Work Text:
Trent has earned many things from his time as AFC Richmond staff. A reignited love for long-form writing and more improvement on his craft than he’d seen in his latter years at The Independent. A deeper appreciation for the level of discipline and camaraderie that got AFC Richmond to where they are. A semblance of structure to his life, replacing his well-rehearsed flirtation with the early morning hours when deadlines loomed with his head hitting the pillow well before midnight. For years in his life, the thought of a 9-5 made him grimace - give him the chaos, the unpredictability, the uncertainty, the high risk and high reward that a life in journalism provided any day. Now, though. He’d never been more grateful for a decent night’s sleep and the gift of free time to do whatever he wishes on his child-free weeks. He found his diary filling fast nowadays, recurring trips to the cinema, a staple with Keeley or Higgins or Colin, even adventures to the local park with Roy, Phoebe and Molly.
But Trent’s most favourite new possession, the one he held close to his chest and guarded with his entire life, was a fierce friendship with Ted Lasso. A remarkably easy one, where Ted laughs at his cutting remarks and Trent laughs right back, a mutual understanding of divorce and kids and the abject terror of fucking them up. Flourishing under a shared appreciation of… well, everything - music, film, weather, parenting, books, food, stationary - and a happenstance of always being the last two in the office. A borrowed pen or the occasional lunchtime walk to release pent up energy quickly transitioned into a lift home for Ted every night, shifting into grabbing a quick bite to eat before they parted ways, which turned into not parting ways at all. Planned day trips, committing each other's allergies to memory (Ted, allergic to E numbers which Trent finds staggering, and Trent, coconut). Nights in not wanting to spend it alone, after work after not. Sitting next to each other on the coach for away days and team trips, watching Ted’s hands more intently than he’d ever watched a game of football.
When Ted invites him around for one last night in, approximately eighteen hours before he’s due to leave Richmond for good, Trent’s knee-jerk reaction is to say no. To cycle through the rolodex of people from the club more important than him, which, is just about everyone in Trent’s eyes, throw out someone more worthy of the borrowed time they’re on. He studies the GIF of Puss in Boots with big, pleading eyes looping on the screen underneath Ted’s five blue bubbles shouting ‘Please????’. Objectively, it isn’t a huge surprise. Ted is probably his closest friend now, and Trent, he knows, has become a shoulder to lean on for Ted, too. Thursdays were reserved for their nights in, and Ted had been suitably ambiguous about his plans for his final days when Jamie questioned him in the office a few weeks back. Trent had been quietly hopeful ever since. Far behind him are the days of relying his knee-jerk reaction to dictate his life, so he schools himself, adds a few ‘heart’ reactions to Ted’s messages, and replies ‘Sure, Ted.’
Their borrowed time speeds by in a flurry of gifts crafted and bought, celebrations and commiserations and emotional speeches in restaurants at tables too small to fit so much love, finding breaths for the two of them in the spaces between. A coffee trip on the morning before Ted’s last official day at Richmond. A West End trip a few weeks before that, spending the time watching the way the stage lights dance across Ted’s face, committing his hushed singing whispers to his own internal soundtrack.
Trent tugs at the lapels of his coat, folds his arms around his middle and struts head first into the bitter wind. A freak storm, the weather presenter explained as Trent pushed his Shreddies around the bowl this morning. Storm Nori, an unwelcome exception to the last few weeks of wall to wall sunshine. He weaves his way around the outskirts of the puddles forming under his feet, sticking near to the wall as car after car careers through tidal wave potholes. There’s an eerie calm across Richmond Green, usually a hive of families and friends and football and cricket at 7:34pm on a Thursday in August. Benches remain unoccupied, a singular labrador speeding its way diagonally across the slippery grass. Trent walks past the Crown and Anchor, the picnic tables outside littered with people in plastic rain macs and huddled under umbrellas hugging pints close to their chest, a true testament to the British dedication to what he’s sure some of the members of the squad would call ‘the sesh’.
He treads the familiar paved streets on autopilot. He tucks away the thought to reprogram his boots after tonight and nods to Sheila who’s pulling the shutters over the door of the coffee shop, her expression forlorn and understanding. He comes to a halt in front of the big black wooden door, facing down for the last time. Trent performs his ritual - deep breath in, deep breath out, roll each ankle until it clicks in relief, pocket his glasses, run a hand through windswept hair to gain some kind of control, and press the doorbell. He hears Ted’s humming before he sees him, can see the rumble of his voice swelling in the hallways and spilling out underneath the gap of the door, warming him from the tips of his toes upwards. It swings open, and all at once Trent isn’t sure if he can do this.
Because there’s Ted, grinning down at him and backlit from the lamp in the corner of the hallway. He looks more tired than when he last saw him 48 hours ago. He looks weathered, darkness colouring his under eyes and tainting his smile. He’s impossibly soft, all grey sweatpants and fuzzy socks, just-washed hair and well-loved T-shirt. Welcoming, subdued, cozy. Trent feels entirely overdressed and uncomfortable in his dress trousers, thinking back to the four other outfits discarded on his bed.
“Nice Trent-Coat, sugar.” Ted beams as he pulls the door back to let Trent enter. He quietly keens at the words, ducking his head as he squeezes past, warmth radiating through him. And if Trent wore it for that exact reaction, he doesn’t let Ted know it, throwing him his best eye roll as he sets his tote bag down on the floor and hangs his coat up next to Ted’s.
