Chapter Text
Kip was having trouble following the conversation. Maybe because Scott was so pretty on the facetime, all cleaned up with teeth gleaming. Maybe it was because he was already four gin and gingers deep and Kyle was yelling something to Maria in Spanish which made it hard to focus.
They were pre-gaming, to celebrate Kip’s recent success. He’d just gotten a fellowship, a three year fellowship through Columbia that was going to allow him to work on his thesis uninterrupted. He’d even gotten an article in an academic journal this month. He was quitting the Kingfisher, not to be a ‘kept man’ to his millionaire husband, but to actually follow his dreams. He was feeling pretty thrilled about it, and he had invited his friends out for one truly ludicrous night of drinking and clubbing to celebrate.
He was turning 30 this year, he was married, his friends were pairing off. He wanted to take this fleeting moment in the in the liminal in-between of Christmas and New Years, where New York was full to bursting, to prove he could still get drunk enough to shake ass on a bar. He was still so fucking young, god dammit.
That wasn’t exactly Scott’s thing, bless him. Besides, he had a gala tonight that was dull as dirt. They had agreed, Kip would celebrate with his friends tonight and Scott would come home still wrapped in his tuxedo and Kip would take it off him with his teeth.
On the phone, Scott was saying, “…event ends at 11, we'll be back around 12:30, and the hotel was booked solid because of New Years. So they booked a train for tonight, but they don’t have anywhere to put their stuff. Rozanov is going to come drop their bags off, and I told him he was welcome to hang out if you guys were gone. Is that ok, baby?”
Kip was kicking his feet as he sat at the kitchen island, half dancing along to the pre-game music.
Kip wanted to trace Scott’s face on his phone screen with his fingertips. He was so pretty.
“You’re so pretty,” Kip said.
Scott laughed, on the phone, “Ok, sweetheart, let me try again. Ilya is coming over, ok?”
”Deadass?” Kip asked, thrilled, “Yes, Ilya, sick. He’ll come out with us.”
He could hear Maria and Kyle discussing who Ilya was from the other room, it was decided he was the ‘smoulder-y Russian one.’
”I think he just wants to put his bags somewhere, ok? I love you.”
Kip couldn’t remember saying goodbye, and he had sobered slightly, eating endless chips and watching his friend Chelsea do her makeup by the window. By the time Ilya actually showed he had totally forgotten he was coming.
“Oh!” Kip said in shock as Ilya Rozanov (wearing sunglasses and a sweeping coat on with a backwards hat jammed over his hair like he was trying not to be seen) wrangled two roller bags and two backpacks into their apartment.
“Hi,” he said, voice as low as ever. Then he lowered his sunglasses, comically, “New look for you.”
Kip grinned at him, flashing all his teeth and dimples, “Old look. I haven’t worn these jeans since undergrad.”
Kip knew he looked good, basically poured into these jeans that made his ass look perfect. He was a classic dresser, even for clubbing, but he’d picked a cropped shirt that made both his biceps look respectable and showed off a strip of the abs that he worked so desperately hard to keep. He wasn’t doing all those crunches to not be proud.
He knew what Ilya meant though. He looked gayer than usual, gayer than he put on display for hockey events, walking around with Scott where they tried to look as inoffensive and digestible as possible. Gays: we’re just like you! Kip thought. And that was fine, really, but not tonight.
“Maria! Can you make Ilya a drink?” Kip called.
Maria looked up from her phone where she was queuing up more pump up songs.
“Oh, yes please,” She said, looking at Rozanov appraisingly.
Ilya put his hands up, “I’m not drinking, Hunter said we could keep our bags here. We’re taking the train to the airport at 3 am.”
Kip shook his drunk little head, and then regretted it. Spinning.
“No, Ilya, you have to come.” Kip said, putting his hands on his hips, “We’re celebrating! C’mon, aren’t we friends?”
Kip put on his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.
