Archive of Our Own

1

Quinn feels out of place. 

He’s not naive, obviously Minnesota will be an adjustment. Getting uprooted and thrown into a new city, a new team, isn’t a daily occurrence. He doesn’t beat himself up over feeling bittersweet about it.

It’s still weird, like Quinn was dropped into a life that’s not quite his. The essentially barren apartment, the too-clean rental car, it all belongs to someone else in his head.

He’s no stranger to having a messy personal life, so, it’s fine. Quinn has his strategies to deal with it, even if they all lead loosely back to playing as much hockey as possible.

Luke calls him a robot for it sometimes, maybe even obsessive, but it's just how Quinn works. On the ice, he feels better. Everything that doesn’t make sense immediately does the second he laces his skates. 

And the team in Minny is great, really fucking talented, which definitely lets Quinn breathe a little easier. As much as the guys are trying to welcome him, nothing works better than actually getting on the rink and letting the chemistry build. 

The first team skate is going well, even though the green jersey sits a little heavier on his shoulders. Quinn knows it's not from the sweat, nor the lingering effects of jetlag and a shit night’s sleep. It’s just his mind working overdrive, like it does. 

He tries to shut it off as Faber skates back over.

“We’re doin’ those blue line passes again, yeah?”

Brock is eager, solid, and dependable in a way that Quinn decided he liked immediately. The defenseman was the first to introduce himself after Spurgeon, smiling wide, with a hearty clap to the shoulder. 

“Yeah, gimme one sec,” Quinn answers, straightening from his position bent over his knees. He probably looks winded, so he tries to suck in a few more breaths a bit more discreetly. “You're passing back to me, right?”

Brocks nods as he turns with an energetic skip in his strides. He’s faster than he looks, something Quinn knows he could use more often if he wanted. That advice isn’t really a first practice kind of thing, so Quinn banks it for later as he follows. 

 They work on connecting cross-ice at the blue line, roping in a few forwards to practice holding the zone with pressure. When Quinn spins away from Marcus Foligno and cuts to the slot, he earns a few whistles of approval that are both embarrassing and satisfying. 

He doesn’t notice most of his teammates watching as they keep at it, too focused on getting in sync with Brock. It feels good to work hard like this, and Quinn’s muscles burn with it. His brain is quiet for the first time since getting that phone call from his GM.

Brock has the puck along the wall, and he’s about to be pinned, so Quinn gets in position to receive the pass at the point. His d-man turns, and calls out as his wrists flick. 

“Hughesy!”

The name lands just as the puck hits his blade, and Quinn’s brain buffers alongside a sharp lock in his limbs. He nearly stumbles, which lets Boldy land a poke-check that sends the puck flying. The play slows, and Quinn just breathes as his mind tries to catch up. 

Shit, he surely looked like a dumbass fumbling a basic pass.

Faber skates over with his eyebrows crossed, curious and almost concerned. A bead of sweat runs down his temple, and he swipes it away with the back of his glove.

“All good? Was the pass off?”

Quinn shakes his head. “Just lost it for a sec. Water?”

Brock accepts the answer without question, and leaves for the bench. Quinn lags behind, still a little off-balance. He hopes no one can recognize it.

The nickname shouldn’t have shocked him, but the discomfort of it all swirls under his skin. He should’ve expected it. Obviously his teammates will call him something new. But it still feels like loss, like leaving a distinct part of himself behind. And that’s ridiculous, he’s not erasing his time in Vancouver by getting a new nickname. 

Even so, Quinn can’t help but focus on how noticeable the difference is, how it sits at the front of his mind in a dull, unignorable ache.  

Brock called him Hughsey, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. But his body reacted like there is.

“You okay?” Boldy hands him a water bottle, his helmet unclasped and face flushed from the drill. “I know you wouldn’t let me get one just for fun.”

Quinn tries to smile honestly as he accepts the bottle, squirting water into his mouth before pouring some down his back. He doesn’t need his teammates thinking he’s crazy for reacting to a basic-ass nickname. “I just tripped a little.”

Matt laughs and nudges his shoulder, which probably looks funny considering their height difference. “Hey, I gotta ask Fabes what he’s calling you so we're all in sync for tomorrow. You care at all?”

Quinn goes for the water again to act natural. “Anything works.”

“I’m sure the guys will come up with something eventually. We’ll figure out an easy one, I don’t think I can call you Quinn during a game.”

Matt buckles his helmet again and shoves his gloves back on. Quinn places the bottle back into a slot over the boards. “Sure. I’m not gonna call you Matt, so.”

Boldy laughs again, and some of the tension in Quinn’s body relaxes. “You better not.” 

They skate back out together, and take it a bit easier with the drills. Quinn’s legs are thankful for that, he doesn’t want to look dead on his feet at their next game. But he keeps up in the plays regardless, and the guys keep calling him Hughsey. It’s fine. He doesn’t falter a second time, even though the unfamiliarity persists awkwardly in his brain. 

It really shouldn’t bother him, so Quinn decides definitively that it doesn’t.

He’s taking a quick breather along the boards when another teammate approaches, one that Quinn already recognizes. He’s familiar with the broad shoulders and blonde curls, even more so with the expert puck control and lethal wrist shot. 

“Hello, Norris winner.” 

Kirill Kaprizov smiles with a sort of playful amusement, and Quinn wonders for a second if he’s being messed with. Every time he’s played against this guy, the winger had been absolutely dialed in, completely serious during every shift.  

A lot of players are like that, aggressive on the ice and friendly in the locker room. But now Kirill is so warm, impossibly bright in his eyes and even in the way he stands, enough to ignite a faint buzz from Quinn’s fingers down to his toes. 

“Hey.” 

Quinn subconsciously thanks some higher power that his tone stays neutral as Kirill looks him up and down, not even bothering to be discreet about it. Quinn grips his stick tighter absentmindedly.

“You like Minny so far?” Kirill asks with a tilt of his head. He’s not even sweating that much, and his breathing is fairly even. “Can be hard to get used to.”

“Haven’t been here long, everything’s still new.” 

Kirill clicks his tongue as he agrees, and Quinn absolutely does not watch the way his mouth moves. “You will get used to it quick, I think.”

“Yeah? Why?” Quinn blurts before he can think twice.

It's a weird habit of his, one his brothers tease him about relentlessly.

Kirill’s smile twists more into a smirk as he leans casually into the boards. “Is just my guess. Zuccy says I am ‘perceptive’.”

Quinn recognizes how Kirill says the word like it's still unfamiliar. He manages to stop himself from immediately asking another question, scanning the edges of Kirill’s face instead. He waits a beat before shrugging, an unsuspecting grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“We’ll see then.”

Kirill’s smile widens again, and he stands up straight to adjust his jersey. The cuff of his sleeve rides up as he reaches back, exposing the subtle definition in his forearm, delicate ridges of muscle peaking out from the fabric. Quinn realizes with a start that he’s staring noticeably at the veins that run along his skin. 

Fuck.

If Kirill sees, he doesn’t mention it. “Break is over, you join me in this play.”

Quinn has no idea what the play even is, but he follows Kirill to center ice anyway. The Russian calls out to a player Quinn’s forgotten the name of, who slides them a puck. 

Kirill turns as a couple others move to join them. The same, mischievous glint still shines behind his eyes. 

“You pass to me Quinny, yes?”

It’s a blessing Kirill doesn’t wait for confirmation, because Quinn wouldn’t have been able to give it. For a second, he didn’t even realize what Kirill called him, so natural that it almost slipped by unnoticed. 

When it lands, Quinn's breath promptly lodges in his throat. 

It was still strange, still new, but the feeling rising in his chest wasn’t sour. It was jittery, like a shot of adrenaline that had heat crawling up the back of his neck. 

