Archive of Our Own

Scott Hunter has faced many of Ilya Rozanov’s moods in his life: chirpy, aggressive, distracted, weirdly flirty, and deliberately stoic making the top five in frequency. Today is the first time he’s seen sad Ilya Rozanov. Scott isn’t sure what’s worse: the almost contagious frown that settles on the big Russian’s stupid but undoubtedly photogenic face whenever he’s not faking his usual glee, or the fact that misery makes him a bigger dick on the ice than usual.

“Hey Hunter, too bad you can’t play at home every night, right? It’s better for you, huh?” Rozanov’s tone is cutting, but his eyes are empty.

Scott’s eyes, meanwhile, almost bug out of his head. Mocking him on the ice is one thing, but bitching him out after he’s already won? What the fuck did he do? “Go fuck yourself, Rozanov!”

“It’s more fun if you’re there!”

Scott keeps his mouth shut, on that one, turning to hand his stick to a fan on his way into the tunnel, because he knows what it means. An outside observer would think Rozanov was telling him the game would be more fun if he showed up – he tried! Rozanov slammed him into the boards so often he actually started to feel it! – but Scott knows the truth.

It’s burned indelibly into his memory, that night six years ago. Though he immediately packed up his shit and sprinted to Carter’s room when he heard the words “Scott Hunter is right next door” coming from Hollander’s mouth, he still managed to hear “He is hot. We should let him listen like mating call” in a thick Russian accent before he made it out. It haunts him, sometimes. Mating call. There are some things Scott does not need to know. Discovering that Rozanov’s chirping is part flirting was one of those things, and it took him weeks before he stopped blushing through every yap.

He’s kept half an eye on Hollander and Rozanov since then. He was worried at first that maybe Hollander was being taken advantage of – he had no issue calling Rozanov an asshole with his full chest whilst fucking him, which is a bad sign in Scott’s book. But over time, he noticed the little things. The way Rozanov is just a little bit less prickly when Hollander is nearby. The way Hollander jumps in on interviews when Rozanov’s English is overwhelmed. The way they look at each other on occasion, never at the same time but always like they’re the only people in the world. He’s begun to feel a little bit of hope, looking at them. If they can make something out of this awful position they’re in… maybe he has a chance of happiness, one day. Maybe he isn’t as alone as he thinks.

For the most part, they’ve hidden things very well. Sure, they slip up on occasion, but Scott’s confident no one else has seen what he has, unless all hotel rooms have equally shitty soundproofing. But spotting it has made him attuned to their moods, and he can tell when something is wrong. Rozanov has come a long way since the abrasive kid he once was. More confident, less reckless. Not happy, never happy, but certainly happier, especially when he’s just played Montreal. New kids in the league are even befriending him now, across teams even, having never faced the 20-year-old phenom who found their deepest insecurities in seconds and ripped them to shreds for them.

Today, Rozanov seems to have reverted to that guy from six years ago, aggressive and vicious. On top of that, whilst Rozanov’s a big fan of hiding behind his English skills to justify risky innuendos, pulling “It’s more fun when you’re there” out on the ice, in response to a go fuck yourself, whilst telling his entire team he loves them… it’s more than Gay or European, it’s reckless. It suggests something is wrong, and Scott is worried. Is Hollander injured? Boston played them last night, so Rozanov would know before Scott did…

“You good, Scotty?” Eric asks. “You seem preoccupied. Did Rozanov bruise your ribs?” Damn goalies and their impeccable vision.

“I’m fine, just sore.” Scott decides to use Eric’s vision for good, for once, as he they rapidly strip off side by side in the locker room. “Do you know why he’s so…”

“Bitchy? I think he’s pissed about all the attention Hollander and his new girlfriend are getting.” A wholly naked Eric pats Scott on his now naked shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the showers.”