Rozanov didn’t get a chance to reply because the like, 10 people (maybe 12, Kip couldn’t remember if Jose and Jacob had gotten here yet. Yes. Maybe. They were on the way?) draped over the living room in various states of dress and undress were bursting out in pleas for him to come along. They were a welcoming bunch, and thriving in the sweet spot of drunkenness that makes you want to get the whole world drunk with you.
Kyle grinned up at Ilya from his reclined position on the couch, he was laying on top of three people. Kyle was such a show-off.
“Yeah, Ilya, what are you, old? Scared?” Kyle reached his hand over to trail down the tails of Ilya’s coat in a way that implied that he might be scared of Kyle specifically, that maybe he’d shy away from his touch like gay chicken. Ilya didn’t move, but he did roll his eyes.
”You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Ilya quipped, and Kyle laughed. Ilya knew his boyfriend, Eric Bennet, frankly Kip did think Bennet qualified as both old and scared. Eric was safely at home tonight, he didn’t drink, but he was on speed-dial in the event anyone needed a ride home. “Would love to come celebrate, but I can’t. We have no where to stay tonight, so.”
Ilya shrugged helplessly at Kip.
“Stay here,” Kip said, easily, “You and Shane can have the red guest room. It’s nice. And then you can celebrate me, and it’ll be funnnnnn,” he teased.
Ilya’s moment of hesitation as his eyes flicked to the rum and coke Maria was handing him was all Kip needed. What else was going to do, sit here and wait for Shane and Scott to finish their stupid dinner?
Kip was already dialing. Scott picked up the FaceTime, because of course he did. Kip could see the ballroom behind him, his lovely little tie a little crooked.
“They are going to think I’m anti-social, if I spend all night talking to you!” Scott protested.
”Hi, handsome. Can you get me Shane Hollander?”
Ilya made a confused noise from where he was standing. Kip shoved him hard in the chest, indicating an arm chair he should be sitting in, watched Maria perch on the arm and start peppering him with questions. Ilya took a little sip of his drink, looking amused.
“Uh, yeah, hold on— Hey, Shane?”
Shane appeared on Kip’s phone and Kyle wolf-whistled from the couch. It was a fair point, Shane Hollander always looked like he stepped right off a film set.
“Wow, you clean up good. Hi! I’m kidnapping your husband.” Kip said.
”I—thank you, what?”
--
In the end, it was easier to convince everyone than Kip had thought. Shane gave in, probably because spending most of the night at JFK was no one’s idea of a good time and staying here meant he and Scott could have horrible healthy breakfasts together before they drove them to the airport. Scott, who had been a good sport about being subjected to this group of people before, thought it was hilarious to see Ilya roped into Kip’s shenanigans. Ilya was grinning as Kip’s gaggle of girls and gays started needling him about his old days clubbing in Russia and Boston, not as forgotten as he thought.
The only real speed bump was that Ilya was not dressed to go out. Kip offered him something from Scott’s closet, but the look of utter cold disdain Ilya had given him was almost enough to sober Kip up.
Ilya had dug through his bags and found something mostly suitable, a silk shirt, jeans. He pushed his hair back. Kip was frankly impressed by the efficiency of his transformation, but Kip’s friends heckled anyway.
(“Too straight,” called Damian, “You gotta fit in if you’re going to hang with us, Rozanov.”
Ilya was shouting from the bathroom, seemingly as at ease in group party preparation scenarios as he was on the ice, “I came from hockey in Colorado, what do you want me to have, assless chaps?”
“Put a jock strap on,” Kyle yelled.
“I’ve got it,” Jose said, striding up to Ilya and confidently unbuttoning an extra two buttons on his shirt. He stumbled back dramatically, looking like he would pass out from the sight, “Jesus fucking Christ, do you live in the gym?”
Ilya smirked, looking flattered, turned to Kip for his approval.
“Shirt is Rick Owens, best I can do.” He said, shrugging. Kip waved his hand, allowing it.
“I’m pretty sure they are just trying to get you to strip, anyway. Let’s go girls.” Kip said, rounding everyone up and into the elevator.)
