Work Text:
Mortified is not a strong enough word. Trent doesn't actually think there's a strong enough word in the entire dictionary for how he's feeling right this second.
Take a holiday, they said.
You need a break, they said.
It'll be relaxing, they said.
They, being his ex-wife. Also his father. And even his colleagues, who had chimed in once they caught wind of his potential break. He tried not to take offence at their far too eager enthusiasm at getting him out of the office for two weeks.
None of them were wrong. Trent most certainly needed some kind of break, a reprieve from his daily life. He had become more than a little disenchanted with his work over recent years, his cutting words leaving something to be desired and his passion for writing waning painfully. Add on top of that a week on/week off custody agreement that left him woefully alone for half the year and Trent agreed that perhaps a holiday would be the welcome break he so desperately needed.
That is how he found himself 42,000 feet in the air, flying to Kansas, Wichita. Why Kansas, some might ask? The journalist isn't ashamed to admit that The Wizard Of Oz is entirely to blame for his choice of locale. A childhood favourite that carried through adolescence right through to adulthood. He had always dreamed of visiting Kansas, though his family had been far more inclined to typical British holidays. Caravans by the sea. B&B's in the middle of the countryside. Camping in a damp forest. Of course he had fond memories of them all, yet his dream of Kansas never did fade. And so, when given the push, he decided to finally fulfil his childhood dream.
And what a disaster it was turning out to be.
He's been in the country less than 12 hours, in his airbnb less than 10. Yet somehow, in that short period of time, at the very beginning of a two week stay, he's already caused irreparable damage to the property. Admittedly it's not entirely irreparable, but for him and his lack of DIY knowledge, it most certainly is.
A bath. That's all he wanted after a long day of flights, taxis and a humidity that was wreaking havoc with his hair- and is sure to have him melting like the wicked witch before his trip is over. A long soak in the tub in which he could turn off his mind for even a short amount of time.
But of course that is where it all went wrong.
He's not exactly sure what happened. One minute he had his eyes closed, letting the whitenoise of bathwater slowly filling the tub blot out every other incessant thought that was bouncing around in his head. Enjoying the rare moment of true relaxation. Then, as the bath began to fill to his exact preference, he did as anyone would, he turned the tap off.
Only it didn't turn off. The water kept streaming from the faucet, though the handle was now in Trent's hand and no longer attached to the bath in any way whatsoever.
Trent's mind is blank- and no longer in the blissful way it had been. His chest is tight with cold dread as he stares at the stainless steel held tightly in his hand.
It's midnight, is his first thought. He can't call the sweet old man he let the apartment from at midnight. The poor man could barely walk up the stairs to get to the damn flat in the first place.
But Trent doesn't know a soul here. Does he just go around, knocking on the neighbour's doors? Again, it's midnight. And he doesn't know these people, what if they have children…or are murderers? Trent is well aware that the latter is unlikely, but he is tired and he's jetlagged- he’d also spent far too many hours of his life watching true crime documentaries- and now he's on the verge of a panic attack over a sodding bath of all things.
He will forever blame his jetlag for what he does next. Glancing at the bathtub, dangerously close to spilling over now, he curses himself for never listening to his father's lectures on 'proper home maintenance'; he'll be asking for the full course the second he returns home. It's in this moment of weakness that he reaches for his phone, well aware of the app he will see when he unlocks it.
Another moment of weakness, when he first found himself alone in a strange new apartment, in a strange new city, was opening said app in the first place. He'd downloaded it months ago, a while after the separation was final, but he had yet to use it. Only finding the courage now that he was far, far from home. He had found himself, perched on one of the dining room chairs, suitcase not even unpacked, swiping through stranger after stranger.
It was a moustache that stopped him swiping. A man with kind eyes, a smile that had his own lips curving in response and a moustache that shouldn't have been as appealing as it was. Trent caught himself staring at his phone, a subtle ache in his chest that he hadn’t expected from an app that was meant to cause a much lower- and more pleasant- ache instead.
