Chapter Text
“Your friend’s a really good writer when he’s not being so mean about it,” Henry declares, absently flipping pages.
Trent had been kind enough to give Ted a rough draft (a very rough draft, he had stressed) of the final chapter of his book. He’d written it in a frenzy in the midst of their celebrations. Ted would know, considering he’d watched him wield that pen like a man possessed, prompting Ted into calling an abrupt Diamond Dogs session to decide if they should call an exorcist. (Roy had been in favor but was summarily outvoted.)
Ted admittedly wishes he’d allowed himself to see more of Trent that night, but Trent had seemed so hyper focused on writing that Ted could use it as an excuse to keep his distance. Because it was imperative that he maintain that distance. In any case, Trent had looked tired the following day as he’d handed it to Ted—not just typed but bound and laminated, since Trent didn’t seem to do anything by halves—and Ted doesn’t doubt he’d traded most of his sleep for more writing time.
It’s strange. He’d seen Trent open up over the course of the season with them, but as he’d handed the last chapter to Ted, it had reminded him of Trent’s first week. How jumpy and awkward he’d been, fidgeting in place like a toddler that needed to tinkle; so far removed from Trent Crimm, The Independent and yet somehow familiar all the same. Ted’s not sure exactly why that’s sticking out to him just now. Maybe it’s just the book keeping Trent on his mind.
Ted huffs a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of his son’s head. “Hey, c’mon, now. Give Trent a break, he’s—”
“A good guy, yeah, I know, I know,” Henry says.
It’s mostly teasing, his tone, but there’s just that tiniest sliver of impending teenage rebellion threaded in. It makes Ted ache; how long does he have with his little boy? How long until he grows up and grows out of this? Ted remembers himself as a teen and if Henry’s anything like he was, well…
All the better that Ted had come home. He needs to enjoy these moments while they last. He can’t do that a whole ocean away. As much as he loves Richmond, as much as he considers it a home, a family… his son’s always going to come first. He’d accomplished what he wanted to accomplish with Richmond, so it only made sense for him to focus on what was most important.
“Dad? You okay?” Henry asks.
Ted drags his eyes away from the cover to his son’s worried face.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, bud,” Ted assures him, fixing a smile in place. “Just hoping everyone back in Richmond’s doin’ alright.”
Henry hums thoughtfully as Ted rises from the bed and rolls the booklet into a tube before shoving it in the back pocket of his khakis. As Ted is tucking him in, Henry suddenly lunges forward and wraps his arms around Ted’s shoulders, squeezing tightly.
“Are you happy, dad?” he asks.
“Am I hap—well, of course I’m happy,” Ted says with a surprised laugh, hugging him right back. “I’m here with you, why wouldn’t I be happy?”
“I dunno, just… I just want you and mom to both be happy,” Henry says.
“And we want you to be happy,” Ted says. “So if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Henry doesn’t say anything to this, leaving Ted with the sinking feeling that there was a right answer to that question and his wasn’t it. But before he can dwell on that thought, Henry levers himself up and presses a kiss to his cheek.
“Love you, dad.”
“Love you, too, bud,” Ted says earnestly. “Sleep tight.”
He must be tired, Ted thinks, because he doesn’t tease or joke in response. Just mumbles a quiet goodnight as Ted sees himself out. Standing in the hallway, Ted feels paralyzed for several long moments, thoughts of Henry’s questions and Trent’s writing spinning around in his head like a grocery store rotisserie chicken.
It's his feet that seem to make a decision first, as he starts walking towards the guest room before he even realizes. It’s a little strange being in the guest room of the home he’d shared with Michelle, but it’s just until he finds his own place so he can manage. Quietly shutting the door behind him, he sits down on the bed and flicks on the lamp on the nightstand, bathing the room in a soft yellow glow.
He hadn’t realized until now just how bone tired he is. It had been so emotionally draining leaving Richmond behind that he hates to think about what it would’ve been like had he taken more time to do it. He’d desperately wanted to… but he’d also known that he couldn’t. It had to be done quick, like ripping off a bandaid. So he’d purposefully kept himself distant those last couple days, knowing he’d choke otherwise.