Quinn realizes he’s standing motionless at the red line, one wrong breath away from choking on air. His eyes are certainly wide, which definitely isn’t helping conceal his reaction. 

Get your shit together.

And he does, forcing his limbs to move again and clearing the rasp from his voice with a decisive cough. Quinn gears up to receive the puck. He tracks the blur of it across the ice. He listens to the voices of his teammates as they pass to try and finally learn all their names. 

Then Kirill finds him cross-ice and shouts. 

“Quinny—!”

The pass is precise as hell, but Quinn barely corrals it as his brain stutters again. The name rings in his ears just as clearly as it echoed across the rink. He grits his teeth and sends the puck back to the forward who’s coming up with speed, hitting the blade square despite the unsteady twitch creeping into his hands. 

The play finishes, but the sound of the puck hitting the back of the net barely registers. Quinn tries to shake the feeling rising in his chest. It’s just a nickname, something foreign to his brain that naturally elicits a reaction. It’s nothing.

Kirill skates over and shakes his shoulder, grinning as he compliments the passes. Quinn wonders if he’s imagining it, or if he can really feel the skin of Kirill’s hand through his shoulder pads. 

Christ, Quinn really has to stop being weird about this. The two literally just met, the last thing he needs is for Kirill to be uncomfortable around him. 

Yet, he doesn’t look anything close to uncomfortable as Quinn goes silent. He watches intently with the same, unwavering childlike smirk. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Quinn refuses to think about it for the rest of the skate. He narrows his mind on everything else, the things that actually matter for winning tomorrow. By the end, he’s sweating through his equipment and his legs scream in protest. 

Quinn tells himself that it’s helping. When Boldy calls him Hughesy again walking down the tunnel, he doesn’t even flinch.

In the locker room, freshly showered and cooled down, Quinn packs his equipment bag into a calculated mess. Jack always chirps him for it, but by now it's almost therapeutic. He needs the routine these days. 

Quinn waves casually to the teammates heading out and repeats their names silently just to make sure he’s got them all down. He does, and he lets the satisfaction linger. He’s adjusting, this won’t be weird forever.

Kirill passes by, gear bag slung over his shoulder and hair still wet. He smiles again, finding Quinn’s gaze from his stall. 

“Bye, Quinny!”   

The feeling stirs again, bubbling up despite how stubbornly Quinn tries to smother it. He tracks the Russian’s body as he pushes out the doors without another word. 

And Quinn tells himself it’s the nickname thing, figures the rush will die down in the next couple practices. Definitely by the end of the week. 

Instead, the sting of it still hits half a month later. It’s always a subtle, potent smack to the chest, one that lingers even in the heat of games.

It doesn’t matter that Kirill’s the only one who calls him Quinny. It doesn’t.

2

Quinn has always been big on personal space. 

He doesn’t like prolonged contact, prefers separation so his brain doesn’t automatically spin in a desperate confusion at the simplest touch of skin. It’s just the way he is. Sure, after he’s known someone for long enough, it doesn’t bother him when they sling a casual arm over his shoulder or stand a little too close. His brothers never really give him a choice in the matter either. 

But with strangers, or even teammates, it takes a while before Quinn feels comfortable enough not to pull away the second a touch goes beyond fleeting. 

It’s still very much the case in Minnesota, standing in Marcus Folingo’s kitchen with a lukewarm beer and the occasional guy brushing beside him a beat too long. About three-quarters of the team are still there, enjoying a low-key night after a clean win. It was the kind of game that Quinn always prefers, where they control from the jump and don't let up the pressure. 

So he’s rewarding himself in a way, a few drinks in and enjoying himself without forcing it, even as Brock’s arm slots against his a bit closer than necessary.

They talk about the game, and Brock is happy to carry the conversation as Quinn throws in the occasional nod. It’s surprising how fast his d-man is figuring him out, but Quinn supposes that the whole team is getting pretty good at it. 

Matt always likes to chat during intermissions, but now he can tell whether Quinn is up for it just by how he’s sitting in his stall. Spurgeon somehow seems to find him exactly when the pressure mounts too high, offering gentle reassurance just like a captain should. And, well, Kirill can read him on the ice like no one he’s ever played with. 

“Who’s up for beer pong?” Matt shouts from across the room. “Fifty bucks says nobody beats me!”

The announcement smothers Brock’s train of thought as he shakes his head, looking thoroughly amused. “He won one time, and now he’s suddenly the champion of beer pong.”

“Why don’t you play him then?” Quinn offers, eyeing the commotion around the table as they fumble with the cups. 

Brock huffs, lifting his drink back to his lips. “Because if his ego inflates any bigger, it’ll explode.”

The rivalry between them is endearing, and Quinn can’t help but laugh. 

“Oh yeah?” Brock challenges, nudging his shin. “Why don’t you play him then, Mr. U Mich?”

Maybe it’s the buzz, but Quinn finds himself quirking an eyebrow before thinking twice. Brock’s eyes widen once he catches the motion, grinning as he turns towards the table. “How ‘bout doubles, Bolds? Me and Hughsey are in!”

And suddenly Quinn is swallowed by the controlled chaos of an overly-competitive beer pong game, him and Brock against Matt and Daemon Hunt, vehement chirping growing louder in the commotion after each turn. 

The beer is honestly pretty bad, warm and tasteless, but it gets more tolerable as the game goes on. Quinn recognizes the feeling but lets it go, his competitive side winning out against the part of his brain that protests as Matts sinks another shot.

“Fuck yeah!” he yells alongside the cheers of their spectating teammates, clapping Daemon’s shoulder. Brock groans as he reaches for the cup, downing the drink in one go.

His d-man is growing looser by the minute, reaching out to grab Quinn’s arm or lean up against him increasingly frequently. When Quinn sinks two in a row, Brock wraps around his shoulders until it’s his turn again. 

Quinn doesn’t mind it really, he’s tipsy enough not to care, and it's common for guys to get a little more touchy when they're drunk. His brain still lingers on the contact, limbs going ever so slightly stiff each time. It’s small enough that no one notices, and Quinn finds himself ignoring it more and more as the game goes on.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, Brock tosses the plastic ball into the final cup for the win, immediately celebrating with an exaggerated fist-pump and a triumphant yell. Quinn claps him on the back, smiling at how much it feels like a goal celebration as Brock ruffles his hair. Matt chirps enthusiastically from across the table, insisting on a rematch. 

“I gotta tap out man, I’m starting to feel it.” Brock laughs, his slightly pink cheeks confirming the statement. Quinn catches the barely noticeable instability in his stance and nods. 

“Have Hughsey drink for you, then.” Matt calls as he maneuvers the cups back into position.

“That’s a horrible idea,” Quinn scoffs, recognizing the buzz that's already creeping up on him. “I’m not tryna get trashed tonight, dude.”

Daemon laughs as he returns with more cans, and Matt simply smirks with an innocent shrug. 

“I’ll get someone to sub in.” Brock offers, turning toward the kitchen. 

Quinn hadn’t planned to play more than one game, but now he’s refilling the cups while trading playful shoves with Matt. His head is warm, body relaxed enough that his aim is definitely compromised. Realistically, he probably shouldn’t drink any more.

It’s clearly too late to reconsider as Daemon tosses his first throw, sinking the shot with a tiny splash. Quinn holds back a curse as he goes for the cup, ignoring Marcus’ quip from his perch on a nearby barstool. The liquid slides down his throat, a little colder, a little easier, as a recognizable figure approaches from the kitchen.

“Fabes told me I am playing. Should I be scared?”

Quinn nearly chokes at the smooth accent, managing to swallow the remaining beer without hacking up a lung as Kirill takes his place beside him at the table. Boldy raises an eyebrow, at which Quinn flips him a quick middle finger. 

“Very scared,” Daemon smiles. “You're already losing.”

