone. Or he feels alone, which is a hell of a lot more depressing, honestly.
Someone had asked him once, at the beginning of this whole shindig, whether he felt like he was trading down; giving up the dream, so to speak. It always felt more like a… lateral move. Same well-loved restaurant, just picking something else off the menu. Maybe even something spicier, considering how rowdy their crowds get, comparatively.
But the hush on this place reminds Ted of the performance jitters he’d get, with a ready, quiet crowd laser focused on the one thing on stage, him, and the only thing that's ever shaken Ted out of those darn inconvenient inner bees is playing.
So play he does. With a hitch at first, a match to the flutter in his throat as he ekes out the beginning of his mother’s favorite piece. Quiet, before it gets loud.
And as the ending notes echo and fade, a crashing crescendo that never fails to leave Ted breathless, a voice says, “That was...” too soft to parse out any underlying meaning.
Ted’s pretty proud of the way he doesn’t startle. Can’t help the tensing of his shoulders, though, and a wince that’s luckily hidden by the raised lid of the baby grand.
Whoever it is doesn’t finish the thought, so he twists on the bench to see Trent Crimm in the wings of the stage, staring at him. Hands on his hips, his elbows canted out and covered in an unfortunate layer of corduroy.
Ted’s cheeks heat, because apparently he never grew out of finding that unfairly attractive.
“Well?” Ted says, when Trent continues to just look at him, “Don’t keep a fella waiting. Lay it on me.” He knows he’s rusty as heck, in terms of this kind of noodling.
“Rather remarkable.” He sounds slightly poleaxed, and Ted’s not sure whether he should be offended or pleased.
His brain settles on anxious, though, and his palms prickle with sweat. It doesn’t make much sense, but there it is. His body’s always been a mystery, taking compliments any which way but gracefully.
But Trent’s got a small smile at the corner of his mouth, and Ted can’t help but want to make that spread larger.
“Any requests?” he says, running a nervous arpeggio in too low a key, but with nary a stumble, so there’s that, at least.
Trent just shakes his head slightly, not quite a yes or no, and steps closer. He says, “Why the hell are you here?”
Ted’s aware of how bright his grin gets, in direct contrast with the stone settling in his belly. “Well, now. Ain’t that a question for the ages.”
Trent’s got a knack for falling silent and expectant, and Ted bets that usually works out real well for him, for ferreting out info. But Ted’s got a fine mid-western habit of swallowing down the bad to bring out the best. Trent’s gonna have to work a lot harder, if he’s ever inclined.
Finally, Ted points a finger at him and says, “I got a classic for you, but I’m gonna need your help.”
Trent raises his eyebrows.
“Come on, now.” Ted scootches over and pats the spot he’s opened up on the bench.
“I’m afraid I can’t play,” Trent says, but he gamely settles down next to him after only a little hesitation.
Ted says, “Oh, it’s really easy to learn this, don’t worry. I’m gonna do all the hard parts.”
Trent’s laugh is gosh-darn infectious when he hears the opening twinkle of Chopsticks.
*
Homesickness is a real hard thing, when he’s this far from home. When he never remembers the right time to call his mama and ends up with her sleepy and affectionate in his ear. He hasn’t lived at home for more than a handful of years, but something about being in a… well, it’s not technically a rest stop. Ted’s concerned about getting stuck in roadside mud, honestly, but they’ve probably got enough strapping youths among them to push, if it comes to that.
But something about the French countryside makes Ted think of Kansas; more dissimilar than alike, but both beautiful in their own ways.
He takes a bracing breath, staring out at the fields and hills as everyone groans and stretches behind him, working out road kinks. The sun is rising, mellow and gold. Picturesque, light grass contrasting with darker, dotted trees; there’s a fat, squat stone building nestled up next to something blooming bright red.
Beard steps up beside him, arms crossed over his chest. “Getting a little scruffy there.”
Ted rubs his face with a grimace, feeling too-long stubble under his palm; his mustache is gaining ground everywhere else, and it’s even way past the point of being itchy, too. All around, it’s difficult grooming on the road. “Spa day?”
“Spa day.”
*
The first step to spa day is having enough time in between venues, and getting Rebecca to agree to a hotel room. It takes four whole days and some strategic wheedling from Keeley.