Scott thinks about that as he washes off, maintaining his usual strategy of staring into space so no one notices he’s deliberately avoiding looking at anyone. New girlfriend? Rozanov has had a string of ‘lovers’ in the past, but in recent years Scott’s only ever seen him out and about with Svetlana Vetrova, a name he knows only through his own childhood adoration for her father’s game, and a situation he’d kind of thought was a (possibly mutual?) bearding. Did Shane have a beard of his own, now? Seems excessive, but Scott can hardly judge…

Scott waits until the locker room is empty before he checks his phone. It’s not hard, the aftermath of a loss is basically a race between twenty athletic men trying to get out as quickly as possible, especially in an away game. Even those players who would be tempted by a naked post-mortem with their captain are driven away by the deliberately unsettling design of the locker room, asymmetrical and misshapen to get in their heads before the game.

He googles Hollander, and sees his new girlfriend. His ten times as famous, definitely not a beard, movie star girlfriend.

Scott tries not to spiral. He knows that he is not privy to the ins and outs of Hollander and Rozanov’s relationship, and that he has a tendency towards projection which he needs to keep a lid on. For all he knows, Rozanov gave his blessing, and the in turns despondent and angry Russian he faced today was upset for unrelated reasons. A bad bowl of borscht. A vodka shortage. But he’s spent enough time as the Stupid Jock who matters only for his body and his sexual prowess for this to hurt, somewhere deep down. He knows what it feels like being used and discarded, and it would sure explain the empty look in Rozanov’s eyes as he chirped coming off the ice.

Scott’s being ridiculous. Hollander is a nice guy. They might have just mutually broken up and Shane’s on the rebound, or they might be open, or any number of rational things. He has no idea how their relationship works, and his wish-fulfilment fantasies of them coming out in a blaze of glory and clearing the way for him to quietly do the same are… well, unfair. If anything, it should be the other way around: Scott clearing the path for them. He’s older, sadder, and has far less to lose.

As he thinks on it, his thoughts get tangled up and intertwine with the knot that has occupied most of his brain for the last week: Kip. He tries not to hope too hard, because Kip never made any promises, but… he gave him tickets to his game, and he showed up with a beautiful woman in tow. She’d seemed to be encouraging Kip to wave back, so he’d clocked her as a friend, but… He took that “hot lumberjacks” thing and ran with it, thought he had a chance, but what if she’s Kip’s girlfriend, and Scott is nothing but a hot distraction from the real world? A flirty customer, or worse, a hall pass, a potential third. He could just ask, after all, but he’s afraid of the answer he’ll get. Scott will take whatever he will get if Kip is offering it, but… he’s tired of it, giving the best head of his life in the hope he’ll be allowed to cuddle a little after (success rate: 40%, at best). He craves the steadiness of a relationship, and maybe he’s a romantic, but after six years, he’d kind of thought Rozanov and Hollander had that. Apparently not.

When he does finally fall into sleep, a poor and interrupted one, he’s assaulted with memories of a particularly bad hookup. A heavyset man who had spent the entire time pressing Scott’s head into a wall with a bruising grip as he fucked into him. Afterwards, and before Scott had even had a chance to cum, the man’s paranoid belief that his roommate had come home early led him to force Scott’s boxers up his legs and all but throw him into the street, the rest of his clothes and shoes tossed at him. He had donned his shirt quickly under the imagined eyes of a hundred people, and walked home with his jeans, too tight to simply slip into, pressed into his lap to hide his hard dick. He arrived at his expensive hotel, made incredibly uncomfortable eye contact with a less than sympathetic concierge, and sadly jerked off in his room, alone and disgusted with himself. In reality, that was where his humiliation ended, but in the dream, things are worse. He wakes just as he’s arrested for indecent exposure and paraded through the streets of Tirana with a trail of cameras clocking his shame.