Kirill only chuckles, bubbly as he reaches for the ball intertwined loosely in Quinn’s fingers. His touch is hot as he takes it, and Quinn feels it simmer in the skin of his hand.

Kirill looks tan in the white t-shirt he’s wearing, and Quinn forces himself not to think about how it hugs the ridges of his body, or the way his arm looks as he raises it to shoot. Quinn may or may not fail at that several times in the next five minutes as the game commences. 

Kirill is surprisingly good, though maybe it's because the rest of them are getting progressively more inaccurate as they drink. Quinn realizes he’s laughing a lot, and misses his next shot by at least a foot as he’s preoccupied by Kirill watching him intently from behind. 

This is a really bad idea.

The thought doesn’t stick around when Kirill is forced to grab a cup, scowling as he hesitantly smells it. 

“This is gross.” he complains, staring at the liquid. 

Quinn only pokes his arm, refraining from letting the touch linger.

“Just drink it, you baby.” Quinn prods teasingly, which earns him a surprised look as Kirill slowly lifts the brims to his lips. 

His throat bops as he swallows, and a drop slips by the corner of his mouth when the cup tips higher. It runs gradually down to his jaw, pearling at the hinge where Quinn glimpses the slightest hint of stubble. He stares at the drop until it falls to the floor, the trail still shining along Kirill’s cheek. 

Quinn realizes he’s gnawing at the inside of his cheek and immediately whips his gaze away. He hopes desperately that Matt sinks the next throw so he can down another drink. For the first time all night, he feels like he fucking needs one.

Matt misses, but Daemon doesn’t. Thankfully.

Quinn can’t really tell if the alcohol is helping or hurting as the game continues, he’s definitely more relaxed than normal, though it also means his critical thinking skills are severely on the lapse. 

Kirill’s gotten looser too, enough that he’s extra giggly and no longer shy with his touch, and Quinn has no capacity to prevent it. It’s not like it's completely out of the ordinary for them, Kirill likes to throw the occasional arm around his shoulder during practice or ruffle his hair when they're chirping each other. 

Quinn remembers their hips brushing that one time they actually cooked dinner together instead of offering each other leftovers. Last week, Kirill kept his knee against Quinn’s for an entire period during film review.

The point is, they’re just comfortable around one another. 

But now, Kirill’s basically hanging off him whenever he’s not shooting, resting a forearm across Quinn’s back or holding his shoulders to keep them close. When they shout in unison as Matt tries to cheat, Kirill’s hand is at the back of Quinn’s neck.

They’re smiling and laughing in the chaos, and it's normal. Nothing crazy. 

“Your shot, Quinny.” Kirill grins, reaching out to shake his arm, the slightest flush starting to emerge across the bridge of his nose. 

The nickname drags up Quinn’s spine, even more potent than usual. His body is so hot, he’s half tempted to dunk his head in the snow on the porch. 

Quinn’s brain wants to pull away, reestablish some distance, yet he simultaneously feels the urge to lean closer. It's so overwhelming that Quinn has to inhale deep just to get the ball anywhere close. Somehow, it lands in a cup, and the momentary triumph is overridden by the sensation of Kirill pulling him back against his chest with a celebratory cheer. 

Quinn’s mind goes blank. He’s looking across at Matt, but he doesn’t really register the winger’s movements as his back presses up against Kirill’s solid front. He’s not that much taller, but the angle feels like the Russian is enveloping him entirely. 

It’s way too much.

The commotion of the room, the music, the yells of the few guys watching—it all goes blurry at the edges as Quinn blinks. His pulse is in his throat.

Then Kirill releases him, and his lungs finally expand of their own volition. It doesn’t help, Quinn can still feel the pressure everywhere. The dips and angles of Kirill’s body that he really wishes he couldn’t imagine so vividly. 

Good god, he needs some fucking water. 

Quinn excuses himself before anyone can protest, beelining for the kitchen as his head swims. He doesn’t know which cabinet has the glasses, so he just opens them all in succession until Jared finally hands him one. 

“You good?”

Quinn can only nod at his captain, sure that if he tried to respond, his voice would be too dry to manage any words. He chugs a full glass before catching his breath. 

He figures it’s the alcohol that’s doing this, coursing through his veins and making every sensation ten times stronger, so Quinn downs more water. He knows he gets like this when drunk sometimes, so it was really doomed from the start. 

He’s been close to Brock all night, and he’s wanted to pull away from that just as much as he did with Kirill. It’s exactly the same, the only difference being the inadvisable number of drinks consumed in between. 

So everything is fine, Quinn just needs to sober up and stay that way. 

Kirill’s laugh echoes from across the room, and Quinn wishes frantically that the water does its job as quickly as possible.

3

At this point in his career, Quinn has officially given up on pretending to care in postgame interviews. 

He’ll usually give one or two decent answers before his patience runs out, switching to generic rants that really mean jack shit until the reporters get the hint. It’s just their job, so he tries not to be rude, but come on. Some of the questions are just outrageously stupid. 

Do you think the lack of a rest day was a challenge for you guys? 

Yeah, obviously. Everyone’s tired as hell.

How does the team plan to bounce back after this one?

They just need to fucking play better, but the PR team would have a collective aneurysm if he said that.

By now, Quinn’s used to the whole process. He can spin anything into a way to complement the team rather than himself, or respond to a question without really answering it. He’s a pro, perfectly neutral though a little devoid of emotion. 

At first, his interviews in Minny focused mostly on how he was fitting in with the team. It was less normal, a little harder to deal with. Quinn was weirdly thankful when the questions gradually switched back to not-so-subtle worries about performance, something squarely in his comfort zone. 

“Can you walk us through your thought process on that play?”

The reporter who’s already asked at least three questions tips her mic closer again, and Quinn forces himself not to recoil to recover the distance. He’s exhausted, sweaty, and ready for this interview to be over so he can finally hit the showers. 

At least they won tonight, so Quinn gets the usual positive questions rather than the frustrating or truly depressing ones.

“Yeah, that one was all Bolds,” he doesn’t have to fake the sentiment, that goal was pretty nasty on Matt’s part. Quinn had made an admittedly nice pass for the assist, but he doesn’t deserve any of the credit. “When you’ve got guys like that, you just focus on setting up as many opportunities for them to do their thing. And yeah, that was a big goal for us, but that’s just what he does.”

The crowd of reporters seem satisfied with the answer, though the woman who asked the question looks a little miffed. Quinn can tell she wants him to talk about himself, probably the spin move he’d done on that very goal, but Quinn won’t indulge her. 

“What about Kirill’s game-winner tonight?” someone else asks eagerly, “You guys seem to have such amazing chemistry, is that something you’re working on?” 

The question catches Quinn off guard. It shouldn’t, because he’s probably gotten a thousand variants of it over the years, but the words land a phantom smack at his head that snaps his concentration. His thoughts scramble as he searches for an answer that won’t materialize.

Kirill’s tiebreaking goal flashes back involuntarily, a beautiful breakout play late in the third that the winger slotted top-shelf. The move was unbelievably effortless, and the crowd had exploded, chaotic enough that Quinn had barely registered skating up to crash into the celebratory huddle. 

One moment, he was rifling the pass that started the whole thing, and the next, he was sandwiched between Brock and Hartzy and inches away from Kirill’s face. The Russian had been yelling through a smile as he bumped his fist to Zuccy’s chest, before his eyes locked onto Quinn and he grinned even wider. 

Quinn doesn’t celebrate that often, not even for his own goals, but his whole body had buzzed in triumph as Kirill reached up to hook his hand behind Quinn’s head, knocking their helmets together without dropping his gaze. 

