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It should come as no surprise that Ted is a restless patient.
Ted, in general, is an endless fountain of energy. He leaves nothing in the reserves, gives it all in every aspect of his life. He’s constantly on the move, be it in motion around the pitch or the twitching on his leg under the desk, his hand against the surface top, and not even in sleep does he still. Trent has watched him toss and turn through the small hours night after night — he rises with the break of the dawn, and often before, years of travelling cross-country two or three times a week — and not felt even the slightest hint of envy at the restlessness of his partner.
So it shouldn’t surprise Trent that when a bout of seasonal flu strikes just under half the team down in the first week of November, that it gets Ted a few days later.
He comes home the first day with flushed cheeks and glassy eyes, and it takes Trent minutes to realise what’s gotten into him when Ted mumbles something about finding a replacement for Will for a few days, head buried in Trent’s shoulder. His hand comes up to Ted’s hair, stroking circles into his scalp, and Trent holds him close as he mumbles himself into falling asleep against Trent’s side. One arm wrapped around Ted, Trent texts Beard with one hand to let him know that Ted’s not making it into Nelson Road tomorrow, and Beard responds minutes later that he’ll take care of it. He thanks him, and switches his phone to Do Not Disturb, before managing to wrangle a feverish Ted into his bed.
After a night of fidgeting and sweating through the sheets, Trent manages to rouse Ted enough to get some water into him. He blinks up at Trent sleepily, managing what would be a smile if he had his full wits about him, before his face goes white again, this time with what looks to be dread.
“The club, I gotta,” Ted grumbles, and Trent gently nudges him back into bed.
“No, you don’t ‘gotta’. You’ve been relieved of your duties for the day, Coach Lasso,” Trent says, hands gentle on Ted’s shoulders, and it says a lot for the toll his fever is taking on him that Ted blinks up at him, confused. “I spoke to the club. Flu’s taken out half your boys, remember? You’re off the hook. One free pass to bunk off the day— or play hooky, whatever it is you Midwesterns call it.”
“Oh — you shouldn’t have, I could’ve,” Ted mumbles, but Trent hears the gratitude that underlies his words, and sees the relief that sparks in his face before his head hits the pillow and he’s out cold again.
Trent leaves him to sleep as much as he can, making sure he wakes every hour to drink some water, eat small bites where he can. He applies a cold, damp flannel to Ted’s forehead, typing up an article he’s writing for a guest spot in the Guardian, and swapping the flannel for a fresh one when the heat radiating off Ted’s skin warms through the fabric. Ted tosses and turns, throws the duvet off himself and draws it back over his body in equal turns. He twists himself up in the thin t-shirt and sweatpants Trent had managed to coax him into late last night. In between bouts of trying to get out of bed again, Ted sleeps, his fingers twitching like he’s reaching for something. It's only when Trent squeezes his hand tightly does it settle, and Trent holds his hand for the rest of the morning, despite the dampness of his hold. He doesn’t let go as he finishes his article, doesn’t let go as he does the Wordle of the day, and anxiously Googles flu outbreaks across London.
By the late evening, Trent is thinking about how he can get some food into Ted, when the feverish fidgeting slows to next-to-nothing, Ted going almost still, except for the light rise and fall of his chest.
Gingerly, he reaches a hand out, running the backs of his fingers along Ted’s forehead. It feels cooler than it has in the last twenty-four hours, which is less time than Ted had expected for the fever to break, but seasonal bouts of flu are unpredictable and can last about the same length as a British news cycle - be it 24 hours or a week. Ted’s probably lucky that his fever is breaking so early, but Trent isn’t ready to trust that he’s in the all clear until Ted’s awake, and has eaten something a bit more substantial than the dry toast he’s been nibbling on whenever his energy reserve was filled enough to open his eyes.
Quietly, with one last look at Ted thrown over his shoulder to make sure he’s still sound asleep, Trent slips out of the bedroom, making his way down the kitchen.
His kitchen is grandiose, he can admit it. It’s big and airy and lit by a perfectly placed skylight at all times of the day. It’s a kitchen he has no business being able to afford in London, with London house prices being as high as they are, and his middle-of-the-road wage packet from the Independent (his book advance, now that’s a different story), but he had just been in the right place at the right time. The kitchen is his pride and joy, and it’s the first part of his house he shows off when guests come around.
Twisting his hair up out of his eyes — and God, Trent needs to shower the sick-loved-one-sweat off him and probably change out of the Peppa Pig t-shirt he’s been wearing since yesterday afternoon (Charlie is halfway between a Peppa Pig phase and a Bluey phase these days) — he starts to pull ingredients from his fridge and his cupboards.
Normally, he cooks with an album on the record player that sits on the end of the breakfast island, or the radio set to the weekend sports broadcast, but he doesn’t wanna disturb Ted from what might be the most rest he’s gotten in weeks — they’re up to Matchdays 4 and 5 in the Champions League — so he keeps the noise to a minimum, humming quietly to himself as he chops onions and carrot and celery and garlic, frying off chunks of chicken as he dices the vegetables. It’s only because he’s doing so in relative silence that he hears the sound of footsteps making their way down the hall.
Charlie is with her mum and has been since yesterday morning, so Trent knows the sound of feet are from the one person who should still be in bed right now.
He sets the knife down as he feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist, a nose pressing into the curve of his neck.
“Howdy,” comes the mumble, a single word pressed against his skin, and Trent can’t help but snort at the choice of greeting.