“I brought the goods, by the way.” Trent produces an orange Sainsburys bag from inside his tote, the sound of porcelain and metal scraping against each other as he passes them off to Ted. “I was clicking all the way here, I got some very concerned looks.”
“Slow down there Dorothy, I’m the one heading back to Kansas - unless you’re plannin’ on clicking those leopard print boots and joining me.” Ted’s off before he can say anything else, and Trent takes his time pulling down each zip, watching as Ted retreats and disappears up the stairs.
He hasn’t been naive to Ted’s upcoming departure - he’s helped Ted pack for the last few weeks, piling box after box in the narrow hallway for what Trent thinks may have been the worlds most expensive courier service to fly his life back to Kansas (‘you can’t put a price on safety’, he hears Ted parrot in his mind, but he can still see the colour draining from his face when he signed the final invoice). Somewhere in Trent’s mind, he reasoned that it was a lesson in decluttering, a good samaritan exercise, a Marie Kondo find-your-joy moment. They’d take another trip out in a few weeks and stumble into a little charity shop and Ted would insist on buying the ugliest lamp or butter dish in the place because objects have feelings too, and they’d build his flat back up, item by item, each one cementing Trent as a staple his life.
Ted’s passport is thrown on the dining table alongside his keys, a half-empty coffee cup opposite. There’s a few scrap pieces of paper with random formations sketched out, crumpled and ripped. A pile of opened cards balance precariously on the edge of the table, shoved roughly back into their envelopes. Just next to the blank screen of the TV is Ted’s hand luggage. Richmond AFC tag swinging from the handle, a well-worn backpack that’s seen the best and worst of his journey slumped next to it. A pair of sneakers, another jacket resting on the back of a dining chair, and thats it. The remnants of what’s left of Ted Lasso in Richmond, spread across the room and decaying in front of his eyes.
“You okay there, Trent? Looking like you’ve seen a ghost, I mean, if you have then thank God I’m evacuatin’, leave that mess for the next sucker.”
The scene in front of him has played out many times before, in reality and in technicolour dreams - Trent watching Ted between the oven and the kitchen table, one hand on a cardboard sleeve and another fisted in his hair. His eyebrows are furrowed, in the throes of figuring out the Celsius to gas mark conversion. It’s so familiar, so intimate, so normal and so not, Trent’s borrowed fork in his hand to puncture microwavable packages because his regular utensils are long gone, Ted’s frustrated little sighs when he goes to reach for a seasoning that isn’t there.
And It’s so unfair. Unfair that he just got comfortable, had given himself the grace and permission to explore Ted Lasso and get to know him beyond the pitch and the book. Trent wasn’t kidding about Ted being his closest friend now, and now his comedy and his comfort and his solace will be 4489 miles away and Trent will be stuck where he’s felt stuck so often in his life, left to tend to his wounds, and everyone elses, on his own. It’s so unfair that Trent wants to shut down and cry and scream and run. Wants to chuck Ted’s passport in the Thames and scream at Ted until his voice is raw and and beg him to stay and force him to leave and he wants to grab him by his silly little Kansas BBQ T-Shirt and-
He steadies himself on the back of the armchair. More than anything, he’s wants to make tonight as perfect and mundane and memorable as he can. He can’t derail the night before it’s even begun with something as foolish as his own self-indulgence. So he runs a hand through his hair, exhales a deep breath and heads to the kitchen.
“I hope you’re okay with chicken. I picked up that deal we had a few weeks ago from marks and sparks - boy i’m sure gonna miss saying that - figured neither of us would be down for much real cooking, and I had a craving for one last Sunday roast before-Thursday roast? Do y’all have a law here on Sunday roasts on other days? Hoo, would be a shame to get arrested on my last day.” Ted’s words die in his mouth when he sees Trent give him that look - faux-annoyed, exasperated, fond, perfectly crafted to illicit his favourite sheepish smile back. “That, and I figured we’d both need this.” he smiles, wiggling a bottle of Rose and unscrewing the cap, pouring two generous glasses and handing one to Trent, letting their fingers brush in the handover.
“A toast,” Ted says, a hip leant against the kitchen counter, glass out expectantly. Trent takes his time as he slinks closer, raking his eyes across Ted’s form, mirroring his stance close enough that he can see Ted’s eyes twinkling in the glow of the oven.
“To one last night,” Trent says with a tight smile, at the same time Ted beams, “Long may we continue.”
“Jeez, TC, bringing the mood down before we’ve even begun.” Ted’s gaze is fixed on the floor, and Trent’s cheeks burn.
“Long may we continue.” Trent says, and Ted’s eyes are on him again, his favourite kind of smile accompanying it. The kind that blooms across his entire face, crinkling the sides of his eyes and his forehead, the kind that triggers a warmth blooming in his chest in response. As he clinks his glass against Ted’s, he makes a silent toast. To the man who bulldozed his entire life one sunny Tuesday, leaving second chances in his path. His inspiration for the last 3 years both professionally and personally, and probably for many more decades to come. To his closest friend. His r’aison d’être. To his ridiculous, gorgeous man. To his Ted Lasso, before taking a long sip, eyes still trained on him over the rim of the glass.