And instead of it all blurring together like a standard heat-of-the-moment celly, the image of Kirill leaning closer is impossibly vivid. Even now, Quinn can picture the glint in the man’s brown eyes behind the sheen of his visor like he’s still inches away, incoherent shouts of excitement swallowed by the roaring crowd. 

Quinn can’t explain it, and is frankly too stubborn to try, because what the hell does ‘chemistry’ really even mean? The fact that he doesn’t even have to think before finding Kirill on the ice, or that Kirill has started leaving protein bars in the passenger side glove box whenever they drive somewhere. 

Fuck, he’s definitely stalling. 

“Uh, we’re definitely working on getting more comfortable out there, but that goes for all the guys. The more I play the easier it’ll get, it’s just the process—”

He draws out the response without thinking, eyes trained on the opposing row of lockers as he dutifully avoids mentioning Kirill specifically. Honestly, it's probably obvious that he’s just rambling, but Quinn keeps talking as he tracks the teammates filtering back into the locker room. 

He’s not digesting much of anything, swapping randomly between faces and figures in various states of undress, anything to avoid eye contact with the reporters who can tell his answer is clearly a cop-out. His gaze drifts away from Moose, wandering, until it lands on the very person he’s supposed to be talking about.

Kirill is stretched out lazily against his stall, and he certainly wasn’t there a mere minute ago. His hair is damp, t-shirt darker around the collar from the water lingering in the base of his curls.

Kirill looks up from his phone, and his eyes find Quinn so quickly it’s hard to believe it’s not intentional. His expression morphs into something pleased, eyes crinkling ever so slightly at the corners. It’s distinctly Kirill.

Quinn realizes vaguely that his mouth isn’t moving anymore. He has no idea how long he’s been silent, lips parted and blinking slow like a fucking statue. He turns back to the crowd of mics less than a foot away from his face and has to force himself not to visibly cringe. 

He is so getting shit for this tomorrow when the footage is released. 

Quinn clears his throat, newly aware that he forgot his water bottle somewhere. “Sorry, lost my train of thought. But you get the picture, trust takes time to build, and it's important that we do that as a team.”

Several of the reporters still look confused, but one nods at least, so Quinn lets himself believe his slip-up isn’t a total disaster. Another question about the power play interrupts the brief silence, and it’s a decent distraction from the possible fallout of his mental lapse. 

This time, Quinn doesn’t look anywhere in particular as he summons a barely acceptable answer, the fatigue of the game slowly chipping away at his remaining energy. He wonders how long it's actually been since the cursed interview started. 

And then Kirill is standing there. 

He’s planted at the edge of the crowd of reporters, the same warm smile lining his features as he watches. And well, what the hell. 

Quinn can’t stop himself from trailing off again, and everyone around seems to turn towards the Russian in equal confusion. Kirill doesn’t look remotely bothered, stepping forward with a water bottle clutched in his outstretched hand. 

Not Quinn’s water bottle, but Kirill’s, tape scribbled with his number peeling slightly away from the lid. Quinn doesn’t realize he’s reaching for it before it's already wrapped firmly in his grasp.

Quinn might’ve thanked him, but he isn’t paying attention to his own words as Kirill stands closer, watching intently as Quinn slowly raises the bottle to his mouth. He does it just to have something to do as much as he actually needs the drink. 

“Done with questions?” Kirill asks, less curious and more assertive. 

Quinn hesitates before he nods. “Yeah, all good.”

It’s a not-so-subtle end to the interview, but Kirill’s presence somehow commands the room like the whole thing isn't weird at all. Everyone just packs up and files out like they were already planning to. Quinn realizes slowly that Kirill is basically rescuing him, and he’s less embarrassed about that than he probably should be. 

The water bottle is a steady weight in his palm, and Quinn is more concerned by how Kirill seemingly read his mind than the fact that a dozen cameras definitely captured it. 

“You look too tired to tell them to leave.” 

And that’s Kirill just as much as his signature blinding smile, because he’s one of the most perceptive people Quinn has ever known. To be fair, he said so the day they met. 

Quinn deliberately reminds himself that Kirill is that way for everyone, that he's not the only one who gets water and tape handed to them completely unprompted. Though, maybe he is the one person Kirill stands up to reporters for.

“Yeah, I just go along with it sometimes. Thanks.”

“Is no problem.” Kirill leans down to yank the zipper of Quinn’s gear bag closed. “You want dinner? I am as Moose says… famished?”

Quinn chuckles. “Yeah, famished. I am too, just lemme shower real quick.”

“You go fast, then. Bolds and Eky are also waiting. They will yell at me.”

It’s common for their casual post-game dinners to include various teammates, and Quinn likes to ignore that he and Kirill are usually the common denominators. He’s never been the social, hangout-after-every-game type of guy, but it's hard not to be nowadays. Kirill is in his space more often than he’s not, and Quinn doesn’t even think about it. Not even to consider how much he likes it. 

“Tell them I was being held hostage, then.”

Kirill grumbles. “I do not know what that means.”

Quinn can't help his grin as he heads for the showers. “I know you do.”

“You are mean, Quinny!”

He doesn’t have to look back to know Kirill is smiling again, and the buzz of it lingers the whole five minutes Quinn’s under the spray. It’s a novel feeling, the way Kirill just fits without trying. The way he knows exactly when to interrupt an interview because he’s certain Quinn won’t end it himself.  

But it’s nothing more than that, a gentle understanding in a growing friendship. There’s no delicate warmth snaking its way into every easy conversation, carving out a place in his chest. 

Even though his brothers blow up his phone with Twitter clips and obnoxious messages the very next morning—a flurry of look at your face and God, Quinner, who’s got you speechless?—Quinn ignores it. 

4 

It takes a few seconds for Quinn to realize he’s on a couch. His couch, illuminated by the white glow of the tv.

His eyes strain, heavy, but he can recognize the familiarity of his own apartment. It’s still dark, so it hasn’t been long, and he vaguely remembers putting the game on. Actually, it was Kirill who wanted to watch it—

Kirill.

Quinn knows he’s a little delirious, because the Russian is there—a few feet away under a blanket—but he was even closer just a few seconds ago. Maybe. The image is blurry, but Quinn blinks as it flashes back: a crowded bar obscured by flashing lights, their teammates, drinks and unintelligible music. Dancing. 

And that’s it, the detail that makes Quinn suck in a breath. Him, dancing. And not alone. The effect is still there, simmering low in his gut, like his body hasn’t quite woken up yet. 

Quinn is ready to curse his subconscious; he does so silently as he scans Kirill’s side profile for any signs that he’s noticed something. Quinn knows his own face is tinged pink, and it’s embarrassing that his body is so worked up from a fucking dream. 

It’s just so real, even now, like if he tried hard enough, he could convince himself it was actually a memory from a recent night out. The team could’ve gone out after a win, gotten tipsy enough to dance, and someone would’ve forced Quinn to join despite his complaining. If he was drunk, maybe he would actually dance rather than stand, and could even see himself letting Kirill get closer. In the way his mind apparently craves.  

It’s a dangerous, stupid path to go down, but Quinn can’t stop himself from playing out the sequence. How plausible it would be for Kirill to tug him closer in the cover of the crowd, looking down with some piercing intensity. It’s easy to imagine how hot Quinn’s skin would be under the touch, how he’d shiver if Kirill ran his hands down his back—tracing a path to his waist. Slow all the way to grip his hips.

Quinn can almost feel it, the steady pressure of Kirill guiding his movements in the darkness.

Jesus. Christ.

Quinn has to physically shake his head to snap out of it, almost squirming under the blanket he’s suddenly very thankful for. He wouldn’t be surprised if Kirill could feel the heat radiating from his body. 

“Ah, awake Quinny?” Kirill smiles, blissfully unaware. 

It is not a good time for that nickname, and Quinn tries to subtly adjust himself in his sweatpants. God, this is actually mortifying. 

