Chapter Text
Kip is standing in front of the closed door of Scott’s apartment, willing himself to open it. He thinks of a band aid and takes out his key for the last time.
Scott is sitting on the couch and stands when Kip walks in.
They stare at each other and say, almost at the same moment, “Hi.”
Kip is stuck in the doorway. What next? He feels the sadness of the moment in his chest, like a physical weight. He needs Scott to make the next move; walking in here is the best he can do.
“Your stuff is here. I put it in your tote,” he’s holding up the bag. Kip is weirdly relieved to see that Scott looks like shit. Well, as close to shit as it’s possible for a man that handsome to look—his hair is flat, and he doesn’t look like he’s slept—some proof that he is not doing this lightly. “Will you take the suit? I want you to have it. And it’s custom.”
Kip pictures himself with his gross old Fitzcarraldo tote and a pristine suit bag on the subway, and it almost makes him laugh. He’s suddenly acutely aware that he has not said anything at all. He takes another step into the apartment and says, “Thank you. Sure, I’ll take the suit for the next gala I have.”
It makes Scott wince, and he begins, “I wanted to say, I’m sorry that—.”
Kip’s storm of emotions comes together into one clear feeling: anger. He’s so fucking sick of the apologies, he puts both hands up and just says “Stop. Stop apologizing. I get it. You’re sorry.”
Scott looks chastised, but continues on, “I’m sorry for everything. But I’m sorry I skipped your birthday. I hope it was fun. I bet it was.”
Kip is not used to feeling anger crawling all over him like ants with no colony. “It was. It was great that I did not spend half the evening looking at the door, and everyone wasn’t super weird about it either.”
Scott winces again. “That’s fair. I—“
“Don’t say you’re sorry again,” Kip cuts him off.
Scott says silent now, puts his hands up in a gesture of acceptance, and then turns away, looking out the window. The silence stretches between them.
“We were celebrating because I got into grad school. Boston. I’m moving in a few months,” he says, finally.
Scott looks back at him. His eyes are red, wet. Kip has never seen Scott cry, and the sight twists his gut with a desire to soothe alongside a cruel satisfaction to see his own pain reflected back at him.
“Oh, oh wow,” Scott stands, and it seems like he wants to cross the room to hug him, but he doesn’t. Neither of them moves. They remain on either side of the room, like the last two chess pieces in a badly played game with no winner. “That’s amazing,” he adds.
“Thanks,” says Kips. “Can you… go to the kitchen?” he nods toward the island in the open plan space. “So I can get my stuff from the couch.”
Scott looks at the bag on the couch, then looks at the kitchen, and then does as he’s told. Kip advances into the apartment, maintaining a distance between them of 10 feet or more. He is afraid of what he’ll do if given the chance. He wants to remember the last time they slept together — lazy Sunday after a game Scott won — in a happy light. And he’s sure he’ll cry all over the place, and then, so much for that shred of dignity. He picks up his dingy tote and the high-end suit bag and looks at Scott, holding them over each shoulder, “This sucks.”
“Yeah,” breathes Scott. “Can I—will you text me? When you get to Boston? Or just to tell me how grad school is going. Whenever you feel comfortable. I still want to know how you’re doing.”
“Yeah, okay. I will,” he moves back to the door and focuses on taking the key off his key chain. Places it on the shelf. “If I want to know how you’re doing, I guess I’ll just check ESPN.”
He means it as an insult, but he doesn’t stay to see if it lands.
・ ✦ ・
If you asked Kip four months ago if he’d ever had his heart broken, he would’ve said yes. But it turns out that was a paper cut. This is a knife wound.
・ ✦ ・
Scott has his number, but Kip knows that according to Scott’s code of personal conduct, he will not text Kip until Kip does so first.
In the months that follow, Kip is tempted to text him dozens of times. But it feels like one small shred of agency he has over Scott as he, Kip, starts a new era of his life at 26. The same age Scott probably bought his third apartment, he thinks bitterly. So he puts off texting him at all. He picks up his phone a dozen times to do it, but talks himself out of it until his anger has diminished, and he just feels sad for Scott. He checks the scores as Scott wins a gold medal at the Olympics, but then the Admirals lose steam and fail to make it past the first round. He is sad for Scott, who has given up so much, has made himself so much less, for a game and a league that will never reward him for that sacrifice.
