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Scott's never actually been great with crowds. It's a little ridiculous considering he spends much of his calendar surrounded by thousands of people, or at galas and fundraisers surrounded by far less but far more insufferable people. But outside of his responsibilities he makes a habit of avoiding them as much as possible.
He makes an exception for Kip, of course. The evening of Kip's graduation celebration he's not even thinking about how crammed he'll feel in the small bar they've hired out. All he's thinking about is watching Kip let loose, celebrate, and be relieved it's all finally over. He's so proud, so in awe of just how incredible Kip is, and nothing could keep him from celebrating that.
Kip's grinning ear to ear clutching the tote bag one of the women in his class, Jessie, had gifted him. Kindred spirits, Kip had called them. They seem to get on like a house on fire, and Scott's so happy to see him like this, truly in his element. He's dragged Kip to endless hockey adjacent events, and he's a true social butterfly— he can blend in almost anywhere, so he makes it work, but he never quite looks as comfortable as he does here.
It's beautiful. He's draped in a pin striped asymmetrical blazer with matching pants, but underneath instead of a dress shirt he's wearing a plain white t-shirt. His hair is pushed back out of his face, and his stubble and moustache are a little longer than usual. He looks incredible— straight off a red carpet or a runway. The engagement ring on his finger makes Scott's chest light up every time it catches the light. He can't believe this man is his. He can't believe they're getting married.
Kip looks up and their eyes meet, and Scott’s once again reminded he’s the luckiest man in the world. Kip sends Scott a wide smile before excusing himself from the group surrounding him, making his way over to Scott.
“You look so happy.” Scott tells him. He can hear the tenderness in his own voice. Once upon a time that level of vulnerability in public would've been mortifying. Now? With Kip? If everyone wants to make fun of him (like their friends do every time they see them together) then so be it.
“I am,” Kip replies, his voice just as soft as Scott’s, “And I’m so happy you’re here.”
Kip wraps the hand not clutching a tote bag around the back of Scott’s head and pulls him down into a soft kiss.
“I love you.” Kip whispers against his lips, like it’s a secret and not something they broadcast to the world every time they so much as glance at each other.
Scott returns the words and kisses the top of Kip’s head as his hand sneaks up under his blazer to rest on the t-shirt beneath.
“Come meet some people. You’ll like Jessie.”
Scott doesn’t get an option, but he doesn’t mind. He’d let Kip push him off the edge of a cliff, or into a volcano. Pulling him into a crowd of smiling faces is nothing.
Scott’s never seen a picture of Jessie, but he can immediately guess which one she is. She just has a vibrance and an air of joy about her that’s so rare to find in adults, but it’s there in Kip and it’s there in Kip’s friends. He’s drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
“Jessie, this is my fiancé Scott. Scott, this is my work wife Jessie.”
Jessie rolls her eyes at the term and immediately leans in to give Scott a big hug that’s tight enough to make his breath catch in his throat. He hugs her back, of course, he just didn’t realise that the actual fiancé and the work wife of the same man were expected to be quite that close.
“It’s really nice to finally meet you,” Scott tells her with a smile, “Kip says you’re the best."
“Yeah, well, clearly he has good taste,” Jessie quips as she eyes Scott up and down obviously enough to make him blush, “Jesus, Kip.”
Kip laughs and opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the arrival of three more people into the group.
“Dude. Your boyfriend is Scott fucking Hunter?” One of the men, someone a little taller than Kip and with a seemingly permanent frown, asks.
“Yep.” Kip answers. He reaches behind himself with an extended hand as he says it, so Scott curls their fingers together.
The man turns to Scott. He eyes him up and down, looks back at Kip, and his scowl deepens further.
“You’re with Chris?”
Scott opens his mouth to ask who the fuck Chris is before he realises what’s happening.
It's strange. He’s never heard anyone call Kip ‘Chris’ before— not even his Dad. When Georgie’s giving him a lecture he’ll call him Christopher, and Shawn has all manner of made up hybrid names for him, but this one is foreign to his ears.
“Yeah. I’m really lucky.” Scott answers simply. He can hear the softness in his voice again.
Kip smiles up at him but the light behind his eyes has dulled.
The man purses his lips and eyes them both like they're suspects.
“Weird," He humms, "I’ve been in a class with you for, what, three years? And you never mentioned your boyfriend is Scott Hunter.”
