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Kip Grady was passably competent at a lot of things. But skating? Not so much.
In fact, when he'd agreed to go ice skating at The Rink at Rockefeller Center with Scott, the holiday season immediately following the Kiss That Went 'Round the World (not Kip's preferred moniker for it, but he could respect a dramatic historical callback when the internet committed to one), he had never once ice skated in all twenty-eight (almost twenty-nine) years of his life.
Had he mentioned that to Scott?
Well. Hm.
How does one say, um, no?
… No.
Which was why Kip found himself, stuffed into a pair of rental skates that felt vaguely like medieval torture devices, standing at the edge of the ice and contemplating (read: deeply fucking regretting) every life choice that had led him here.
Behind him: the city, shining, shimmering, splendid, celebrating the start of the holiday season. In front of him: a merciless sheet of ice and Kip's imminent doom.
Scott, of course, was already out there, gliding effortlessly, as he should, considering he'd practically been raised on the ice. For all Kip knew, Scott's junior hockey coach mother had given birth rinkside and he'd come out blades-first, already doing laps.
Scott looped once around the rink, smooth as all get-out, then slowed near the barrier where Kip clung like a man staring down the end of his natural life. Which he was. He was about to pitch forward, crack his skull open on the ice, and ruin Christmas for a perfectly nice family of three in matching ugly sweaters.
"Hey," Scott called out, oozing calm and positively glowing like the patron saint of winter sports. "You coming?"
Kip considered lying. Well, more lying than he'd already committed by omission. He considered faking a sudden, catastrophic ankle injury. He considered simply walking away and starting a new life under a different name.
Topher, maybe. Topher McCready, a man who had never once heard of ice skating.
Instead, Kip sighed, lifted his chin, because pride was, unfortunately, still a factor here, and said, "Obviously. Just giving you a head start."
Scott's smile widened. It was now too wide, frankly, and showing an unnecessary amount of teeth.
Dammit. Scott knew. Of course he knew.
"Uh-huh," Scott said. "Take your time, baby."
Well, that certainly sounded like a challenge. Too bad Kip hated challenges. Too bad Kip also, regrettably, refused to lose them.
So, with all the bravado of a man making his final, fatal mistake, Kip eased off the wall and stepped onto the ice.
And wouldn't it have been fabulous if it turned out all of Kip's fears had been unfounded?
It would have been.
But alas, Kip's fears had been very fucking founded. One could even say Kip was now the founding father of fears being founded.
One ankle wobbled. Then the other followed, like it refused for the other ankle to go down alone. Who knew that loyalty could be so overrated?
Then, because Kip was clearly marked for death, every muscle in his body seized up, as if they all realized, everywhere and all at once, that coming tonight had been a catastrophic mistake.
Now, you would think that Kip's brain would attempt to salvage the situation. But no. It, too, let him down spectacularly.
Because what was his brain's response? … Immediate evacuation.
Which meant Kip, quite simply, froze.
There was a very real possibility he would remain here forever, locked in place, slowly becoming part of the rink's seasonal decor. A cautionary tale. A warning to others. R.I.P. anyone who attempts to ice skate for the first time upon nearing the age of thirty. Ye have been warned.
And where was Kip's betrayer of a boyfriend? Scott was still watching him from a few paces (glides?) away, seemingly holding back a laugh. The absolute traitor.
"Kip—"
"Don't," Kip snapped, holding up a hand without looking away from the ice, as if eye contact alone would cause him to lose his balance, which, you know, might actually be a thing. It could totally be a thing. "Do not speak to me right now."
"Okay," Scott said, far too cheerily. This also meant he was absolutely going to speak again in approximately ten seconds. Maybe less. Probably less.
Kip braced for it. He did not, however, brace for the slow, creeping shift of his weight.
It was subtle, at first. A betrayal in increments.
"Oh, no," Kip muttered under his breath.