“Hey Alexa, play Last Night playlist for me will ya? Thank ya kindly.”
OKAY. MUSIC NOW PLAYING FROM - LAST NIGHT COLON OPEN BRACKET - PLAYLIST ON SPOTIFY.
Music fills the room, and Trent smiles when JC Chasez starts crooning. He’s seen this dance before - played out on TikToks and YouTube compilations for the rest of eternity thanks to Will filming their rehearsal out on the pitch, but never in person, as Ted shuffle-dances his way to the opposite side of the kitchen where the rest of dinner is laid out in time order, harmonising and spinning like nobody’s watching. Trent couldn’t look away if he tried.
The sounds of Ted’s playlist accompany the scraping of pots and pans as they prepare dinner side by side. Every new song is accompanied by a performance, an interrogation, a memory fondly re-told by Ted. He struts around the kitchen to Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? By Rod Stewart, rolled up newspaper in lieu of microphone, and Trent finds himself wishing he could record it, his phone long forgotten in the pocket of his coat. He recalls the times before Trent became part of the furniture in the halls of AFC Richmond, like when he found Richard and Isaac having a dance-off to Don’t Ya by the Pussycat Dolls or when he walked in on Nate passionately screaming every word to Wannabe by Spice Girls in the coaches office long after practice had ended. He’s babbling a mile a minute, flailing limbs gesturing wildly, and for as much as Trent has often longed to be a part of Ted’s inner circle for much longer than he has, he’ll take being included in it retroactively any day. Ted’s busy turning off the timer on his phone, about to launch into another story, when Against All Odds by Phil Collins starts and the words die in his throat. He blinks down at his phone, the monotonous beep at discordant harmony with the lilting piano introduction.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Trent says, focusing on grabbing a tea towel as he feels the man next to him startle and swat blindly at his phone screen until the ringing stops. Trent busies himself with pulling the chicken out of the oven, manoeuvring to place his palm on Ted’s lower back to get past, sizzling tray in the other.
“Save the penny for now, I’m sure i’ll have a whole hunk of change to dump on you later,” Ted laughs, although it doesn’t quite translate into his features, still drawn, pained. He wants to say something - to offer a friendly ear, to pry, to make like his old career and enquire until he breaks, to fix whatever is threatening to make tonight anything less than perfectly normal, to ignore what this all means. He deposits the chicken on the kitchen counter, leaving his hand to ghost across the soft cotton of Ted’s T-Shirt. They move in silence, trading off tinfoil and kitchen roll and wine glasses in harmony. The song ends, and Trent scoffs.
“I didn’t peg you for a Shania fan, Ted,” Trent says. Mischief kidnaps Ted’s features, the twinkle in his eye bursting into a spark.
“Well number one mister Crimm, you of all people should know by now that I contain multitudes. Number two, I’m personally offended that you think Ms. Twain aint a staple of my pre-game playlist. And anyway, I put it on for you. That Don’t Impress Me Much was your whole vibe when we first met. makes me think of you.” Ted says, plating up the roast potatoes, as if it’s the most normal thing to say in the world. Trent aborts his motion to reach for his glass, and stares. “I gotta let you in on a secret, it’s real out of character for me but boy, when I locked eyes with you and you asked if I was a, and I quote, fuckin’ joke - i’ve not misremembered, just read between the lines - wow, I’ve never been more determined to prove someone wrong in my life.”
In another life, Trent sees a version of himself thats better. Bolder. More confident. Suave. Flirty and endlessly charismatic. Able to go out and get what he wants, able to lay his heart on the line without fear of it being irreparably broken.
On the nights where he’s tossing and turning on his ikea mattress that’s definitely seen better days, he yearns for the life better Trent might have. He’d be cozied up in a four poster super-king sized bed, the kind where you reach out your arm and can’t touch the other side. He’d be the proud owner of a 3-bed semi-detached house with an eye-watering price tag that meant nothing once they saw the sprawling garden. There’d be lego bricks spilling out of a storage tub in the front room, completed creations displayed proudly next to Trent’s journalism awards from years passed on the bookshelf. There’d be a record collection in the corner tucked neatly behind a vinyl player, West End and Match of the Day programs littered on the dining table. A brand new baby blue stand mixer next to the sink. Utility bills and electoral roll notices and primary school disco letters held in a letter holder by the door. Blazers and sports jackets and tiny raincoats lined up in a row above a worn ‘Welcome Home’ mat.
There’d be photographs lining the staircase - from birthday parties at trampoline parks with Trent’s flying every which way but the one it’s supposed to be, fancy charity galas with matching suits and a Getty Images logo, family fundraisers in family fancy dress as Cruella and her puppies, silly little selfies of Trent and Ted from their office days and beyond. He’d look out onto their garden and find Ted, Molly and Henry engrossed in a very intense game of Scarecrow Tag, the first thing Molly insisted on teaching her two favourite Americans. Ted’s trying his very best to crawl between Henry’s legs, and Molly’s shrieks of laughter echo throughout the house. Ted would catch Trent in his act, throw a wink and a kiss his way from his spot in the dirt. They’d spend the evening exactly like they are right now, including their kids in their new nightly routines. Ted would never even consider leaving because everything he could need would be right here. He’d be taking Richmond to new heights, proving anyone who ever doubted him wrong. Trent - he’s not sure what he’d be doing exactly, but he’d be writing, following his passion blindly instead of following what he thinks is respectable and right and proper. And as long as it’s with Ted, he’d be fine.
