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Colin finds that his newfound budding friendship with Trent Crimm is—easy.
He hadn’t expected it to be, but somehow, it just is.
Oh, it’s unexpected—wildly so—but it’s nice. That night in Amsterdam, Colin had felt so free and happy.
First, just talking with someone who got it. Not someone he met on Grindr or someone who wanted to bang, and also not a friend who didn’t know, didn’t understand: but someone who just got it. Someone like him.
Not only that, but someone older, someone who was proof that things could turn out alright. Because Trent was. well, he was actually pretty cool, now that Colin was talking to him.
Before, he’d mostly avoided him—once a journalist, always a journalist, and Colin was already paranoid enough that someone might somehow clock him. If anyone was going to do it, it’d be the sharp-eyed, observant outsider, with no emotional bias to cloud his judgement and every reason to be watching closely. And if Crimm had found out, well, there was no telling what he’d write in that book of his.
It wasn’t as if Colin had hated the guy—he was doing his job, whatever—but he certainly hadn’t liked him. So seeing him in that club had been terrifying.
In retrospect, his approach could be seen for what it was: an awkward attempt at humor, a terrible attempt at putting him at ease, which was very Trent. But, of course, Colin hadn’t known that at the time—he hadn’t seen Trent, awkward and kind of dorky and fellow queer, but Crimm, sharp ex-reporter and current biographer.
Now, all those ideas he’d had about Trent seemed almost laughable. Obviously, Colin had had reasons for thinking them, but now that he actually knew Trent, he wasn’t very scary at all. This was the man who had once answered the door with confetti in his hair and a glittery pink sticker plastered to his eyebrow, the man who made awkward finger guns at his crush and then beat himself up over it while drunk (Colin had yet to get out of him explicitly whom who said crush was, but he had his suspicions), the man who danced terribly and did a full body sort of wiggle when he was excited enough (or disgusted enough; hello vanilla vodka!).
Colin knew, logically, that his friend Trent was still Trent Crimm, feared reporter, that he’d done less than kind things in the past—but then, so had Colin. In fact, Colin had been a right fucking prick to a lot of people, including Nate. So really, he couldn’t throw stones if he wanted to.
All that to say, that night had been wonderful. Just talking to someone who got it had been good enough, like a weight off his shoulders, putting a voice to things he hadn’t really expressed to anyone. But then they’d gone back into that stupid gay bar and they’d danced and had fun and just goofed off, and it was—just wonderful.
Going clubbing with the boys was always—well, it was still fun, there was drinking and goofing around, but it was also taxing. It was an exercise in holding himself together just enough, in not letting anything slip: like holding water in his hands. It was a performance.
Don’t show interest in men, don’t joke about it, don’t laugh about it. Look at women, talk about women, talk to women. Go along with the group. Don’t get too drunk; act drunker than you are. Be “One Of The Guys”.
There was no pressure to be One Of The Guys with Trent. He didn’t have to worry about staying sober enough to pretend. He could goof off, dance, have fun, and he had someone with him—both to be silly with and to watch his back—and he could dance with men and not worry about being judged.
He felt—in the transcendent, general sort of way—safe. Loved, even, appreciated, because he was among people like him, and he had a friend watching his back and making faces at his favorite drink but drinking it anyway, and he could dance the night away.
(And Trent was a terrible dancer, especially when he drank more, but he was laughing and Colin had never seen him so open and free; and he wasn’t even wearing a blazer but was throwing his bare arms in the air as he danced. Colin wondered if Trent felt as freed by this night as he did.)
Still, though, part of him had expected that once they’d left Amsterdam, it would just… go back to normal. They wouldn’t talk, Trent would be there on the fringes, and maybe they’d share a look or a knowing smile, but ultimately, the carriage would turn back into a pumpkin and no traces of the night would be left.
And then in the morning he’d gotten a text that essentially said something along the lines of fucking hell hangovers are the worst i’ve been recommended a diner that does a good greasy breakfast if you want, but no pressure except much more poshly worded than that, Trent being a proper writer and all.
And on the bus, Trent had quietly taken a seat in front of him—sans blazer—but still, Colin’s half waiting for the other diamond slipper to drop.