“Darling, you should be in bed still,” he murmurs, and moves his hands to loosen Ted’s hold on his waist — only to turn around in his arms, hands coming up to cup Ted’s cheeks. He’s still a little warm, but his flush is healthier, and his eyes look glassy in a way that speaks to recently waking up, not that he’s so out of it he can’t remember what day it is.
“Spent all day in bed,” Ted croaks, and he is still a little raspy, but it’s nowhere near the scratchy whisper he had this morning. “Feelin’ mighty useless just sleepin’ the day away.”
“Hate to break it to you, love, but the day is gone, it’s nearly 9PM. And besides, you needed it,” Trent says, leaning up to press a kiss to Ted’s temple. Trent feels rather than sees the crinkle at the corner of Ted’s eyes as he smiles.
That smile still sends sparks of delight zapping up his spine, months and months into their dating relationship. It has done since their first date — interview, date, they’re one and the same — and continues to send him giddy to this day. He leans back enough to watch the smile transform Ted’s face. It says a lot about how far gone he is on the man that not even the t-shirt slightly damp with day-old fever sweat and the limp, lifeless hair that falls into his face puts him off. It warms him to the core that Ted allows him to see this, to see him like this, recovering and vulnerable, looking less than his usual perfectly-pressed-khakis and neatly-side-swept-hair self.
It warms him all over, that he gets this honour - to be party to moments like these in Ted’s life. To be afforded the privilege of existing in Ted’s space like this. And he knows Ted doesn’t quite follow the same train of thought as he does, he knows Ted believes him deserving of that privilege and equally as honoured as Ted is to be in each other’s lives, especially this side of middle-age. It doesn’t stop the tiny voice he still has lingering around in the back of his head, that this isn’t his to be witness to, that he doesn’t deserve it.
That train of thought is silenced by a gentle squeeze of his wrist, and Trent looks up to meet Ted’s curious gaze, sheepishly shrugging at the curve in Ted’s brow.
“Alright, sweetheart, call me Ground Control,” Ted says, and Trent can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of him, leaning up to capture Ted’s mouth with his own - lingering flu be damned.
“Because you’re bringing me back down to Earth?” Trent murmurs into the gentle kiss, and the kiss dissolves into snickering. The voice is soothed away — for now, as it always is, with gentle words and soothing touches. Trent wonders if Ted knows he knows. He wonders if Ted even realises he does it.
“Uh-huh, got it in one. Who are ya? Mike Crean at the Green Valley Ranch Golf Club in Denver in 2002?”
“Fucking hell,” Trent groans playfully. “I’m going to go back to cooking you dinner now. You can even taste-test for me, if you’re feeling that much better you can make references to obscure sports records again.” He turns around to the dinner he’d started, still smiling as he takes up the knife again. It’s not long before arms come around his waist once more.
Ted hooks his chin over Trent’s shoulder, humming quietly in his ear as he pokes around the stove, adding spices and herbs to the stock until it starts to smell right to him. It’s testament to how in love he is that he doesn’t feel a single urge to slink out of the tight circle of Ted’s arms. They sway in the peaceful warmth, Ted’s quiet crooning of a Joni Mitchell song and the crock-pot bubbling away on the stove in front of them the only sounds in the room.
“Here. Try this,” Trent murmurs, quietly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful bubble they’ve made for themselves. He waits for Ted to raise his head, before he holds a spoon out. “It’s chicken noodle. Thought it might make you feel better.”
Gently blowing on the spoon to cool it before he tastes it — they’ve learnt that lesson, Ted has had more burnt tongues from tasting Trent’s cooking than either of them are willing to admit — Ted hums. There’s delight in his tone, it’s one that Trent can recognise now.
“Wowza, that’s some good noodle soup right there,” he says, smacking his lips together. “I feel better already.”
Trent feels warm down to his toes. He smiles, poking at the pot once more. “Nothing to add?”
“Mmm, nope. Well, maybe,” Ted pauses, and Trent raises a brow, turning to face Ted. It’s not often that Ted has meal-related suggestions when Trent is cooking. But he can see the grin tugging at Ted’s lips, can see the spark in his eyes that wasn’t there this time yesterday — sick and mumbling and collapsing onto Trent’s sofa in a feverish bundle — that he never wants to lose. “I think the only thing that would make me feel slightly better than a good bowl of that soup is a kiss from the chef.”
Oh. Oh .
Trent gives in quicker than he will ever admit, even to himself. He cannot even bring himself to be embarrassed at the sigh that leaves him as his mouth meets Ted’s, the faint spice of the soup lingering on Ted’s lips, melting into the kiss. He’s probably going to get sick, he’s been in close proximity with most of the sick players over the last week before they went down with the bug, and now direct contact with Ted like this, but he doesn’t truly mind. He knows there’ll be gentle kisses like this, a hand holding his own and replacing the damp flannel that’ll be placed on his forehead.
Suddenly, he knows. Deep in his bones, he knows that Ted loves him, that he’s loved by this silly, ridiculous man. That he can do everything in his power to take care of Ted, when he’s sick and when he’s not, and he knows now that Ted will return that favour. Without question, without thought. Without the promise of reward or gratitude. That his presence in Ted’s life is a gift enough alone for him. That his love is reciprocal and returned, and just, oh .
“I love you,” he murmurs into Ted’s mouth, breaking the kiss to catch his breath, and Ted’s answering smile takes the breath right out of him again.
Over simmering chicken noodle soup, unwashed and gritty from a day’s long fever, Ted beams at Trent like he’s given him the Earth itself, and Trent has never felt more loved.
He’s never felt more loved.