Scott tries to drive out the dream as he prepares for his next match. He has a long trip to Montreal to deal with today, and that’ll tire him enough without the mental strain of reliving bad memories. But as is the nature of dreams, the good ones fade in seconds whilst the bad ones linger. By that evening, he’s feeling more than a little delicate, and he has low hopes for this game against Montreal. He keeps an eye out for any signs of heartbreak in Hollander and finds nothing. If anything, Hollander is even cockier than usual today. He’s got two Stanley Cups in a row, he’s officially the better player, and ever since he’s had this little smirk when he looks at Scott. He’s tried to ignore it, knowing the thrill he’d once got out of beating his childhood heroes, but for the first time, it feels actively mean. Doesn’t Hollander care at all that he’s at the end of a six-year relationship? Rozanov may be a chirpy, obnoxious brat, but he still has feelings. His team adores him, and you don’t get that without being a good guy off the ice.

He tries to channel that indignation into his game, but it backfires enormously. He’s clumsy, choppy, more brute force than the skill he needs to compete with Hollander. Ironically, if he’d played this way yesterday and that way today, he wouldn’t have made such a fool of himself. Nevertheless, it’s 5-1 for Montreal in the end. Scott has no points, no dignity, and no energy as he’s catching his breath after the siren.

“Hope next time we play you decide to show up,” Hollander says. Hollander has skated over to him to insult him. Rozanov’s spontaneous jibe on the way to the tunnel was already pushing it, Scott giving him a pass for his evident misery, but this is cruel, deliberate. There’s no sadness in Hollander: he’s smiling, having the time of his life. And why wouldn’t he? New girlfriend, two cups, not even a second spared for the guy he’s left torn and wounded in Boston. What happened to the kid who called him Mr Hunter and stammered over getting to drink shots with him? When did he become such an asshole?

“Cheap,” he says, a warning. Because he’s already furious at the kid, and he is giving him one more chance. He hocks up a bit of phlegm on a deep inhale – gross – and spits it at the ice.

“True.” Hollander spits too. Hollander spits too, like Scott’s mucus buildup was a pointed comment and not the natural consequence of spending two hours on a big patch of ice. The kid really is antagonising him on purpose, huh?

The rage in Scott has been building for… god, weeks. Since he heard Man in the Crease call him washed up and embarrassing. It’s found an acceptable target at last, this callous, heartbreaking twerp. He spits out the harshest thing he can think of. “You’re starting to sound like him.”

Hollander freezes, flinches. “I’m sorry, what?”

Scott rises like a fucking transformer, feeling every one of his joints ache as he forces them jankily into a standing position. His body may be weak, but his mind is strong. “You fucking heard me, Hollander.” You might think you can erase him, but he’s in your fucking bones, he’s shaped you into the person you are, and he’s here. Right on this ice, the ghost of Ilya Rozanov is hiding in your stupid smirks, and he always will.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Hollander walks up and socks him in the face. It’s a little baby punch, really, Scott barely feels it, but God, what a dick. Confirmation, then: Scott’s words had landed. Hollander really had ditched Rozanov at the first opportunity. Well, he might think he’s gotten away with it, rewritten six years like they never happened, but Scott wants him to know it’s not okay. Not when it leaves Rozanov bruised and bloodied on the sidelines.

“It means you’re a fucking coward, Hollander,” Scott shouts, feeling Virtanen and Schulter coming up to hold him back. “You’re a fucking asshole too, smug little bastard, who the fuck do you think you are-“

Hollander is screaming too, now, far more boring, calling him a pussy, an old man, to ice his knees, retire. Mr Nice Guy defaulting to misogynistic language, and Scott knows it’s probably not fair, knows everyone throws out pussy on the ice, but Scott has met Hollander’s mother. Lovely woman. Rozanov would never call another player a pussy, has punched out guys for less.

“Bro, what the fuck was that?” Vaughny asks, taking custody of him from the two defencemen like a designated babysitter. “You like Hollander, remember?”

“I liked Hollander. Back when he was a nice guy, and not-“ Vaughny’s hand closes over his mouth, biting off most of his rant.