“I didn’t realise my fiancé’s identity was relevant to our work.” Kip returns much more curtly than he’d been speaking just a few moments ago.
The man lets out a deep laugh and claps Kip on the shoulder hard enough to make Kip jump a little and Scott’s nostrils flare.
Scott’s not great at picking up on body language and social cues and the subtext hidden between the words spoken aloud, but something about this man's presence instinctively grates on him. He wants to pull Kip away from him and hold him tightly while he’s around.
The man, thankfully, doesn't stay around for long. As the bar swells with arriving guests, the man is absorbed into different sections of the crowd than they find themselves in.
The pattern becomes apparent quickly. Nearly every person they speak to default to calling Kip 'Chris'.
People call Kip over with that name and he responds. People introduce Scott to each other as 'Chris' fiancé' and Kip doesn't bat an eye. They say 'congratulations, Chris!' and Kip gives a big smile and thanks them and hugs them. It appears to be routine for his classmates, accepted without question or protest.
Scott's noticed. Kip hates being called by his full name, and when Scott had asked just a few weeks into their relationship if anyone called him Chris Kip had responded 'don't you dare'. He doesn't like it. He's Kip, everywhere, to everyone. Has been since he was four years old. To his family, friends, coworkers— everyone.
Scott waits until there's a break in introductions before he asks the question.
“Why does everyone call you Chris?”
Kip shrugs, “I gave up correcting them a long time ago. It's no big deal.”
But it is. It's a fundamental disregard for a concept even children understand. You address people to their liking, not to yours. Why do these adults fail at such a basic concept?
His thoughts must be written on his face again, because Kip sends him a pleading look. A don't make a scene look. God, Scott does sort of want to make a scene right now.
He doesn't. He shuts his mouth, bites his tongue, and swallows his protests. That's what Kip wants, so that's what he'll do. It's his night, after all.
He manages it so well for a while. He hears the name twenty more times and doesn't react. He shakes hands with new people and smiles and gushes about how lucky he is to have Kip in his life and how proud he is and they all aww, but they still call him Chris.
And then the asshole from earlier returns.
He swings an arm around Kip's shoulder, which is strike one. Kip hates it— it's immediately apparent on his face. He's uncomfortable. Scott wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in close, out of the reach of the asshole.
The asshole doesn't even seem to notice. He stumbles forward another half step and looks at Kip with narrowed eyes.
“God, Chris, remember when you had to redo that entire section of your presentation last minute?” He snickers.
Kip lets out an awkward, quiet laugh that makes Scott's chest ache and nods, “Yeah. It was brutal.”
"Your first version must have been really bad, right?"
Kip shakes his head.
"It wasn't bad," He explains meekly, "I didn't have the right version on me. I had to re-do it, but it wasn't because it was bad."
"And you still did great, didn't you?" The man says. His voice is laced with bitterness and there's a horrible scowl on his face that finally makes the pieces click together for Scott.
Jealousy. Scott can finally recognize what lays beneath the man's bitterness— raw, unhinged envy. Because Kip is talented, and hard working, and smart, and good at everything he does. And this man is a fucking loser.
"Did better than most of us, if I remember right?" The man continues, "Wild, huh?"
"I worked really hard on that presentation. I had it memorised, mostly."
The man rolls his eyes and turns to murmur something to the man stood next to him. Scott sees red.
Does this man genuinely believe this is an acceptable way to interact with his peers? Judging by the fact that nobody in the circle is stepping in, and Kip's just gone quiet, Scott can only assume he does. This is normal.
What sort of grown adult resorts to this kind of behaviour? He's like a petty toddler whining and stomping their feet over not being the best. Scott's known this man for all of around twenty minutes and he's already sure he's not pulled endless all nighters, locked himself away to study for days on end, and been working on school stuff every chance he got, even at breaks at his actual job. Kip has. Kip's been doing all that since before Scott even knew him. Kip puts one hundred and ten percent of himself into everything he does. Of course he outshines this pathetic, jealous asshole.
Scott taps the man on the shoulder.
He doesn't look pleased. He brushes the hand off and glares at him.
"What was your name?" Scott asks.
"Daniel?"
"Okay, Daniela, so what I—"
"Daniel," He interrupts with a hand up in front of his face, "not Daniela."
Scott tilts his head as if he's confused. He's very good at weaponising the dumb jock persona. He's mastered the art of faux obliviousness— it's a performance that's saved him countless times. He raises his hand to his chin and drags his thumb across the stubble with an exaggerated look of concentration.