Kip was experiencing most of the dancing part of the night in flashes. He remembered laughing, vodka sodas. He remembered pulling Kyle on the dance floor, happy there was no tension there. He remembered watching Jacob kissing a boy he was pretty sure was his ex Adrian in the corner, so that would be drama tomorrow.
It wasn’t his first time seeing Ilya Rozanov at a gay club, he’d come to Scott Hunter night, but he fit in so seamlessly it really did make Kip want to ask questions. Shane and Scott weren’t like this, had Ilya been in these spaces somewhere else? Was there just more crossover between queerness and party spaces? Did Ilya have grand stories about underground gay nightclubs in Russia?
All good questions for another day, because Kip was busy. He was singing along to choruses that melted into other choruses. He was grinding on Maria, getting spun around by Jacob, wearing someone’s sunglasses and backwards cap from a pretty boy in the second bar. The third bar?
Scott: Shane and I are back, hope you’re having fun!
Kip: It’s not eben fun to do this now
Kip: Altho I am very good at dancing
Kip: No one is hot as you :(
Then he pulled Ilya in by the scruff of his neck to take a selfie to send to their husbands.
“They are back, hm?” Ilya asked, squinting at the texts on Kip’s phone as the picture sent.
“Ohmygod,” Kip laughed in a rush, “You wanna go back.”
“No, I did not say this,” Ilya said, stern. He shot Kip a quick look that said, yeah, he did.
“It’s not even two yet!”
“I said nothing!”
“You’re so whipped. I’ll round everyone up, freak.”
Ilya grinned guilty at him, and Kip wasn’t surprised to find that he had paid everyone’s tab.
--
The sheer volume of them (8 people now, maybe 7? Jacob had gone home with that guy, that’d be interesting) could be accurately described as a roar in the apartment as they spilled in from the elevator. Scott and Shane looked like they had driven a freight train through their night as they all came stumbling in, rap playing out loud on someone’s phone.
Ilya had transitioned into captain mode, which Kip recognized from Scott, but Ilya's was more chaotic, full of energy. He had carefully made sure no one fell into the street and was orchestrating music, a food delivery, more drinks, running the space like it was his own. Kip laughed, stealing away to the bathroom to fix his hair.
When he came back Ilya was saying, “—Is not weird that I know ‘twink,’ Hunter, is weird that you don’t know ‘twink.’ Everyone knows! Would be like not knowing what a power play is.”
”What does twink mean?” Shane asked, now standing in the kitchen, apparently waiting for Kyle to finish making him a drink.
“What’s a power play?” Damian asked at the same time.
Ilya scrubbed his face in frustration. Scott laughed. Kip flopped on the couch next to him, throwing his legs over Scott’s lap and grinning at him as he stretched his arm behind him.
“I’m a twink,” Kyle said, leaning into Shane, wearing his flirty bartender face that Kip knew well from countless shifts together at the Kingfisher, leaning forward to show off his biceps as he shook whatever it was he was shaking.
Shane drew his eyebrows in, not understanding. Kip nudged Ilya with his foot, nodded. Ilya snorted.
“You gonna go defend your man, Ilya?” Kip asked. Ilya shook his head, gave him a look that said ‘wait, you’ll see.’
“You could have been a twink,” Kyle went on, “Except your shoulders look so fucking good. You’re like, huge. But you’re pretty enough. How’d you manage not to get all dinged up, playing hockey?”
Shane looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle with his mind, “Well, we wear helmets, and when you’re under 18 you have to wear a face cage—“
“Hollander, he’s hitting on you,” Ilya called from the couch, not getting up, reclining with his arms spread on the back of the couch. Shane’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Kip stifled his giggles behind his hand, sharing a look with Ilya.
“Oh! Oh. I’m married. Thanks.” Shane took the drink from Kyle, who looked baffled. Kyle flirted for sport more than anything, but he wasn’t normally met with that level of flat affect. Kyle knew Shane was married. Truly an immovable object and an unstoppable force, Kip thought.
“You’re drinking?” Ilya asked, as Shane took his seat by him.
