Chapter Text
Ted feels—relaxed, warm, fuzzy. Trent’s a warm, solid presence next to him on the couch, their legs tangled together, close enough to hold, and—
Ted had only thought to cheer him up, originally. Seeing that man yelling at Trent, calling him those nasty names, seeing how Trent had become so tense and aloof, drawing himself up and into himself, tight, tense, prickling… it had been painful. Ted could see that as well as Trent hid it, he was hurt.
So against is better judgement, against what was probably more practical, he’d followed Trent outside, and found him looking like he was barely holding it together. Smooth on the outside, turbulent below the surface: Ted knew the feeling.
Ted probably should have made sure he was alright and then went back inside. But Trent had relaxed when he heard Ted’s voice—prickly, uncertain, untrusting Trent, apparently had deemed Ted safe. How could Ted leave? He’d not had much interesting ahead of him—Beard was, ahem, busy, and he’d been feeling—well, nothing pleasant. Drinking alone had been a bad idea as it was. And now here was Trent, in need of company, and Ted wouldn’t mind some himself. Trent was pleasant company, was clever and funny and surprisingly gentle under that biting exterior, and Ted found himself actually excited to talk to him for real. Not about sports, not about work, just—talk.
And maybe it wasn’t practical, maybe he shouldn’t, but it felt right. Maybe it would do them both good, anyway.
So Ted had pulled him into conversation, and Trent had hesitantly let him. And then they were getting ice cream, and Ted got the privilege of seeing Trent Crimm forgetting himself, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened and hands waving excitedly. Ted got to hear his real laugh (shockingly, it was kind of squeaky, but adorkable, Trent kept trying to cover his mouth with his hand and Ted wanted to gently wrap his fingers around Trent’s wrist and tug it down, make him lower his hand, stop hiding that smile, which—was a weird impulse he was not going to examine further), Ted got to pick his brain and just talk. Silly things, sincere things, just… things.
And it gets late. Time passes so quickly, and it strikes Ted that this—sitting across from Trent Crimm at an ice cream parlor, one-on-one, talking about anything but work—is shockingly date-like. In fact, it’s the closest thing he’s had to a date in years, since even long before his divorce. And he likes it.
He isn’t sure what to do with that. That he’s enjoying himself so much. That he hasn’t been on a proper date in ages—hasn’t dated, as in someone other than his (now ex) wife in even longer—and here he was, apparently not out of practice considering how easily conversation was flowing, how good his company felt… and how Trent was looking at him like that.
And what did that mean—that this felt like a date, and that he liked it, and that it was with Trent? A man, a lovely and interesting man, a man Ted worked with. A journalist. …Did this make Ted gay? A little gay, maybe?
…of course, this isn’t a date. Ted was pretty sure both parties had to openly agree to it being a date for it to be a date. But did he want it to be a date? Did he like that it felt like one?
Apparently yes. And Ted didn’t quite know what to do with that.
(And if it wasn’t a date, why was it so suspiciously date shaped?)
Ted can’t bring himself to dwell on it. He’s having too much fun, and the relief of it—the release of pressure, the ability to just… let go for a while, enjoy himself, not trying to be so on and ready, rambling a little and watching Trent listen with big, enthralled eyes like Ted’s gonna spill to the secrets of the universe somewhere between a random anecdote he’s forgotten why he started and a quick slew of fun facts he’d remembered.
Ted feels… relaxed, for once. Not so anxious, not so uncertain. He feels like he’s on solid ground.
Trent—Trent Crimm, and god, if he doesn’t look different from the Trent Crimm in the press room, Trent sitting outside the Crown & Anchor looking so small and hurt, Trent walking beside him looking so warm, a yellow-gold lantern-light in a blue, cold world, Trent, excitedly waving his hands under the cool, flickery lights of the ice cream parlor—Trent sits across from him, and it’s kind of amazing how far they’ve come, in such a short time.