It was enough to be noticeable, he knows that. He remembers Trent hovering in the open door between their offices, fiddling with his glasses restlessly enough to nearly snap them in half if he weren’t careful, watching Ted read what he’d written so far.
I just really want you to like it.
Ted doesn’t know why he’s dwelling on this. On those words. But even as he thinks that, he knows it’s not true; he knows why. It’s because he feels guilty. He’d spent a lot of time carefully prodding Trent into opening up, into being his friend, into being a part of their team—their family. And the moment Trent had said those words, Ted knows he was reaching out, sensing Ted’s distance. He’d let himself be vulnerable in that brief moment, wanting to connect with Ted and undoubtedly wanting to say more than what had come out of his mouth.
I just really want you to like me.
That’s what Trent had been trying to say, in his own roundabout way. And Ted does like him. A whole damn lot, actually. It’s just…
“Okay, let’s read something else and settle down, now,” Ted tells himself. “No need to get yourself all wound up before bed.”
So he stands and stretches, taking a deep breath before he wanders over to his suitcase. It’s after he’s gotten his sleepwear out that he finds it. When he pulls out the next book he’d planned to read, something stuck between the pages flutters to the floor. He frowns at the small, plain white envelope lying on the carpet and picks it up. Turning it over in his hands, he finds it bears his name on the front but nothing more. He doesn’t remember this being there when he’d packed, so someone must have slipped it in before he’d left for the airport.
He weighs it in his hands, not sure yet whether he should open it or not. Of course he wants to. He’s insanely curious about what could be in it, but something tells him this isn’t something he should go into lightly.
So instead he places the envelope on his bed and goes about his nighttime routine; changing into sweats, brushing his teeth, thinking of his dentist guiltily as he proceeds to not floss. But the envelope is still waiting for him when he gets to the bed. He places his hands on his hips as he stares at it lying there on the quilt. Like it’s teasing him. Daring him to open it. Come on, Ted, don’t you want to open it? Hm? Don’t you?
He blows a raspberry at himself as his curiosity gets the better of him and he gives in, snatching the envelope up as he lies on the bed. Settling down on top of the covers, he carefully opens the envelope to find a few folded pages of notebook paper, which bear Trent’s untidy scrawl.
Dear Ted,
Hopefully by the time you read this, you’ll be well on your way back to Kansas. This tends to be the sort of thing one ought to say in person, but I’ve never been very good at expressing myself verbally. Cowardice comes naturally to me, I’m afraid. Always has.
When we first met, I was a deeply unhappy man. (I don’t believe this was a secret to you; or anyone else for that matter.) And at the risk of writing you a sob story, I’ll simply say that I did not have a happy childhood. (But then, who has had one?) I learned very early on that there were many parts of me that were undesirable to my family and to others. So I did my best to smother those parts.
I tried very hard to be a son my parents could be proud of, if not the one they’d wanted. I grew a career around sports, I married a wonderful woman and we had a beautiful baby girl. All of the things I was supposed to do and all of the things that were expected of me. I thought I was doing so well. I truly thought that if I just tried hard enough, if I just buried those parts of me deep enough, I could make them disappear altogether. If I buried them deep enough, I could be normal. And Christ, did I try. I wanted so badly to feel as though I fit somewhere. I wanted to be like everyone else. But it’s just not doable, Ted. I believe you know that better than anyone.
I’ve spent my entire life hiding nearly every genuine part of myself and believing I was doing the right thing in doing so. It seems laughable to admit that now. Over the years I withdrew more and more, blocking out everyone save one or two close friends. Socializing had admittedly always been difficult for me in the first place, so in essence, I gave up trying at all. l had grown bitter and miserable, in a slide so gradual that I hardly noticed.
I found I felt vindicated in writing the sort of things I wrote because all the Roy Kents and the Jamie Tartts were no different from one another. They were no different from those who’d made my school life unbearable. So why should I care if the things I wrote hurt them? If anything, they ought to be taken down a notch, shouldn’t they? I certainly thought so.
You reminded me that I wasn’t always that person. It was you who made me realize my younger self would be horrified to see me now, face-to-face. I know better than anyone what it means to be bullied and yet in my effort to be what I thought everyone wanted me to be, to be what I was supposed to be, I’d gone and become a bully myself.
