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Scott Hunter sat behind the long press table, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles ached, staring out at a sea of microphones and familiar faces that all blurred together. The Admirals had lost, and it had been ugly. Even uglier than the last two losses they took beforehand. It was so fucking close to the playoffs, and he was losing, and nothing he did worked. He was letting the team down; he was letting down fans. The only happy ones will be podcasters and sport analytics that will be proven right yet again - Scott Hunter can’t deliver, he burns out at the beginning of the season, he is inconsistent, no longer a relevant player to worry about, no longer the star of the Admirals, record-breaking player. He was disappointing everyone and failing at the one thing he was supposed to be good at. Despite a motivating speech he had given his teammates after this loss, despite his attempt to appear calm, he could feel the hollow behind his ribs where the loss sat heavy and immovable.
Beside him, Ilya Rozanov looked like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover, relaxed, and as smug as always.
Of course he did. Boston had won. Although Scott had a sneaky suspicion that he could personally score a hat trick against Boston, break Rozanov’s nose, and spit in his face, he would somehow still appear smug, if a little angry.
Ilya leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest like he owned the place, answering questions with that easy grin and sharp, accented English. He cracked jokes about both the Admirals and the Raiders and chirped at the reporters.
Scott barely heard any of it.
He was running on muscle memory, trotting out the exact phrases he’d said a hundred times before. Phrases that were integrated into him from all the media training and countless interviews he delivered as a captain. We’ll review the game. Yes, we do need to be better. Credit to the Raiders. We are taking notes and improving. We still have a chance to make it to the playoffs.
All lies, or at least half of them. The truth was, Scott felt off his game, off his axis, and the whole team fell with him. He hadn’t slept well in weeks, not when he was used to warm embraces, sleepy kisses, and homemade breakfasts in the morning, but kept waking up alone. He kept checking his phone even though he knew there’d be nothing there.
They’d agreed to be casual and to stay friends. Scott had told himself he was fine with that; at least he kept Kip in his life in some way. Tonight, it felt like a lie he’d told too many times.
Suddenly, when he wasn't looking, the room shifted.
There was a lull in the conversation, chairs scraping, the rustle of movement that didn’t fit the rhythm of a regular press conference. Scott noticed a few reporters glance down at their phones at the same time, someone murmur into an earpiece, the camera's shutter stutter and then stop.
The noise drained from the room all at once.
Scott frowned, lifting his gaze. This was unusual. Has he missed a question?
They were all looking at him. A prickle crawled up his spine, exhaustion replaced with weariness. He felt on edge.
Ilya noticed too. Despite his Playboy, party-loving, careless persona, anyone who has met Rozanov at the rink knew he was extremely perceptive and quick on his feet. His posture changed, smile fading as he leaned forward, eyes sharp.
“We done here?” he asked, voice cutting through the silence. “Ladies are waiting for me at the clubs.”
No one laughed at the classic Rozanov chirp.
A reporter in the front row raised his hand, then stood without being called on. His voice shook just a little when he spoke, but his eyes were shining, and his face flushed with excitement.
“Scott - are you aware of the online speculation about your sexuality? About you being gay?”
The world tilted. Ground disappeared from under his feet. He was plunged into icy water. He saw everything in slow motion and at double speed simultaneously. Nothing felt real.
Scott’s blood went cold, then hot, then nowhere at all. The question echoed inside his skull, bouncing around until it didn’t sound like words anymore.
“What?” he heard himself say, faintly.
Then everything exploded. Voices overlapped, questions flying at him from every direction, flash of cameras blinding him.
“Is it true-”
“Do you want to comment-”
“Is this about your relationship with-”
“Have you been hiding-”
“Who is the man with you-”
Scott couldn’t breathe. The room swam, his ears rang so loudly he thought he might pass out.
This-
This was it. The nightmare he’d spent years carefully outrunning.
He stared straight ahead, frozen, unable to move, speak, or think.
He thought it was the end. He would die here, surely. He wished he would die, actually. Death would stop this madness. He just wished he could have spoken to Kip one last time.
A hand clamped around his wrist.
“Enough,” Ilya’s voice cut through the chaos, accent rougher.
“That is enough,” he repeated, louder now, standing abruptly. His chair scraped back hard enough to tip. “Press conference is over. You have quotes, yes? Get out.”