The ice, apparently sensing weakness, offered him nothing. No traction. No mercy.
"Kip," Scott said again, laughing now (unbelievable!), "you're leaning."
"I am not—"
He was so totally leaning.
Kip's arms shot out on instinct, grabbing for balance, for dignity, for any fucking thing—to no avail.
Instead, Kip pitched forward…
…into Scott's waiting arms.
Oh.
Well.
Hm.
That was—
Kip went very still, pressed up against Scott, hands fisted in the front of his Burberry coat like that had been the plan all along. Like this was a controlled descent into an absolute Adonis of a man.
God did Kip wish that were actually the case.
Scott, for his part, caught him easily. One arm braced solid around Kip's back, the other steadied his elbow, as if he'd been expecting this exact outcome from the moment Kip stepped onto the ice.
Which, in hindsight, he probably had.
"Wow," Scott said. "You made it a whole—what, thirty seconds?"
Kip did not look up. "That was at least a minute," he said into Scott's shoulder, because if he couldn't see the rink, maybe the rink couldn't see him.
"Mm," Scott hummed. "Felt faster."
Rude.
Kip mumbled a curse or three under his breath, but made no immediate attempt to extricate himself from Scott's embrace. There were… practical reasons for that. Chief among them: if he let go, he would topple forward like a felled tree, and, as already established in his worst imaginings, probably die a horrific death.
Also…
Well.
Scott was warm. And pretty solid.
He also smelled so fucking good, something crisp and faintly woodsy, and Scott's scent enveloped Kip so fully that he was having a very hard time remembering why exactly he should be in a rush to leave this situation in the first place.
"Enjoying yourself?" Scott asked lightly.
"Immensely," Kip deadpanned. "This is exactly how I pictured tonight going."
"Right. Face-first into my chest."
Kip finally tilted his head back just enough to fix Scott with what could only be described as a look. Or so he hoped.
Scott laughed anyway. He also (thankfully) didn't let go. Instead, Scott shifted his grip, one hand sliding down to take Kip's, the other firm at his waist.
"Okay," Scott said. "New plan."
"I liked my plan," Kip said. "My plan involved not moving ever again."
"Yeah, that's not happening."
"Scott—"
"Do you trust me?" Scott said.
Kip's brain, already struggling to keep up with the whole standing upright on ice situation, promptly shorted out entirely. Because that line—that exact line—had been permanently etched into his psyche somewhere around age nine, courtesy of a certain animated street rat with excellent hair and a fantastic singing voice.
This was entrapment, actually. Emotional entrapment. Possibly legal grounds for something.
Kip narrowed his eyes at Scott.
"… You can't just say that," he said.
Scott blinked. "Say what?"
"You know what."
"I really don't."
Kip gestured vaguely with his free hand, immediately regretting it when he teetered to the side. Luckily Scott righted him, preventing what would have been a deeply embarrassing fall.
"Fine," Kip snapped back. Because he was absolutely not going to go into a whole spiel about Disney's Aladdin, which… Scott had to have seen at some point or another. There was no way Scott hadn't seen Aladdin, right? Right?
"I've got you," Scott said. "Just relax and follow me."
Just relax?
Just relax.
Great. Perfect. Outstanding advice. Kip would simply relax. On the ice. While actively fighting for his life.
"… If I die," Kip said, "I'm taking you down with me."
"Noted."
Scott eased him forward before Kip could reconsider, before he could panic himself back into immobility.
"Bend your knees," Scott said.
"I am bending my knees."
"You're barely bending your knees."
"I swear to god, Scott," Kip muttered. He didn't finish the threat, knowing he would never ever go through with it.
Scott laughed and nudged him into another glide.
Kip's breath caught, his sweaty ass hand tightening around Scott's perfectly dry hand—fucking mortifying, really—but (miracle of miracles!) he didn't fall. Yet.
And Scott stayed right there, solid at his side, acting as a steady anchor.