After that, well, Ted’s packed his own bath bombs, and there ain’t nothing that a candle or two and some Barbara Streisand can’t fix.
Somehow, though, he pictured the accompanying, inevitable girl-chat with Keeley. But Rebecca’s the one perched on the sink counter, deftly doing her makeup and making Ted feel uncomfortably small in the cramped little tub.
To her credit, she doesn’t seem a lick hard-hearted about it. More like absently taking him down a peg or two with the casual reminder of who Ted is, and who Trent is more likely to want to date.
And then she catches sight of his face in the mirror, sunk down in the water so just his nose and eyes are showing.
“You can’t be serious, Ted,” she says.
He squints. He more than likely was not serious, but the way she’s just laid it out makes him feel low about it, anyhow.
“Crimm’s last boyfriend strictly wore jeans.” She waves her mascara wand around. “And I don’t mean jeans and, I mean just jeans. ” She goes back to the mirror with a muttered, “The amount that twink spent on wax alone, really.”
Ted thinks on it. He thinks on it hard, and wonders if this is a warning or a… letting down. He shifts up some and swipes soapy water off his newly shaved chin. “So you’re saying charming yokel ain’t gonna cut it.”
She turns to actually face him, this time. “I’m saying why would you want it to?”
Ted opens and closes his mouth, unsure of which tactic to take here. The truth? The truth is, he’s not sure if this is loneliness talking, his sixteen year old self, or the front row seat he’s taken to watch Trent banter genuinely with his crowd each night. The truth is, he’s not sure it matters.
Rebecca hops down, gracefully changing perches from the counter to the side of the tub. “Ted, I like you. I’m very fond of you, even.”
“Thank you kindly, Rebecca, I’m very fond of you as well.”
“Yes, well.” Her smile wavers, just the tiniest little bit. “You’re a grown man.” She tilts her head. “Mostly.”
He slaps the surface of the water. “Hot damn, grown mostly is what I’ve always hoped for.”
Her, “Ted,” is long-suffering. She gets back to her feet, though, tugging down on the ends of her shirt like she’s preparing for war and not just drinks at the pub next door. “Just be careful, will you?”
Ted gives her his most winningest smile. “Always am.”
*
The last time Ted was set to perform solo in the States - so not the last time he actually performed - he’d been beset by an attack of nerves so severe he bowed out sick twenty minutes from go time. No newsline carried it, if anything Ted ever did deserved news anyway. There’s no record of it anywhere except in some cavern of Ted’s brain that still gives him trouble before a show. The tightening of his lungs, the tingling all the way down to his clenched hands. The only thing that stays a full blown panic is the fact that he can slip out behind Higgins, an afterthought, and that everyone’s looking for Rebecca in the spotlight, anyhow.
His vision blurs a little as the lights dim, but Beard’s hand on the middle of his back is grounding.
The, “All right, Ted?” that comes after is distinctly not in Beard’s accent, though, so it turns out that Ted’s not, in fact, hallucinating Beard standing directly ten feet in front of him, tilting his head like a puzzled Labrador retriever.
That’s a good sign.
“Peachy keen, Billie Jean,” Ted says, voice strained. He hopes Trent won’t call him on it.
He doesn’t. Or, at least, not in the way Ted expects.
He keeps pressure on Ted’s back and says, “You know, I used to get terrible stage fright. Spent a certain too-long time of my life getting blackout drunk, unfortunately--”
“I’m highly surprised that didn’t help,” Ted says, chest loosening as he takes in a few deep breaths.
“Quite,” Trent says. “I tried meditating for a while, too.”
Ted finally turns a little to look at him. “Did that help?”
“God no.” He drops his hand from Ted, runs it through his hair. “Hated every minute of it.” He flashes him a smile. “Sometimes it helps to just think about something else, though.”
Ted raises his eyebrows. “That’s it. That’s what you got? The great wisdom imparted by the infamous Trent Crimm, Independent? Try to think about something else?”
Trent just nudges their elbows together, his grin spreading wider. “I think Keeley’s waiting for you. Better get out there before Higgins finishes setting up his bass.”
The crowd is a mild roar that Ted hardly even notices, and Rebecca reaches for his arm, dragging him out on stage with a wave for the milling audience, and Ted doesn’t even have time to build up a panic again before she’s squeezing his hand and telling him and Roy to start with All Our Friends Are Enemies Tonight.