“Mhm, sorry I uh—dozed off.”

The rasp in his voice can hopefully be attributed to sleep. Quinn wonders if he could somehow escape to the bathroom, or even the kitchen, without Kirill realizing his predicament. Quinn just needs something to calm himself down, but it's literally impossible when Kirill is right there, his arm draped out to rest even closer than where he’s actually sitting. His hand lingers right behind Quinn’s shoulder, and it's almost worse than if it was actually touching. 

“Is no problem, you are tired. I can tell.”

I can tell. Those words are not exactly pleasant at the moment, not when Quinn is basically rocking a semi less than a few feet away from his friend. His teammate. It’s weird, and it should be weirder, considering how much time they’ve been spending together in a completely platonic manner—eating meals or lounging in each other’s apartments. 

It’s messed up for Quinn to take their friendship and risk it for something more, and he doesn’t really even want more. Well, shit, his body definitely does. 

He needs to think about something else right fucking now, extinguish the fire, just like he usually buries any pang of want that lasts a beat too long. This is not the time for his self-control to crumble. 

“You’re tired too, we both worked our asses off tonight.”

Kirill rolls his eyes. “You play thirty minutes every game. The only player who does this.” 

Quinn doesn’t miss the hint of praise in his voice, something close to pride. It’s nothing new, Kirill likes to complement Quinn’s play when he’s a little hard on himself, but tonight the tone only fans the flames brewing in the pit of his stomach. 

It’s protective, bordering on possessive the way Kirill manages him sometimes, demanding breaks when they skate too hard in practice or ordering Quinn to actually eat before they review game footage. It’s because he cares, Quinn knows, and he has to smother the part of himself that lights up at Kirill’s bossy side. 

Even imagining it now is a huge mistake. Quinn gulps down air as discreetly as possible.

“It’s—it’s nothing,” he tries, guilt climbing up his throat. “I’m used to it.”

Kirill lets out a sigh, but turns his eyes back to the game. Being freed from his gaze is a small victory, a tiny relief of the pressure. Quinn tries to focus on the penalty kill currently unfolding on the tv screen, but his brain literally refuses to take in anything but the phantom presence of Kirill’s hand inches from his shoulder blade. 

It’s almost torture, sitting absolutely still, reimagining the two of them in the bar over and over and over. Quinn is so pent up he might explode, maybe go insane, if they stay like this any longer.

He’s likely a second away from leaning into it when Kirill’s fingertips finally touch him. It’s barely anything. He refuses to look anywhere but straight ahead, like maybe Kirill won’t notice the effect he has if Quinn doesn’t move. 

“Ah, good goal. Good play.”

Quinn hadn’t realized someone scored. He’s vaguely annoyed that Kirill’s voice is so even, so unaffected, still able to analyze the game. His hand is inching closer to the base of Quinn’s neck.

“Yeah. Nice one.”

This is probably the single most strenuous test of composure ever, like some sick game of how much Quinn can endure before he loses it. He’s breathing deep now, brain fuzzy and sluggish with the heat crawling up under his clothes, pulse beating hard against his forehead. It’s impossible not to wonder if Kirill knows what he’s doing, wants it—

Yeah, not helping.

“They will score again, wait.” Kirill hums again. 

Quinn is trying extremely hard not to squirm, or do anything obvious under Kirill’s hand. It’s a monumental task considering how easily that touch could slide lower, following exactly the same path of Quinn’s ridiculous dream. 

It’s already bad enough when Kirill reaches up and twirls his fingers in the strands at the nape of his neck. Quinn has to clench his teeth not to make an embarrassing noise.

Holy fuck.

Kirill says something else, but it's lost in the sensation. Quinn is too focused on regulating his breathing, rather unsuccessfully so. 

“Huh?”

“They did not score, you should chirp me for that.” 

Kirill is looking at him again, can probably see just how wrecked Quinn is, completely incapable of answering when Kirill accidentally tugs at his hair again. 

Quinn shouldn’t turn. He’s already fucked, he really shouldn’t look at the man beside him right now. Then he does it anyway, and the hand on his neck stills. If Kirill didn’t know what he was doing before, he definitely does now. 

He scans Quinn up and down, searching, before returning to his eyes. Quinn might be delusional right now, but he swears he sees Kirill’s pupils darken. He’s teetering on the edge, unconfident that he can stifle any more noises if Kirill keeps touching him, might even be unable to hide any emotion at all anymore. 

Kirill has always been able to read him, but Quinn has never looked at him like this before. He’s never looked at any teammate like this before, so maybe Kirill won’t realize. Maybe he’ll just be confused and chalk it up to midnight delirium. 

“Okay?” Kirill asks, and at least he’s a little breathless. 

Quinn is thankful he’s not completely alone in this. 

“Yeah, uh—all good.”

He’s not even close to ‘good’, but the response is basically automatic. 

For several long moments, they just stare at each other, and Quinn can’t tell what’s holding them back. Kirill’s hand just stays tangled idly in his hair, grounding in the almost suffocating atmosphere.

Quinn is probably a second from saying something—doing something—when a loud buzz from his phone startles them both. He nearly jumps, a little shaky as he tears his gaze away from Kirill and fumbles for the pocket of his sweats. 

Quinn wrestles out his phone and checks the caller ID, unsure if he’s relieved or pissed that his brother is calling him at midnight. His head is still reeling, and he catches Kirill standing up in his peripheral vision. 

“Jack,” Quinn barks, voice a tad too ragged to be normal. “What is it?”

“Wow, hello to you too. Maybe I just wanna check in with my big bro?”

It’s obviously not the case, and Quinn tells him as much as he spins to find Kirill, who’s pulling on his shoes by the door. The Russian looks up and pauses, pointing a hesitant finger towards the hallway. It’s clear he doesn’t want to interrupt the call, and it’s late, so leaving makes perfect sense. Quinn nods and forces himself to turn away, Kirill’s probably not freaking out. 

Nothing happened. They’re fine. 

“Q? Are you listening?”

“Yeah, I’m tired dumbass, just tell me what’s up.”

It turns out Luke lost his phone, and Quinn’s the only one who has it registered in his ‘Find My’. He almost scolds Jack for it, but manages to refrain. He’s too scrambled to give a shit.

Jack obviously notices. “Are you okay? You sound kinda weird.”

Quinn just huffs. “I couldn’t explain if I tried, lemme sleep before you interrogate me.”

His brother laughs, making him promise to actually answer his phone tomorrow when Jack calls for an explanation. 

Quinn might have all night to make sense of everything, but he’s absolutely sure he won’t have a clue what to say when the phone rings. He only manages to fall asleep by blaming the whole unfortunate circumstance on his clearly fatigued mind, a blip on the radar in a strange moment of delusion. 

It’ll never happen again, so really, Jack’s just wasting his time.

5

In hindsight, it was a terrible idea to go for a run, but Quinn is nothing if not stubborn. He made up his mind about it last night, so a little cold weather isn’t going to stop him. 

It’s only a couple miles, a quick circuit from his apartment around the park nearby, just to keep his body moving on their few days off. It’s not like Quinn’s unfamiliar with ice, Vancouver gets cold as hell in the winter too, so he knows how to work around it. 

And if he doesn’t tell the trainers, that’s his business. 

So yeah, it’s not a big deal, and Quinn really needs the distraction. He can’t spend two entire days holed up in his room. 

He’s maybe halfway done, pleasantly distracted by the workout. It’s cold enough that he’s not overheating in his base layers, and there aren’t too many people around. Even his legs feel good, so Quinn picks up the pace and lets his mind wander to whatever he assumes they’ll work on in practice tomorrow. 

Maybe his mind gets too wrapped up in drills and potential plays, because he’s definitely not paying attention to the giant patch of black ice that promptly takes out his feet as he rounds the next corner.