Kip swallowed. "…Okay," he admitted, breathing hard, which was also deeply embarrassing, but—and this was critical—he was not dead.
"That was… kind of okay," Kip went on, even though it physically pained him to say it.
Scott's face lit up like a Christmas tree. So seasonally appropriate. "Kind of okay?"
"Don't push it."
But Kip was still moving, and he was still upright. Somehow.
This was wild. Kip was… kind of wild.
Scott guided him through a slow pass around the rink, their hands still linked, his other hand warm and steady at Kip's waist.
The city lights surrounding them blurred a little at the edges, Christmas music drifted through the wintry air, and everything seemed mellower than it had been a few minutes ago. Less like impending doom, and more like… a romantic night out.
Kip shook his head. "I can't believe this is working."
"I told you it would be fun."
"Don't get smug."
"Too late."
Kip rolled his eyes, but smiled regardless.
Scott slowed them just slightly, turning toward him, close enough now that Kip had to tilt his head again to meet his eyes.
"Still with me?" Scott asked, his cheeks tinged pink, his hair slightly damp from exertion.
Kip nodded as something warm trickled from the crown of his head, down to his chest, and settled in his (ahem) lower extremities, something that had nothing to do with survival anymore.
He tightened his grip on Scott's hand. It was more of a squeeze, really. A subtle thank you… and a firm suggestion that their next date involve solid ground. Preferably carpet. Not of the magical variety, mind you.
"Yeah," Kip said. "I'm with you."
Scott smiled again. Then, before Kip could question it or overthink it into oblivion (Scott knew him so well), Scott pulled him forward into a cleaner glide, a little faster this time.
Kip startled, laughing despite himself as the motion carried them both across the ice, unsteady but moving, held together by Scott's grip and Kip's stubborn refusal to let go.
It wasn't at all pretty, but they were having fun. Together.
When they finally slowed to a crawl at the opposite end of the rink, Scott glanced over at him.
"Look at that," he said. "You can skate now."
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Kip shot back.
Scott laughed, drifting a little closer until their shoulders brushed again, and then so smooth and easy, like it wouldn't completely alter Kip's internal stability, he leaned in and planted a kiss to Kip's forehead.
Not long and lingering, just barely there, but Kip still very nearly wiped out on the spot.
"Jesus—" Kip choked, legs splaying dangerously before he caught himself on Scott again, looking less like a grown-ass man and more like a poorly assembled marionette. "You can't just do that."
"Do what?" Scott asked, entirely too innocent, followed by a wink that really should have been illegal.
Kip tightened his grip again like that would somehow restore order to the universe. "You know what. That. The forehead kiss. I am literally one bad step away from becoming a cautionary tale and you're out here committing… Disney prince behavior."
Scott laughed. "I think that's a compliment?"
Kip's jaw went slack. When he somehow managed to regain his composure, he stammered, "Have you really not seen Aladdin?"
"I have. Why?"
Kip gestured helplessly between them. "Because you're out here doing the whole 'trust me, hold my hand, I've got you' thing like you're about to break into song and change my entire worldview."
Scott laughed quietly. "And?"
Kip sighed. "… And it's working."
Against his better instincts, Kip rose up and kissed Scott on the lips. Because he could. Because Scott was his own personal Prince Ali.
And you know what happened next?
You'd never guess.
Kip and Scott both tumbled in a graceless heap to the ice, laughing hysterically.
Scott was still laughing when he turned his head slightly, his forehead bumping Kip's. "Worth it?
"Shut up," Kip said, also still laughing.
Naturally, Scott did not shut up. He smirked and said, "We're so totally doing this again."
Kip thought about that for two seconds flat. "Unfortunately, yes," he said.
And this time he didn't even try to sound annoyed about it. Because at that very moment Kip's heart had decided that the whole world could tilt again and Kip would still be fine, as long as Scott was there.
Trust, man.
(And a whole new world, indeed.)
… God dammit.