Chapter Text
For a man who lives his life through eloquent words, weaved together to put forth a carefully crafted persona; it is perhaps ironic that every time he opens his mouth in front of the disarmingly kind American, he chokes on said words.
Garbled coughs that leave the ex-journalist unable to speak but for a quiet croaking request of water. Soft, warm hands touching at the exchange of a glass has his heart fluttering dangerously in his chest. Trent swallows the tepid water painfully, forcing down the burning floral taste he’s become accustomed to.
His eyes fall to Colin, who’s watching intently from his place in the locker room, the pity in his eyes is palpable even through the window that separates them. Trent mentally chastises himself for letting slip the meaning behind his recently acquired respiratory problems; problems that only materialise when he’s around a certain gaffer. Or on one occasion where he’d simply began to think a little too closely at the way his heart jumped whenever that someone came to mind.
So yes, Trent does find it ironic that he happens to find himself writing a book, carefully dictating prose- a little too regularly - about the one man that has his chest aching and his throat screaming out for relief on a daily basis.
But maybe Trent is just a glutton for punishment.
It had all started a few weeks prior, on a seemingly unremarkable Wednesday evening. Quietly, he sat in his office, moleskin opened to a fresh page as he jotted down his notes for the day. Scrawled words etched over the page as he let his mind wander, digging through the events of the day’s training for any potential book material.
Lost to said thoughts, he didn’t hear the near silent slide of the door adjoining his and Roy’s office to the coaches', nor the light footsteps of Ted as he approached him.
“Trent?”
The Kansan twang of his name was enough to have Trent jump in his seat, his pen scratching an ugly line straight through his half written notes. His hand came up to his chest, pen still clenched tightly, a useless attempt to slow his racing heart as he turned to face the culprit. The coach was attempting to calm a cup of tea that was still sloshing dangerously close to the ceramic edge. By some manner of luck none of the scolding liquid had spilt over, leaving Ted’s polo graciously dry and strain-free.
“My bad, Josh Gad. Shoulda’ known better than to disturb Mr Crimm, future-bestselling biographer , mid-flow.”
“It’s no bother, Ted.” Trent offered a small show of a smile, just a soft quirk of his lips. It had taken a while for Trent to allow his walls to drop, but gradually he’d fallen victim to the Lasso way; much like he discovered the team themselves had taken time to warm up to their now beloved coach. “Is that- Ted, are you drinking tea ?” Trent lowered his glasses as he looked up at the American, a curious look etched onto his face.
Ted made a show of looking put out as he responded with playful disdain.
“Well, hey now, I thought ya knew me better than that, Mr Journalist-”
“ Ex -journalist.” Trent interrupted. He had upended his entire career for the man after all, he wasn’t about to forget it. Not that that was all there was to it, of course. Trent had been feeling unease surrounding his career for a long while before that article came his way. The article and even Ted Lasso himself were simply a catalyst to something that had already been brewing, ready to boil over for far too long already.
Ted gave a brief tip of his head in acknowledgement as he continued undeterred.
“-Mr ex -journalist, I ain’t lettin’ none of this here tree piss get in my mouth.”
Trent raised his eyebrow, both at Ted swearing so casually and at the imagery those words conjured. Cheeks tinted pink, Ted’s eyes widened almost comically as he continued his tirade.
“I heard it, but the point still stands. I ain’t been swayed to the dark side for y’all’s love of pigeon sweat, an' I don't suspect I ever will. This ,” Ted waved the cup that looked suspiciously like his own, in Trent’s direction, letting the slightly opaque, dark brown liquid slosh yet again, “is for you.”
It took Trent a moment to find his words. Ted, a man who made his dislike of the nation's favourite beverage known, loudly , on an almost daily basis, had made him a cup of tea. Ted , who should likely have left the grounds hours ago since it must have been well after eleven in the evening, was standing in Trent’s office holding a cup of tea out to him, that he had made specifically for him.