Shane shook his head, “It’s a mocktail thing.”
“Eric doesn’t drink,” Kyle was saying as he flopped on the carpet by the coffee table, “I’m good at them.”
That gave Kip an idea. Eric had mentioned Ilya’s eerie ability to read sexualities and dynamics and Kip had been dying for a demonstration.
“Ilya,” Kip said, silky smooth, “I have a question.”
Ilya tore his gaze away from Shane with what looked like quite the effort. He was softened by alcohol, and his face had been betraying more fondness than usual. Kip was politely ignoring how he seemed stuck to Shane. He knew the years of secrecy must have created a deep need for PDA.
"I hear you have a little party trick?”
Ilya raised his eyebrows. Kyle caught on.
“Oh yeah, Eric and Scott said—“
"They say you’ve got a real knack for reading sexuality,” Kip finished.
”He actually said ‘magic gaydar’” Kyle added, “but he also said you call me his ‘child bride,’ so I was hoping he was being facetious.”
Ilya waved them off with a scoff.
Shane blinked, “What are you talking about?”
Kip gawked, “You don’t know? It’s like the first thing everyone says about Ilya. He’s got like a sixth sense about who wants to hook up. I’ve never gotten to see it in action.”
“It’s not weird, people are just obvious. I pay attention. Barrett said I was perceptive.”
Shane turned to look at him carefully, evaluating, then laughed. “God, I’m so bad at that, I didn’t even notice you were good. I never even asked how you knew I was gay.”
Ilya shook his head, smiling, “I told you! You stared. When we met you shook my hand twice. And had most of the conversation looking at my mouth.”
Shane scowled, “I did not.”
”Oh, ok,” Ilya said, “My mistake, you were not having a whole conversation with your mouth watering looking at my dick the night of the draft—“
Kip nudged him with his foot again, cutting him off.
“Ok, enough ancient history, give it a shot. Who here do you think has…? Who here would…?”
“You want me to do a party trick, like trained monkey?”
”Yeah that’s what I want, Rozanov, it’s either this or you gotta do a little dance for me.”
Ilya sighed, put his glass down, and then did an unbelievably thorough roast. He called out Kyle’s former crush on Kip (mercifully mostly gone now that he was so in love with Eric,) said Maria wanted him which would have been deeply egotistical if she didn’t blush deeply and hide her face basically conforming it, correctly cited many hookups in the room (Kip had, regrettably, slept with both Jacob and Jose, years ago) and finished it off by saying that Scott would have wanted Shane if he had any clue he was gay.
Kip gasped, mock scandalized, exaggerated. Scott had said as much, drunk off his ass on a beach in Cancun last summer. Nothing that happened before them mattered, they were so together now, but he loved to tease and loved the drama.
Kip took a minute to appreciate how secure he felt, how in love. How crazy it was to sit here with friends and exes and crushes and have it all not matter, all melt away because it wasn’t anything like what he had with Scott. Silly stories, jokes.
“Fuck off, Ilya,” Shane said, rolling his eyes, “he would not.”
”Oh, he would.” Scott said, laughing, “Arguably, he did. Do you remember when I asked you if you wanted to have a drink after the game, oh in like… 2014? Alone? You spent all night talking to me about my PIMs so I figured you weren’t into it.”
Shane stared at him like he had grown another head. Kip was hiding his face in his hands. Ilya looked torn between being smug that he was right and annoyed at Scott hitting on Shane. He slid his hand over his husband’s shoulder.
“How did you know I was gay? Did everyone know? Do I have some sort of ‘kick me, I’m gay’ sign tacked to my back?” Shane was asking, outraged.
“I mean, your ass is nice,” Kyle said, “Not as nice as Ilya’s, but—“
”You’re pushing it,” Kip said to Kyle, who grinned back at him.
“I didn’t know,” Scott said, “I just was, you know, maybe trying to find out.”
”I knew.” Ilya said. Shane blushed.
“And I knew about you,” Kip said, tipping his drink towards Ilya.
Ilya crossed his arms, huffed.
