Oh absolutely not. No way in hell. Pride flag and camera set up in one corner of the press room equals nightmare fuel. Trent looks over at Keeley, glaring daggers at her — and she just giggles. Goddamnit. Apparently that 'pissed off journalist who will end you' expression of his has softened quite a bit over the past few years. Suppose that's what happens when you're married to a literal ray of sunshine.
"So Rebecca and I thought a pride campaign this year—"
"Flattered but no thank you." Trent's voice is clipped, arms crossed in front of his chest.
"But whyyyy?" Keeley pouts up at Trent. "It's not like this is breaking news any more!"
Trent is well aware. The media frenzy when the press caught wind of their fledgling relationship was nothing short of a firestorm. (Trent will kill Ernie. That is non-negotiable at this point.) They always knew it'd be front page headlines, but Trent grossly underestimated the vitriol thrown at them both. Colin's kiss on the pitch was barely a blip on the radar; the press saved all their ire for Ted-and-Trent.
But as with all things, it died down once Rupert had yet another scandal and the news shifted to that story like a flock of magpies gravitating to the next shiny thing. Sure they all circled the proverbial wagons (fucking hell Ted, Trent's tired of thinking like you.) the day Ted showed up on the pitch with a wedding band and Trent, in the press room at his new job as ~~lion tamer~~ press wrangler wore a matching one.
Neither of those were planned events. Ted and Trent had always tried to just keep their relationship quiet — never secret just... quiet. Never flaunting.
This... this is flaunting. This is a public display. This is in your face...
Trent isn't concerned about his own queerness, he's worried about Ted. He's worried about their children. He's worried —
"Don't overthink," Ted says, wrapping his arms around Trent from behind, moustache tickling Trent's ear. "I can smell just how hard those gears are turning. When Keeley asked I said you'd have more reservations than a sold-out Marriott on super bowl weekend."
Turning around in Ted's arms, Trent lifts a hand, threading through the soft tawny strands at the base of Ted's neck.
Ted chuckles, the sound warm and slithers down Trent's spine like a warm hug. "Not a whit, Walt Whitman," Ted replies. "I look at it as an opportunity. Besides, some wise woman once told me to fuck the haters and—"
As always, the f-word spilling from Ted's lips incites some sort of pavlovian response in Trent.
Trent doesn't even hear the sound of the camera click.
- drabble written by my beloved @singaroundelay
Fuck the haters! Happy Pride 🏳️🌈