He sends Trent a stupid meme, easily ignored, like an olive branch, and tries not to think that he might just be overthinking this and speaking in code.
Trent responds. He sends back a silly joke of his own.
And suddenly, just like that, they’re still talking.
They meet for drinks. They’re not so stupid as to go to a gay bar, not here, but they meet for drinks, they talk about things other than being gay and their respective Tragic Backstories™ (including but not limited to: various reality TV shows, such as The Great British Bakeoff and Taskmaster, a few movies, Welsh independence—as was bound to come up with Colin at some point—and, oddly enough, cryptozoology) and somehow this ends up with Colin actually knowing Trent quite well.
Hell, Trent meets Michael (again) and Colin meets his daughter (she’s adorable) and isn’t that just perfect, one of Colin’s friends in their house and Colin can kiss Michael and it’s okay, because they’re safe? And it’s nice, too, meeting this little girl who insists on a shoulder ride, who makes him a bracelet or two (one in shades of blue, the other in red, green, and white).
They’re friends. Trent knows how he takes his tea, and Colin knows that Trent actually prefers hot chocolate to tea, even if he wouldn’t normally admit it. Colin knows Trent chews on his pens no matter how hard he tries to break the habit, and then keeps buying new ones to cover up the marks, so he just has two huge boxes of pens hidden in his desk, one for the bitten ones and one for new ones, and Trent knows that Colin likes to draw even though he’s not that good at it, and has one sketchbook with doodles of the team (and Trent, too, and the coaches, and Will, and even Ms. Welton and Higgins) and another that’s filled with drawings of men he's been on dates with that just gives way to pages and pages of Michael. And some dragons doodled around the corners, because of course there are.
Anyway, it's not that Trent’s his best friend—Isaac can’t be replaced—but he’s a damn good friend, and in some ways, well. he knows Colin in some ways the others don’t.
Sometimes Colin worries, though, that Trent’s a better friend to him than he is to Trent. Trent listens to Colin’s worries and fears and even just his complaining, lets him vent, and he’s always a sympathetic ear ready to give advice or just understanding.
But Trent doesn’t so much confide in Colin: Colin suspects he doesn’t want to burden Colin, that he’s trying to be some sort of quasi-mentor figure, which. is helpful, admittedly, but. Colin wants to be burdened, damn it!
Even when he’d told Colin about his own experiences, that night in Amsterdam, it had been to explain, to comfort, to say you’re not alone, to show his underbelly and say I’m vulnerable, too.
And Colin knows, too, that Trent does have issues of his own, because he’s gotten to know the man and it’s actually kind of amazing how much of a disaster he is.
Colin thinks that with so much affection, and he knows it’s not like he can talk, but it’s true. The man’s a wreck. In a deeply endearing way, mind you, and he’s surprisingly good at hiding it when you don’t know to look for it.
But then, he’s hiding it less now. Used to be Trent Crimm wouldn’t be caught dead looking anything but just-so, wouldn’t crack stupid dad jokes or make stupid faces at vanilla vodka and dance like nobody’s watching.
He’s still hiding the emotional issues, though. Or trying to.
It’s not like Colin hasn’t noticed those, either.
It’s far from the first hint Colin gets, but it might be the first time Colin really, actually realizes that Trent—just straight-up doesn’t like himself. (Although that might be a poor choice of words.)
Trent says it almost offhandedly, casually, like this is an obvious fact about the world that Colin is already aware of. Not trying to hide it because it is, to him, obvious.
“Well,” he says, not even looking up from his notebook, “I’m aware that I’m not a particularly likeable person.”
Colin freezes. One can almost hear a record scratch noise.
“What,” he says, the word so short it almost sounds like someone compressed a “wot” into a half-second.
Trent blinks, looking up. “Hm?”
“Hold on,” says Colin, “The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”
Trent looks startled at his tone, leaning back slightly. “What do you mean?” he says.
“’Not a par-tic-ular-ly likeable person’,” says Colin, in a terrible imitation of Trent’s accent.
Trent snorts. “If that was your impression of me—”
“Trent,” says Colin.
Trent sighs, and takes off his glasses for a moment, folding them in his hands.
“Colin,” he says, sounding tired and almost rote, resigned, “My main positive qualities include one:” he actually holds up a finger with each point, “my hair, two: writing. That’s all.”