Someone protested, another voice called Scott’s name, but Ilya didn’t even look at them. He yanked Scott to his feet with surprising strength, grabbing both their bags in one hand.
“Come on, old man,” he muttered under his breath, close enough that only Scott could hear. “Legs stop working or something? I told you it would happen any day now if you kept playing.”
Scott stumbled, barely keeping up. “What- what are you doing? I-”
“Leaving,” Ilya said sharply. “Right now.”
“I don’t- I don’t understand-”
“Shocking, yes,” Ilya shot back. “But we can discuss your dementia later. Move.”
They were through the door before Scott realised he’d let himself be pulled along.
The hallway outside the press room was blessedly empty, just a security guard at the far end who glanced up, startled, as they passed. Ilya didn’t slow. His hand stayed firm at the small of Scott’s back, steering him forward.
“People will come looking for you,” Ilya said, low and fast. “Your team, coaches, reporters. Everyone. You want to explain your gay love life to them right now? No time, move!”
Scott swallowed hard. His heart was still hammering. “I-I don’t- why are you helping me?”
Ilya snorted. “Because my mother raised me well. I know you have to help the elderly, yes?”
“That’s not-”
“No time,” Ilya cut in. “Come.”
The night air hit them like a slap when they burst outside. The parking lot was mostly empty, the stadium lights casting long shadows across the asphalt.
Ilya didn’t hesitate. He marched straight to a bright red Porsche that looked wildly out of place among the team SUVs, unlocked it, and practically shoved Scott into the passenger seat.
“Hey-wait-” Scott started.
The door slammed shut.
Ilya was in the driver’s seat a second later, engine roaring to life. Before Scott could even get his seatbelt on, they were moving, tyres squealing softly as the car peeled out of the lot.
“What are you doing?” Scott demanded, panic spiking again as the city blurred past.
Ilya kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight.
“You can’t just-”
“I can,” Ilya said.
Scott pressed his hands against his thighs, trying to ground himself. His thoughts were still scattered, looping back to the question, the cameras, the looks. Everything was suddenly yanked out of his control.
“They can’t-” His voice broke. He stopped, swallowed. “They can’t know.”
Ilya flicked him a glance, expression unreadable. “Relax, Hunter. You are safe. Is okay. We see what is happening, what they think they know. We deal with it, yes?”
The Porsche sped through the night, carrying them away from the arena, from the cameras, from everything Scott wasn’t ready to face.
And somehow, the one person sitting beside him, the last person he should trust, was the only thing keeping him upright. And was dead set on helping him, apparently.
—
Scott stupidly didn’t realise they weren’t going to his place until Ilya pulled into an underground garage that definitely wasn’t the familiar one of the hotel he stayed in for every Boston game.
“Where-” he started, but the words died somewhere in his throat.
“Mine,” Ilya said shortly, already unbuckling. “You are not in condition to deal with your team right now, and they would find you quickly in your hotel.”
Scott didn’t argue. He didn’t have the energy. He would be embarrassed about being so disoriented in any other circumstances, but too much was on his mind already. Rozanov didn’t even chirp him about his apparently declining cognitive abilities, which showed how serious the situation was.
The elevator ride up was quiet except for the soft hum of the cables and Scott’s uneven breathing. He felt like he was floating just outside his body, watching himself stumble forward, follow instructions, exist without really being present.
Ilya’s condo was nicer than Scott expected. Clean, modern, a little sterile, but lived in. Floor-to-ceiling windows, expensive but impersonal furniture, obviously picked out by a designer. Overall, pretty similar to his own New York condo before Kip brought some life to it.
Oh god, Kip.
“Sit,” Ilya ordered, not unkindly, pointing at a couch.
Scott did, because what else was he supposed to do? Everything felt so unreal.
His hands were shaking terribly, but he only noticed when Ilya pressed a cold glass into them.
“Drink,” Ilya said. “Slow.”
Water sloshed against the rim as Scott lifted it. He spilled some down his chin, didn’t care. His chest felt too tight, like someone had cinched a strap around his ribs.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He flinched like he’d been burned. Now that he felt more grounded, he realised it had been buzzing for some time.
“God,” he said hoarsely, already pulling it out. “I need to- I need to see-”
Ilya’s hand closed over his wrist before he could unlock it.