Ted placing his plate on the blue thatched mat makes him jump. Trent ducks his head, reaching up for his glasses which are long abandoned in his coat downstairs, and quietly accepts the cutlery Ted offers to him with a concerned hum.
“Molly’s just about recovered, by the way,” Trent says, stabbing his fork into a broccoli floret. “More upset about the cupcake supply drying up to be honest, she said she’ll never speak to you again but I’d give it a few days before she’s asking when you’re coming back,” he pours his best nonchalant tone into his words, letting the fork scrape down his teeth. The ding of Ted’s phone kills whatever beautiful turn of phrase Trent was quietly fishing for in return, and it only takes a quick glance at the screen for his knife to clatter to the table, grabbing his phone for a closer look.
Trent doesn’t think he’s ever met a more expressive man in his life than the one in front of him - it’s one of the things Trent most admires about him. He looks elated, anxious, wistful, heartbroken all in one. One fork in the air, phone casting a white hue onto his nose. He turns the mobile to Trent, hesitant smile on his face.
Henry’s close to the screen, ’24 hours!!!!!!!’ marked onto a piece of paper, a toothy grin peeking out behind it. He looks bigger than when Trent last saw him a few months ago, and he wonders how much of Henry’s life Ted has watched through pixels, how many milestones he’s celebrated via characters, how it will affect Henry later in life, how it already has. How Ted did it for all that time, Ted has no clue - Trent certainly can’t imagine being away from Molly for longer than their agreed custody hours. It’s accompanied by a text:
Henry’s countdown intensifies…!!! <3
“It feels a little redundant to ask, but are you excited to see him?” Trent smiles, thinking of all the easy ones he’s thrown Ted’s way over this dining table. Ted softens, the love for his boy melting the worry lines on his face.
“Nearly more than anything than I’ve ever felt in this world.”
When Ted told him he was returning to Kansas for good this time, Trent was about to do something pretty stupid, in hindsight. The announcement came left of field, sat very much like this, the news blurted out over a lasagne Trent had lovingly made. A few weeks prior and after a particularly rough day of being subjected to Ted panicking about another night with Sassy, Keeley summoned him to her house with the promise of copious booze and some proper girl talk. Two bottles of prosecco later and the night had taken a swift left turn into girl scream (’Fucking hell, Trent, you’re bloody painful to watch around him, you know that? Just stick your tongue down his throat, you’d be doing a service to anyone in a ten foot radius’ Keely screech-laughs, and Trent nearly chokes). So he promised he’d figure it out. Work through whatever the new feeling was whenever he was around Ted, scary and sickening and thrilling in equal measure. Make him his favourite recipe, bring his favourite scotch, pop on their favourite film, and quietly confess. Throw the ball out, leave it in Ted’s court.
Ted leaving was not a part of his plan.
He thinks about the messages he’ll have to face from Keeley later with a grimace.
Trent, panicking in the silence and trying to make Ted’s imminent departure make some kind of sense, says the next thing that comes to his head.
“Do you think you and Michelle will try again?” and then promptly stuffs his mouth full of mashed potato. It isn’t the most far fetched scenario. Ted still speaks about him and Michelle in the present tense, the same wistfulness colouring his language every-time he watches them FaceTime from the confines of his office. He’s spotted her things in the flat when he’s taken the scenic route to the bathroom a few too many times. He knows what they had was special, just from the stories he’s heard re-told in public and in private, far more worth clinging onto than anything he and Brian ever had.
Ted scoffs. It soothes the burn tearing through Trent’s heart for a moment.
“No siree, that ship put out a call for check in, greeted the passengers, hoisted the anchor and set sail long ago.” Trent raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’ll always love Michelle - can’t get rid of the kind we had very easily. But now, it’s ‘cos of the big guy, the memories we made, the life we still have together in some way, y’know?” And really, Trent knows better than anyone else in the world, knows Ted knows that just as much too. It should satisfy the itch, but because he’s like a kid with a stick and a dead frog on the side of the road and tomorrow is very much clouding his judgement, he follows it up.
“Well, a well traveled, successful and rich man with a head full of hair and a back pocket full of stories? Women will be falling at your feet the second you step off the plane, I'm sure." It’s too sarcastic to sound genuine, too biting to come across as a sorrowful attempt at flirting.
"Hey now, I don't care if it's a woman, a man, or those who vibe with neither, I'll be telling them to get the hell up ‘cos they’re embarrasin' themselves.” Trent’s been on the receiving end of countless Ted Lasso gazes in his time - to get his attention in the press room, a worried glance in the locker room, to find each other in a crowd, a lazy one across the dinner table. But he’s never had one like this - a raw, blazing intensity, one that has Trent’s breath hitching. The next time Ted speaks it’s softer, lower, entirely commanding of Trent’s attention. “You flatter me, Trent, you sure are an incredible liar.”
"I think we both know I'm a pretty shit one.” Trent manages to get out on a pathetic chuckle under the heady watch of Ted, chasing the words with an entire glass of wine in one glug.
Ted’s front room cabinets are bare now, save for a glass dolphin statue and a framed picture of a pear. Trent misses the chaotic stacks of pink boxes and junk mail he used to keep there, the mini whiteboard long gone and donated to a disgruntled Roy. He knows it has pride of place in his living room now.
