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Trent is, frankly, an adorable drunk. He’s normally fairly put-together, cool—even lately, with how he’s loosened up and relaxed more, he’s still fairly… gathered. He lingers at the edges, expression—well, less contained, but nonetheless contained. He scribbles in his notebook and watches with steady eyes and steady hands, and while he’s quicker to smile, while his smiles look more real and make his eyes crinkle at the edges and warm his whole expression, he’s still… steady.
Drunk Trent is not steady. Drunk Trent is not contained, cool, or put-together. Drunk Trent is excitable, expressive, and deeply endearing. He’s bright-eyed and pink-cheeked and his hands wave exuberantly as he talks and he talks, seemingly with little to no filter, and so affectionately. He’s easy with compliments, and with touch, and he’s bluntly honest but it’s almost entirely positive. He’s clumsy, definitely drunk, but apparently Trent Crimm without inhibitions is a cuddly, chatty, complimentary Trent Crimm.
It's… sweet. And kind of unexpected. And it’s a long way from the cynical, cutting, ruthless reporter everyone had warned Ted about all those years ago. Honestly, it kind of reminds him of when Trent had all but crashed into the locker room, skidding with how excited he was, hands waving and face lit up like the sun.
In other words: it’s delightful. He’s delightful.
His point is only proven when he’s snapped out of his thoughts by a delighted, starry-eyed gasp. “Mistletoe!!”
Ted looks up to see Trent looking at him with starry eyes, pointing above them.
Trent leans into his space, beaming at him, and then his hands—warm and kind of soft—are framing either side of Ted’s face, and he has a split second to think oh my god, is he gonna kiss me? and wait, why do I want him to k—and then Trent pulled him forward as he leaned in and up, on his tippy toes, and—
pressed a firm kiss to Ted’s forehead. Mwah!
He pulled away, flushed with the drink and still giving Ted that beautiful, lopsided grin, eyes wrinkled at the corners, and Ted—well, in Ted’s defense, he’s not exactly sober, either.
“Aw, you’re so sweet!” he says, too loudly and two inches from Trent’s face because he has no volume control when he’s drunk like this, “But you’re supposed to do this, silly!”
And then in one smooth motion, Ted slips his arms around Trent’s waist, abruptly and a little more roughly than he intended to pulls him in close, and kisses him senseless.
Trent makes a frankly adorable little noise of surprise, muffled against Ted’s lips, but it takes less than even a moment for him to melt against Ted and kiss back.
Ted leans forward a little, forcing Trent to lean back—not stepping back, just leaning, and Ted’s practically holding him up at this point—and Trent’s lips part a little and it’s. wow.
Trent’s shoulders knock against the doorframe, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He is enthusiastically kissing back. His hands are back on Ted’s face and he’s smiling into Ted’s mouth and it keeps nearly breaking the kiss.
Ted’s vaguely aware of the burst of cheering and wolf whistles around them, but he’s really much more focused on Trent’s mouth, warm and yielding on his.
And then, after what really could have been two hours or two minutes, they break apart. Trent’s looking at him, all blown pupils and wide sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks, and his smile is small and disbelieving but undeniably real.
“…woah,” Trent breathes out, soft. He sounds kind of awed.
“Mer—happy Christmas!” says Ted, bright, arms still very much wrapped around Trent’s waist. It’s nice. Trent’s warm and solid and kind of lean and wiry and Ted can smell his shampoo. “Ah—there, said it the British way!”
“Merry Christmas,” says Trent, all warm and dazzled and dizzy. “There. I said it the ‘American’ way.”
“Are you two done snogging?” called Keeley.
“Mistletoe!” Ted shouted cheerily over his shoulder.
“That’s not an answer!” she called back.
“No, we’re not!” Trent answers for him and leans up to kiss Ted again.
The cheers have a few groans mixed in this time, but it’s all fond.
(Later, they will wake passed out on the couch, one atop the other, some mistletoe taped somewhere above their head. And half-asleep, pressed right up against someone so handsome, who are they to deny the demands of tiny holiday plants?)