Colin stares at him incredulously, wondering if it would be a bad move to smack him over the head like he desperately wants to right now, or if that would make it worse.
“Neither of which,” says Trent, fixing him with a cool stare and an eyebrow raise as if he is presenting irrefutable evidence in a courtroom, “are necessarily good traits for long-term likability.”
As if this is a numbers game, or some sort of scientific method, what the fuck.
“What the fuck,” says Colin, out loud. Does Trent seriously think he’s fucking—unlikable? What does that even mean?
“Colin,” says Trent, almost placating, “It’s really alright. I’m hardly under any illusions—”
“Trent,” says Colin again, almost angrily, and Trent holds up a hand and continues without stopping, “it’s not as if it hurts my feelings—”
“TRENT,” says Colin louder, and he finally stops. Colin jabs a finger in his direction. “Don’t talk shit about my friends like that.”
Trent looks genuinely taken aback, and Colin hopes to high fucking heaven that he isn’t surprised by the assertion that they’re friends, because then Colin might have to kick some serious ass.
“It truly is fine,” he says, much quieter. He doesn’t look fine.
“No it ain’t, boyo,” says Colin. “What the fuck. ‘Not likeable’, my arse. I like you.”
There’s a pause. Trent is giving him this round-eyed look, not exactly shocked, but—like he hasn’t heard that before. Which. again. what the fuck.
“Alright, fuck this,” says Colin. “Get up.”
“What?” Trent says.
“Get up,” says Colin.
Trent reluctantly gets up, setting his notebook down almost gingerly.
“Alright, repeat after me,” says Colin, putting his hands on Trent’s shoulders.
Trent cringes a little, but then relaxes after a moment under the touch. “Colin, I don’t know if—”
“This helped me,” says Colin stubbornly. “Come on.”
Trent sighs.
“Trent,” Colin says, with an attempt at sternness. “Repeat after me. I am a good and likable person, and I am not a piece of shit.”
“Colin,” Trent says again, long suffering.
“I’m fuckin serious, boyo,” Colin says. Then he pauses, tilting his head as he considers it, and says, “actually, drop the last part. You’re not a piece of shit, but it’s like, negativity or somethin.”
“I mean,” says Trent, in a tone he thinks is reasonable, “I’m a little bit a piece of shit. Considering.”
“No you’re fucking not,” says Colin. “What the fuck.”
“I don’t think this is an argument w—”
“Damn right it isn’t an argument,” Colin says indignantly. “Do you think I’m a piece of shit?”
“No!” says Trent, horrified and abrupt like it’s ripped out of him, and Colin makes a triumphant noise.
“Well, I’ve done shit things in the past,” says Colin. “If that makes you a piece of shit, then so am I. We’re just—two pieces of shit! Vibing!”
“You are not a piece of shit,” says Trent, firmly, completely missing the point. Probably on purpose.
“No, you’re not a piece of shit!” Colin says impatiently. “Or—neither of us are! We’re two not pieces of shit.”
Trent stares at him for a moment.
“You want to correct my grammar so badly, don’t you,” says Colin, closing his eyes.
“Desperately,” admits Trent, who’s nothing if not honest.
Colin sighs. “Well, I mean it.” He squeezes Trent’s shoulders—oh, yeah, he’s still doing that, isn’t he—and says, “Now say it, damn it.”
Trent actually relaxes a little when Colin does that (oh, shit, was this something Colin was going to have to keep an eye on?) but still eyes Colin like he’s examining the situation closely.
Trent seems to realize that Colin isn’t going to let this go, and may resort to drastic measures if Trent continues to resist. So, extremely reluctantly, he shifts, not looking at Colin anymore, and then, as if the words are molasses in his mouth, thick and awkward and sticking to his tongue, he speaks.
“I’m… a good. And… li… Colin, this is ridicu—”
“Ah, ah, ah!” Colin says, shushing him. “Start again. Come on.”
“…I’magoodandlikableperson,” says Trent all in one breath, quiet and squished together and altogether too rushed, but it’s a start.
“Good!” says Colin. “You are. Fucking hell. I’m making you say that every time we do this now.”
“Oh, please don’t,” says Trent, just happy that it’s over.