“No, you do not,” he said firmly, while ripping the phone out of his shaking grasp.
Scott looked up at him, wild-eyed. “Give it back.”
“Hunter.” Ilya’s voice was unyielding, steady. “You are hyperventilating. You cannot read internet right now. You will spiral. Is not good for you.”
“I already am!” Scott snapped, then immediately faltered. His hands were shaking too badly to hold the phone anyway. “I need to know what they’re saying.”
“I will tell you,” Ilya said. “After I check.”
He gently powered down Scott’s phone and set it face down on the coffee table, out of reach.
Scott made a weak, useless grab for it, then slumped back into the couch, chest hitching.
“You are having panic attack, Hunter,” Ilya said. “Breath. In. Out. Slowly.”
Scott tried. Failed. Tried again. Failed again. He felt like he was suffocating, like he was going to die, and worst of all, he found the thought extremely comforting, so much so that he found his breath again.
What a fucking mess.
Ilya hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder - not gripping, just grounding. It helped more than Scott wanted to admit.
“I’ll look,” Ilya said. “You don’t have to.”
He crossed the room, opened his laptop, and sat at the counter. The soft clack of keys filled the silence.
Scott stared at the ceiling, counting his breaths. His mind raced anyway, conjuring headlines, imagining worst-case scenarios. His career imploding. His teammates’ faces. His coaches, his agent, his sponsors, all looking at him with disgust. Being traded off or kicked out of the league altogether. Becoming irrelevant, not needed anymore, useless.
Kip.
He could not think of Kip; his brain had some preservation instincts, because if he thought of Kip too much right now, he would fucking end it all.
Ilya took a sharp breath, then went still.
Scott’s eyes snapped at him, neck turning so fast he got dizzy. “What?”
Ilya didn’t answer right away. He stared at the screen for a few more seconds, jaw tight, then closed the laptop with deliberate slowness to buy himself a couple more seconds.
He got up and approached Scott, sitting at the edge of the couch, turning to him.
His expression had changed. Gone was the cocky smirk, the teasing glint. What replaced it was calm focus, as if he were choosing every word carefully.
“Okay,” Ilya said. “Listen to me.”
Scott sat up straighter, dread pooling in his stomach. “Just-just say it. What are they saying?”
“There is a post,” Ilya said evenly. “On Reddit. Hockey gossip thread. Someone made it very detailed.”
Scott swallowed.
“They have photos,” Ilya continued. “Of you with some guy, allegedly from Spain, few years ago.”
Scott’s heart dropped into his stomach.
“Nothing… what’s the word? Explicit,” Ilya added quickly, as if that mattered. Well, Scott logically knew it did matter, but right then he thought a confirmation would ruin his life anyway. “Not explicit, but
obvious. A selfie, you sleeping next to a guy. And his quote about what has happened there. ”
Scott closed his eyes.
“Fuck,” he whispered, “FUCK! I was always so fucking careful, I never slept over, I can’t fucking believe this, I was so careful, no phones near, leaving after, fuck, fuck, fucking shit, one time I fell asleep and it fucking ruins my life. Fuck!”
“There is more,” Ilya said gently. “More… recent things. Just speculations, but there are some pictures of you with the same guy, walking together on a street, entering your building a few different times.”
Scott’s breath stuttered. “They- they followed me?”
“Looks like,” Ilya said. “No proof of anything now. Just allegations.”
Silence stretched between them.
Scott stared at his hands. They didn’t feel like his.
“So that’s it,” he said quietly. “That’s how it ends.”
“No,” Ilya said immediately.
Scott laughed weakly. “You don’t get it. This is- this is exactly how it starts. They don’t need proof. What they have is fucking enough. I’m done for. It’s fucking over.”
Ilya moved closer, crouching in front of him, taking Hunter’s hands in his gently.
“Scott,” he said, voice low and steady. “Look at me.”
Scott did, just from a shock of Rozanov using his first name in this gentle voice.
“You are not outed,” Ilya said. “This is internet rumor. There are plenty of them about any of us. You can fight it.”
Scott shook his head. “You saw the pictures.”
“I saw gossip,” Ilya corrected. “It’s a stretch to say you are gay just because you were walking with a random fucking man.”