Did Roy ever tell you what we talked about in Chelsea? I’m betting he didn’t. It was an article I’d written about him, about his premier at seventeen years of age. I tore him to shreds. And not just that; I was deliberately cruel. He was facing a kind of immense pressure that nearly no one else his age could even comprehend, and I made it my job to add to that. Though he claims to have forgiven me, I’m not certain that’s possible. Or that I even deserve it, really. How do you forgive someone for having done you wrong on such an enormous scale?
It’s a question I have to pose to you as well. I wasn’t kind to you. I wrote things that I know hurt you and hurt you deeply, whether you would ever admit to it or not. Because at first I saw you as an interesting little puzzle for me to take apart; one I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to figure out. I wanted to know what your breaking point was, how to make you crack. I wanted to know which parts of you I needed to apply pressure on to see you come apart. Because of course you would, I knew. Time had proven again and again to me that anything that stands out as different can’t stay that way for long.
But you didn’t crack. You never broke in the way I intended. Amazingly, you remained kind and steadfast in the face of hatred and ignorance and intolerance. In the face of an entire city that didn’t want you here and wasn’t shy about letting you know. In the face of the toxic masculinity that permeates every level of sports culture; a hulking Goliath that I had all but been assured would never be toppled.
It made me angry that you could do that. I was envious of how you could continue to exist in that way, as yourself, as someone sensitive and earnest and a bit odd. That is, until I came to realize it was no easier for you than it had ever been for me. The difference between us was that you’d had courage where I hadn’t. (I said before how cowardice comes naturally to me, if you’ll remember.)
So as quick as it had appeared, that anger I felt fizzled out. Spending that day with you for your profile caused me to crack. That’s all I could last. Just a single day. I am so rarely at a loss for words when it comes to writing but when I sat down at my desk that night, I found myself struggling to pin you down on paper.
You said you had enjoyed getting to spend that time with me. And you had meant it. I couldn’t quite wrap my head around the idea but I had no evidence to dispute it. You’d been so forthcoming with everything else we’d discussed—even volunteering information where I hadn’t asked for it—I had no choice but to believe you. Still, it made no sense to me. I was baffled.
Instead of looking for ways to break you down, I began looking for ways to pry you open. Which, admittedly, was hardly a more gentle approach, but was at the very least (the very, very least) a more well-intentioned one. I wanted to know more about you, why you were the way you were, how you could be the way you were. Really, I just wanted to know you. I found myself looking forward to matches not for the game, not for whatever article I might write, but for those few moments in the press room. For that thrill I felt whenever you called on me, when I had the opportunity to test you, when I had the chance to learn something new about you. Whenever I could hear you laugh and joke yet still treat each question from each reporter as if it were of the utmost importance.
And somewhere in the midst of all that, I fell in love with you.
I hadn’t meant to. I tried very hard not to. But there came a point where I realized that the way you preoccupied my thoughts wasn’t due to simple curiosity and that the affection I felt for you wasn’t only the friendly variety. So here I am, resorting to cowardice once again because the thought of ever telling you this to your face is—to be completely honest—more terrifying than all the times I’d unsuccessfully tried to come out to the people in my life. (Although, rightfully, I’d deserve the embarrassment and whatever else came with it.)
Although I’d never set out with the intention of hurting my then-wife, I did. Terribly. In my effort to make myself something I wasn’t, I had never given her the chance to really know me. The real me. She saw parts, glimpses now and again, but I was never as open with her as a husband should be with his wife. I couldn’t be. I hid being gay from her like I’d hid it from everyone else. Telling her the truth wouldn’t be fair, I thought. And it wasn’t when I finally did. But keeping her trapped in a lie was even less fair.
The first time I tried, she didn’t believe me. I don’t blame her. I’d played my part very well, in my opinion. So well that she couldn’t believe it. It was simpler for her to think I was having an affair, it made more sense. We argued ferociously and it ended with us deciding that a separation was in order. After months of this, I tried to tell her again.
This time she believed me. And she believed me because of you.
