Chapter Text
Kip blew out the candle, then everyone cheered and clapped around him. 26 now, an age older and with a full-ride scholarship in hand, Kip of yesteryear wouldn’t believe how well it has turned out. He wouldn’t also believe how there is a coldness in his heart now even though he is surrounded by friends and family. How the December chill seemed to seep through the windowsill, a stillness preying on this candle flame he just snuffed out. Throughout the music and drinks, his eyes searched the room for a familiar face, a familiar scent. There was a motion within the motions that night, the bass within his heart when Kyle turned up the volume, and the intoxication thumping his forehead when Elena handed him his 3rd tequila shot. He was chasing a name within his mind, while his body went to autopilot.
When he caught a silhouette outside, just across the street and beneath the frigidness, he thought to himself that he should stop drinking, because he swore that the shadow was looking right at him. Not in a creepy-stalker-murder way, but with kindness that hurts and burns. The look he unfortunately saw just days ago from his Scott. The thought made him chuckle; they didn’t even give what was between them a name. It was Scott’s luxury apartment, it was Scott’s chauffeur that waited for them in the dark alleyway, it was Scott’s card that paid for the food and suit and one million other tiny things he brought back home after his trips… No, back to his apartment. After his 4th shot, Kip’s mind wanders back and forth to the receipts that were always in Scott’s name, and no, he wasn’t stupid enough to not notice the lack of charge on his credit card since whatever happened between them started. It’s simply a shudder, coming to terms with the fact that he didn’t own anything, as he didn’t pay for anything, so maybe he shouldn't be saying or thinking about his Scott.
The silhouette suddenly swayed and vanished. The guts outside pressed on the windowpane, or maybe his mind finally took back the reins from his heart and put a stop to this fantasy of his. Kip honestly didn’t even care anymore, because after Maria and Kyle finished their duet and Elena herded the party-goer outside for closing hours, he realized with fright that all of his stuff was still in Scott's apartment. That Scott’s sweatshirt is probably tumbling at home in the washing machine now. And they are all now supposed to go back to where they belong, to their respective owner and not in the place of two strangers.
“But maybe you two didn’t break up…” a whisper crossed his mind. Kip has been through breakups, some quiet as two texts of standardized apologies, some explosive with shouts and flying china. The conversation they had just days ago felt so unlike any he has had, the cards laid out, the hurts and fears bared naked.
Scott couldn’t love him in the light, yet he wanted a kept man. And Kip, he just pushed back the glass. He didn’t remember how he got home. He couldn’t bear the subway and wanted to roam the streets of New York. The steps took him through trinkets of his love, now relics of what they once had. The bodega where he got Scott his banana socks, shuttered. The art gallery where Scott had a panic attack, closed. The ice rink where Scott circled 4 times and waved at him and Elena for the first time, guarded. It was the last hundred yards before his home that he realized the purchase he made for his love was always in the embrace of day. He should have known, he did know, he thought to himself at the last 20 steps. No one was lied to. No one was misled.
So why did the weight of it all crashed on him the moment he crossed the threshold?
A strong gust pressed on the windowpane once again; in the distance, the church’s bell rang its last choir of the day, soothing the restless souls of a sleepless city. After helping Kyle to load all the glasses and clearing the counter off, he volunteered to take out the trash as the rest of the gang stumbled into their respective Uber. Elena pressed a wordless kiss on his cheek. With two heavy trash bags filled to the brim with bottles and cans, Kip hazily stepped in the back alley, searching for the dumpster. The windchill hungrily bit and nipped at his nose and his exposed fingertips, and he tried to blink too, as it was starting to hurt there as well.
After the second blink, a slumped figure sitting next to the pile of black trash bags moved slightly and shuddered. Kip’s heart did a double jump, and in a brief clarity bought and sponsored by adrenaline plus alcohol buzz, his heart screamed at a familiar 5 o’clock shadow, the same broad shoulder, and the same dark hair he once drowned in.
The captain of the New York Admiral was falling asleep behind a dumpster.
Kip’s mind froze, trying to form an action plan while he stood there for a few more minutes. A small part of him cynically laughed at how Scott looked right now, how the man who broke his heart is getting the karma he deserved. That he should walk away just like how they did a few days ago.
That part of his mind was quickly decked when Kip heard Scott’s teeth clatter, his breath ragged. He rushed to his side, trying to assess the situation. Scott’s eyes are shut; small droplets seem to have frozen over like morning dew; dark hair is mussed with cold sweat; cheeks and forehead are burning; and hands and legs are shaking with every breath.