“In some ways, I think that makes me the most powerful of all.” Kip said, laying back across Scott’s lap, drunk and happy and laughing, king of his tiny gay world, full of gin and hockey.
—
Maybe that’s when I flew too close to the sun, got too cocky. I’m Icarus, Kip thought ruefully in a gross locker room in Montreal five months later.
He and Scott were here for Shane and Ilya’s Irina Foundation Camp, and Kip was having a great time doing research in the archives of the MMFA.
Or he was, until Scott called him down to the rink today under the pretense of having a surprise for him and the surprise turned out to be him, Shane, and Ilya trapping him in a locker room, still suited up and looking giant, grinning at him like wolves.
“We will teach you to play hockey! Like one of our little campers.” Ilya said, taking a glove off to pinch Kip’s cheek in a big brotherly manner. Kip hit his hand.
“It’ll be fun!” Scott was saying, chipper, “You said you wanted to learn some stuff, right? You literally couldn’t ask for better teachers.”
Shane smiled at him, small, and nudged him with his shoulder, “We have to be out of here in like two hours anyway, so it really can’t be so bad. After, we’re getting dinner.”
Kip looked around at all their giddy faces, and knew this was a battle he was losing. “Fuck! Fine. But I swear to god if you spend the whole time laughing at me…”
He’d have no recourse, really. But he’d like to pretend.
Scott kissed him on the cheek, handing him skates.
“Suit up, Grady.” Ilya said, and then he sat down on the bench like he intended to watch him. Kip wanted to throw things at him.
Shane rolled his eyes, “C’mon, Rozanov, let’s go,” and he hauled Ilya up by his shoulder pads.
”Oh, I see, too good to get naked with the rest of us.”
”Damn straight!” Scott called after them as they laughed.
Ilya’s joke came echoing down the hall, “See you all in the showers later!”
—
“I look so stupid,” Kip whined to Scott as he helped him down the hall and onto the ice.
“You look so cute,” Scott was smiling, straightening Kip’s helmet, looking at him like he was precious.
“Can you skate?” Shane called as Scott was helping him onto the ice.
“Yes, sorta, some. I learned when I was a kid. I wasn’t exactly good.” Kip said. It was true. He busted his ass skating with his best friend Amy in Times Square the first time he tried. The hot chocolate after was his favorite part of the whole day by far.
“You’re doing alright!” Scott said, impressed that Kip could stay upright and navigate some.
Ilya handed him a stick, “You look like little baby deer.”
“Thank you so much Ilya, can’t tell you what that means to me.”
Scott attached his phone to some sort of rink aux and played music, reaching out to Kip. “We’ll get warmed up and then we’ll play two on two!”
“An extremely even match.” Kip replied, dryly, wondering if he could even make a loop successfully.
“You remember how to stop?” Shane called as he and Ilya skated around aimlessly in the center of the rink.
“Run into the wall?” Kip called back.
Ilya shrugged, said something to Shane. They were too far away to hear now, or maybe Kip just needed his whole brain to stay upright. Hollander took off, faster than Kip could ever conceive of being—on land or ice—then he turned on a dime and charged his husband, looking like he was going to plow into him. He stopped only at the last possible second, a hockey stop, and showered Ilya in snow. Scott laughed.
“Ok, ok,” Kip could hear Rozanov saying. He skated backwards, away from Shane, and the stopped with his arms out and his skates in a cross, lifting his arms up. It was a tricky little move that, even to Kip’s eyes, looked more appropriate for a figure skater than a hockey player.
“Why do you even know how to do that?” Scott called to him as they passed where he was in the center of the rink.
Ilya shrugged, “To pick up girls.”
Kip snorted.
“What, you don’t believe me? Girls love that. Very easy. Angel stop, panties drop. Now, for boys, you have to skate for 17 years, be the best, get picked first in the draft, score 70 goals your rookie season, win Stanley cup, win MVP, and then maybe, maybe they will let you come to their house. If you are lucky.”
Shane grinned at him, looking fondly annoyed.