It's that moustachioed face that greets him as his phone lights back up.
0.1m away. Active.
Is he really going to do this? Jesus, he might never live this down. He's thankful that at the very least he's in a city he will likely never return to, so really, what's the worst that could happen?
This is not some weird booty call, I swear. The bath at my airbnb is flooding and I have absolutely no clue how to fix it. The app says you're nearby. Is this something within your skillset? And if so, would you be willing to help a desperate man in need?
Well howdy there, Trent. Which apartment building are ya in? Me and my tools will be right there 😉
Christ, actual tools yes? I'm very aware of how my last message sounded but the bathroom is about to look like that scene from The Shape Of Water!
In a fit of pure desperation, and a questionable sense of self-preservation, Trent gives the stranger the address of his temporary home. He's given no more than two minutes to worry about the man, Ted's, intentions when there's a light tapping on the front door.
Trent is greeted by the very face that caused his heart to flutter embarrassingly only a few short hours ago. There’s a few moments of silence as Trent takes in the man in his doorway. After years of suppressing his true desires, who can really blame him for temporarily forgetting more pressing matters when faced with a broad shouldered man, wearing a threadbare t-shirt and low riding pyjama bottoms that leave very little to his imagination.
“Either ya weren’t lying, or you’ve taken part in a solo wet t-shirt competition. And I ain’t complaining either way.” Ted’s smile widens into a semi-smirk as he makes a show of dropping his eyes to the t-shirt that Trent belatedly realises is clinging damply to his chest.
“The bath!” Panic prickles at Trent’s skin as he remembers why he'd asked Ted over in the first place. He’d momentarily lost himself to the overwhelming power of the libido that he’d kept under lock and key for countless years.
“Well, come on, Judy Jetson.”
Trent finds himself being led by the hand towards the bathroom with surprising accuracy considering, as far as he knows, Ted has never been here before. He’s still vaguely speechless- a feat he didn’t know was possible until Ted had appeared- when the American turns back to face him.
“That the broken faucet, or is it some fancy accessory ya got going on?” He nods his head towards the shining silver still gripped in Trent's hand, a teasing smile making his moustache twitch- a move Trent finds frustratingly endearing.
"Yes- yes, sorry. Here." Trent finds himself practically thrusting the offending item towards Ted with absolutely no grace whatsoever. If he felt mortified before Ted arrived, well there certainly isn't a word to describe the agony of embarrassment that courses through his veins currently. For a man whose whole career revolves around his skill as a wordsmith, he is deeply ashamed of his display thus far.
“Thank ya kindly.” Ted nods with his seemingly ever present smile still curving his soft looking lips. Within seconds he's kneeling on the floor, bent over the tub as bath water seeps into his sleepwear. Shaking his head subtly, Trent curses himself. He did not call Ted over to ogle the poor man, regardless of how much he's enjoying the view in front of him.
"Please don't thank me for messaging you at this ridiculous hour to save me from my own lack of DIY skills." A self deprecating laugh escapes Trent as he lingers awkwardly in the doorway of the bathroom.
Ted doesn't turn, but his head shakes mildly with a soft huff of laughter.
"Already told ya, Trent, I ain't complaining."
Through sheer force of will, Trent extracts himself from the bathroom after Ted lets him know it'll take him a few minutes. The ex-journalist finds it much easier to think without the sight of the broad American bent over in front of him, wearing pyjama bottoms that stretch almost obscenely tight over his rear end.
Desperate for something to keep his mind off the increasingly damp man in the bathroom, Trent begins to fix up some hot chocolate for the pair of them, it’s the least he can do to say thank you. He’ll have to remember to also thank the kindly old man who left him a welcome basket, complete with all the fixing for the hot beverage. The methodical process does its job as Trent works to create the perfect batch on the stovetop- did kettles not exist in America? Perhaps that’s for the best, simply mixing a powder with readily boiled water wouldn’t be enough to keep his mind occupied for all too long.