It hit Scott much later than it should have. This was not a random man, as Rozanov suggested; it was Kip.
Photos of him and Kip.
“Oh god, oh god, oh fuck- this is- this- fuck Kip oh my god- they have- they have photos of- oh god- I was so fucking careful, I was so fucking careful, and for fucking what- he fucking broke up with me just for this to fucking happen- i’m done, i’m so done i can’t take it, i can’t-” Scott rattled while gasping for breath, rocking back and forth, fighting nausea, shaking his head violently. He could hear Ilya talking, but could not make out a word of it.
Then the touch on his hands was gone.
The next moment, Scott was gagging and desperately swallowing bile that moved up his throat. He was moved forward, and he was throwing up into a black trash bag Ilya was holding. There was a hand on his back, rubbing back and forth. His throat was burning raw.
When he was done, the glass was immediately pressed to his mouth and tipped gently. Cold water poured down his throat.
He was slowly eased back into the couch’s backrest.
He felt so dizzy. Tired. He didn’t know what was going on. He lost the train of thought. He felt so heavy, he just closed his eyes.
—
Ilya was standing motionless in his kitchen.
He leaned against the counter, breathing slowly, trying to regain his composure and figure out what the fuck to do next.
Scott fucking Hunter had just had a panic attack so intense that Ilya was a minute from calling an ambulance for him. His phone was ringing nonstop. His own phone was buzzing every five seconds as well. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? He tried talking to Scott once he threw up and calmed down a little, but the man was catatonic. Ilya wouldn’t learn anything from him; he had to play by ear.
He took out a bottle of Vodka and poured himself a glass, which he quickly downed, and then another one to sip from.
Right. Game plan. What to do.
Everyone was probably looking for Scott. They needed to be reassured that Scott is alright and just cooling down before someone sent a search party. It didn’t help Scott’s image that he disappeared immediately after that shit show of a press conference.
It would probably make it worse if his teammates learnt he was with Ilya.
Right.
Ilya took Hunter’s phone from where it sat and hesitantly brought Scott's pointer finger to the home button. It didn’t work. He tried the other hand - bingo, he was in. Scott didn’t even move.
Ilya ignored all notifications and went straight to messages. He looked through the last people Scott had contacted, assessing who Scott would want to message. After a moment, He decided that Carter was his best bet. He opened the chat with at least 20 unanswered messages and composed a short message, focusing on not making any grammar mistakes that would give him away.
Sorry for disappearing, needed a moment to figure this shit out. I’m fine, talking to my agent right now. Will update you in the morning. Tell everyone I'm good
That had to be enough.
Talking to the agent was plausible.
Right, that should be Ilya’s next move.
He scrolled through Scott’s contacts and found his agent. The guy already left him a message, asking for a call to figure out what they are doing next.
Hello, sorry for missing your call. Things are wild right now. Can we talk in the morning to decide how to handle this?
Scott’s guy was quick and immediately answered, suggesting 9 am. He apparently already arranged Scott’s lawyer for 10, which was convenient.
In the meantime, Carter responded, and calls from teammates stopped. Good, he told them.
One number, however, persisted.
Kip.
The name Scott was sobbing uncontrollably for about 10 minutes before crashing, most likely the man in the photos. Partner? Boyfriend?
Ilya hesitated for a minute. Should he answer? Scott said they were broken up. Maybe he doesn't want to hear from him? Or maybe the post was somehow related to this mysterious guy, maybe he set Scott up?
Finally, he decided that if it were Shane, Ilya would definitely want to know if he was fine and what was going on. And by the looks of it, Kip was worried. And Scott was grieving and yearning.
The next time the phone rang, Ilya picked up.
“Scott? Oh, thank god, Scott-” A voice on the other side sounded harsh, as if the man was crying.
“No, not Hunter. Try younger and hotter, Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov here. Scott- can’t talk right now,” Ilya said slowly.
There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line.
“…what?” Kip said. His voice cracked on the single word.
“I am with him,” Ilya clarified, slower now. “Is okay, is safe. I don’t hurt old, weak men, I am not that cruel. But he had a panic attack. Very bad one. Not my fault.”
Silence. Then a rush of breath, uneven. “Where are you?”
“Boston.”
“I know that,” Kip snapped, panic bleeding through the irritation. “Where in Boston?”