“Easy, big guy. Save it for the locker room.” And it’s a fair point, mics are all around at irregular intervals to broadcast Scott’s expletive-laden ranting.

Unfortunately, Scott’s rage has always burned hot and fast, and by the time he’s made the short walk to the locker room, he’s just drained. He slumps on a bench, watching the pitter patter of feet heading towards and away from the showers. “What happened to that sweet little rookie? He called me Mr Hunter and wanted everyone to like him.” Scott moans. Being a little bitchy on the ice is one thing. Scott never judges anyone too hard for what they say when the adrenaline is racing through them, and they’re hot, tired, in pain. Well, he doesn’t judge once he is out of that state, at least. But he can sure as hell judge Hollander for what he does off it, and chewing up and spitting out Rozanov is a level of cruelty he didn’t think him capable of.

“Scott, that kid still idolises you. I don’t know what the fuck he said-“ Vaughny begins.

“It’s not what he said. It’s what he did.” Scott shakes his head. “Look, if you want to defend him-”

“Fuck no, man! I’m on your side, one hundred percent! I just need to know if this is a one off or if Metros games are gonna turn into a bloodbath.” It’s a valid concern. They already leave every Boston, New Jersey, and LA game slightly bloodied, and half their Brooklyn matchups too, adding another grudge-match onto that is… not ideal. Damn New York teams and their endless enmities.

Scott’s phone chirps at exactly that moment.

Scott considers leaving him on read, but he’s not that kind of guy, much as he sometimes wishes otherwise. Still, he’s not giving the kid home ice for this one.

“Bro?” Vaughny has his arms clenched tight around his chest.

“We’ll see.” Scott always feels like an absentee father when he says that, and Vaughny’s childish little frown doesn’t help with that. “We’re talking later.”

“Good, because I am bruised all over and I need a fucking shower. Guess your good luck charm expired, huh?”

“Left ‘em in New York,” Scott says, climbing also. His gear is sticking unpleasantly to his skin, and if he doesn’t shower soon he’s going to develop some weird itching in the morning.

“Well that was fucking dumb.”

Yes, that Scott can agree with.

Scott doesn’t find it easy to be unkind, but Hollander has really pissed him off. He calls the hotel overnight and tells them he has a ginger allergy, getting them to remove every single can of ginger ale from his room. It’s petty, but it makes him feel better.

“Hi!” Hollander sounds cheery as he knocks. Probably just called his girlfriend. Scott lets him in with a grunt, sitting at a table where he’s placed a coffee and a coke. “Oh, do you have any ginger ale?”

“Oh, you’re the one who drinks ginger ale? Silly me. I must have gotten you two confused.” Hollander doesn’t react beyond a slight pinching of his expression. “I don’t have any ginger ale, I’m afraid. Water?”

“The coke is fine,” Hollander says, not touching it. “So, I just wanted to clear some things up from last night.”

Scott doesn’t respond beyond stirring sugar into his coffee, deliberately letting amber liquid spill over the edges. He’s left half the sugar wrapper on the saucer, where it gets drenched. Hollander eyes its saturation with mild distress.

“So, obviously, very funny joke, comparing me to Rozanov. I get it, I overreacted. It was stupid, and I’m sorry for punching you.” Hollander waits, and, getting no reply, puts his hands on the table. “So, I’m going to go-”

“That’s it?” Scott can’t keep the contempt out of his voice. “That’s your fucking excuse?”

Hollander is getting a little angry again. Good. “It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth.”

“Scott fucking Hunter is right next door,” Scott says, in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “We should let him listen like mating call.” He follows, low as he can go.

Hollander clutches the full can of coke hard enough for it to creak. “You were listening?”

“The walls were made of paper and I left as soon as I could, but that’s not the fucking point.” Scott is outright gritting his teeth now.

“I knew you were getting old, but I didn’t think your reaction time was out to six fucking years, Hunter.” Hollander is incensed, but he doesn’t get up and start punching. “My relationships now are none of your business, let alone from my rookie season.”