I know that you don’t feel the same. I truly do understand that and I expect nothing from you. It’s just that I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t find the strength to do that. (You can add weakness to my repertoire alongside cowardice.) I thought putting an ocean between us might make things less awkward when you read this and would probably be for the best. But awkward as it may be… I had to tell you. Not just that I’m in love with you, but for me to actually say
The pen had made a mess of the paper here, as Trent had written and scribbled out his words enough to nearly fill the bottom quarter of the page. For a moment, Ted worries that perhaps Trent had given up writing here, but as he turns the page, the words written very clearly at the top of the paper make his heart leap into his throat.
I love you, Ted. (I’m not very good at saying it and I’m trying to get better.)
It never felt right to actually say it though. Even in those rare moments when I thought I should, I couldn’t say anything at all, let alone something like that. I felt guilty for even having these feelings in the first place. Some of it I know is due to my own baggage, but still… It felt wrong—dishonest in a way—to have gotten so close to you while keeping this secret. But getting closer afforded me the opportunity to see you in a different way than I had before. I was fortunate to see many sides of you I hadn’t seen before. One of those sides showed me just how much you’ve struggled with yourself and how little you’ve let others know about it.
I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for more things than I could even begin to apologize for, but for that especially. I’m sorry for the things I’ve written about you, for my behavior, for the part I had in worsening your anxiety. I shouldn’t have been so careless with you, because you are the very last person to deserve that. If I were a braver man, I’d have said this to you in person, too, but as we’ve previously established, I am not a brave man.
I wouldn’t blame you if you were wondering how I could have the audacity to tell you I love you after having written all that. But the primary reason I want you to know how I feel about you is because I think it’s likely been far too long since you last heard it from anyone. And that bothers me. It baffles me just as much as you did. What I need you to understand is that there are people who love you just as you are. I don’t care if you’re a mess, Ted. Life is a mess. I’m a mess. It’s the human condition. And in that giant mess of humanity, in the billions of people on this planet, there will be so many other people who love you for you. There are people who will want you for every part of you; even the messy ones.
(I mean, really, if you can manage to get it out of this grumpy bugger, the sky’s the limit.)
Someday you’ll find someone who loves you in the way you need and whom you love in return. It will happen, I’m confident of that. Because you are a beautiful person, Ted; inside and out. You’re a good man, a good father, and a good friend. Sometimes I think you’re not sure of those things, but it makes them no less true.
You are so deeply loved here, Ted. Not just by me, but by everyone around you. I wish there were some way for me to impress upon you the sheer magnitude of that feeling that all of us share for you. At the very least, take it from someone who made it their job to watch all of you—your team adores you. Rebecca, Roy, Keeley, Beard, Leslie, Will, Nate; they all love you more fervently than I can ever recall any group of people having loved a single person. (Unless we were to consider cult leaders, although I think calling that “love” is debatable at best.)
Perhaps, then, it’s selfish for us to have wanted to keep you any longer than we’d already had you. The thought occurred to me to beg you to stay, but if Rebecca was unable to move you to do so, I didn’t think I could possibly fare any better and so decided to save us both the embarrassment. And while I understand and respect the fact that Kansas is your home, I can’t lie and claim it doesn’t kill me to see you leave.
I hope we can remain friends regardless, although I do understand if that’s not something you want. Making you uncomfortable is the very last thing I want to do and, frankly, I’m not sure I’m a very good friend in the first place. But I can’t let you go without thanking you, at the very least. You gave me something I’ve never truly had before: being welcome somewhere as myself. And not just welcome, but wanted. Actually fucking wanted.
That’s something I will cherish even if we never see each other again. So thank you, Ted.
While I don’t want to make this rambling, incoherent letter any longer, it’s important for me to make you understand that I’m happy for what feels like the first time in my life. But what would make me happiest would be knowing you’re somewhere with someone who makes you feel as loved as you ought to be. I think that’s all any of us want for you. More than anything, please know that you deserve that.
I’ve rambled on long enough, I think. Too long. I’ve rewritten this more times than I can count and since my hand is cramping terribly, I suppose this will have to serve as the final draft.
Take care of yourself, Ted. And if you ever find yourself doubting that you’re worth loving or being loved as you are, Richmond will always be here for you.
As will I.
Yours,
Trent
Ted feels too warm as he reads and rereads and pours over the letter like a scholar would some ancient manuscript. At last the words become too overwhelming and he folds the papers, holding them in his shaking hands.