The playlist continues to provide accompaniment to their evening from the middle of the coffee table. There’s a scratchy blanket thrown over the back of the sofa, a far cry from Ted’s worn tartan fleece, one that he’s spent many evenings wrapped in. He keeps his eyes trained on their socked feet crossed at their ankles and touching on the table, as he listens to the retelling of their shared moments in Ted’s words. He’s chatting about AFC Richmond’s first annual car wash fundraiser, back when Ted first joined the team. Trent had been invited to cover it as press, and he’s doesn’t need Ted’s words to relive the moment his interest in Ted slotted into place like a key in a lock. Ted walking out of the dugout in a pair of ripped jean shorts, the full bucket of water immediately dumped over him by Colin and Jamie. He can still feel the soap suds in his hair, the full-body blush that refused to leave.
He feels the urge to reach for a notebook and pen, to immortalise every single syllable and inflection and turn of phrase. But his own manuscript is long finished, his second draft a permanent fixture on his Mac screen in his home office. His contract with Richmond is up in a few weeks too, and he already has his next book proposal ready to send to his agent. So for the first time in a long time, he indulges himself. He lets his head loll onto the back of the couch, rolling to angle towards Ted. His eyes slide shut and he revels in the warm glow of the voice in his ear, the central heating that’s perpetually stuck on low, the floor lamp in the corner, the trip down memory lane and his adoration for the man next to him.
A new song begins, a familiar tune he vaguely recalls playing in the office on one of the very first days Trent became a member of staff. Ted is pushing himself to stand with his palms on his knees, and gets a few steps away from Trent before he stops. He spins around on his heel, arm and hand outstretched.
“Can I have this dance?”
Trent is pretty sure he stops breathing. Bites his cheek just to make sure this isn’t a part of some weird hallucination and that he’s finally cracked
He carefully considers his options. He thinks about the times they’ve spent dancing before, in victory in the Crown and Anchor, to Sam’s vocals in the karaoke bar, to KidzBop hits with Molly to try and wear her out so they can continue watching 24. All perfectly normal, friendly times to dance. Considers their friendship, the promises already made to keep in touch and meet up on Trent’s family trip to San Francisco next year. A friendship too precious of a thing for Trent to ruin it by misunderstanding Ted’s intentions tonight. Considers the near constant ache in his ribcage whenever he so much as senses Ted in the same room, how its licking its way up his throat right now. Assesses his resolve, rapidly crumbling minute by minute. Considers his heart - stress fractures running their way through, pulling at the plasters taping up his defences that Ted had worn down so well. Considers the plane Ted will be getting on in 15 hours.
“C’mon, indulge a old man in his final wish.” Trent chokes out a laugh and manages to throw an eyeroll his way.
“Jesus, Ted. Not dying, getting on a plane.”
Ted wiggles his fingers, and Trent looks up expecting an accompanying waggle of eyebrows. He’s greeted by another penetrating look from Ted, just as intense as before, but different. It’s packed with an emotion Trent can’t quite pinpoint, the kind that leaves him breathless and starstruck. He swallows thickly and nods, offering out his hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.
“Lead the way, Tammy-Faye.” Trent says at the last minute as Ted pulls him to the centre of the living room, basking in the delight on Ted’s face.
“Wow, you holding out on me Trent? Saving that one in my repertoire.” His grip on Trent’s hand is soft, like if he grips too hard he might break. Trent thinks he might.
They fall into it easily. One of Trent’s hand resting delicately on Ted’s shoulder, the other clasped in Ted’s. Ted’s other arm is looped low around Trent’s waist, palm pressed firm to his lower back. The floorboards hiss under the weight, circles drawn and drawn and drawn below them. Trent’s never been one for dancing. All long limbs and poor coordination, always feeling much more of a liability on a dance floor than anyone to lust after. Even his first dance with Brian was born out of his father’s desperation to keep some tradition in an otherwise untraditional affair, Brian spending the entire song grumbling each time Trent stepped on his shoes. Later on that week, Trent bought him new ones that cost him his entire month’s salary in a desperate apology. But the damage was done, and in the short few years they were together, Trent was abandoned at the sidelines of every club, gathering or party they attended once the music picked up. But right now, his heart hammering so hard he can barely hear the music, in the arms of the man he’s fallen for, he could dance forever.
It strikes Trent that he’s never been this close to Ted before. He’s felt the press of his thigh against his on the sofa and studied him enough in conversation to know the ways his moustache twitches when he’s pensive or anxious or elated. He’s never felt the gentle curve of his shoulder into his bicep, the soft rise and fall of his breathing. The rough callouses on his fingertips, a thumb brushing gently over Trent’s knuckles. There’s plenty of space in between them, but one wrong step from Trent and he’ll be 34 again, stepping on shoes and making a mess of things, a barrage of apologies spilling from his lips and he can’t do that, can’t ruin another perfect moment in his life and-
Ted starts singing. It’s the softest of sounds in Trent’s ear, but Trent feels it rumble through his entire body, lighting every nerve ending on the way down and back up. It grounds him, eyes focussing on the canvas of Big Ben opposite him as he grips his shoulder a little tighter. He thinks back to his night with Keeley, his promise for action that had been long abandoned. Slowly, he leans his temple against Ted’s. Ted flinches at the touch, sideburn scraping against his skin, and Trent starts pull away, bile and panic already rising in his throat. But Ted is tightening his hold around him, pushing on Trent’s lower back so he stumbles into his hold, chest to chest. Being this close is something he’s only ever fantasised about - it might be better than any poem he could read or novel he could write. His chest feels warm and surprisingly solid, Ted’s hands a tattoo on his skin. Trent unfurls his hand from Ted’s shoulder to loop his arm around his neck, Molly’s friendship bracelet adorned on his wrist slipping under Ted’s t-shirt collar. The tension in his muscles dissolves one by one as he chases the unique scent of Ted - sandalwood and aftershave and vanilla and the gravy from dinner. Ted lets out a shaky breath at the exact time Trent does.