"Oh, okay, sorry, so… when Kip asks to be called Kip you don't have to respect that, but when you ask to be called Daniel I do?"
Kip's hand squeezes tighter. Whether it's encouragement or a warning, Scott doesn't yet know, but at that moment he also doesn't particularly care. If he gets yelled at then he gets yelled at- fine. He just needs this loser to shut his mouth before Scott crosses a line he can't un-cross.
"Chris is a perfectly normal nickname for—"
"But it's not Kip's, is it?" Scott says, completely ignoring the fact that Daniel is still talking, "His name is Kip. You don't get to decide what he's called."
Daniel lets out a bitter laugh and turns to glance at everyone in the circle. He's looking for back-up, Scott can see the desperation in his eyes, but there's nothing. Everyone is suddenly very interested in their drinks, or their hands, or their phones.
"The fuck is your boyfriend's problem?" Daniel spits at Kip.
Scott pulls his hand free from Kip's. He has a feeling his hands are going to be needed soon, and he doesn't want to risk hurting him.
"His fiance's problem is you," Scott returns with a pointed finger, "You've been calling him something he doesn't like being called, you've been calling me his boyfriend all night, and you're being a dick because you know he's better than you."
"Scott!" Kip hisses, "You can't say that!"
"It's true, though, and he knows it. He's jealous you're better than him. He's jealous everyone likes you more than him. Aren't you, Daniel?"
Daniel glances around the room again. Scott almost feels bad. There's got to be thirty, maybe forty people paying attention to this by now and not a single one of them can step forward and say 'I like Daniel!'. Of course they can't— he's an asshole. A self obsessed asshole who derives joy from trying to drag other people, better people, down to his level. Of course he's never succeeded with Kip— Kip doesn't have a mean bone in his body.
Scott has several. Scott can stoop very low if that's what Daniel wants.
"You think you get to just come in here and throw your weight around and get your own way!?"
Scott takes a step forward, and Daniel takes a step backward. So maybe he does know what's good for him.
"All I want is for you to show basic fucking respect to Kip," Scott seethes, "And if I was throwing my weight around, you'd fucking know it."
Daniel doesn't argue back. It's probably the way Scott's now physically towered over him, or maybe it's the expression currently plastered on his face showing his fury, or maybe it's something else entirely that's finally made Daniel recognise the truth: that Scott would burn the world to ash for Kip without hesitation. Breaking one guy's nose is nothing.
Scott turns to leave, satisfied the message has landed. Daniel won't be bothering Kip any more.
Kip puts a hand on his chest to stop him getting any further.
"Bathroom," Kip grits out, "now."
Scott flinches internally. He knows he's overstepped. He knows that was a lot, and now everyone's going to be talking about them and Kip hates that.
But he just couldn't let it slide. And it's not just a thing for him— everyone that really knows Kip is ready to die for him. His Dad, his friends, everyone. He's an extraordinary person worthy of only the kindest words, and to see someone treat him like that hurts.
Kip ushers them into the single stall bathroom and locks the door behind them before turning to face him.
Scott doesn't look at his face. He can't bear to see the disappointment and the anger he's caused. He'll do whatever Kip asks him to now— apologise to Daniel the Asshole, or just leave, whatever it takes to stop him being mad.
"I'm sorry," Scott begins, "I know I shouldn't have—"
"Pull your pants down."
Scott pauses. He looks up at Kip's face and sees flushed cheeks, heavy lidded eyes, and that his chest is rising and falling faster than usual.
It could be signs of fury. It could even be embarrassment, or humiliation. Every indicator suggests otherwise.
"What?" Scott chokes out.
"I'm going to suck your dick," Kip explains, and then he's already sinking to his knees, "because that was the hottest thing I've ever fucking seen."
It takes Scott's brain a moment to process it— he'd already resigned himself to the fate of being chastised.
"Kip!" He hisses, "You can't—! You know I can't be quiet!"
"So bite your tongue, baby," Kip tells him, looking up through his lashes with utterly wild eyes, "I don't give a fuck."
Scott is, simply put, powerless. He allows his head to fall back against the tiled wall and lets out a shocked laugh as Kip's well practiced hands start working at his fly. The contrast hits him— the cold tile against his back, Kip's warm hands and hot mouth closing in. He'd braced himself for retaliation tonight, a night in the guest room and a cold shoulder. He deserved it.
