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Early August’s oppressive heat in New York City eased up after the sun had set; finally it felt comfortable enough to be outside. A warm breeze from the East River made the candle flame dance on the patio table between Scott and Kip. It wasn’t that Scott was opposed to hanging out in Brooklyn. He just rarely made it outside of Manhattan on his own.
That all changed after he’d met Kip, though.
He’d never imagined that he’d be at a brewery sharing beer with the love of his life, in public, yet here he was. His anxiety had trained him for years to hide who and what he was.
Over the last couple of months that anxiety lessened, brick by terrible brick crumbling away. He'd practiced not retreating from Kip’s touch in public, fingers sliding between Kip’s, shaking at first, then calming after Kip gave him a reassuring smile. He’d stopped wearing sunglasses and eventually ditched wearing a hat. “You look so handsome,” Kip said, which stamped down the nerves that had risen up in his chest.
People would take pictures of them sometimes, phones out, trying to be sneaky. Let them, Scott thought, as he traced his fingers over Kip’s palm, watching as Kip delighted in the touch. I have nothing to hide.
Their server set down a flight of beer between them. Scott had never really gotten into craft beer before, usually preferring whatever mass-produced lager or pilsner was on tap, but Kip claimed to still be a bit of a Brooklyn hipster at heart and that he knew his way around an IPA.
That fact was particularly helpful, considering that this brewery had eight IPAs on tap and Kip had just ordered a flight of all of them. “Here. I ordered this one for you, my love,” Kip said, placing a small sampler-sized glass of golden beer in front of Scott, who smiled at the endearment. “It’s their pilsner. Thought I’d ease you into this.”
“Always so gentle with me,” Scott said and added a wink.
Kip leaned closer with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Not always.”
“Is that a threat, Grady?”
“It’s a promise, Hunter. Now drink your beer.”
“Yes sir.” Scott licked his lips and took a drink. It was crisp, clean, and refreshing. “Not bad.”
Kip picked up a glass of a cloudy-looking beer and drank. “God that’s fucking delicious.”
“It looks like murky straw water.”
“But it tastes like heaven. Here, try.” Kip passed the glass over.
Scott took a tentative sip. It was citrusy and surprisingly like orange juice. “Huh. Not bad. To think I’ve been missing out on all of this,” he gestured toward the extensive tap list.
“Since there's a shocking lack of serial killers in modern times, you’ll need something new to obsess over. Might as well be beer.”
Scott took Kip’s hand, pressing a kiss to his fingers. “Found something much more interesting.” It was then that his eyes landed on Kip’s shirt. “Is that mine?”
“Yes. Got it from one of your drawers.” Kip ran his fingers over the New York Admirals Stanley Cup Champions 2017 design on the t-shirt - Scott’s t-shirt. His brown eyes flashed with a challenge. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Scott could feel a blush creeping up his neck, heat flooding his cheeks. Kip disarmed him regularly with comments like this, and Scott felt a rush every time it happened. He loved it when Kip had started doing it months ago, and he knew that he’d love it for the rest of his life. “You’ll pay for it later,” he said, keeping his voice firm and commanding.
Kip smiled widely at that. “I look forward to that.”
“Brat,” Scott said. “What’s next?” He gestured toward the flight, and Kip took them through the rest of the beers, explaining the subtle differences between each one. Scott couldn’t particularly pick up the differences.
He listened to Kip talk and reached across the table, taking Kip’s hand and idly playing with Kip’s fingers. Light from inside of the brewery spilled out onto the patio, giving Kip a soft glow as he spoke. The lights of Manhattan across the river dotted the skyline behind him. Scott let his mind drift as he listened to the lilt of Kips’ voice, the murmur of the patrons inside dotted by an occasional outburst of laughter. Music grew louder, then fainter, as a group of teenagers walked past with music blaring from a wireless speaker.
Scott felt warm and loose. Maybe it was the beer, but when he saw the way the curls on Kip’s forehead were fluttering in the warm breeze, he knew exactly what it was.
“I love you,” he said to Kip.
“I love you too,” Kip said back immediately.
For what felt like the millionth time, gratitude flooded Scott. He felt lucky that he could have this - that he could be in love openly and be loved in return by someone as amazing as Kip.
They stopped on the sidewalk on the walk home, engrossed in conversation, when Scott could hear it - the inevitable whispering of his own name from a respectful distance. It was bound to happen whenever he was in public. He turned toward the source and found two women holding hands. He smiled warmly and said, “Hi, I’m Scott.”
“And Kip Grady,” one of the women said with excitement.
“Oh, I like her,” Kip said. “What’re your names?”
“I’m Alana, and this is my wife Justine,” said the first woman. “Would you mind? My wife and I are big fans.” She held up her phone for a picture.
“Not at all,” said Scott. He wrapped his arms around Kip’s back and dipped him low, raising an eyebrow in question first.
Kip nodded and reached behind Scott’s neck, pulling him down for a dramatic kiss.
“Woo! Hell yes!” Alana and Justine shouted. “Get it!”
Kip smiled against Scott’s lips, and Scott pulled him upright. After several selfies from various phones, they compared who had the best pics and decided as a group which ones should get posted on social media.
After saying goodbye, Scott paused to kiss Kip, long and indulgent. He was lost in the sensation of Kip’s tongue against his own and the feeling of Kip’s stubble under his palm when Kip pulled back and took a deep breath. He looked flushed and thoroughly ravaged. “Mine,” Scott thought.
“Yours,” Kip whispered.
Oops. Maybe he’d said that part out loud.
Kip took his hand, smiling. He was dazzling in the New York summer night. “Now take me home and show me.”