*
The term ‘bus’ is a bit of a misnomer in terms of their traveling vehicle--bigger than a van, but not big enough to accommodate them all sleeping lying down. More often than not, Ted’s ensconced in the passenger seat overnight. Sometimes with his feet up on the dash, knees tucked into his chin, sometimes twisted sideways, seatback angled as far as it’ll go. He doesn’t sleep a lot during those hours, but he doesn’t think laying down would make much of a difference in that.
He’s gotten real good at napping.
In the short stretch of time before soundcheck - somewhere in Luxemburg, he’s pretty sure, but Ted can’t speak a lick of German - Ted balls up his shirt and takes advantage of the dry grass under the speckled shade of a pretty tree. He figures he’s got at least twenty minutes before Rebecca starts looking for him.
It’s warm, and Ted’s out between one breath and the next, and it’s who knows how long before something hard nudges him in the side. He says, “What?” in a sleepy mumble and shoves blindly at the foot that’s still poking at him.
“For god’s sake, Lasso, cover up before you burn.”
Ted says, “What?” again, this time with his eyes slit open.
“You’re already an alarming shade of red,” Trent says. He looks like he wants to fuss over him, but he moves over to stand so he’s throwing a shadow over Ted’s body instead.
And then Ted clocks how Trent isn’t looking at him; or, rather, how he looks at him, eyes flicking quick as a rabbit over Ted’s bare chest, and then how he looks away. Huh.
The sun’s angled much more severely than it should be, for a twenty minute nap. The tree’s offering no relief at all now, and somewhere Rebecca’s probably hopping mad that Ted’s missing soundcheck.
Still, he sits up nice and slow, trying not to grin too hard. “Come on, now. I have it on good authority that you’re partial to shirtless men.”
“Well, I mean.” Trent refuses to meet his eyes.
Ted can’t be sure, but he thinks maybe there’s a hint of a flush spreading up Trent’s neck.
Trent clears his throat. “There is a time and a place.”
“I heard that place was all over.” Ted’s enjoying the tease. It feels good to ruffle Trent’s feathers a little, when he’s spent so much time being ruffled himself.
Trent looks at him then, but the sun’s framing his face, giving him a halo, making his eyes impossible to read. Ted’s breath catches in his throat anyhow.
After a too-long moment of quiet that’s probably not actually long at all, Trent says, “You’re late to soundcheck. Rebecca sent me to get you.”
“Rebecca sent you ?”
Trent chuckles. “Does anyone ever say no to Ms. Welton?” he says, which doesn’t actually answer the question, but that’s probably one for Rebecca.
Ted is ninety percent sure Rebecca hates Trent’s guts; even factoring in Ted’s inadvisable crush, it’s hard to imagine her sending Trent right to him.
But that is neither here nor there, if it’s as late as Ted thinks it is, so he better get a move on. His skin’s tight, and pulls a little as he gets to his feet. He’ll definitely have an uncomfortable burn for a few days, but it’s worth it for the way Trent covers his face with a groan and walks away.
*
“So,” Beard says.
“So.” Ted nods.
“Not like high school.”
Ted thinks on it. They’re sitting on a little stone wall that’s cold under Ted’s butt, even though it’s been hot all out all day. He swings his legs and catches his heels on the rock, scuffing his sneaks; thinks about how Trent squeezed his hand earlier, when he caught him in between their sets.
Back in high school, Ted admired Trent for his on-stage swagger and the fit of his t-shirts. There’s nothing wrong with liking those bits still, but now Ted’s armed with conversations, personal jabs, and smiles aimed right at him. A couple months of palling around shouldn’t make much of a difference, in the grand scheme of things, but who knows.
He’s gonna miss him, when this is done with. That’s probably not the same as daydreaming in class, doodling Mr. Ted Crimm on the margins of his math book. But it feels just as ephemeral; just as far-fetched, even with all the times Trent’s sought him out all by his lonesome. Ted would be stupid to put all the real parts of his heart on the line.
“Beard,” Ted sighs, “I honestly do not know.”
Beard bumps his shoulder, but stays silent.
When Ted glances over at him, Beard’s staring pointedly toward the light spilling out of the pub, to where Trent’s lounging against the grubby brick, talking with Benjamin and a girl Ted doesn’t know.
Trent tosses his head with a laugh, and Ted says, “No, no, you’re right. I do.”