“Imagine telling those lil’ versions of us back in the press room that we’d be doing this years later?” Ted says, his voice gravelly and smooth and soft and sultry and booming in Trent’s ear. This is all Trent could have wanted from the second he sat in the second row and laid eyes on him.
“I think I might’ve had an aneurism on the spot from laughing so hard. For the record, I didn’t think you’d last the week."
“Neither did anyone else, I won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m the most surprised out of anyone that you managed to win me over. No actually, I’m not surprised at all. Not even a little bit.” They’ve stopped circling now, shuffling from foot to foot. The song ticks over, another slow, acoustic number.
“I never went to my prom.” Trent muses. Ted gives his waist a gentle squeeze. “They were just starting to be a thing here when I left upper school. I didn’t exactly have people kicking down my door to accompany me, and we certainly didn’t have the money to get a proper suit for it. Sacked it off, watched Top of the Pops for a bit instead.” Trent laughs, although there’s no bitterness behind it.
“Did you? Actually no, let me guess, you were Prom King, right?” Trent can feel Ted’s smile push at his own cheeks, the puff of air from his nose on his back, Ted nuzzling into his temple.
“You know it, two years in a row if you would believe that, first and last time it ever happened at my school. I was real privileged, still got my crowns and sashes stored somewhere in my spare room back in Kansas - remind me when we FaceTime next and I’ll dig ‘em out for a little show and tell.”
“Of course you were.” Trent says, unable to mask the affection dripping from his voice.
“Well darlin’, consider this your prom night slow dance experience. And just for that same record, if we’d known each other back then, I’d have been honoured to accompany you. I’m real honoured to right now.” Ted whispers holding him impossibly closer as he spins the both of them until they’re giggling like the school children they deserved to be together.
The song draws to a conclusion at the same time Trent feels Ted shift, the softest, feather light kiss being placed on his cheek. Trent’s world spins into an entirely different galaxy, sending him dizzy and dangerous. He loosens his vice grip around Ted’s neck, sliding it down until his hand rests gingerly on Ted’s chest. Ted’s head snaps around, frantic gaze flickering searching Trent’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed in confusion and Trent’s stomach drops, thinks he might be panting, or maybe it’s Ted, or both of them, and he’s blinking like none of this is real and Trent is pushing at his chest at the same time Ted’s pulling his hand from his lower back to the small of his waist and-
Ted’s phone dings.
Ted clears his throat, Trent jumps like he’s been burnt. “I uh, better check that, could be Beard getting me to check over his final packing list.” Ted disappears in a whoosh of air, leaving Trent to stare at the bare cabinets.
“Let me drive ya home? This weather ain’t good for anyone to be out in, I can’t have you getting sick on my last night in town on my conscience.” Trent looks at the doorway, at the raindrops still sliding down his trench coat, the damp ring around his boots on the carpet.
“It’s okay, really.” he waves his hand, feet firmly rooted on the ground.
“You gonna deny me one of my last chances to drive on the wrong side of the road in the wrong side of the car?"
“Ted, it’s no bother-“
“Trent. Please?” It’s a direct contrast from the easy back and forth he’s grown accustomed to, the kind of quiet desperation he’s only heard tonight. Ted’s pleading look kill his final protest dead in his throat.
He toes on his boots, spending longer than necessary zipping the sides, grabs the sodden coat, moves for Ted to grab his car keys, and follows Ted out towards the green.
The drive is short - down the main road, second exit at the roundabout, a left turn and another right and they’re there, just down the side street next to the river. Ted presses a button on the complex dashboard, and the engine sputters and dies.
“Well, thank you for the highly unnecessary chauffeur service,” Trent murmurs, slowly reaching down to unbuckle his belt. The metal buckle smacks against the plastic of the door frame as he shifts his upper body to face Ted, a knee hovering over the clutch.
“I uh, made these for you. Force of habit, for old times sake, one last time et cetera.” He opens the glove compartment to a silver box, the sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon filling the car. It’s much bigger than usual, pulling it out with two hands, a small envelope with ‘open me first :)’ written on the front tucked neatly into the ribbon wrapped around it. He already knows he’ll treasure it for a lifetime.
“So that’s why you needed to get me in the car. Premeditated biscuits. Ted Lasso you always find ways to surprise, even in your final hours.”
“Gosh, you sending out a firin’ squad for me? I’m gettin’ on a plane, not being shipped off to death row. I’m still here.”
“But you’re not.” It slips out of Trent’s mouth, and the pretence he’s built, the dance they've been doing all night, shatters.