Air.
He just needs some fresh air.
He doesn’t even remember if he bothered turning out the bedside lamp as he allows memory to steer him through the house. Except it’s different than he remembers—a footstool where it oughtn’t be, a painting he’s never seen before, a man’s jacket on the coatrack that doesn’t belong to him.
All this serves to do is accelerate his panic—because he’s having a panic attack, he realizes. He should stop here and sit, should focus on his breathing exercises, but he can’t. Not inside this house that’s his but isn’t.
Once he breaches the barrier of the front door, it’s like he loses all control. He’s bent double, hands on his knees as he heaves for breath until he’s lightheaded.
“It’s okay, Ted.”
He feels a hand rub his back soothingly in conjunction with being tugged away from the front steps. It’s Michelle guiding him to the bench. He doesn’t fight it, just lets her steer him like a ship until they’re both sitting and she holds his shaking hands in hers.
She encourages him to breathe as her thumbs work the palms of his hands. There’s a firm pressure as she digs her thumbs in, massaging the muscles in long, slow strokes until the shaking abates and the numbness in his fingers retreats. As he focuses on his breathing, he can feel himself gradually tuning back in to his own station, so to speak.
“Okay?” Michelle asks, watching him worriedly.
After a time, Ted nods his head and sighs deeply. “I’m alright. I’m alright, yeah.”
“I thought you said you weren’t having them recently?” Michelle probes gently.
“I wasn’t. I was doing real good, but then…” Ted murmurs, shaking his head. He looks down at their hands. “Where did you learn that trick?”
It’s only now that she draws her hands away sheepishly, eyes cast down as though there were something to be guilty about.
Oh.
“I asked Jake after I noticed your hands seem to shake when you’re anxious,” Michelle says, looking embarrassed by the admission. “I know that’s silly, you were doing so well, after all, but I just… wanted to be able to help if you needed it. Maybe that was bad luck.”
Ted reaches out with one hand, patting hers fondly.
“Thank you,” Ted says simply. “I don’t think it was bad luck at all.”
They sit quietly for a moment, each letting the night air scale down their anxieties.
“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks. “What might have caused it or… I don’t know, maybe there’s something else you’d like to talk about?”
His gut reaction is to say no. That there’s nothing he wants to talk about. Except there is. And isn’t this part of what had lead to the breakdown of their marriage? His inability to be open like this? To share those parts of himself that were hurting the most?
Isn’t that part of what had ended Trent’s marriage, too?
“Could I maybe show you something first?” he wonders.
“Of course,” Michelle answers.
If anything, she looks pleasantly surprised by his willingness to talk. He unfolds Trent’s letter and, after a moment’s hesitation, hands it to Michelle. Her expression is curious as she takes it, her eyes beginning to scan the page. He watches the myriad of expressions that make an appearance on her face as she makes her way through to the last page.
“Ted, this is…” she says, trailing off as though unsure what to say.
Ted just nods his head.
“It really upset you, didn’t it?” Michelle asks, looking to him worriedly.
Ted nods again. Michelle pauses, a little frown furrowing her brow as she thinks.
“Is it because it makes you uncomfortable?” Michelle says delicately.
He knows what she really means. If it upsets him because Trent is a man. And this is where he finds himself struggling.
“Yes and no,” Ted admits. “It’s just… It’s just that… I like Trent. A lot. But I…”
He trails off, needing to get his breathing under control. He can already feel himself tilting back towards panic and he’ll never get through this if he doesn’t get it under control. But Michelle is patient, sitting silently beside him as he gets himself where he needs to be.
“I’ve never told anyone, but… the day before my dad, um… Well, the day before he did that, see, he saw me, um…” Ted says, hearing the tremor in his own voice. He tucks his hands in his lap, squeezing them tightly. “I used to be friends with a kid named Charlie. And, um… and I liked him a lot. More than a lot. And that day, I…”
Ted swallows around the lump in his throat, trying to force a secret out that he’s held onto for nearly all his life.