*
Ted fully plans on approaching Trent about it. He’s ready for a Conversation, capital letter and all; Beard’s right, he’s either gotta be all in and honest or it’ll eat at him forever once he’s gone. Ted’s used to certain things eating at him, though, so when the last Greyhound show looms ahead of them and they haven’t talked about much more than ice cream and the Fast and Furious franchise, well. He’s not mad about it.
The alternative is living with the echo of Trent’s hound dog eyes and pitying frown when he tells Ted he’s ‘flattered, but…’
It’s not that Ted’s scared, it’s just that he’s not sure it’s worth the risk. Greyhound’s going back to Richmond. To clubs and occasional festivals and the promise of a song or three played on the radio. Nothing would come of anything, anyhow, and it’s stupid to hope otherwise, no matter what Beard’s flat, unimpressed looks are saying.
Ted spends a couple days ducking out of Beard’s sight - not that he’s hiding, it’s just a series of strategic retreats - and borrowing Keeley’s enormous sound canceling headphones whenever they’re stuck on the road. He’s going to pay for it later, but the more he thinks about love confessions and Trent Crimm, the more queasy his stomach gets.
Tucked by the back tire of the bus, butt on the hot asphalt, Ted is pointedly thinking about nothing and dogs, maybe, as he watches a fluffy red mutt catch frisbees like it’s his job in the park across the street, set to the melancholy sounds of The Decemberists.
A shadow falls over him as the song suddenly cuts out, and he looks up to see Trent holding the end of the headphones wire. Ted slips them down around his neck, Sons and Daughters now playing tinnily out of his phone speaker.
Trent arches an eyebrow. “Really?”
“What? What’d you think I’d be listening to? Kansas? I mean,” Ted wobbles his hand back and forth, “fair, but also a bit too on the nose.”
Trent’s smile is on the edge of a laugh. “You said it, not me.”
Ted can’t help but smile, too.
Trent nudges his sneakers into his, and says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Technically, I’ve been avoiding Beard,” Ted says, feeling a swoop in his belly, “but you went ahead and made that point moot.”
Trent looks mildly puzzled. “I did.”
“Well, yeah.” In for a penny and all that. “Avoiding Beard means he doesn’t get to bug me about talking to you.” Ted waves a hand at him. “And here you are.”
“You don’t want to talk to me.” Trent frowns, shifts a little, like he’s stepped wrong.
“In general, yes, I do,” Ted says, resisting the urge to curl a hand over Trent’s wrist and pull him down to sit right up next to him. “About certain things, no.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me,” Trent says, still frowning, and then he goes ahead and sits down next to Ted anyhow. Their arms brush as he shifts on the hard ground.
“I’m pretty sure we’re sitting in oil slick, I hope those aren’t your show jeans.” It’s a weak joke, and Ted tucks his hands in between his raised knees, pressing them together.
Trent just says, “Ted,” and falls quiet.
“That’s not going to work, you know,” Ted says. “You’re gonna have to learn to ask the tough questions if you want the tough answers.”
“All right, here’s one.” Trent plays with the frayed edges of a hole in his jeans, but his eyes are steady and serious. “Are you happy you’re going home?”
“To Richmond, you mean.” Ted tilts his head back, knocks it against the side of the bus. He sighs. “Not so much happy as ready, I guess. It’ll be nice to shower every day. Sleep in a real bed. Eat something that isn’t on a stick. Little things like that.”
Trent slips off his glasses, folds them up and slides an arm into the stretched out collar of his t-shirt. He says, curious, “Would you want to stay?”
There’s a lock of hair falling over Trent’s forehead. Ted really wants to push it back, but he’s afraid of what his hands’ll do, if they actually touch him.
“I suppose wanting and getting to are two different things,” Ted says softly, and Trent says, “I suppose you’re right.”
*
Their last show is a delight, even counting Ted’s usual bout of nerves. A warm, enthusiastically loud crowd, Roy shouting a healthy amount of obscenities, and just a general feeling of good natured revelry that Ted appreciates.
They started this whole thing sort of wrong-footed; even with months of practice, Ted was still considered a replacement.
And now Higgins is saying, “Oh god, we did it,” with a breathless sense of wonderment, and Ted doesn’t even take offense.