Nearly six months pass before he lets himself text Scott a belated thanks for the suit. It turns out there are formal events he needs a suit for. Scott responds within an hour, saying how glad he is, and then asking how school is going. Kip tells him: It’s going well. His advisor is great, his classes are great, and he feels like he made the right call going back to school. Except he phrases it that he made the right call ‘starting over,’ and lets Scott fill in the blank.
They text intermittently for nearly a year until Kip gets a new boyfriend and drops off texting—how can he explain? They date for six months before Kip ends things. Although he wouldn’t willingly say this to his friends: he ends it because the guy isn’t like Scott. Not that he’s waiting around for Scott, really, he’s not. He is committed to doing, being, and finding something bigger for himself. School has invigorated him and he doesn’t want to be the version of himself working jobs he hates, happy to be someone’s secret. But he realized dating Scott that he likes a man who is intense. Who has goals. Dating Scott made him want to be better, it made him apply to his dream program, not settle for less. His brief relationship isn’t like that, so, it ends.
Slowly, Scott becomes less of a person and more of a story he can’t tell anyone. He holds the memories like a gem: a promise to himself of what being loved felt like. The knife wound scars over. He can even watch Admirals games.
Of all things, it starts with a tweet. It’s a picture of Scott in a People magazine Sexiest Man of the Year roundup. Not the cover star, but a stylish photoshoot, wearing skintight Under Armour, looking coquettishly over one shoulder. His friend’s tweet reads: “am i crazy or is this low key kind of fruity?”
Scott in looks, well, low-key kind of fruity in the pages of People magazine. Kip remembers Scott never wanting to do this kind of press: he did brand deals and endorsements, but no personal write-ups. Before he can think about it, he grabs his phone and sends a screenshot that includes the title Sexiest Athlete and sends it to Scott saying, “glad people finally got the memo.” All of their texts in the last two and a half years have been fairly formal—life updates, questions. This feels like flirting.
Scott answers right away, “They’d been asking for years and my agent thought it was a good idea.”
Kip is chastised by the formality of the response, but then there’s another text. “Can I call you? Now if you’re free. Or later?”
It’s hard to imagine Scott wanting to talk for no reason. Kip hits the call button. Scott picks up in the first ring.
“Hi,” Scott answers. The familiarity of even just this syllable sends a wave of feelings over him: fondness, nostalgia, the hurt of a fading bruise newly pressed.
“Hi,” Kip responds. For some reason, it comes out breathily.
“So, I came out to my agent. And a couple of my teammates,” Scott says in a rush.
“Oh wow. Wow, that’s great, congrats. That must have felt good. How did it go?”
“It went really well. Everyone was great. My agent helped me come up with a plan. I decided I’m ready. I’m going to come out at the end of this season,” he takes a breath, “I wanted one last go-around without scrutiny. If we make it to the playoffs in June, I’ll do a formal statement. Even if we don’t make it that far, I’ll come out in June regardless… For Pride,” he adds the last part almost bashfully.
“Wow, that’s,” Kip pauses, struggling to come up with words. “You must feel relieved to have a plan.”
He hears Scott laugh, shakily. “You can’t even imagine. I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself—I wanted you to know before it happened. And I wanted,” there’s a long pause before Scott continues. “Sorry. I’m rushing. I’ve been trying to work myself up to talk to you, and then you texted.”
“Well, I did really like the photo.”
“I felt pretty silly, but really, how are you? Tell me about school.”
Kip fills him in. It’s formal at first, but soon they’re laughing about the strange politics of grad school, the petty fiefdoms of academics, and Kip’s excitement over his final paper. Half an hour passes without him even realizing it. Once they get going, talking to Scott is always easy—Kip feels the little spark of joy he used to feel when he made Scott laugh. He’s explaining a research trip he went on and offhandedly mentions his friend David for the second time.
“David, is that, are you seeing someone?” Scott asks awkwardly.
“Well, I wasn’t waiting around for you. But no, David is just a friend.”
“I know that! I would never expect that. I’m sorry, you can tell me to back off. Tell me more about the trip.”
Kip pauses, at the edge of maybe something stupid, and says, “No, I’m not seeing anyone in Boston.”
“Anyone anywhere else?” Scott says, lightly.
“I don’t know, is anyone anywhere else asking?”