Quinn realizes he’s slipping a beat too late, unable to catch himself as his balance disappears, and his knees bend in an awkward last-minute effort to save it. It’s futile; he quickly hits the ground in an unceremonious sprawl. 

Quinn immediately registers the cold of the pavement, a little dazed as he shifts against the uneven surface. He takes stock of his body, waving off any immediate panic. His knees sting a bit, and his right palm is cut, but there’s nothing major. It’s all good, he just needs to sit up. Finish the run. 

 The sudden sharp throb in his ankle spoils that thought instantly. It definitely wasn’t there before. 

Fuck.

The pain isn’t excruciating, but Quinn has sprained his ankle before. He’s familiar with the sensation. 

Double fuck.

He rises to a knee and tests it, sucking air through his teeth when the joint protests. Quinn gives in and drops to his ass, running through his options. He’s at least two miles from the apartment, so limping all the way back isn’t remotely feasible. At least no one saw him trip, but he could really use some help getting to a bench or something, regardless of how embarrassing it would be. 

The nearest road is right up the hill, so his best course of action is probably calling for backup, even if the idea of having to wake up one of his teammates to come rescue him is less than ideal.

Quinn fishes for his phone anyway. Matt technically lives the closest, but Quinn knows who to call: the person who already has his location saved for ‘safety purposes’.

The line only rings for about five seconds.

“Quinny?” Kirill asks, his voice a little rough. “You okay?”

Quinn ignores the low thickness of his accent. 

“Uh, not exactly,” he hisses through another pang in his ankle. “Are you busy right now?”

It’s a stupid question to ask, he’s stalling, but Quinn really doesn’t want to be a bother. He hears the sound of what he recognizes as Kirill’s coffee machine in the background. 

“No, I just woke up. Is there a problem?”

Quinn hesitates. “I kinda went for a run and…fell.” 

The motion on Kirill’s side of the phone abruptly stops. 

“What?” Kirill repeats, clearly concerned. “You fell?”

“Yeah. My ankles a little—” Quinn cuts himself off, unsure of how exactly to phrase it without making Kirill panic. “Uh, I guess I was wondering if you can come get me.”

Movement is immediately audible again through the phone, a rather urgent rustling of what is probably clothes. “Yes. Yes, of course. I am going now. Are you hurt?”

“No.” Quinn tries, but he knows it's clearly bullshit.

The sounds of a door closing accompanies Kirill’s voice. “But you cannot walk?”

“I could, but I’m being cautious.”

“So you are not on the ground?”

Quinn’s pause gives it away. Kirill groans. “Quinny, you are hurt.”

“I’m not.”

“Fine, but you stay still. I am on the way.” Kirill’s tone is a little panicked, mixed with a hint of frustration likely owed to Quinn’s stubbornness.

His breathing is loud over the phone, audible over the sound of his car, and Quinn can’t decide what to think about Kirill’s obvious worry. It warms him ever so slightly against the air currently cooling the sweat on his skin.

“Why are you on a run? Is dangerous, no?”

“I do it all the time,” Quinn defends, scooting back to rest on a patch of grass rather than the pavement. He hopes it looks a bit less pathetic. “I just missed some ice.”

Kirill doesn’t answer, but it's clear he’s concerned. He has every right to be, considering his team’s star player just fucked up his ankle in a completely avoidable circumstance. Honestly, he has every right to be mad about it.

“How bad?” 

Quinn glances down, but can’t really tell through the fabric of his base layer. “How about you get here first, then we figure it out.”

“Okay. Phone says three minutes.”

They sit in silence for about four, only interrupted by Kirill checking in a few times just to make sure the injury somehow hasn’t gotten worse. Quinn just repeats that he hasn’t moved, and that he’s not dying. Kirill doesn’t appreciate the joke. 

Finally, he announces that he’s pulled up along the street, appearing atop the rather small hill a few seconds later. Kirill’s dressed in a random hoodie and sweatpants, and he’s not even wearing a coat, nor his usual beanie. He finds Quinn immediately and jogs down to meet him.

“Are you okay?” Kirill repeats, crouching down with his hands raised idly, like he’s afraid Quinn will break at the smallest touch. His eyes glisten with a hint of fear, and Quinn tries not to read into it.

“I’m fine,” he grunts. “Just help me up.”

Kirill instantly wraps a strong arm around Quinn’s chest, taking most of his weight. His touch is delicate, and his body is warm where Quinn is forced to lean into him. Kirill acts as his second leg as they hobble up the hill. 

“Sorry if I’m sweaty.” Quinn mumbles, straining to keep his leg bent. 

Kirill merely grumbles, leading them to the passenger side of his car. “I don’t care.”

Quinn has to suck it up and let Kirill get the door before he climbs into the seat. It’s a bit ridiculous, Quinn’s not helpless, but he knows Kirill will complain if he refuses the assistance. At least the heating is already turned up to the max. 

Kirill hops in a beat later, wrestling the car into drive. They don’t say much in the short ride back, and Quinn can’t help how his mind spins. He knows he’s messed up, will probably have to sit out a few games, and the urge to apologize sits uncomfortably on his tongue. He manages to hold it in all the way to the garage and up the elevator, Kirill taking his place against Quinn’s side till they reach his door. He doesn’t let go even as he fumbles for his keys. 

Kirill finally lowers him into a chair along his dining room table, returning seconds later with an ice pack in hand. He looks determined, almost annoyed, but Quinn doesn’t feel like he’s frustrated at him. It’s hard to decipher. 

“You don’t have to do this,” Quinn assures, though he admittedly has no idea how he’d manage by himself. “I’ll be fine.”

Kirill doesn’t dignify that with a response, only shakes his head as he kneels down to prop up Quinn’s ankle on a second chair, wrapping it with the ice and a dish towel. 

It’s his protective side again, and Quinn wills himself to be normal about it. 

“You are not invincible, Quinn Hughes,” Kirill mutters as he fusses with the towel. “No one thinks this. Only you.”

Quinn sputters a response.“I don’t think I’m invincible.”

“Yes, but you act like you are,” Kirill looks up intently from his spot on the floor. “I know you don’t want to call for help, you say you are not hurt. You play a million minutes and pretend not to be tired.”

It’s true, and Quinn knows it. He however, wasn’t aware that Kirill is apparently bothered by those particular tendencies, enough for his eyes to narrow at the dish towel like it personally offended him.

“Yeah.” Quinn whispers, staring at the ice against his skin. 

Kirill stands to dig around in his cabinets, returning with what looks like a makeshift first aid kit. Quinn resists the urge to refuse any more help, despite feeling a bit like a baby. He can take care of himself, but that mentality is a tad ironic given Kirill’s last statement.

“Pants.” Kirill demands, pouring some sort of solution on a cloth. Quinn’s breath hitches despite himself, and it takes him approximately three seconds to register what Kirill actually means. 

The Russian watches his lack of movement. “You said your knee is bad.”

“Yeah, right—sorry. Here—” Quinn manages to roll his base layer high enough on each leg to expose the minor scrapes adorning his left knee. 

Kirill gets to work, cleaning away the dried blood with a surprisingly gentle touch for a hockey player. Quinn bites back any noises of complaint when he applies whatever alcohol he pulled from the kit. 

In the silence, Quinn can’t hold back his apology anymore. “I’m sorry, man. I know I’m probably missing games ‘cause of this, and you didn’t trade all those guys just for me to get injured—”

“Quinn,” Kirill interrupts firmly, halting his movements until Quinn stops talking. “Is okay, getting hurt is not a thing to control. I am not worried about the team.”

“No?”

“We are good enough to play a few games without you, I think,” Kirill turns his attention back to cleaning, reaching instead for one of Quinn’s palms. “I am not mad.”