Scott started skating backwards in front of Kip. “Let’s pick up the pace, c’mon.”
Kip was proud of his ability to stay upright, but any pride fell apart the moment the stick was involved. He could barely move stick and stay standing, much less do anything with the puck, but the giants around him wanted to play a pick up game anyway.
“Teams?” Shane asked, and Kip’s mouth fell open as he realized Scott was thinking about it. His husband was going to abandon him—
“You’re just going to— oh my god this is like gym class all over again, can I get some sort of note to sit out, this is horrible—“ Kip complained and Scott leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.
“Roz, with me, Hollander with Kip.” Scott called. Kip would never forgive him for this.
The other two nodded in a way that made it seem like this was the obvious choice in a way that was totally alien to Kip.
“Hi,” Shane said, skating up. He really did look right on the ice, everything about Shane Hollander just made sense here. He was kind of like an artist, if his canvas was his own body, skates, and wrecked shin guards. He rubbed his hands together.
“Ok,” Shane said, seriously, “Kip. We are playing to win.”
Kip shook his head, “Like hell we are!”
”No, no. Ok, lock in with me here. I’m not as good at the people stuff part of captaining as Ilya, but here’s the thing: I am better at hockey. We can beat them. Don’t you want to see them beaten?”
Kip cocked his head. He did, sort of. Both Scott and Ilya were too tall, too broad, too good at this. Someone really should take them down. It just, you know, wasn’t going to be Kip.
He’d really never heard Shane say anything cocky, so this must be how he really felt, weird as it was.
”Their defenses are weak, look at them,” Shane pointed, and across the rink Scott and Ilya were scowling at each other, clearly already fighting, “They have no chemistry.”
Kip nodded, tentatively.
He liked seeing Shane like this, biting a mouth guard, pleased. He thought he understood Ilya a little more.
Ilya understood people, it was all obvious to him. Easy to see all the tricks, all the little catty cast off comments, all the little digs they made to protect their egos. But Shane wasn’t like that, he wasn’t obvious. He was tricky to learn, hard to get to know. He was strikingly transparent with questions and deeply mysterious with actions.
Kip could only tell that now, because this was clearly the first time he had ever seen Shane Hollander truly lit up, ecstatic to be playing with his husband and his friends.
Kip really liked being friends with Shane, he decided.
“When we go, Ilya will slam me against the boards, Scott will try to take the puck. All you have to do, and I mean all, is keep the puck out of the goal long enough for me to get back in. And you know Hunter, he’s soft on you, I don’t care how you do it. Wink, anything.”
Kip laughed at him, for being so serious, but Shane just doubled down, boyish smile spreading over his face.
“Grady, we can do this,” He reached his gloved hand out, and Kip, despite himself, dapped him up.
—
In the end, Ilya and Scott had won their little pick up game 6-4. But Shane and Kip had put up a surprisingly good fight, with Shane’s surprisingly deep knowledge of how Ilya and Scott would play. Shane was brilliant. Kip had managed to pass to him once, and even got a goal, if you counted it even though he got it sliding across the ice on his knees and batting the puck in with his glove, while Ilya was trying to get Shane to kiss him instead of playing. Scott assured him that they would have counted it either way.
Kip felt pleased, cheeks pink with the cold, and maybe for the first time in his life found himself really understanding that playing sports was fun. He knew they had been taking it easy on him and he didn’t care.
Shane and Ilya had graciously showered in the women’s locker room to maintain Kip’s dignity, but not before Ilya called out to them to ‘not do anything he wouldn’t do.’
And, yeah, maybe Kip did understand Ilya and Shane’s origins just a little better watching Scott scrub himself down in the shower, looking like he was carved out of marble and smiling at Kip like he knew exactly what he was thinking.
Scores be damned, Kip really felt like he had won that day.
Ilya: You have been in there a long time and we are hungry
Ilya: Shower sex is bad for old men, he could fall, break a hip.
Ilya: Losers pay for dinner, btw
Kip: Fuck off, Ilya
Ilya: <3