“Scott! Scott, can you hear me?” Kip tried to shake him awake. How long has he been outside? His clothes are not for this winter chill. Did he happen to pass by and what? Decided to stay? Why didn’t he come to the party? Why is he hiding here?
A million questions ran through his head, followed by a million more worries.
Scott’s eyes fluttered, trying to open and then shut again, like a canary's last flight out of the coal mine. Kip grasped both of his cheeks and brought their foreheads together. My god, how could it even be hotter now? Kip reached for his phone, his numbed finger trying to tap for 911. But the black screen is not responsive. What the hell? Didn’t they say something about cold temperature messing with the touchscreen sensitivity? He turned his back to the main street, thinking that surely he could get a passerby or a cab to take them to the hospital. Before he could stand up, he felt a hand grab at his side, weakly.
“Please don’t go.” Scott's eyes, half delirious, were looking at him now.
“My phone is not working, I need to get a cab for you. You are in shock!” Kip said in a hurry, but he was glad that Scott was not unconscious.
“No, no press. Please don't, Kip.” Panic-filled Scott jerked up and held him with both arms now. The gears turned inside his mind, and it came to the same answer: he is right. The Admirals just won back-to-back, with Scott’s face plastered over the news. People will ask why the captain of the billion-dollar hockey club got hypothermia in the back alley of a gay bar. Tabloid will taste the blood and chase after it, like frenzied sharks after a bleeding man.
His Scott.
Kip pulled him closer, hand behind his neck and in his damp hair, trying to get purchase for whatever sanity was left within him. “Okay, okay, no cab, no press.” He said softly, and the scared figure let loose for a bit. Kip can’t save the man he loves if he is all crazed and scared like this. That’s when his phone buzzed and lit up in the middle of the darkness; it had been lying on the dirty floor the whole time. His dad’s face shone and rang like the saving bell. Kip lunged at his phone.
“Hey buddy, how is the birthday party? When are you getting—” Kip cut through, “Dad, I need you to come and pick me up right now!”
“What’s wrong, son? Are you hurt?” He could hear his dad trying to stand up too fast and stumbling around the armchair, probably looking for his car key.
“No, no, I’m fine. Just please come and get me, and please don’t ask anything. It’s Kyle’s bar; you remembered the address, right?” He shot through, once again trying to calm the shivering man below him.
“I’ll be there in 15. Hold on, son.”
By the time Kip had Scott lying on him in the backseats and strapped the seat belt over him, his dad was already speeding down the midnight roads and heading back to their home. Tires spin as fast as the gale flowing downward from the skyscrapers towering over them.
Lights on, wet clothes stripped, heater turned up but not too fast, tea boiled. Kip went through the steps with his dad like a trained nurse, or at least as trained as someone who used to deal with hypothermia for homeless people. Scott looked so snug now on Kip’s bed, all tucked in with a hot towel on his forehead, so very different from how he found him mere hours ago. He still hasn’t spoken another word, and now Kip is terrified of the morning to come.
His dad stood opposite to him, wordlessly looking at them both. He hasn’t asked a single question from the moment he dragged Scott out of the alleys and into the car. His brow raised at the sight of them now.
“Is this the guy that made you cry?” His words sounded like he tried, for the first time in his life, to be bitter and angry. Because that was the kind of man his father is.
What should he say now? That yes, this was the guy that broke my heart. And yes, he happened to be the captain of one of the best teams in the MHL. And yes, because of him, for the last 2 months, I didn’t come home to watch the game with you, because he asked me to stay.
And I said yes. Kip said yes to this blinded love. He chose the after-practice kisses, the hush at the art gallery, and the pretense that they never knew each other at the fundraising party. He stood in the dark waiting for Scott’s car to come around. He wore the suit in the closet after he cut the tag that said “for my man, S.” Now he brought this coveted man to his bed, under the cover of the night.
Just like before, the adrenaline signed off from their emergency shift, the alcohol steamed up from his pores, and Kip’s lucidity crashed down with the weight of it all once again. So he collapsed by the bedside, back leaning to the wall, legs raised up to his chest. He didn’t know if he was heaving or crying or a combination of the two until his dad picked him up and soothed him just like when he was a child. With soft pats on the back, his face burrowing in the older man's t-shirt, a sore-eye scene if he could admit it.
Oh, how he wished he could turn back the time and not take up that shift where one handsome hockey player walked through the door and turned his life upside down with a blueberry smoothie.
“It’s alright, it’s alright. We have all tomorrow to deal with this. And I will have a straight talk with that man.” Kip’s dad said while stroking his hair.
“His name is Scott Hunter.” That was the only thing Kip remembered saying before drifting to sleep.