In the end, Trent invites Ted home—awkwardly, but earnestly, in a way Ted wouldn’t have expected from him even months ago, but now seems painfully in-character. Aloof and prickly when he was on-guard, almost heartbreakingly earnest and hopeful when he let that guard down. That’s Trent.
And they walk together, they talk, and Ted finds… he’s enjoying himself. He’s really, really enjoying himself.
It's easy, talking to Trent. It’s shockingly easy. Trent’s fun and warm, warm in a way that might surprise someone else but that Ted had been sensing under all that ice since the start.
They make it to Trent’s home—and it’s so him, with the bookshelves full of a variety of books, the nice desk, the scattered toys for his daughter, the record player, the scribbled notes and tea and notebooks and pens and art on the walls—
Ted kind of loves it. It’s cozy, and a bit scattered, but lived in. It’s so… Trent.
(He suspects most people would think Trent Crimm would have a neat, organized sort of place, minimalist and clean and cold, but this? This suits him far better.)
Somehow they end up on the couch, sitting close although not entwined, and it’s—it’s nice. It’s comfy.
So’s the conversation that follows—it’s actually easy to just fall into conversation, fall into just. sitting next to each other on the couch, leaning in closer… Ted stops watching himself, and doesn’t get burned for it. Trent seems only to get more and more relaxed and loose in a way that’s fascinating to see—he blooms—and Ted matches his relaxation. They try to figure out something to watch together—Ted desperately wants Trent’s opinion on some of his favorite rom-coms, sue him, but at the same time, watching some kinda mystery with that clever brain of his would be real fun, wouldn’t it?—and keep just… talking.
At some point, though, something changes.
He doesn’t really remember what he’d been saying—he’d put his hand on Trent’s leg, looking at the television, not really thinking, just sort of babbling, but Trent had been listening with interest, and then.
Then he felt a cool, soft hand on his face, gently tilting his head back to the side, and he’d gone with it, facing Trent, and—Trent was looking at him like that, that look that made something in Ted’s stomach flutter, all—all gooey and warm and achingly affectionate, admiring, and then Trent leans forward and kisses him.
Ted’s so surprised he freezes for a moment. The kiss is warm, close-mouthed, gentle; it’s not insistent or forceful but it’s very real, Trent’s lips on his, Trent’s nose brushing his, Trent’s hand on his face.
And then when Ted doesn’t quite react quickly enough, Trent pulls back, abruptly ripping himself away and nearly tripping over himself to scramble to the other side of the couch.
The sudden cold, the absence of the warm body that’s been pressed close to his for what felt like all night, hits Ted like a slap, so much so it takes a second for him to process the expression on Trent’s face: naked horror. Guilt, sadness, self-recrimination—he stutters out an apology, breathless, and all that warm affection is shattered, fallen from his face.
“Trent,” Ted tries, and his voice feels distant to even himself, and Trent keeps babbling out apologies—he’d kissed Ted on an impulse, he’d clearly wanted to, but he’d thought Ted didn’t want him, he’d thought he was unwelcome, he’d thought—
Ted can’t handle that. It’s impulse, too, and an irresistible one at that. He all but lurches forward, practically knocking Trent over in his haste to grab his head with both hands and pull him into another kiss.
Trent makes a muffled little noise of surprise into his mouth, but it only takes him a moment to melt. He kisses back, eyes closed, and relaxes.
And now they’re kissing properly, just them, pressed close, kissing, and Ted can’t help but deepen it, can’t help but touch him, and Trent seems eager to go along. He feels Trent’s hands lightly, shakily cup his face, and they kiss and kiss and kiss.
God, it’s perfect. Trent’s warm and pliant but also clings back, touches, makes little noises into his mouth, and Ted can’t help but kiss him harder, deepen it, feel him melt into it.
He isn't entirely sure what the future holds, but right now, with Trent Crimm in his arms, kissing him like this—he's actually pretty optimistic.
It... feels right.