Instead, Kip moves closer, and Scott's breath catches in his throat as the first contact shoots a familiar jolt of electricity down his spine. His fingers find themselves in those brushed back curls, threading through them gently. He doesn't push or pull, he just needs to touch. He always needs to touch.
Kip takes him in deeper and Scott has to fight the urge to tighten his grip. He clenches his jaw tighter, but a whimper still makes it's way out. Kip's eyes brighten at every reaction Scott doesn't manage to wholly suppress. Scott's always prided himself on control, discipline, and restraint, but Kip undoes it all expertly.
He clamps his jaw so forcefully his teeth start to ache. It's useless— sounds still escape him, whimpers and breathy moans and high pitched whines of utter desperation. He's not sure if the people behind the locked door can hear him, and he's stopped caring some time between the moment Kip first looked up at him with those feral eyes and now.
This is the only thing that exists. It's the only thing worth focusing on. Kip's mouth on him, relentless and well practiced, and the pressure of his fingers digging into his hips and forcing him to stay still. The obscene wet noises that would be mortifying if only he had the brain capacity for shame right now. His own voice, wrecked and desperate, as Kip works him toward something he's sure he's not going to be able to contain.
The pressure builds and builds within him until he falls over the edge with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a curse. Kip takes it without hesitation, throat still working around him, swallowing him down like he's been starving for it.
Scott's mouth tastes like metal by the time Kip finally pulls back.
"I've never seen him speechless," Kip says with deliberate casualness as he tucks Scott back into his pants, "You know that? Never. Not once in three years."
Scott stares down at him, panting. Kip pulls the zipper up with deliberate slowness, a teasing lip bite, and sends him a wink that forces another breathless augh out of him.
Scott releases his hair and moves his hand down to Kip's chin instead, tilting his face upward, "You're insane. You know that?"
"Mm. Takes one to know one." Kip returns with a smile. He nuzzles his face into Scott's hand for a moment before reaching a hand up which Scott grabs without hesitation, tugging him back to his feet.
It's more obviously cramped now that they're both stood up again, their bodies are forced to press together.
Scott pulls him in for a kiss, humming contently when he tastes himself on Kip's tongue. They should always taste like each other, he thinks. Should never be two separate entities.
He begins to lower himself, already anticipating the difficulty— his legs are far too long and his knees are far too brittle for such an activity in such a cramped space, but Kip's hand closes around his arm and tugs him back,
"Mm, no." Kip murmurs against his neck, "Up."
"What?" Scott asks with a frown, "Why?"
"Because we've been in here for like fifteen minutes already," Kip says with an almost infuriating level of calmness, as if they're discussing the weather, "and I'm going to fuck your brains out when we get home."
Scott shivers. He's not sure where the reaction he'd been anticipating has disappeared to, but he absolutely will not complain about this being the alternative.
"Okay," Kip says seriously, "On a scale of one to ten, how obvious is it that I just sucked you off?"
Scott leans back to survey the situation. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are plump and reddened, and his hair is absolutely ruined. It's obvious.
"Kind of obvious," Scott admits, "Like, maybe a seven?"
Kip groans and reaches into Scott's front pocket where both their phones sit. Kip insists that the feeling of a phone in the pocket of ultra tight pants is akin to torture— Scott is obviously not going to suggest that he wears less tight pants, so he just usually ends up carrying both.
Kip pulls out his phone and opens the camera to use as a mirror. He runs his fingers through his hair, pushing at the different clumps of curls until they settle back into a vaguely similar shape to the one they were in before. It's a futile effort— Scott's been 'the guy trying to look like he didn't just have a dick down his throat' enough times to know that.
"You're really going to walk around like that?" Scott asks with a nod towards the extremely obvious tent in the front of his pants.
Kip laughs and shakes his head, "No, we're going home now."
"Like… now-now?" Scott asks, pleasantly surprised.
According to the invitations they're supposed to have another two hours at this venue before they all go to a club— Kip's not usually one for cutting a night short, but Scott can't find it in himself to even pretend to be upset.
"Now-now," Kip confirms as he continues trying to get his hair back into place, "Call an uber. If we have to wait any longer than five minutes I'm going to jump you out there in front of everyone."
The threat doesn't really work as Scott wouldn't mind that one bit, but he does as he's told anyway.