“Trent-“
“I definitely shouldn’t have said that-”
“Trent, please-“
“Ted, Please. Don’t.” his voice is ragged and pleading and biting, and Trent wants to rewind twenty seconds, get out of the car with a firm handshake and a goodbye and never look back. Ted transforms in front of him, the mask used for locker room speeches and press conferences slipping into place, His Ted vanishing by the millisecond. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d feared, and well-rehearsed modesty and perfectly placed intentions and his shattering heart and flailing resolve and future consequences be damned, he reaches over and places his hand over Ted’s gripping the gear stick.
“I don’t think my heart can take it.” Trent murmurs, barely audible above the rain hammering on the windshield. Ted lets out a shaking sigh, nods his head, worries his lip between his teeth. Trent can’t breathe, can only stare at the profile of Ted who’s completely unreadable. And then all at once, Ted is shifting to mirror Trent, flipping his hand over from its grip on the gear stick to lace his fingers in Trent’s. They lock eyes just as the first tear slides down Ted’s cheek, soaking into his moustache. Trent’s feet are starting to feel sodden and he can feel Ted’s hand shake underneath his and this is all wrong, Ted shouldn’t be leaving, and maybe if Trent had been more sure of Ted’s intentions, more sure of his own, not so fucking scared of being loved then perhaps things would be different. Perhaps they wouldn’t be crying in a rental car, maybe Ted would be dropping him off with the promise of unlimited days after that.
They sit.
“I need to get in, said I’d ring Molly to say goodnight and I’ll be joining you on her block list if I miss it.“ Trent says on a shaky chuckle, pressing the heel of a hand into his eye sockets to stem the flow of tears. Ted isn’t doing much better, clearing his throat as he reaches awkwardly into his sweatpants pocket to pass Trent a tissue from his pocket, dabbing at his own face. It’s Ted who eventually speaks first.
“I’ll see you around, sugar, yeah? I’m counting down the days.” Ted moves with purpose into Trent’s space, pressing a firmer kiss to Trent’s cheek than the one in his flat. The bristle of his moustache against Trent’s skin feels gritty and foreign and home. The kiss sears into his skin, the brush of his thumb against his cheek blooming warmth in its path. And Trent gasps, tightening his grip on Ted’s hand so hard he think he might leave nail marks. As Ted retreats, Trent reaches out to the nape of his neck and returns it - savouring the indulgence of being so close to Ted, the feel of the rough stubble and smoother skin, the tang of his tears against his lips. Trent has never allowed himself to think of kissing Ted Lasso, because it would never happen. It might be the greatest kiss he’s ever given, might be the greatest kiss he’s ever received. Trent falls back, breathing ragged. He takes his time the next time he looks at Ted, committing the moment to memory. Taking stock of his favourite scars and indents and bumps and dimples. His profile is bathed in moonlight, tear tracks disappearing into his T-Shirt. It’s the most gorgeous he’s ever looked.
“Same here. I’ll see you around, Ted. Thank you.” Letting go of Ted’s hand might be the hardest thing he’s ever done, second to getting out of the car. A surge of adrenaline takes over and he murmurs a quick ‘Love you’ as he pulls at the door handle, heart hammering when he hears it returned just as he slams the door shut.
Trent runs up the stairs to his front door, not daring to look back at the spot just outside where he can hear an engine roar into life. He fumbles with balancing the box on his hip and his tote bag flailing around his elbow, managing to unlock the door on his fourth attempt. The front door has barely clicked shut before he’s throwing his tote on the floor, making a mental note to check his crockery later. He stumbles through his hallway, pulling the envelope from its ribbon confines and throws himself onto the sofa as he rips at the seal.
There’s a card inside. On the front of the card is a picture of Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eeyore. Tigger has Piglet on his shoulder, Eeyore has a balloon tied to his tail and Winnie has his signature jar of honey. In big cursive font at the top, it says:
‘How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.’
Trent feels sick. He opens the card.
Trent
Some sweet treats for a sweet guy (and his sweet little lady)
Enjoy,
Ted
He closes the card, opens it again, reads the message, closes it again, turns it in his hands. His entire soul aches. Through blurry eyes, he brings the box to his lap again, unwrapping the elaborate ribbon and lifting the lid. He’s greeted by six equally elaborate cupcakes, decorated with every single sprinkle and glitter left in Ted Lasso’s baking trolley. With a shake of his head, he lifts them out to pop them in the fridge, and spots something under the red and blue confetti and tissue paper. The spirit of Molly Crimm must take over him because he’s grabbing fistfuls of the stuff and throwing it unceremoniously onto the floor until he gets to the bottom. Waiting for him is a sleek black leather book, much like the notebooks he’s spent his entire life scrawling in, except the spine is wire-bound and it’s a little bulkier. He runs his thumbs over the cover, Ted’s phantom touch ghosting over his knuckle. Ted has surreptitiously quizzed him more than once in the last few months on his favourite brand of notebooks, but Ted is the kind of guy who’d ask that just because, so he hadn’t paid any mind. In the centre of the cover, there’s another bright pink post it note, proclaiming ‘Open me now!’
He’s met by a wall of Ted Lasso’s handwriting.
