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Three days after Richmond returns from Amsterdam, Trent wakes up shaking.
Heaving into a sitting position, he instinctively reaches towards the nightstand for his glasses. He places them in the same spot every night, finds them on even the groggiest mornings, but it’s as if he’s suddenly lost all sensation in his hands. It takes several long, humiliating seconds of fumbling in the dark before he gives up.
“Christ,” Trent mutters, pushing himself up against the headboard. Hair curtains his face as he leans forward to rest his forehead on his knees, breath fanning hot against his thighs.
Now, Trent, Ted would tease. You know that sitting all curled up like a roly-poly don’t make breathing any easier. He’d gently straighten Trent out, one hand on his stomach, the other against his back, the familiar warmth of Ted’s palms keeping him steady, holding him together. They’d sit like that, just breathing, until enough tension eased out of Trent for him to fall back asleep.
Tonight, however, Trent’s alone in his bed. He hasn’t seen Ted since the bus pulled into the darkened Nelson Road car park, depositing a gaggle of drowsy players and coaching staff onto the tarmac. They’d crossed paths later in the deserted office, moving easily around each other as Trent grabbed a few things for the weekend and Ted secured his new Van Gogh notebook within a locked desk drawer. Ted shared a quick summary of his night on the town; Trent gave Ted the abridged version of his night with Colin. They parted ways with soft kisses and promises to call, but life—as it’s prone to do—got in the way.
The same night Trent returned from Amsterdam, Amelia came down with a fever. Despite having handled nearly all of Amelia’s sicknesses by himself for the past five years, Trent spent the entire frantic, tear-filled weekend wishing Richmond wasn’t on such a strict training schedule so Ted could be by his side. One of the many difficulties of keeping their relationship private: not being able to call upon each other in times of non-life-threatening need. Although he’d surely be happy to do so, asking Ted to drop everything for Trent would raise questions and bring unwanted attention to them both.
But now…nothing would happen if Trent called Ted now. Well, he would wake Ted in the middle of the night. That’s one thing. Ted would lose valuable sleep before another critical Richmond match. That’s another thing. Hearing about Trent’s anxieties would likely trigger Ted’s own, prompting him to get out of bed, dress, and make the nearly thirty-minute walk to Trent’s house to check on him. That definitely would not do.
As Trent breathes steadily, considering, a memory from early in their relationship rises to the front of his mind. It was late, the end of a busy football weekend. Trent had only recently left The Independent, and Richmond was freshly promoted. He and Ted stood in the chill on Trent’s front steps after an evening in; fingers threaded together to fortify themselves against their imminent parting.
Call anytime, Ted said, squeezing Trent’s hand. I mean it. Day, night, thunderstorm, sunshine. If you get even a whiff of an inkling of a hint of a thought to call, do it. C’mon, he said, squeezing Trent’s hand when he raised an eyebrow. Promise me, now. At the time, Trent probably shook his head and agreed because he knew it mattered to Ted. Now, in the dark of his bedroom, knees pressing bruises into the thin skin of his forehead, Trent calls.
Ted picks up after the second ring. “Trent,” he says immediately. “Trent, honey, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
Something in Trent loosens already, just at the sound of Ted’s voice. “Yes, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, hoping to stay Ted’s anxiety. “Everything’s…I’m fine. I’m sorry to have woken you.”
“No apology necessary.” Trent can hear Ted shifting, sitting up in bed. His hair’s probably soft and tousled, flopping down over his forehead the way it does after sleep or a shower.
“...Trent?” Ted says hesitantly when the silence persists a little too long. “What’s going on, huh? What made you wake up in the middle of the night?” He pauses for a moment. Then, a bit urgently, “Or did you never go to bed?”
Trent huffs. “No, no. Millie and I slept early tonight. She’s feeling much better,” he adds because he knows Ted will ask. “Fever’s gone. Her eating’s almost back to normal.”
“Good,” Ted sighs, relieved. “That’s good.”
They both fall silent. A dog barks once, a few streets away, and the sound of Ted’s slow, rhythmic breathing hums through the speaker.
This is something they’ve worked on, something that after weeks and weeks of misunderstanding each other, they one day finally got right. Ted almost never wants silence: when he needs advice or support, he’s content to talk around the issue until someone interrupts him or he gathers the courage to eventually address it head on. Trent, on the other hand, always needs time and quiet to sort out his thoughts.
After a few moments, he tucks a foot underneath the duvet, letting the soft, worn fabric settle onto his skin, and adjusts the phone against his ear. “I haven’t slept well the past few nights,” he admits. “I thought it was because I was worried about Millie, and it was, in part, but I’ve also been thinking a lot about my conversation with Colin.”
Ted hums quietly.