“He saw me kissing Charlie,” Ted blurts, feeling a flash of heat run up his neck. “It was just a little one, just something that happened in the moment. My dad, he just… looked me in the eye and didn’t say a word, just kept walking. Then the next day he killed himself. And… I’m scared that it was because of me. That it was my fault. That he saw me doing that and…”
Shaking his head, he ends his thought there, unable to go on.
“Charlie didn’t come around anymore after that. And the next year his family moved away,” Ted relates. “So I felt like… I don’t know, it was a sign or something. That it was bad and I was… just… made wrong. I’m scared that—that I killed him by being like that. That maybe I was the last straw, I was what made him…”
“Ted,” Michelle says simply.
She reaches out and pulls him into a hug that he surrenders to all too willingly. He can hear her sniffling right along with him.
“Ted, of course you didn’t kill him,” she says quietly. “It’s not your fault.”
“But the way he looked at me…” Ted breathes.
“Honey, whatever he thought, however he may have felt about seeing you with that boy, that does not make it your fault,” she goes on. “You’re not bad or made wrong. You’re you and that’s the best thing you could be.”
Ted’s not so sure that’s true. And yet, isn’t that what Trent was trying to get across to him? But the more he thinks about it…
“I’m scared,” he admits quietly, his voice choked. “I’m scared I made the wrong choice and it makes me sick even thinking that. How could coming home be wrong? How could choosing my son be wrong? It can’t. It just can’t.”
Michelle at last releases him, laughing a little as Ted reaches out to brush the tears from her cheeks.
“Henry’s here. You’re here,” Ted says. “I mean, not that—I know we’re not, y’know… But I got this feeling like… like any choice I made woulda been the wrong one.”
“Well, give yourself time to settle in,” Michelle says. “See if that changes how you’re feeling. And if it doesn’t… you could always go back, Ted.”
It feels too much like failure to even consider it. After all, it’s not as though he could just leave his son again. He doesn’t want to leave him again. But he can’t deny that Trent’s letter had… moved him. Moved things inside of him that had been sat gathering cobwebs, rusty gears squeaking to life. It’s just that he can’t even begin to think of how to address all of it.
“Why don’t you put off looking for a new place for a while,” Michelle suggests as his silence drags on. “You can just stay here.”
“Oh, I don’t wanna get in the way and crowd you like that,” Ted says quickly. “I mean, we’re divorced for a reason.”
“Yeah, we are,” she agrees softly. “But we’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are,” Ted says. “We’ll always be friends.”
“Then let me help my friend,” Michelle says. “He’s having a hard time and I’m worried about him.”
Ted can’t help huffing a soft laugh at that.
“I appreciate it, Michelle, really,” he says. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea. If we’re both trying to move on, I don’t want to be hanging around when Doctor J—when Jake comes to visit.”
Michelle is curiously silent for several long moments before clearing her throat.
“Jake and I… decided to see other people,” she says slowly.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” Ted says.
“I know you’re not,” Michelle says with a barely suppressed grin.
“…okay, so maybe I’m a little happy he’s out of the picture,” Ted admits as her smile breaches containment. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you happy. You know that, right?”
“I know, Ted,” she says quietly, placing a hand on his arm. “But I don’t think you realize that I want you to be happy just as badly. With whoever and wherever that may be.”
Whoever and wherever.
He wishes it were all as simple as she makes it sound. He doesn’t know how to even begin talking to Trent about his letter. Considering he’s almost scared of what he might feel when he reads it again, he thinks it might need time to dwell on it. Much as he hates the idea… he may just have to go and talk to his mom about his dad, if he ever wants to even consider Trent as… well, as an option.
This is why he had distanced himself those last few days. This is why he hadn’t reciprocated in that moment when Trent was trying to reach him. He knows he would have blown it all to hell somehow.
“Henry’s growing up so fast,” Ted says absently. “I’m just scared of missing any more than I already have.”
“I understand,” Michelle says.
They sit in companionable silence for several long moments.
“Do you want a beer?” she asks.
“God, yeah,” Ted sighs, drawing laughter from them both.
He doesn’t remember the last time they’d sat and watched the sunrise together. But as the sun begins to peek over the horizon and they gather the empty bottles on the steps, he thinks that maybe they’re okay after all.
Maybe it’ll all be okay in the end.
Give it time, he tells himself.
He just needs to give it time.