“Would you say yes?”
Kip lingers on his answer, letting Scott wait for a moment, and then says: “It can’t be the same as last time, Scott. I have a life now.”
“It won’t be. I don’t want it to be. And— can we talk more in person? I didn't call you to ask you out, really. I wanted to thank you.”
“Hey, I called you," Kip cajoles.
“You’re right, you did… Is that a yes?”
“When are you next in Boston?”
・ ✦ ・
Scott Hunter is, as promised, a man with a plan. He has a game in Boston a week later and comes in a night early to take Kip to an Italian restaurant, bar seating right in the middle, visible enough that he is recognized multiple times. Scott flinches but doesn’t hide when it happens. No one asks who Kip is. In between, he outlines his plan. He’s coming out to people in his life slowly, one month at a time. He says each one is getting easier.
“What about me,” asks Kip. “Where was I in the plan?”
“Oh. Okay, I know this is classic serial killer, but I looked up when your semester was going to end in the spring, and I was going to wait until after, so I wouldn’t bother you.”
“So I was going to be the last to know?” Kip asks, trying to be light and failing.
“I wanted you to be the first to know, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear it,” Scott admits. “It’s been three years. I figured you’d moved on.”
“I had,” Kip lies.
・ ✦ ・
Kip is willing to admit. He’s sort of an idiot about this man. He brings Scott back to his apartment, stumbling over embarrassed apologies for it.
“It’s nice being in your space,” Scott says, taking in the cramped room, his hands hanging beside him. He has that sheepish smile on his face, the smile of a man sharing a secret, the smile that made Kip feel like he could run through a wall, the one that made it feel worth it. Seeing Scott in this space filled with his own mess, his new life, it hits him like a wave, sending a jolt straight through him. If he was tired from the day or the wine they shared, it’s gone. He is awake. He crosses the room in two steps and pulls Scott by the front of his shirt. He pauses there, bringing their faces close to feel the frisson, the moment before. It’s dead silent, just their breath inches apart, so close Kip can feel the radiating warmth of skin. Scott breaks first, pulling Kip in and kissing him. Softly, gently, like there’s all the time in the world. A kiss that asks, “please?” and Kip lets his body respond: yes.
They undress messily, falling into Kip’s shitty double bed pressed up against the wall, two muscular men moving by the light of a lamp Kip found on the side of a road. They’re fooling around, Scott’s mouth messy and enthusiastic as Kip once tried to forget and now starkly remembers, when Scott says, almost shyly, “Can you fuck me? I want to be yours again.”
They start slowly, the tender pace of Kip’s appreciation, the build up of years apart, but soon Kip is fucking him fast and hard, Scott on his back, knees up with Kip pressing one hand forcefully on Scott’s chest for leverage to look at Scott properly and to hold Scott in place and as he takes, takes, takes. His other hand is pinning Scott’s wrist, so he cannot touch himself. Making Scott desperate in exactly the way Kip knows he likes. When Kip comes, he collapses against Scott to hide the unexpected tears prickling his eyes from the intensity of feelings released all at once, the mix of relief and embarrassment, not wanting to admit how fucking badly he wanted this. Hiding his last shred of dignity against Scott’s neck, the side of his chest, abs, and hips, rubbing his face, undignified down Scott’s perfect fucking body, and then loses himself blowing Scott the same way they were just fucking: fast, intense, making Scott’s groans turn into desperate noises, and Kip takes it all.
Later, cleaned up and in bed, Kip asks into Scott’s chest where he’s laying his head, “Did you get a hotel room?”
Scott shifts and responds, “I did, of course. Do you want me to go?”
“Good to know. But… stay.”
It’s been a while since someone stayed over. The bed is too small; he didn’t buy it to share. He’s worrying that he won’t be able to rest at all, but he drifts away easily into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he wakes in the morning, Scott is there, awake and tucked against the wall on his phone.
“Have I trapped you?” Kip asks sleepily. Scott responds wordlessly, putting down his phone and covering him with his body, kissing him, and then rolling off and into the apartment.
“No,” Scott answers as he walks away. “I was enjoying watching you. I forgot how beautiful you look when you sleep,” and disappears into the bathroom.
Kip lies there, and mouths “Fuck” to the ceiling. Whatever precipice he was standing on the edge of last night, he is all the way off and plummeting fast.