“When we were at the Homomonument, he said something that…He explained to me that… ”
Trent sighs, frustrated, and drags a hand through his hair. “He said that although we can’t fix every ache inside of us, we shouldn’t have to pretend they aren’t there. And since then, I keep waking up from these terrible dreams, just shaking. I don’t remember what they’re about, not clearly, but the feeling, this feeling….” He flattens a hand against his sternum, trying to press back a swell of emotion. “I just can’t stop thinking about my parents.”
The second the words leave Trent’s mouth, a chill descends upon him. He stares into the darkness, eyes wide. How selfish of him to say such a thing. He knows Ted struggles every day with the memory of his father; his relationship with his mother. Why on earth would he do all this, create all this commotion and wake Ted in the middle of the night just to bring up his own parents? His parents are a part of his life. They call once a week. They love Amelia with all their hearts. Over the past few years, Ted’s barely seen his mother. He’ll never speak to his father again, not ever. And now he has to deal with Trent’s issues when, really, Trent’s issues are more like inconveniences anyway, and—
“Trent. Trent,” Ted urges, interrupting Trent’s spiraling thoughts. Through the phone, Trent hears a blanket rustle, a creaking mattress. “Listen, that’s it. I’m coming over there.”
“No!” Trent bursts out. He sucks in a breath through his nose, exhales through pursed lips. “Please don’t,” he tries again. “Ted, please. I couldn’t forgive myself if you came all this way so late. It’s okay. I’m okay.”
In the silence, he can practically see Ted sitting on the edge of his bed, one foot in a slipper, considering. Listening to Trent’s breathing, most likely. He keeps it as even as he can, projecting calm, until Ted sighs.
“Alright,” he concedes. “Okay. But you gotta stop doing that, Trent. I know I’ve got my problems, but I’m not gonna fall apart the second you try to talk about yours. I can be there for you too, you know? I want you to let me be there for you.”
Something tightens in Trent’s chest, and his words come out a bit wobblier than intended. “I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, truly.”
“That’s all I can ever ask of you,” Ted says around a smile. Trent can’t help but smile, too, curling an arm around his stomach.
“And honey,” Ted continues, gently now. “Just because you have a relationship with your parents now don’t erase the fact that they hurt you. Don’t mean they aren’t still hurting you. It’d be mighty odd if you weren’t thinking about them after talking to Colin about all y’all’s aches and pains. I—I don’t know exactly what it’s like, going through what you went through with them. I never will. But I do know that a rejection like that don’t go away overnight, and it especially don’t go away without anyone addressing it.”
Trent takes a deep, slow breath, and lets his eyes fall closed. “It still sometimes feels,” he says wetly, “Like they don’t truly understand me, and that they never will. I know they love me. I know they try. But sometimes…”
“Sometimes it still hurts,” Ted finishes simply. “Believe me. I know. I know. And God, am I sorry you’re going through this right now. That you ever went through any of it.”
Trent sighs, pressing at his eyes. “It’s not your fault, Ted.”
“I know, I know. Don’t stop me from wishing I could take it all away, though.”
“Likewise,” Trent murmurs, dropping his face back into his knees. The shaking’s abated. The pain’s still there, a hard knot behind Trent’s breastbone, but it’s tempered. Dulled. He knows, now, he’ll be able to sleep the rest of the night.
“Thank you, Ted,” he says softly, hoping to convey all his unspoken feelings through those three simple words. “But you should get back to bed. I’ve taken enough of your sleep.”
“Funny you should say that, because you’re one of the few fellas on this great green earth that I’d gladly give my sleep to.”
“And I will always be appreciative of that,” Trent smiles. He slips his other foot under the duvet and shuffles down until his head rests on the pillow. “Shall we see each other tomorrow?”
Ted snorts. “If you don’t think I’m coming to find you the moment the match’s over, you’re mighty delusional, Mr. Crimm. I hope Miss Millie’s well enough for biscuits because I plan to stay the night. Also,” he adds, “I’m sure I didn’t just hear you lie down on your pillow when I know for a fact you don’t have your scrunchie on. That darn thing falls off every single night and I think it’s high time you do something about it.”
Trent, startled, lets out a bark of laughter, then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Do not make me laugh,” he admonishes. “Millie’s asleep.” Yet, when he sweeps a hand beneath the duvet, he emerges with his blue velvet scrunchie.
“Scrunchie on,” he narrates, tying his hair up. “And thank you, Ted. Really. I can’t say it enough.”
“Aw, you’ve said it plenty. Tomorrow afternoon, I expect you to tell me all about your sweet dreams. Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens.”
“Bright copper kettles?”
“And warm woolen mittens, if you can swing it.”
“Well then, Ted, I promise to bring you reports of good dreams. And I ask the same of you.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Ted says warmly. “Goodnight, Trent.”
“Night, Ted.” They both stay on the line for another few seconds, just to listen to each other smile, before Ted hangs up. Trent follows suit, plugs his phone back in, and, despite how silly it feels, wishes with all his might to dream of his favorite things, starting with Ted.