Trent Crimm, Sport, Sugar, TC,
I know you’re the one out of us both with the good words, but i’m gonna try real hard to match your written prowess. don’t laugh, okay?
it’s the least I can do. I feel real bad sometimes, you’ve probably written tens of thousands of words about me over the years, and mine don’t amount to much at all. But I meant what I said. you aint getting rid of me that easy, I’m plannin’ on bumping up my word count via the ancient art of the digital - email, text, maybe we set up one of those fancy discord channel thingys I’ve heard Colin and Isaac yapping on about - you’re gonna be real sick of me real soon.
I know you still got that classic Crimm Scepticism and Doubt in you about your book, but please believe me Trent, just like you believed in the Lasso Way in the first few weeks of knowing me, I believe in you in equal measure. You’re maybe the most talented person i’ve ever known (don’t tell Jamie I wrote that, please) and I can’t wait to be cheerin’ from the dugout of your career. The book’s a best seller already, and you’ve made me look far better than i deserve (I know i haven’t read it yet, but i can just feel it. I want a signed copy, bee tee dubs) (if you’ve made me out to be an asshole though, maybe save the signature).
anyway, all this chicken scrawl is my roundabout (boy am i sure gonna miss those roundabouts) way of a thank you. for giving me a chance all those years ago, for keeping me accountable even now, for not running a thousand miles when i just about burned all your taste buds off.
thank you for being my friend. for being a great theatre and restaurant and board games and drinking buddy, for indulging my music tastes and getting to know the me beyond the ball. for sharing your popcorn and your chips and your chips (fine, crisps) and your spare room and your life with me, your sweet little molly, who’s a credit to your parenting and a shining example of what a stand up guy you are. for calming me down and riling me up, for challenging me and celebrating with me, for terrifying me and electrifying me.
thank you for being part of my home away from home, and for sharing your heart with me. Yours is the hardest to leave.
i’m already counting down the days until the great lasso-crimm san fran trip. henry and i take vacationing SERIOUSLY, i hope you’re up for the challenge.
Yours. always.
Ted :>)
PS. Turn to the next page, pls - thank ya kindly
He laughs like a madman, using his sleeve to wipe at the snot threatening to drip from his nose.
Darlin’,
You know I’m a hoarder, so i thought i’d put some of it to good use.
All my love,
Ted <3
He turns to the next page, and immediately slams the book shut. Trent steels himself, covers his mouth as out a sob crawls its way out of his mouth, takes a deep breath, and opens it again.
Because as he turns each page, there’s his and Ted’s friendship, laid out right in front of him. There’s ticket stubs from cinema trips they’ve taken, pictures of selfies at the theatre stuck in with stars and zig zag stickers, as well as Ted’s star rating of each show. Wristbands from events and programs from museum exhibitions, each with a date and Ted’s favourite piece. There’s a printout of Trent’s expose, annotated by Ted down to the last space in between the words, and even screenshots from press conferences where they’re in the same frame, Ted doodling over his own face. Trent flicks through with his mouth agape - he isn’t even sure how he got some of these things, knows he must’ve taken some from Trent’s house when he wasn’t paying attention. Towards the end, there’s pictures of the both of them in the coaches office sharing private smiles taken by god knows who - possibly Keeley, who he’ll have to thank regardless. Pictures of Ted, Trent, Molly and Henry on Richmond Green for Molly’s birthday, pictures of Molly and Henry with ice cream sundaes as big as their heads. Pictures of Trent asleep on Ted’s sofa on one marathon movie night, a program page from the first football game they took Molly to. Where Ted didn’t have any physical evidence, there’s entire pages of written memories. There’s a page dedicated to his shortbread recipe, with a plea to continue to deliver biscuits to Rebecca. There’s a list of Richmond and Kingston restaurants they devised a few months back, with a promise to complete it soon. There’s even printed screenshots of funny texts between the two.
The back half of the book is blank, sticky notes placed haphazardly on sporadic pages.
‘RESERVED: For the great Lasso-Crimm San Fran trip’
‘RESERVED: For our FaceTime chats - I <3 them too’
‘RESERVED: For my first time back home’
‘RESERVED: For when TC visits KC’
Trent has never considered himself as someone who has friends. Sitting next to someone in school because of your last name, so they’re forced to talk to you for at least 10 minutes out of every day. Close contact with sources throughout the years, enough to grab a drink occasionally, never to go beyond the superficial. Acquaintances born from the monotony of workplace culture, strictly limited to water cooler conversations.
And then Ted Lasso walked into his life. This - the care, the attention, the intrigue and interest in what he has to say or what he likes, he’s never had this. Not with his own family, his colleagues, or even with his ex-husband. Trent is always the one to put in the effort, one-sided and fizzling out slowly, making him feel desperate and stupid as another person leaves.
He takes his time looking at each page again, jaw still on the floor. He must’ve bought out a stationary shop to make it, each page meticulously colour coordinated and thought through with coffee stickers and Richmond stripes and multicoloured hearts. He pictures Ted sat at his kitchen table, tongue stuck out in concentration as he crafts something wholly intended for Trent. A promise he’s in their friendship for the long haul.
Yes, Ted Lasso is his closest friend. Might be the most important person in his life now, second to Molly. And Trent would take all the pining in the world, every sinking feeling, break his own heart each and every day if it means he can keep Ted Lasso in his life.
He hugs the book to his chest, and cries.