“No, they’re not. It’s none of my business that you think you can use Rozanov for whatever the fuck you feel like and dump him the second you get a better offer.” Scott wants to start shouting, but he settles for spitting the words in an acidic hiss.

“That right. Wait, what?” Hollander’s vindication is streaked with confusion, and Scott is going in for the kill.

“No, it’s fine, right? He’s big, he’s gruff, he’s stoic, doesn’t talk about his feelings much, so obviously he doesn’t have any, right? Just a nice muscly sex toy for you to have fun with before you move on to someone better?” Scott’s voice breaks a little on better, but he quickly recovers before Hollander can comment. “You think because he’s a bit prickly, he doesn’t have any feelings? He doesn’t deserve respect, or even basic human decency-”

“Are you actually talking about Rozanov right now?” Hollander’s eyes are in that wide-eyed innocent look now, like he actually can’t fathom the source of Scott’s anger.

“Oh sorry, I forgot Rozanov wasn’t a person. Silly me, thinking we should talk about the warm body you’ve been using for six fucking years-”

“Have you been talking to him? Did he say-” Hollander interrupts, some halfway convincing facsimile of regret on his face. Scott’s seen that face before, usually right before the words sorry, but you have to leave before my boyfriend gets back.

“But no!” Scott is shouting at last. He remembers countless nights spent begging God for something real, someone who can look past his jagged edges and give him what he needs, and being constantly rebuffed. He looks at this kid, who has everything and has still decided to throw it away. Who has never had to cry himself to sleep on a crusty hotel bed as he threw away phone numbers written out to fake names, personas Scott can now shed as easily as breathing but which never give him the connection he craves. He thinks of Rozanov, feigning happiness as he treads the same inevitable path. His envy, his grief, his outrage finds its voice in rage. “He looks good on his knees, right? He’s a nice fuck, but not the kind you actually give a shit about, huh? You just move on to the next thing, and he’s left behind, fucking alone with a secret that the league would fucking kill him for if he knew about. He could lose fucking everything in a day, fuck, in an hour, and you’re out playing happy families with some fucking actress who can’t even hit a slap-shot!” Scott is breathing heavily, his chest pumping in and out in time with the ticking of the stupid hotel room analogue clock.

“Scott,” Hollander says, like he’s placating a wild animal.

“And another thing! Does she know you’re coming out of a six-year relationship with a man? Because unless she agreed to be your beard, which I very much doubt, since she’s ten times as famous as you, this is unfair to her, too! You don’t rebound on someone without telling them they’re a rebound, or giving them at least some fucking warning that you’re hung up on someone else! The Shane Hollander I knew six years ago sure as hell wouldn’t have done that.”

Hollander’s got tears in his eyes, now, and it’s enough for Scott’s anger to cool. He doesn’t want to make the kid cry.

“Look, I get it. Sometimes, guys like Rozanov, or like me… we like to pretend there are no feelings involved, that it’s just physical. But I am telling you right now, Rozanov caught feelings. A lot of them. And parading your relationship in his face isn’t fair when he’s so clearly heartbroken.”

“We broke up. Rose and I,” Hollander has wiped away the tears.

“You know that doesn’t make it okay, right?” Scott gentles his tone. “You need to talk to him. Properly.”

Hollander nods, hiccupping a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, miserable. “I just… wanted so badly to be normal.”

“Hey,” Scott says, sharp. “There is nothing abnormal about you. I’m guessing you’re gay, then, not bi or pan?”

Hollander nods.

“You don’t need to apologise to me. You were right, it is none of my business. But Rozanov deserves an explanation, at the very least.”

“What do you mean, he’s heartbroken? He seemed fine to me.” Shane is back, now, his analytical Canadian buddy who doesn’t quite understand others but so badly wants to. Thank God. Scott likes this guy.

“He’s back to how he used to be.” At Shane’s confused look, he elaborates. “Before you mellowed him out.”