It’s hard to focus with the delicate pressure of Kirill working over his hands, and Quinn tries to ignore it. 

“I wish you would be nicer to yourself. Not so harsh.” 

When Kirill presses a bit harder, Quinn can’t quite stifle a hiss through his teeth. Kirill lifts his gaze and offers a silent apology, but Quinn doesn’t really care, not when the tenderness in the face below him is so palpable. He feels the urge of something rising up his chest, strong and confusing. 

“Touch is okay still, yes?” Kirill asks quietly, keeping their eyes locked. 

Quinn can only nod, a little breathless, unable to remember a single time Kirill’s touch was ever not okay. 

“I’ll try,” Quinn manages after a long pause. “To be better about it.”

“Is what makes you so good,” Kirill smiles fondly. “Stubborn. Very determined. Just need to be smarter too.”

And it’s simple like that, even if Quinn’s current predicament is anything but simple. He needs to call the trainers, get in for an exam, and somehow figure out a recovery plan. But he's not worried, never is, when Kirill is right there making everything easier. 

First step, shower. 

“Am I all clear, doc? I think I need a shower.” 

Kirill laughs, nodding after he gives the scrapes a final once-over.

“Alright, do you think you could—”

Kirill doesn’t make him say it, just rises to his feet and helps maneuver Quinn to his bathroom. He only leaves when Quinn swears he can manage the rest of the process on his own. It might take twice as long to get his clothes off, but Quinn still gets through it without irritating his injury any further. The pain is already subsiding into a dull ache. 

When he steps out, he finds a pile of clothes resting just outside the door, and Quinn yanks them on without giving his brain a chance to stress over it. He hobbles back into the kitchen, and absolutely does not watch for Kirill’s reaction to Quinn wearing his clothes. 

“All clean?” Kirill chimes after a beat of silence that lasts just a second too long to be nothing. 

Quinn refuses to read into it, taking a seat on one of Kirill’s barstools. “Yep.” 

He lets the Russian fuss over his injury for the rest of the day, cooking breakfast and driving him to his impromptu meeting with the trainers. Kirill even convinces him to stay at his place for dinner. 

It’s unnecessary, bordering on domestic in every arguably needless moments of contact. Kirill offers Quinn his hand, or holds the door extra wide, and it should be awkward. Instead, it's nice. And that sets off alarm bells in Quinn’s brain that suddenly aren’t enough to stop him. 

Hell, his brothers doted on him similarly that year he fucked up his oblique, so what’s the difference really? It’s harmless—all in the name of recovery. 

When Quinn tells Kirill he got the all clear just over a week later, the resulting swoop of elation has nothing to do with the radiant smile he gets in return. 

Nothing to do with the hug Kirill wraps him in, like he can’t help it.

+1

Quinn doesn’t like to be around people after losses. He knows he gets bitchy sometimes, and it's not fair to subject his teammates to any undeserved negativity. 

It’s still the case with the Wild, but the noticeable drop in pressure attributed to every game definitely helps soften the blow when they do drop one. The guys are easy to be around, and Quinn finds himself surprisingly positive even after the occasional loss these days. 

Still, he’s the same overachiever that takes his own mistakes to heart, and the losses that feel like his fault always elicit the same overwhelming frustration. When it happens, Quinn takes the night to himself and lets his mind work through it. It’s a habit, and it works. 

Then Kirill is inviting him over after a rough game, and Quinn is suddenly incapable of ever ever saying no. 

Sitting in the passenger seat on the way back to the apartment, Quinn should be running over his turnover that led to a goal against. Instead, he’s studying the way Kirill’s fingers flex on the steering wheel. 

When they decide to order in for a late-night dinner, Quinn should insist they get something meal-plan adjacent. Instead, he offers no protest whatsoever when Kirill suggests they get Thai. And they could look over some game film, but Kirill navigates to put on a movie without even considering it, like he knows Quinn won’t argue. 

The movie is rather uninteresting, but it doesn’t matter when Quinn’s exhausted from extensive ice time and an admittedly good meal. He sinks back into the couch, slightly closer to Kirill’s lax figure than strictly necessary. 

He’s wrapped in one of Kirill’s fluffy blankets, thinking about literally everything but his poor game and the characters onscreen. It must be obvious he’s not paying attention, because Kirill gently squeezes the top of his thigh to snap him out of it. 

“You okay, Quinny?” he asks. “No worrying about the game. Cannot change it now.”

Quinn chuckles through a breath. “I’m good, actually. Not thinking about the game.”

“Ah, really? Good.” Kirill smiles, but he doesn’t look back at the tv. He keeps watching Quinn with the same curious expression, and it's obvious he’s thinking. 

Eventually, he taps Quinn’s leg again. “Is fine if you are tired, then.”

Quinn doesn’t know how to deny it, because he is, but that means he has to get up and go back to his apartment two floors down. And he can’t exactly say, I don’t want to leave.

He shouldn’t even be thinking it.

“I’m not.”

Kirill barks a laugh. “Please. Can’t lie to me.”

Quinn shakes his head, still incapable of forcing himself up. Kirill doesn’t push, letting the movie occupy the silence again. When Quinn yawns for the third time in ten minutes, he finally speaks again.

“Quinny,” Kirill deadpans. “You are about to sleep.”

Quinn knows he should stand up, offer some acceptable explanation, and head out the door before it gets any more obvious. The logic is lost when he hums a subtle agreement rather than doing anything remotely close to leaving. 

“You can stay, then.”

Quinn feels a jolt of alertness as soon as the words leave Kirill’s mouth. He hadn't actually expected it, which is definitely stupid considering his actions. 

“Guest room is not… made.” Kirill hesitates to find the word as he stands, yawning once himself. 

“Couch is fine.” 

It makes literally no sense to spend the night here when his own bed is less than five minutes away, but Quinn has clearly lost his sense. 

Kirill folds his arms and hesitates. “No star defenseman in my house sleeps on the couch.”

Quinn searches his expression, running through the sense of how he’s supposed to stay if the guest room isn’t—

Oh.

He spends an extra second to make sure Kirill’s suggesting what Quinn thinks he is. By the sincerity in his eyes, he definitely is.

And now Quinn should really leave, because this is flirting with the line so egregiously that even he can’t spin it into something normal if he tried. But he doesn’t think, just speaks. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Before either of them can take it back, they’re walking down the hall and taking turns brushing their teeth in Kirill’s bathroom. Without asking, Kirill tosses Quinn a shirt to change into, an old Wild one that’s soft and a little too big. 

Quinn’s pulse shouldn’t be beating fast when he slides under the sheets, not if he wants to pretend in any capacity that this isn’t anything beyond sharing a bed, but he can’t help it when he notices Kirill isn’t wearing sweatpants anymore. God, they’ve been sharing a locker room for months, and it still makes Quinn’s eyes go wide. 

The whole thing should be weird, but it doesn’t feel remotely wrong when Kirill lays down next to him, voice soft and sleepy when he says, “Goodnight, Quinny.”

Quinn is dangerously close to sliding over until they’re touching, but the last strand of his sanity keeps him rooted firmly in place. He knows he’s delusional when he wonders if Kirill wants the same thing, motionless beside him. 

It’s impossible for Quinn to shut his mind up, and it races non-stop until the rhythmic sound of Kirill’s breathing finally lulls him to sleep. 

When his eyes blink open, it takes Quinn a solid ten seconds to realize he’s not in his own room. His first clue should be the golden light filtering through the shades, because he always keeps his closed. Instead, it's the solid pressure of something warm and heavy draped over his middle, because there’s nothing like that in Quinn’s own bed. 

He knows it’s Kirill as soon as his brain comes online, taking in the wrap of their legs together, and the barely-there puff of breath against Quinn’s neck. They’re not pressed flush, thank god for that, but it's enough. His heart immediately beats faster. 