“You- you made me tea?” Trent couldn’t help the slight stutter in his voice, it had been a long time since anyone had shown him this amount of kindness, even if it was just a simple brew. The Independent certainly wasn't known for its friendly atmosphere and he'd been living alone- part time thanks to a tiny human with hair much like his own - for far too long now, nary a cup of tea in sight bar the ones he made himself.
“Yes sir.” Ted’s smile lit up his entire face, his moustache twitching as his lips curled upwards. “Earl grey, that’s your brand ain’t it?”
“It is.” His response was quiet as he peered up at Ted curiously, “Thank you, Ted.” There was more emotion in his words than he planned to let out and he only hoped that Ted wouldn’t pick up on the vulnerability in his voice. Trent was never a fan of allowing himself to be vulnerable and yet Ted seemed to have found his way behind the barbed wire fence Trent kept up around himself without him even realising.
“As you said, ‘ it’s no bother .’” The horrendous attempt at a British accent had Trent snorting out an unexpected laugh, a deep flush spreading over his cheeks at the sound. But Ted didn’t laugh at him, didn't tease him for the undignified noise. He simply smiled. A fond, warm smile that made Trent's stomach flip.
Ted’s hands were stretched out towards him, waiting for Trent to accept the steaming cup of earl grey. Trent’s fingers wrapped around the base of the ceramic mug, warmth seeping through his palm as he gently began to pry the drink from the gaffer’s hands. Only, Ted was reluctant to let go, letting his own slightly broader fingers slip forwards, brushing against Trent’s own for a moment longer before allowing the cup to be taken from him.
Still sat in his office chair, Trent peered up at Ted, the two of them wearing a similar subtle pink hue across their cheeks. For a moment the room was entirely silent except for the ticking of a clock on the wall beside them, though Trent wouldn't have been surprised if Ted could hear his heart thumping fast and heavy in his chest.
Ted was the first to break that tension- or was Trent simply imagining that there was tension between them in the first place - by lightly patting Trent on the shoulder, a wide smile under his moustache.
“You have a good night now, Trent.” Ted’s voice echoed in his ear as the other man left the room, his footsteps retreating down the hall until Trent could no longer hear him.
His shoulder burned where Ted had touched him, a pleasant tingling that had his lips curving in a soft smile, the kind of private smile that had to be earned to be seen. The moment was ruined by a sudden hacking sound, a harsh tickle in his throat that he just couldn’t seem to cough up. He lowered his cup to the desk with a heavy hand, tea spilling over and seeping through the note-filled pages of his moleskin, staining the paper as if to force this moment to memory- as if he could possibly forget it . It took minutes for the fit to pass, coughing and wheezing until finally it calmed enough for him to lower his hand away from his mouth.
And with that motion, Trent's heart sank.
In his palm lay a petal. It was small and innocuous to look at, a simple pale blue petal. And yet in that moment Trent felt his heart begin to crack.
At first Trent kept his ailment to himself, brushing off concerns for his sudden bouts of coughing as being leftover from a cold no one else had witnessed. It was clear that not everyone bought his lie, but he was thankful that they all seemed to respect his privacy, at least for the time being it would seem.
Trent didn’t know how long he would be able to keep up the farce. How long he would be able to keep sneaking off, discreetly disposing of bundled up tissues hiding the remains of coughed up petals. Especially when he considered how much worse he knew it was going to get.
Hanahaki disease .
A fool’s disease- Trent couldn't help but reprimand himself - cursed upon those who fall for one who does not return their affections. A rare but ultimately life-threatening disease that runs in the Crimm family tree. It hadn't shown itself in more than a few generations, but that didn't stop the stories from being passed down. Tales told to keep foolish hearts in line, lest the disease take hold. Twisting and tugging. Filling their lungs with flowers and stems, until one day there's simply no room left for anything but bloodied petals.
And isn’t that just the kicker? Trent was finally allowing himself to be, well, himself , and the very first man he falls for has no way of reciprocating. Everything about Ted Lasso screamed ‘straight’. Even if he wasn’t, even if by some god forsaken miracle, Ted was anything other than a straight man, why would he ever have feelings for Trent?