“I didn’t… did I?” Oh good God, these kids are going to kill him. He started today planning the chewing out of a lifetime and he’s now playing relationship counsellor for two emotionally constipated hockey freaks. Somewhere out there, his parents are giggling.

“Look, all I can tell you is what I’ve seen. Having all that scrutiny, all that attention, it’s fucking horrible. It destroys you. And the two of you getting through it together… it was something beautiful, man.” Scott leans back in his chair. “And maybe I’m imagining it-”

“You’re not. You’re right. I’ll talk to him.” Shane scratches at his reddened eyelids, no longer leaking tears but still looking a little irritated. “You really don’t care about the gay thing?”

Scott considers saying that would be hypocritical of me, or takes one to know one, or an honest it’s nice to not be alone. But the truth is, he’s held onto this secret so long he doesn’t know how to relinquish it, not anymore. So he settles for “I care that it’s made things so much harder for you, and I’m sorry for that. But no, I don’t have any problems with who you love. And no one who does have a problem with it is worth knowing.”

Why is it so much easier to say to Shane than it is to believe of himself?

Shane nods. “Thank you, Scott.”

They rise, and Scott lets Shane take the lead, knowing the kid is not always the most comfortable with hugs. The tight squeeze he gets is gratifying, and he can’t resist running a hand affectionately through the kid’s hair.

“I should punch you more often.” Shane says.

“You call that a punch?”

Shane punches him again, a little tap on his shoulder, and Scott laughs.

“I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Shane leaves looking lighter. He had almost let his fear destroy something real, a feeling Scott knows all too well. How many times has he felt a spark and brutally stomped it out, instead of allowing it to grow? How often has he let his fear dictate his decisions?

What he feels for Kip isn’t a spark. Already, it’s a fiery ember, pitching rapidly towards an inferno. He’s not sure he could stamp it out even if he wanted to, but after today, he’s determined to feed it instead. There are already so many things in this world conspiring against Scott’s happiness, and he needs to stop being one of them.

Six Months Later

Scott stares at the MVP trophy in his hands. It’s his third, but it’s also the first one that actually means anything, coming with a Stanley Cup instead of the brutal consolation prize of a Conference Trophy. It’s also obnoxiously large, and at the first opportunity, he hands it back to its minders. He’ll let Kip ooh and aah at it later, but for now he really needs to go outside and breathe.

The response to his coming out exceeded his wildest expectations. Sure, there were some grumbles. Sports podcasters claiming he was taking away from his team’s achievement, until Virty went out and said they’d much rather Scott was kissing his boytoy than moping on the ice alone (thanks?). Crowell no longer making an effort to seek him out at events and call him “My boy!” (thank God for that one). A few glares from some of the more Neanderthalic players in the league (fuck you sideways, Kent and Comeau). Mostly, a lot of handshakes, congratulations both real and fake, and sponsors who now look at him with rainbow-and-dollar-sign-tinted glasses. And Kip, his lovely Kip, who he can take out in public, shower with the love and affection he so dearly deserves. He contemplates calling him as he settles into a shadowy alcove on the roof, but decides on delayed gratification today. He’s kind of hoping Kip has a reward planned for him, for his win…

He hears Rozanov before he sees him, his heavy tread recognisable from space. “If you want to join the league orphan club, we meet every Sunday on Skype.”

“We stopped using Skype five years ago, old man,” Rozanov says, joining Scott in his little alcove. “View is nicer on balcony.”

“I hate balconies. Ribs healing up okay?”

Rozanov glares at him, but there’s no heat, nor any of the emptiness that lingered for longer than Scott would have liked over the last few months. He looks lighter, more at ease.

“Virtanen is a brute,” Rozanov says.

“Yeah, but he’s our brute. You can’t complain, not with Marlow on your team.”

They sit in companionable silence for a little while before Rozanov hocks a deep sigh.

“Thank you.”

