Work Text:
Ted was writing.
The fact that someone other than himself kept a notebook shouldn’t have been an Earth-shattering revelation - it wasn’t like Trent had a monopoly on the hobby, regardless of what the awards now packed into boxes under his bed might imply - but Ted’s intrinsically chaotic nature meant that Trent had spent the last two years methodically cataloging every reliable character trait the man possessed. For his sanity’s sake, you understand.
For example, you never offered Ted Lasso tea, not unless you wanted a hilariously insulting rant on the horrors of your national drink. He preferred barbecue sauce to ketchup (though apparently a worthwhile specimen hadn’t yet been found across the pond). He preferred khakis to jeans, jeans to dress pants, literally anything else to a full-blown suit, and Trent had not spent an afternoon bemoaning the fact that he was unlikely to see Ted dressed to the nines anytime soon.
In short, Ted Lasso was an enigma wrapped in a few choice consistencies that kept those around him from coming untethered. He did not eat mushy peas. He did text with hieroglyphic-like GIFs. He did bake. He did not cook. He did play Legos at the tender age of forty-seven, beating out an eleven-year-old in enthusiasm.
He did not write.
That, Trent had confirmed, lay solely in Beard’s realm. He brought an analytical eye to every match, his mind brimming with strategies and his hands full of annotated books, each notation incomprehensible, even to a seasoned expert in short-hand. Based on what little he’d seen, Trent wasn’t even sure Beard was writing in English... or any language known to someone other than himself. But the knowledge was clearly there, paired with Roy’s physicality and personal knowledge of the game, leaving Ted to bring... whatever it was Ted Lasso brought to every space he crossed into.
Hope? Optimism? Charm? Charisma? Trent had stopped trying to name the ethereal thing a while back.
(Or rather, he wasn’t ready to drop the ‘L’ word just yet. No, not even in his own mind; not even to describe Ted’s coaching style - a skill so far removed from Trent himself that linking the two in any respect was a cosmic joke. A Mars and Venus situation.)
(The fact that his thoughts kept turning to grade school romantic rhymes meant nothing.)
All of which was to say: finding Ted scribbling in the back of the AFC coach bus was a bit of a shock. It was a mystery then, the kind of low-stakes investigation that Trent found himself drawn to more and more nowadays, enough that he stood and - ignoring Colin’s curious look - began his wobbly way to the back of the bus.
There was a reason he’d always written about sports rather than participating in them. It took all of five seconds for Trent to loose his balance, careening hard into Isaac’s shoulder. He just gave Trent a firm pat and righted him like he weighed all of ten pounds, never even taking out his air-pods.
Trent firmly told himself he’d already lost his dignity to vanilla vodka and carried on.
Rebecca had moved about a half hour before, kicking Will to the proverbial curb so she could talk finances with Higgins. Coach Beard was sacked out across one half of the back seat, a baseball cap slung low over his eyes, pig nose still in place, accentuating his snores. That left Ted in semi-privacy, still scribbling with such focus that he hadn’t even noticed Trent’s approach.
He’d have felt mildly insulted if the whole scenario weren’t fascinating.
This just in, his mind whispered, tone both exacerbated and snide. Local ex-journalist enamored with middle-aged man writing in a journal. Can his life get any more pathetic? Tune in at 11:00 to find out!
Fuck, but he shouldn’t have drank last night. Coming out to Colin had been bad enough. Pairing that with alcohol, mere hours before he’d spend the day in an enclosed space with Ted Lasso, was stupidity, plain and simple.
Still, nothing to do but shoulder ahead. So Trent cleared his throat, wincing at how rough his voice was.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Ted’s head snapped up and he blinked, drowsy, like he was coming out of a daze. Or maybe he’d had a long night too. Trent suddenly felt a pang that he hadn’t gone looking for him. Not that he regretted his time spent with Colin, not at all, but there was a soft ache for the time he might have had with Ted instead, like looking back at a path untraveled even as you enjoyed the one you were on. Dinner, a show, perhaps even that promised lesson in bike riding...