They did it. They made it through this tour without one single fuck up, Keeley says afterwards, grinning at them all with pride, only to come up quiet when Roy adds, “Yeah, sure. Except Ted’s gone and fallen in love with that colossal prick, Crimm.”
Rebecca’s smile goes strange and she says, “Yes, well.”
“I thought we weren’t talking about that,” Higgins says.
“We weren’t,” Rebecca says, and Keeley balls up her fist and thumps Roy in the arm.
“It’s all right,” Ted says, at the same time Roy says, “Someone’s got to say it, since Ted hasn’t got the balls to do anything about it,” and ain’t that a punch to the gut.
Ted swallows hard. “I could argue that’s a good reason not to.”
“Not to what?” someone says from behind him, and Ted dearly hopes Trent Crimm wasn’t there for the beginning of this conversation.
“Absolutely nothing,” Keeley says. She’s very good at lying, but she doesn’t seem to be trying very hard here.
Roy says, “For fuck’s sake,” and stalks off.
Beard backs up into a shadow and disappears and everyone else mumbles about getting food and suddenly Ted’s standing there, having trouble working out what to do with his hands. Hips? Pockets? Parade rest?
“Well,” Trent says, and somehow he’s moved closer to Ted without him noticing, but Ted does not flinch a single bit, “if everyone really thinks you’re not going to do anything about it.”
“What do--” Ted starts, only to be cut completely off by Trent’s mouth on his.
Ted’s been kissed before. He’s done some of the kissing, too, believe it or not. Still, it takes him a moment to kickstart his brain, and Trent must’ve taken that as some kind of hesitation. He backs up before Ted can stop him, and says, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have just...”
“I’m having a hard time figuring out what you need to be sorry for here,” Ted says, and he’d be embarrassed by how breathless and hoarse he sounds, except Trent Crimm just kissed him. “Can we do that again?”
“You’re sure.” Trent smooths hands along either side of Ted’s jaw.
“Sure as sugar,” Ted says.
“In that case,” Trent says, and kisses him again.
*
There’s a tingle in his extremities when he’s tucked up against Trent, hands in warm places, that has nothing to do with his nerves.
Trent says, “You’re not going to pine away, are you?” against the corner of his mouth.
Ted’s got one leg under Trent’s thigh, an arm around his back, and Roy’s probably five seconds from driving off without him, if the lean on the horn is anything to go by.
“Oh, I’ll pine,” Ted says. “Maybe not all the way away, though. Gotta have something to come back to, right?”
“That I do.” Trent squeezes his hand. He says, “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” but doesn’t move from the pretzel-like twist he’s got going on, half in Ted’s lap on the bench.
It’s nice, and also not nice, because the minute Trent lets him go, he’s going to overthink all of this. Maybe it’s just a proximity thing. Maybe the minute Ted’s gone, he’ll wonder why he even thought he was worth it.
Trent nudges him and says, “Don’t be weird about this. When I’m gone,” like he’s reading Ted’s mind--the stillness of his shoulders, the twitch of his fingers, how he’s ducked his head, which is definitely one of his tells.
“I’m predisposed to be weird about this, sorry,” Ted says, smiling a little. “I really do like you, Trent Crimm.” He rubs his thumb along Trent’s knuckles, the pads of his fingers are rough along Ted’s palm. “Just so we know we’re on the same page here.”
Trent huffs a laugh. “Darling, I’m pretty sure I wrote the book.”
Roy leans, somehow, even harder on the horn, and then shouts out the window, “Oi, get your fucking arse in the bus, Lasso.”
“Gotta go,” Ted says reluctantly, finally untangling himself from Trent’s arms as they both stand. “Later, gator.”
Trent tries so hard to look annoyed, shifts on his feet, runs a hand through his hair. But Ted waits a beat in front of him until Trent says, clearly amused instead, “In a while, crocodile.”
“There you go,” Ted says, something loosening from his chest all across his back, and he moves forward, cups the back of Trent’s head, and opens his mouth over his like it’s nothing. Like he’s been doing this for weeks, instead of days; licks his tongue inside and presses close and ignores the way Roy yelps, “Ow, fuck, Keeley,” and then goes silent behind him.
He pulls away and their foreheads tilt together and Ted doesn’t have any more words, so he just breathes, and he just hopes, and the soft grin on Trent’s face makes him believe everything is going to be okay.