Trent knew he wasn’t a catch. He wasn’t the big romcom happy ending for someone, not even close to the one Ted deserved. He was a middle-aged divorcee with joint custody of his six year old daughter. He’d lived most of his life so far in the closet, that it wasn’t until a few years ago that he even truly realised- allowed himself to realise- who he was. A gay man in his late-forties with absolutely no real experience with another man.
Of course since the eventual coming out he'd been on a handful of unsuccessful first dates, courtesy of Bantr, but his experience was still severely lacking. Something that plagued Trent's mind as he longed for the kind of companionship he could easily imagine with Ted.
But even if Ted was anything but straight, Trent couldn’t let himself hold out hope that his feelings would ever be returned. The more he ached for him, the stronger the disease would get. Blooms growing inside his lungs, forcing their way out through ragged coughs. Stems and thorns scratching and clawing their way up his throat. He'd be left gagging and bleeding by the end.
And therein lay the problem.
“Everything okay, Doris Day? You’ve been coughin’ up a storm for roundabout a month now.” Ted’s concerned voice brings Trent back into the room, he’d been caught up with Colin’s pitying stare and subtle- not particularly subtle - hand gestures and wiggling eyebrows, wordlessly asking if he needed an escape plan. And as much as Trent appreciates the gesture, he's quite certain that would only raise more questions from the men in front of him that he cannot- will not - answer.
“It’s nothing I can’t manage.” He shrugs in a manner he hopes looks nonchalant, ignoring the sharp pang in his heart at Ted’s questioning gaze. It’s clear that his farce is beginning to fail, as it's not only Ted who is looking at him with worrying levels of suspicion.
It’s Higgins who steps up to the plate next, preparing to press the matter even more.
“Ted’s right, Trent. It is rather a nasty cough you’ve got, perhaps a doctor’s visit is in order?” The other members of their exclusive club all nod and point towards Leslie in agreement, giving Trent no escape from the conversation, much as he desperately wishes for it to be over.
“You know as well as I do, doctor’s appointments are few and far between.” Trent’s voice, though the words polite, is a little sharper than intended. He feels backed into a corner, forced to continue a lie he wishes he never had to tell in the first place.
An uneasy sensation settles in his chest, a thick layer of guilt overcoming his senses as he watches Higgins’ eyes widen slightly. Taking a subtle breath to calm the storm that's verging to break in his stomach, Trent lets his words soften as he continues.
“ But , if it makes you all feel better, I’ll give them a call in the morning.” He offers each man a small smile as he briefly lets his eyes flit over the room. Content with their approving nods he's quick to divert the conversation away from himself- better late than never .
“Now, I believe Ted called this meeting for a reason?” He lets his eyes settle on the coach in question, who, for a second, looks like the epitome of a deer in headlights. That is until he quickly schools his expression back to his usual easy smile. Though perhaps it’s not as easy as usual, if the slight bob of his Adam's apple is anything to go by.
It pains Trent that he is so unconsciously aware of the intricacies of one Ted Lasso. It also brings about a fresh wave of the bitter perfumed tang that he’s so uncomfortably accustomed to, forcing him to ignore the way his gag reflex begs to kick in. It never seems to matter how many times it happens, his body is quick to reject the taste, leaving a small amount of bile sitting bitterly in his throat as he's forced to pretend it isn’t there.
“Trent Crimm, bringing the heat.” Luckily he has Ted to distract him from the discomfort, regardless of the fact that he is indeed the sole cause of it. Or perhaps he isn’t lucky at all, he thinks, as Ted’s smile softens towards him.
He chokes back another cough, waving off Roy’s surprising look of concern. It’s only as he notices the faraway look in Ted’s eyes, the subtle downturn of his mouth as his ever present smile wavers, that Trent’s stomach drops. It’s a swooping sensation that has him feeling entirely off-centre. An uncertainty that leaves him desperate for Ted to not drop whatever bombshell he's sure is about to leave his mouth. He can see it. Ted’s own discomfort at whatever he’s about to say, and that alone has Trent’s heart beating erratically in his chest.