“Say that again?” Scott can’t help it, really, he’s never heard those words come out of Rozanov’s mouth and he wants to savour the moment.

“Thank. You.” Rozanov obliges, loudly and carefully enunciating each word like he’s talking to a deaf man. Or a spectacularly old one. “It was very good, what you did. Brave. Maybe stupid, but brave.”

“And great for you and,” he mouths Hollander, “Right?”

Rozanov jerks, starts looking around, even though it’s utterly deserted and Scott had only mouthed the words into the dark.

“Relax, kid.” Scott says, placating. “No one’s here.”

“How long have you known?” Rozanov asks, following the instruction and relaxing into a slouch against a wall. It brings him to slightly below Scott’s height instead of infinitesimally above it.

“Ah, about six and a half years? Your, uh, mating call was a bit loud.” Scott is blushing, he’s confident, but it’s dark.

“You look like tomato.” Fuck.

“I only knew for sure you were together after, you know. Rose Landry.” Scott notices the expressions that cross Rozanov’s face then: sadness, hurt, and then a stoic look, like he believes he’s not allowed to be upset about this. “You know it was a dick move, right? You deserved better.”

Rozanov raises an eyebrow. “Shane was confused. Was my fault. I pushed too hard.”

“No, that’s not fair. You’re allowed to be upset about it. Confused or not, your feelings matter too.”

“I don’t have feelings.” Rozanov tries to stare him down, but he breaks first. “Alright, fine, it was not nice. But we are better now.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Scott’s still a romantic, after all. Did Shane sweep Rozanov off his feet? A thousand candles and a hundred roses?

“Because of you.” Scott’s heart skips a beat. “We have hope now. Maybe… there can be something.”

“That’s, uh…” Scott’s knees feel a little weak, and he joins Rozanov in leaning against the wall. “Really?”

“We couldn’t, before. Is why he left, I think. For Landry.” Rozanov says the name with an impressively minimal amount of distaste. Scott doesn’t know any of Kip’s exes and is not sure he’d be able to be civil if he met them. Sue him, he’s possessive.

“Do not cry, old man, you’ll get my Armani wet,” Rozanov says sharply.

“Fuck you, asshole, I wasn’t gonna cry.” Scott looks out into the distance, and he doesn’t know why he feels the need to say it, but… “I used to go to Europe every summer. Go out into the clubs, wear something slutty, wait for a guy to pick me up.”

“They had-”

“Yes, they had clubs in the Jurassic era, very funny. The point is that I thought I was fine with it. Casual sex. You have fun, they have fun, no one has any expectations of more.”

He sees Rozanov nod.

“I hated it,” he continues. “The sex was… fine, mostly, but I did want more.”

Rozanov stares into the distance. “Yes.”

“It’s fine to ask for that. You don’t…” Scott doesn’t know how to say it, exactly, but he knows he needs to say it. “It’s not a crime to… want the emotional part too. Sex is great, sure, but you’re allowed to ask for a hug, or a cuddle, or… to be loved.” Scott wrings his hands, frustrated. “Forget it, it’s stupid.”

“No. Is least stupid thing you’ve ever said.” Rozanov pulls him in for a hug, and Scott really meant for Rozanov to be more comfortable asking for physical comfort, but maybe that’s what this is? He pulls him tight, regardless. “Tell your Kit I will be visiting New York soon. He should be prepared, so he does not fall in love at first sight.”

“His name is Kip, and don’t make those jokes in front of him if you want him to like you. He’s ridiculously protective of me.” Scott tries to fight off the stupid little grin that settles on his face at that, but he can’t. Kip’s willingness to burn the world down on his behalf will always make him a little giddy.

“Good. Is what you deserve.” Rozanov pats him on the shoulder. “Congratulations on award. It will be your last.”

“Fuck you,” Scott retorts cheerfully, watching as Rozanov walks away. He pulls out his phone for a quick text before he goes back inside, knowing the pageantry of the night has only just begun but feeling much more prepared to face it.