Trent mentally shook his head, chastising himself. That was a fantasy - and a presumptuous one at that. There was no reason why Ted would have wanted to spend their rare free night in his company. It was for the best that Trent hadn’t gone and embarrassed himself, rejected for the exciting plans of Coach Beard - that was definitely glitter in his hair - or worse, invited along out of pity. He’d attended the party for Colin’s sake, even enjoyed himself there, but that was still far from Trent’s preferred way to unwind. It hadn’t escaped his notice that after rejecting his suggestion of a museum, the team had not included him in whatever plan they decided on.
He was used to being... outside it all. That’s where being a “colossal prick” tended to land you. Hell, Trent was lucky the team had accepted him to the extent they had, no longer hushing the moment he walked into a room, or throwing obscene, half-hearted gestures his way. He might have bonded with Colin over a shared secret, but Trent wasn’t so foolish as to believe that the damage he’d caused could be erased in a single night, or even a season. That work would be a lifetime in the making... though he wasn’t sure how to navigate it without Ted.
Ted, who was speaking to Trent for the first time in over twenty-four hours and he wasn’t even listening.
“Surprised you know what a penny is,” he said, smiling tiredly, but genuine. “Shouldn’t it be ‘Pence for your thoughts?’”
Trent winced. “Ted. ‘Pence’ is the plural of ‘penny.’ Besides, it was first used by Sir Thomas More, a Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.”
“Was it now! Well, look at that. I’m just learning all sorts of nifty things on this trip.”
Trent honestly couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He’d long lost the ability to differentiate between Ted’s Ted-ness and the subtle, teasing exaggeration that brought to mind something Mae had said, back when she was regaling Trent - with a truly galling look in her eye - about how Ted had hustled Rupert Mannion over darts: Be curious, not judgmental.
Sometimes it felt like Ted was gently coaching the whole world, encouraging those around him to ask questions instead of jumping to cynical conclusions, all the while using himself as the poor test subject. It was an effort that, as a former journalist turned Ted Lasso supporter, Trent had come to appreciate.
So he simply said, “Yes, I've learned a lot too” and took the empty seat beside him, basking in that approving smile. It felt like Trent had just passed some unspoken test.
This is great, he thought wryly, recalling something he’d read on Twitter recently. I’m going to get a good grade in Ted Lasso, something that is normal to want and possible to achieve.
Ted leaned into his space until Trent’s world was the subtle musk of a man who hadn’t had the chance to shower this morning, heavy deodorant to cover it up, some brand-generic moisturizer, and something... smoky? Sweet. Just a little bit tart.
If that wasn’t a fucking metaphor right there.
“Anything you want to share with the class?” Ted asked, whispering it like Trent’s education was a national secret. His mind flashed to Colin, vulnerable on the Homomonument, voice breaking with as much longing as relief. If only he knew. “Not just yet, I’m afraid.”
Ted huffed. “I appreciate that. Well, call me Dumbo because I’m all ears when you wanna talk. Until then, save that hard earned cash of yours, sport. My thoughts are messier than Henry’s bedroom after a sleepover; not worth even a penny.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that.”
Trent knew better than most how intensely personal writing could be. He’d learned Teeline like all the other Journos, then modified it over the years into a kind of personal code. His messy handwriting, the despair of a long line of tutors, added an extra layer of security. It wasn’t that he thought his work so worth stealing - they were all covering the same beats, after all - but rather the thought of anyone seeing his work before it had been edited to the moon and back made his skin crawl. It was why he’d never bothered with tape recorders and possessed a laptop security system that would probably raise the feds’ suspicions if they were to ever look.
So no, Trent didn’t sneak a peek at the open book on the table.
Instead, Ted deliberately pushed it his way and that, more than anything, made warmth rise up in the center of Trent’s chest. He’d been cold for so long, the kind of cold where you’d gone numb to the discomfort and thought, foolishly, that what you were feeling was normal - good, even. Thawing had been a fucking painful experience, but now Trent was basking in a miniature sun turned his way. That burning, too, was painfully exquisite.