“Suppose I should just rip the ol' bandaid off,” Ted lets out a humourless laugh, his smile no longer meeting his eyes as he pauses. Ted's eyes sweep the room before ultimately falling back onto Trent's. It's a moment that seems to last forever, the two men with their eyes locked as Ted tries to find the right words to say. His gaze drifts to a spot on the wall behind Trent, as if he can't look at him for what he has to say next, “I’m going home. We’re going home.” He nods towards Beard briefly who shoots seemingly unenthusiastic finger guns back.
Trent feels as though the floor has been pulled out from under him. His ears are ringing loudly, louder than ever before as he tries to maintain some semblance of composure. He hopes beyond hope that his face isn’t giving away the blinding pain that’s emanating from his chest. He’s vaguely aware of yelling, thinly veiled outrage and shock from the other diamond dogs as Ted's news finally begins to sink in.
He doesn't know how long he's been silent. The others are all talking over one another, trying in vein to offer solutions that Trent is fully sure Ted will graciously reject. When he finally finds his words, his voice cracks on a single syllable question.
“When?”
Every other voice falls quiet. Trent can feel their stares but he can’t take his eyes off Ted. Ted, whose face is pinched in what Trent can only describe as a pained expression. Surely if he is so pained by this decision, it is the wrong one to make. But Trent knows better than to make any attempt at changing his mind. Ted is stubborn, and a bloody good dad. And that is why he's going back, to be with his son. To be with Henry. Trent can't begrudge him that, no matter the cost.
“Friday.”
It’s the shortest, most succinct answer Trent has ever heard from Ted. And it feels like a knife in his gut, twisting ever deeper as Ted looks at him with barely concealed pity. Christ does he know? Does he know and he's still leaving? Trent isn't foolish enough to think that Ted knows everything , but he clearly knows enough to have another knife breaking through Trent's fragile flesh, this time embedding itself straight into his breaking heart.
Trent knew, he’d always known that Ted wouldn’t return his feelings. But this feels so finite. He feels a chill, a wash of emptiness sitting heavy over his body, like a damp blanket left out in the cold night air. He barely acknowledges his next words as they leave him,
“Well, I will certainly miss you both. I wish you safe travels and hope you’ll keep in touch once you return to Kansas.”
Trent had been edging towards the door as he spoke, pleasantries falling out of him without his permission. There’s a burning behind his eyes that he hopes no one else can see, his vision blurring behind the wet line of salty tears that are threatening to fall. He slips through the door between the two offices, leaving no room for a response from Ted. He stops only long enough to pick up his bag and laptop before exiting into the hallway.
The second he’s out of sight he lets himself slump against the wall to the left of the office. Head falling back with a heavy thump, his hair softening the blow only slightly. Tears are still fighting to fall, but he won’t let them. He can't. Not yet. Not until he’s safely tucked away at home. He has the rest of the week to himself, his daughter isn’t due until Monday after school. He hopes that's enough time to let himself wallow, to get the worst of it out before he has to return to Dad Mode.
He’s so lost to his own thoughts that he misses the door beside him opening, revealing Coach Beard.
“Are you gonna tell him?” His question is abrupt as always. Eyes piercing into Trent's own, as if somehow he could see into Trent's soul, his entire being, with just one look.
“Tell who, what?” He bristles but tries fruitlessly to remain indifferent to Beard’s question. The coach has never been easy to fool, and of course this time is no different. “What good will it do? He’s clearly made his mind up. He needs to be with Henry. Ted won’t change his mind, regardless of whether he knows or not.”
He's aware of how his voice becomes sharp, shards of his breaking heart escaping through his words. Trent doesn’t wait to see if Beard has a comeback. He turns quickly, one foot in front of the other as he makes his escape from the building. Waiting until he’s safe in the confines of his car to free the ragged cough. Unlike each time before, in his palm is no longer a handful of small, almost innocuous, petals, instead he finds the head of a flower, stark white and tinged lightly with the crimson wetness of his blood.