Quinn can’t move, and he doesn’t really want to. If anything, he wants to shimmy back until they are pressed together. 

He thinks, belatedly, that if he rolls over to look at Kirill’s face, he might never recover. So he just lays there, basking in the weight of Kirill’s hand resting against his forearm and the peaceful pattern of his breathing. 

Quinn wonders what Kirill will do when he wakes if they stay like this, if he’ll sit up immediately and go on like normal. They’ll probably be fine, revert back to standard territory and never speak about it again. It’s the ideal outcome. 

Quinn flips over. 

And fuck, it’s exactly as paralyzing as he expected. Kirill’s face is relaxed, lips parted, hair shining from the light beaming through the window. 

It feels like a private moment, a vulnerable, too-honest side of him that Quinn shouldn’t get to see. At the same time, the selfish voice in his head likes the idea that he’s the one who does.

With Kirill’s arm planted on his side, faces inches apart, it's too real. Quinn knows he’s gone. 

“Mm,” Kirill mumbles, shifting slightly against the sheets in a telltale sign he’s waking up. Quinn is too preoccupied with the sensation of skin on skin to think ahead, staying put against his better judgement. 

When Kirill opens his eyes, Quinn finally realizes his predicament. He braces for a reaction as Kirill registers the position they're currently in—that Quinn is wide awake and hasn’t moved. 

The Russian clears his throat, scans Quinn’s face, and smiles so unbelievably gently. “G’morning.”

He doesn’t move his arm away, doesn’t back up to a respectable distance, doesn’t look remotely concerned at all. If anything, he looks comfortable. 

Quinn’s mind buffers for far too long not to be noticeable. “Uh, good morning.”

“Sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” Quinn realizes his voice has gone breathless, audible even over its early-morning rumble. “Slept good.”

Kirill is still fucking looking at him, over his undoubtedly messy hair and growing stubble, with some sort of palpable fondness. It’s dizzying, almost like there’s a reason neither of them have gotten up yet. 

They’re both silent again, and Kirill draws his arm back until his hand replaces it along Quinn’s side. The fabric of his shirt is almost an irrelevant barrier as Kirill carefully swipes his thumb back and forth along the hem. 

Quinn thinks he might go crazy, looking at Kirill’s face like he’s waiting for something—waiting for Quinn to do something. He’s immobile, frozen in place by the possibility of it. He could, and it’s not insane to think Kirill wants it. 

It hits Quinn suddenly—it’s not insane that he wants it himself. 

He waits a second too long, because Kirill starts to slowly sit up on his hands. He doesn’t look upset, his expression has hardly changed, simply neutral. He embodies the same friendly brightness as he asks, “Hungry?”

Quinn doesn’t really answer, turning to lie on his back as Kirill rolls to his feet. He tries not to feel the loss of Kirill’s body against his as the Russian ambles to the kitchen. Quinn doesn’t follow, stays motionless to give his pulse a chance to slow down. 

He listens to the ambient sounds of the coffee maker, takes several deep breaths, but he can’t get his head on straight. The hollow, empty feeling sits there, a chasm in Quinn’s chest that’s too blatant to ignore. 

His body makes up its mind before his head does. 

Quinn stands, shuffles his way down the hallway without stopping at the bathroom mirror, his legs carrying him across the apartment without a second thought. He’s barefoot, wearing nothing but his boxers and an oversized t-shirt, probably sleep-deprived and a little pale. 

He stops at the edge of the counter, facing Kirill’s back as he fumbles with the coffee machine. When he turns, he freezes in place. 

“Oh, hi,” Kirill chuckles, reaching out to offer one of the two mugs. “Did not hear you. Here.” 

Quinn only drops his gaze to the cup for a second, looking back up as Kirill turns to pull milk from the fridge. His demeanor is so cheerful, even so early in the morning, and Quinn’s heart aches. 

“I have the creamer you like.”

Kirill places the carton on the countertop before he props his hip against the marble, lifting his mug carefully to his lips. It’s the one Quinn knows was a gift from Zuccy, printed with the words: World’s Most Russian Uncle. 

Quinn’s cup is hot in his hands, but he doesn’t set it down. He just watches Kirill, takes in his messy curls and the holes in his t-shirt. The brown of his eyes that Quinn could single out from memory. 

They’re looking at him now, curious and questioning. Quinn sets his mug down just as Kirill lowers his own, and he steps forward. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t think about it for another second as Kirill starts to speak. 

“Quinny, do you—”

Quinn kisses the words right out of his mouth. He tilts up, closes his eyes, rests his hands against Kirill’s chest, and kisses him. 

It takes a moment for Kirill to realize what’s happening, and Quinn considers pulling away before he’s kissing back just as hard. Kirill’s lips slide over his so purposefully, and a gentle hand comes up to cup his jaw, holding them close. 

Quinn thinks he might actually melt, could actually mold into Kirill until they’re indistinguishable. He makes this little humming sound when Quinn presses slightly deeper, and it runs down Quinn’s whole body to his toes. 

When Kirill pulls back, Quinn has to stop himself from audibly protesting. He prepares for a conversation, but Kirill simply turns to set his coffee down—which Quinn hadn't even realized he was still holding—before turning back to yank Quinn back in with both hands. 

There’s no more hesitation in it, Kirill kisses like he’s been waiting for too long and doesn’t know if he’ll get to again, like he’s got something to prove. It makes Quinn giddy and warm all over, fisting his hands into Kirill’s shirt and doing his best just to keep up. The tips of Kirill’s fingers reach the edges of Quinn’s hair, and he tugs in time with the movement of his mouth, chasing Quinn’s airy gasps with every pull at his bottom lip. 

And Christ it's good, absolutely intoxicating as Quinn's mind goes blank and fuzzy with the eager way Kirill takes over. 

It’s not urgent, but it's not tame either—Quinn knows Kirill could probably back him up against the counter if he wanted—yet they keep it slow in the warm haze of the morning atmosphere. It’s all gentle hums and coffee-tinged lips, something precious blooming from Quinn’s long-awaited surrender. 

When they pull apart, Quinn doesn’t worry it might not happen again. He sees the meaning in Kirill’s smile and the flush in his cheeks, his kiss-bitten lips and the quickness of his breathing. Quinn is certain, maybe for the first time, that he didn’t make a mistake doing something rash. 

“You—you mean this?” Kirill asks, hopeful and a little nervous. “I assume you feel as I do, but I am not always sure—”

“God, Kirill, yes.” Quinn interrupts immediately, tightening his hold on Kirill’s shirt briefly for emphasis. “Yes.”

“Okay, okay.” Kirill smiles, and he beams so fucking bright that Quinn has to kiss him again, quick and firm enough to convey what he can’t express with words. 

Kirill peers down at him, almost bewildered, like he can't quite believe it's all real. He lets Quinn rest his forehead against his chest, breathing each other in, before he shakes them back to attention.

He glances at the clock on the microwave and curses under his breath. “We have practice soon. Talk later, yes?”

“Sure.” Quinn agrees, happy to let the moment be for now, especially if it means not walking into morning skate embarrassingly late. 

“Uh, you can borrow anything, and we can stop to grab your gear?”

“Yeah, good plan. Let’s go.”

Kirill basically chugs the rest of his definitely cold coffee, stopping to peck Quinn’s lips again before jogging back to the bedroom. It’s really adorable, and Quinn doesn’t remember the last time he felt so enamored by someone.  

He gets ready for practice adorned constantly by Kirill’s soft touches and quick kisses, and it's like the part of Quinn that’s always wanted this can finally breathe, no longer buried under the crushing weight of his own inhibitions. 

Quinn can admit it now—it's easy to, really.

Nobody else knows him like this, makes him feel like this, and it's hard to believe anyone else ever could.