Ilya hesitated for a fraction of a second. He glanced toward the living room, where Scott was slumped into the couch cushions, eyes closed, breathing shallow but steady. He looked wrecked. Small, somehow, despite the size of him.
“My condo,” Ilya said finally.
“Give me the address.”
Ilya frowned. “You are in New York, no? That is what I got from Hunter, but he is pretty… how do you say? not making sense… uncohirent?”
“I was in New York,” Kip said. “I left as soon as I saw the press conference. Those fucking vultures. I’m already on the road. I’m-” His voice broke, then steadied with effort. “I’m almost there.”
That got Ilya’s attention. He straightened.
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
Ilya rubbed a hand over his face. This was not part of any plan he’d managed to scrape together.
“He is not… okay,” Ilya said carefully. “He is barely responsive, is terrified. If you come here yelling or demanding answers or arguing, it will make it worse.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Kip shot back, then immediately softened. “I just need to see him. Please.”
Another pause.
“He said you broke up with him. He was sad about it, I think, even without the news. I don’t know him. I don’t do old, bad hockey players. Are you sure you won’t make it worse?”
“The breakup- it’s not that easy, alright? We are still friends, I care for him, I want to see him, and I want to be there for him. I know that this is his worst nightmare, I know he thinks his life is falling apart, and I want to be with him. Is that enough for you?”
Ilya exhaled through his nose. “Fine. I send you address. But you listen to me, loverboy.”
“I am listening.”
“You come in calm. If he cannot talk, you do not push. I will not have old man Hunter throwing up in my apartment again. He needs a nursing home, you handle it. Understood?”
“Yes,” Kip said without hesitation. “Anything. I'm close. Just, please don’t leave him alone.”
Ilya glanced at Scott again.
“I am not going anywhere,” he said, then ended the call.
—
Scott surfaced slowly.
Not all at once- more like drifting up through thick water. His body felt leaden, his head foggy, his throat raw and burning. He shifted slightly and winced, a quiet sound slipping out of him before he could stop it.
“Easy,” a voice said.
Rozanov. Close.
Scott cracked his eyes open. The lights were dimmer now, the city outside a smear of black. Ilya sat on the armchair opposite him, elbows on his knees, watching him like he might vanish if he looked away.
“You here?” Ilya asked.
Scott swallowed. “I think so.”
“That is improvement,” Ilya said. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Scott rasped.
“Yes,” Ilya agreed. “That checks out. But that is normal for you, yes? Old age can be tiring. And losing all the time.”
Scott huffed weakly, then frowned as something else cut through the haze. “My phone.”
“I have it,” Ilya said. “Do not worry. I told your people you are alive.”
Scott looked up with alarm.
“Do not worry,” Ilya repeated. “Nobody on your team knows where you are or what is going on, just that you are alive and will come back. You also have a meeting with your agent at 9.”
Scott closed his eyes again, relief and embarrassment tangling painfully in his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For… all of this.”
Ilya waved a hand. “I have had worse nights. As long as you are not pregnant and it is not mine, is fine.”
Scott doubted that, but didn’t argue. He shifted again, then froze as the door buzzer sounded.
The sound hit him like a jolt of electricity.
He sucked in a sharp breath, heart stuttering. “Who-”
“It’s okay,” Ilya said quickly. “Is your boy. Very determined.”
Scott’s breath caught painfully in his chest. “…Kip?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Scott said immediately, panic flaring again. He struggled to sit up, hands fumbling uselessly against the couch. “I can’t- I don’t want him to see me like this.”
Ilya was up in an instant, steadying him. “Hunter. Do not be more stupid than normal. He already has.”
“What?”
“He saw press conference,” Ilya said gently. “And he drove to Boston three hours because of it.”
Scott’s eyes burned. “I didn’t even- he didn’t even text me before the game.”
Ilya didn’t comment on that. He just said, “He is here now, yes?”
Another buzz. More insistent.
Scott’s shoulders slumped. The fight drained out of him all at once. “…okay.”
Ilya squeezed his shoulder once. “I’ll get him. Stay here.”
—
The door opened quietly.
Kip stepped inside like he was entering a hospital room.
He looked wrecked- eyes red-rimmed, hair shoved back messily, jacket half-zipped like he’d forgotten about it. His gaze flicked to Ilya, who stepped aside, for a fraction of a second, then locked onto Scott.
