Rating:

Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories:

Gen, M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationships:

George Grady & Kip Grady, Kip Grady/Scott Hunter

Characters:

Kip Grady, George Grady

Additional Tags:

Hurt/Comfort, Post-Ep 3 Breakup, George Grady is a Good Dad, But even still it's pretty light on the comfort, Coda

Language:

English

Collections:

Sixty Six Days of Skip

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-20 Words: 1,341 Chapters: 1/1

comfort food

Summary

I miss my Dad. What an awful thing to say.

What an awful thing to let happen.

-

After leaving Scott's apartment, Kip goes home.

Notes

for @sixtysixdaysofskip prompt: Hurt

shoutout to good dads <3 may we have them may we know them may we be them

Scott doesn't chase him. That's the worst part.

It's also the best part, because Kip's not sure he would have had the strength to look Scott in his beautiful, tortured eyes a second time and still insist on leaving. But Elena's right: Kip is miserable. He can't let himself be a secret forever, and if he doesn't leave tonight, when the misery is at its peak, he never will. So he leaves the loneliest, most desperate, most lovable man on Earth. And the loneliest, most desperate, most lovable man on Earth just... lets him go.

Scott's silence rings in Kip's ears in a way that can't be drowned out by the familiar cacophony of New York, but the city tries anyway: horns and shouts and the clash of music from half a dozen bars swirl around him, far away like he's walking through a dream. Kip's phone sits in his pocket, heavy like a cinder block, ready to drag him under if he strays too close to the East River. He should call someone. Elena. His Dad. Scott. But what would he say? He can't even think in words right now. The all-consuming roar of pain and sorrow drowns everything out.

Tears blur the world around him, and through it all, his feet carry him homeward; away from Scott, further and further, until it's a miracle he's still standing up. His lungs feel like lead, but they're still forcing air in and out of him. His heart still pumps, but it aches like nothing ever has before, except maybe his mother leaving. They hadn't said it, but it had felt final even then.

And a small, ugly part of Kip wishes he could be mad at Scott for this, like he had been at his mother. It would be easier, surely, if the man was being cruel on purpose; if it was simple cowardice, and not something laced with a depressingly realistic fear, that Kip had to compete with. But then it wouldn't be Scott. It wouldn't be this.

Tomorrow, maybe, he will be glad it hurts as keenly and cleanly as it does, but tonight Kip drags himself across the brownstone's threshold like a corpse. His father greets him warmly and prattles on like he's proud; like he knows his son has his own life and just wants to be part of it. It's the only thing he's ever asked for, and it's everything Kip has been denying him.

I miss my Dad. What an awful thing to say.

What an awful thing to let happen.

His Dad looks absolutely chuffed, all rosy cheeks and a puffed chest, glowing as he goes to retrieve a letter. Some letter. Kip's future in a big fat envelope - one that his Dad has always believed in - and suddenly he's a kid again; running home with a skinned knee, a bad grade, a school bully. He's lost Dad's prize baseball, he's damaged Mom's car, he's gotten drunk too early on something he doesn't understand. And yes, he's even slept with a fucking married guy and let himself be walked on and ripped off rather than make a mess of all their lives. But he has never, ever, been unable to tell his father the truth until Scott, and the weight of that crashes in like a wave right there in the entryway. It breaks out of him in a sob - “I'm sorry-” - and the last threads of whatever has been holding him up so far finally snap.

His father's arms wrap around him instead, warm and strong.

“Oh, hey, kiddo. You've got nothing to be sorry for.”

My boy, oh, my boy, his Dad murmurs as Kip lets himself collapse. He's crying too, if for no other reason than his beloved son is in pain, and in spite of himself, in spite of the lies, it makes Kip feel better. His father loves him, no matter what, and he's going to need every ounce of that unconditional love to get him through the next night – month – year.

Kip cries himself hoarse, and curses his stupid pride. His precious, beautiful pride. It will feel like self preservation one day, he is sure, but walking up those stairs to his bedroom afterward is like swimming an ocean of broken glass. He feels every creak beneath his feet, and can't stop himself imagining what it might have been like to bring Scott here one day; what he might have said about the pictures of a young bucktoothed Kip dressed as a tree up on the wall, or about his sister's wedding photos, or whether he would have hit his head on the ill-placed beam near the landing. It doesn't matter now. It can't matter, not anymore.

The fucking suit matters. It's worth more than everything else in this room put together, so Kip pulls it off piece by piece like a wounded soldier, using his last ounce of strength to save a beauty that's too good for him from ruin. The note is still in his pocket, and it comes out stuck to his phone.

- For my man. S.

“Fuck.”

More tears spring from somewhere and Kip drops onto the bed. Apparently, he can't look at the letter S anymore without imagining the quietly proud curl to Scott's lips as he laid out his gift; extravagant, as always, but more than that, it required him to know every inch of Kip's body. Literally. A suit from a stranger doesn't fit like this, and Scott will never be a stranger again.

There's a knock at his bedroom door, and Kip turns as his Dad pushes into the room.

“Hey, Kipper,” he greets softly. “I brought you something to eat. Wasn't sure if you'd had the chance with- with what's happened.”

He holds up his humble offering: a PB&J. Kip's stomach rumbles, and he takes it gratefully and starts pulling the crust off with his fingers – an old habit from when he was a child. As an added bonus, it gives him good reason to avoid his father's endlessly gentle, enquiring eyes.

“Is it about a boy?”

Kip snorts. Yes, Dad. I'm twelve and Steve asked a girl to the dance instead of me. God. If only.

“It's the hockey guy, isn't it?”

His hands freeze. His blood runs cold. He's been so fucking obvious. He thinks about Scott's soft, vulnerable features. His fear - tight lips, tense shoulders.

“You can't tell anyone,” he begs quietly. “No one, Dad. It'll ruin his life.”

“Did he hurt you?” His Dad sounds fierce for a moment, like maybe this mystery man could afford to have his life ruined if he had, and Kip shakes his head.

“No,” he swears. “Fuck. No. He would never.”

“Then what happened?”

“Nothing,” Kip explains, and for a moment, bitterness taints his tone. “It's just this. It's us. It's the world. He can't come out and I can't go back in. It was always going to end like this. But he's a good man, Dad. Promise me.”

“Okay,” he agrees quietly. “Cross my heart.”

Silence falls again, and Kip rips another piece off the sandwich. It tastes a little sweet, familiar; a buoy, infinitesimal as it is, against the ocean of his heartbreak. Even better, is his Dad's weight on the bed springs and hand on his shoulder, pulling him into another embrace. Kip curls up in his lap like a child with a fever, and his Dad rubs a gentle hand up and down his back. It feels pathetic, and sort of wonderful. He's trying to think of how to thank him, to apologise, to something, when his Dad speaks.

“I'm sorry that the world isn't fair to you,” he says, “and that love... isn't the same for you. I wish I could do more for you. To – protect you or something, I don't know. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I love you, kiddo. So much. I just wish that was enough.”

Kip sighs, and closes his eyes.

You and me, both.