It’s as Trent carries the two steaming mugs towards the circular dining table that Ted reappears. Sodden t-shirt bunched in his hand and damp chest on full display. Trent is transfixed. So much so he doesn’t notice his grip on the two cups slipping until Ted is barely an inch in front of him, hands closed around his own to secure the almost falling ceramics.
Trent can feel his cheeks heat up as his eyes linger a touch too long on Ted’s bare chest. He looks ridiculously soft and far too touchable with a collection of bath water bubbles sitting in the hollow of his throat. Trent can picture him, lent over the bathtub, water spilling over the edges and seeping into his threadbare t-shirt. Leaning just a little too closely to the overflowing bubbles.
A gentle squeeze to his hand has Trent’s eyes widening as he raises his gaze back up to Ted’s flushed face. Gone is the earlier teasing smirk, replaced with an almost shy smile that creases his eyes and emphasises the red hue of his cheeks. This man may well be the death of Trent, how can one person be both insanely adorable and mouthwateringly attractive at the same time?
"H-how did you know where the bathroom was?" The journalist cringes at the way he stutters out a question he had no intention of asking.
Opening his mouth, he had been ready to apologise for his very obvious staring, but clearly his brain had other ideas as Ted apparently has the power to cause it to malfunction- which seems to be a running theme of the evening.
Ted thankfully appears nonplussed as he claims one of the mugs for himself, taking a sip of the chocolatey bliss and moaning quietly in a way that has Trent shifting uncomfortably. The American leads them to the dining table, taking out a seat and pushing out the chair beside him for Trent.
"I'm in the apartment next door, neighbour. Each 'n everyone is a clone of one another, just like the late Dolly herself." His customary grin is wide as he takes another sip of the hot liquid, peering at Trent over the rim of his mug.
"Parton?" Confusion washes over Trent’s features, furrowing his brow and pressing his lips into a thin line. The ever-present flush over his cheeks, that has remained ever since Ted entered the apartment, deepens as Ted lets out a single bark of laughter.
"The sheep." He explains, that teasing glint in his eyes returning.
If the floor could open up and swallow Trent whole, he would be forever grateful. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so woefully wrong-footed around someone, at the same time as wanting to spend an exorbitant amount of time with the man.
“Right, that makes more sense.” Trent lets out a much quieter, and more self-deprecating, huff of laughter. His eyes are focused heavily on the steaming mug in front of him as he grows more anxious about what he’ll do next to embarrass himself in front of the first man he’s been on a semi-date with- are they calling this shambolic evening a date?
Ted, somehow, has not only the ability to render his brain useless, but can also read Trent’s thoughts as the next words out of his mouth prove. And isn’t that a horrifying thought.
"This ain't been the worst first date, y'know?" Ted shrugs lightly, running his finger around the rim of his mug as he glances up at Trent with mildly concealed hope written over his face. That slightly insecure look tampers down Trent’s nerves, realising he isn’t the only one whose footing feels slightly off. His confidence is bolstered, just a little, enough to let him tease the other man.
"You're classing this as a date then?" His eyebrow lifts as a quietly pleased smile plays on his lips.
"Could be the start’a one. I'm enjoyin’ myself, aren’t you, Corbin Bleu?"
Trent can’t help but lower his eyes as another huff of laughter escapes him. Lifting up his mug he lets his gaze fall upon Ted again.
"Are you like this all the time?" He asks, taking a sip of his slowly cooling hot chocolate and watching the man in front of him intently.
"Is that a problem?" Ted’s voice wavers slightly, just enough for Trent to pick up on it. He gives Ted a warm smile as he cautiously lowers his hand beneath the table, tentatively resting it on his impromptu date’s thigh. He relaxes into it as he feels Ted melt beneath his touch, another hit of affection spreading through his chest.
"Not at all. I just like to know what I'm signing up for."
Maybe this holiday won't be a complete disaster after all.