With a nod of gratitude, Trent turned his attention to the writing and... paused. Well, Ted had better handwriting than he did, but that was about all he could say for the readability of what was in front of him.
“Tri-ANGELS?” he asked. Feeling daring, Trent skittered his fingers over the word, thumb inconspicuously caressing that first ‘T’ and ‘R.’ He now had nearly half of what his name would look like written in Ted’s hand and he committed the lines to memory, wondering if he could recreate them in the privacy of his flat.
Can you please stop acting like a teenage girl for five minutes? It was hard though, what with alcohol, dancing, and the adrenaline of a confession still coursing through his veins; nigh impossible with Ted sitting so close that Trent could have brushed their thighs together with one simple, casual shift.
This was becoming a habit, apparently: caught up in fantasies to the point where he missed reality happening right in front of him. Trent tuned back in to hear Ted say something about Beard's knowledge and the fate of the team and a whole lot of other undoubtedly important information that Trent simply wasn’t able to focus on. He’d kick himself for it later, but right now it was enough that Ted had trusted him with the journal. Trent’s mind was too fuzzy and bright to unpack what was in it.
It was enough to have it, hold it... and realize it wasn’t just any journal.
“You went to the Van Gogh museum?” he blurted, interrupting Ted's static explanation. It came out like an accusation, which was stupid, presumptuous again, but Trent couldn’t help the little flicker of hurt that surfaced. Ridiculous and insulting. Ted didn’t owe him a second of his time - had, more than anyone else on Earth, reason to withhold it - and he hadn’t even been in the room when Trent’s suggestion had crashed and burned. Underneath that absurd disappointment was a swoop in his stomach; the realization that Ted had chosen the exact outing Trent would have gone on if Colin hadn’t taken priority. It was that fantasy that their paths might have crossed through something like fate and the electric knowledge of shared interests: art, football, A Wrinkle in Time.
Writing.
“Trent Crimm, investigative journalist extraordinaire.” Ted’s gaze flickered down to the museum’s embossing in a teasing gesture. “But I sure did. Hell of a thing to see in person, I’ll tell you that. You know, sunflowers are--”
“Kansas’ state flower.”
It was out before Trent could even consider pulling it back, exhaustion slowing his mind until the deep dives he’d gone down the last three years - obsessive hyperfixations, really - rose up, unfiltered. A mortified blush began to spread across his cheeks, but if Ted found it at all odd that an Englishman knew this random, not-at-all significant fact about his home, he didn’t show it. A soft, syrupy smile spread onto Ted’s face and his own cheeks pinked in pleasure. Trent had to look away.
“You a golfer now?” he said, smile turning into a grin that was, thankfully, more familiar and thus more manageable. “Because that right there was a hole in one! Righty-o, Trent. The sunflower has been our floral emblem since the 1800’s. I’m sure Beard could give you an exact date. I was just happy to see a little piece of home depicted with such love, you know?”
Trent’s chest grew tight at that. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Ted reached across the table to give his hand a brief squeeze, casual like they’d been doing it for years.
Trent swore then and there that if he ever found the courage to write about this moment, he’d do his best to imbue it with as much love as Van Gogh had given sunflowers.
Talk felt sacrilegious after that and they settled into silence through unspoken agreement. It was comfortable though, a rarity in Trent’s life, and before long he felt his eyes growing heavy. The murmur of the boys sharing their own tales from last night, the gentle motion of the bus, Ted breathing easy and deeply beside him... Trent made a note to stand and stretch his legs in a minute, lest he fall asleep.
He woke up three hours later.
Head pillowed on Ted’s shoulder, he blinked heavily and yawned, sinking deeper into the fleece warmed by another. For one sublime moment Trent floated, before the embarrassment, the apologies, the photographic evidence that - fuck - he’d drooled on Ted’s shoulder he existed in a hazy space of near total bliss. Only one thing permeated that feeling: Ted’s journal, opened now to a new page with a message scrawled and angled oh so particularly, like someone had wanted those words to be the first thing he saw. Trent awoke from one dream and landed straight in another.
I’d like to visit the museum again someday. Come with me?
~Ted❁