Scott had never seen that look on his face before.
“Oh, Scott,” Kip breathed.
Scott’s chest tightened. He tried to smile. Failed. “Hey.”
Kip crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees in front of the couch, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to touch.
“You scared the shit out of me,” Kip said hoarsely.
“I know,” Scott whispered. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”
Kip shook his head fiercely. “No. Don’t. Don’t do that.”
He reached out slowly, giving Scott time to pull away.
Scott didn’t.
Kip’s hands came up to cup Scott’s face, thumbs brushing under his eyes, grounding him. Scott leaned into the touch without thinking, a broken sound slipping out of him as the tension he’d been holding shattered.
“I thought-” Kip swallowed hard. “When you didn’t answer, I thought- I feared-”
“I’m here,” Scott said, voice trembling. “I’m not- I’m okay.”
“You are not, but you will be, I promise you will be.” Kip pressed his forehead to Scott’s, breathing him in like proof. “I should’ve been there.”
Scott shook his head weakly. “You didn’t do this.”
“I know,” Kip said. “But I still should’ve been there.”
“I didn’t think you’d- I thought you wouldn’t care, or you would be mad at me, or-, or-, or- that you would say I deserved it- or-” Scott began hyperventilating again.
“God Scott, stop, please stop. I would never say that, I would never think that. I’m not mad at you at all, and I care so much, Scott, do you hear me?” Kip said urgently, shaking Scott a little. “Baby, please tell me you understand that. I’m in this with you, I care for you so much, I love you, Scott.”
Scott’s hands fisted in Kip’s jacket, clinging. His body shook as the tears came, quiet and unstoppable. Kip wrapped his arms around him carefully, pulling him close, rocking him just a little.
“I’ve got you,” Kip murmured. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to do anything right now.”
Scott broke completely then, face buried against Kip’s shoulder, sobbing hard enough that it hurt. Kip held him through it without letting go, one hand firm at the back of his neck, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.
BONUS
—
From the kitchen doorway, Ilya watched silently.
Kip taking care of Scott reminded Ilya of approximately a hundred (and counting) missed calls from Shane.
With a heavy sigh, he picked up his phone, skipped any notifications, went straight to contacts, pressed Jane, and waited.
Well, he didn’t have to wait long. The call was picked up immediately.
“Rozanov! Where the fuck were you, you asshole? I have been calling you for hours!”
“Calm down, I had important things to do. Why are you calling me so many times like a crazy person?”
“You know why! The fucking press conference! You were there!”
“Yes, and I still do not know what you are talking about. From what I know, there is no Reddit post about me or you. What is the matter then?”
“You fucking asshole! You are infuriating! It has everything to do with us!! What if you are next? What if I am next? What if Hunter decides to drag us down with him?”
“He will not be doing that.”
“How do you know that? You can’t know that!”
Ilya took a deep breath and went to the couch where Kip and Scott were still cuddled together.
“Hunter. Will you out me and my gay lover to drag us down with you?” He asked
“What?? You have a gay lover? What the fuck?”
“Just answer, I have my gay lover on the phone with me, and he is freaking out.”
“Jesus, no, of course I won’t. I didn’t even know you are gay. Or that you had a lover. Are you gay?”
“I’m bisexual.”
“Right. Alright, no, I would never do that. Tell your boy he is fine.”
“You hear that? That does answer your questions?”
“My fucking god, Rozanov, are you insane? He is there? Can he hear me? Oh my god. This is insane.”
“No, he can’t hear you. No, I didn’t tell him about you. He doesn’t know. Nobody is following us to take pictures. Unless your fucking top from Mexico took photos or your little actress decides to talk, you are safe. Stop freaking out, I have other things to do.”
“Alright, okay, fine. Fine!” A moment of silence. “How is Hunter?”
“How do you think he is? Stupid question”
“Right, you are right. Tell him… Tell him I’m fucking sorry this happened.”
“Yes, I will give him condolences from my gay lover.”
“Can you stop calling me your gay lover?”
“But that’s who you are!”
“And you are an asshole!”
“I miss you too.”
“Yeah, yeah. Talk to you soon?”
“Of course. Bye, gay lover.”
“Goodnight, asshole.”