“Nope,” says Colin. “You’re stuck with this. Until you believe it. And maybe a little past that.”
Trent sighs, deeply. “That might be a while,” he says. “Or forever.”
“Then forever it’ll be,” says Colin stubbornly.
Trent blinks, like he’s surprised. “You know that—once I’m done with the book, I won’t be hanging around Richmond anymore,” he says carefully, not quite a question.
Colin tips his head. “Yeah?” he says. “I mean, you’ll still probably be pulled into a lot of the events, you know. Don’t think they’ll take no for an answer. We won’t, for that matter.”
Trent looks at him, lips parted, like he doesn’t know what to say to that.
“What?” says Colin almost defensively. “It’s not like—what, do you want to not see us again after you’re done with your book?”
See me again, being the unasked real question there.
“No,” says Trent, aghast, then he yelps, “wait, no, I mean—no, it’s not like that, of course I do, I just—I’m not—I’m not exactly—part of the team?”
It’s Colin’s turn to blink stupidly. “Well, yeah,” he says, “neither is Keeley. She’s still—y’know, around.”
Trent levels him with a flat look. “Did you just compare me to Keeley Jones?” he says, like he’s saying did you just compare a slug to a butterfly.
“Yeah,” says Colin, warming up to this comparison, “You’re both like, glamorous queer people who hang around the club as our like, emotional support friends. Who work in like—PR and journalism-adjacent shit are pretty similar, right?”
“I... guess?” says Trent, thrown. “Glamorous?”
“Y’know, the whole vibe,” says Colin, gesturing.
“I do not know the whole vibe,” says Trent, and then, completely bafflingly, continues, “I was under the impression my whole vibe was—somewhere between middle-aged dad, ‘that bloody journo’, and guy who rides bikes.”
“Guy who rides bikes?” says Colin, mystified.
Trent winces. “Don’t even ask,” he says.
“…anyway,” says Colin, deciding, wisely, not to press that, “My point is, we’re not just gonna—never talk to you again, that’d be—fucked.”
“Well, not all at once,” says Trent. “But…you know. People drift.”
No one stays forever, he seemed to be saying, or at least, not with me.
“Bullshit,” says Colin. “You’re stuck with us, boyo.”
There’s a beat. Colin realizes, awkwardly, that he’s still got his hands on Trent’s shoulders, but Trent hasn’t shrugged them off.
“…thank you, Colin,” Trent says quietly, and Colin—Colin isn’t actually sure why he does it. It’s impulsive. But he does it: he practically lunges forward and hugs Trent properly.
Trent freezes for a moment, and Colin has a split second to wonder if he’s fucked up and made this awkward before he relaxes, and then, after another breath, hesitantly hugs back.
He’s warm, and his shampoo kind of smells like sandalwood, and he’s Colin’s friend. Colin’s friend, who’s hurting, too.
They have a lot in common—more than just being gay. They’d both been scared and hurting and hiding who they were, and they’d both lashed out because of it.
They’d been—bullies, pricks, whatever you wanted to call it, and they’d done things they regretted in some paltry attempt at protecting themselves.
But if Trent could forgive Colin for that, for struggling, for being unkind and even cruel while trying to be safe, then surely he could forgive himself? And if Colin could forgive Trent so completely, surely he could forgive himself, too?
He knows it’s not that simple, but he also knows that they can’t be unlovable because of this. Trent is the furthest thing from that. He is, after all, Colin’s friend. And say what you like about Colin, but he loves his friends.
It's not the last time they have a conversation like this: about trauma, and homophobia, and becoming a bully to avoid being a victim and then hating yourself for it, but it's a start.
Turns out they both have issues. Who knew?
(It eventually becomes such a routine that they sort of forget to be subtle.
Some of the lads look between them, mystified, when Colin calls across the locker room--albeit before most people are there--like it’s a normal daily chant for them: Trent? You know the rules!
And Trent, not even looking up from his notebook, recites, I’m a good and likable person. Your turn.
And Colin says, just as rote if a little bouncier, I’m a strong and capable man!
You certainly are, Trent agrees, and Colin grins and says, Right back at you.
The lads present watch this interaction—like a call and response—as if it’s a tennis match.
Since when were they friends, anyway?
...This might have to be investigated.)