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"Quinnerini! You hear what they're saying about us?" Brock slapped a hand down on Quinn's shoulder in the locker room. Back to back wins had hit like crack even if the loss to the Canadiens had been punishing.
"Quinnerini?" He questioned, catching the smirk Kaprizov sent his way from the other side of the room.
"What? You don't like it? You wound me!" Faber was riding high, and he didn't blame him. They'd settled in like they'd been playing together since pre-K.
The winning was nice of course, but more than that, and for Quinn, more important than that, was the way the team worked together on the ice.
Faber had admitted to the step up Quinn was dragging him along to the press, but there was no ill will, no snark, just genuine joy to be playing together at the level that they were. It meant more to Quinn than he'd ever say.
Except he had said it, in a round about way. The comment he'd made in the presser about Minnesota being a better team wasn't a dig at the Cannucks so much as it was a praise of Minnesota, and yet the things they were saying about him online…he tried to stay out of it.
The one time he'd gotten caught up in it it had been Kaprizov that had dragged him back from the edge.
"Ugh fine, Quinnerini needs work. But that's irrelevant, did you see what they're saying about us? They're calling us the dynamic duo! They're saying our chemistry is seamless baby—" The noise that left Kaprizov's mouth caused Quinn to look up from tying his laces just in time to see Zuccy rolling his eyes at the younger man.
"Ugh Kap, you're no fun I didn't—" But Kaprizov cut him off, placing an albeit sweaty hand over his mouth with a glare.
It wasn't the first time Kaprizov had stopped Faber running his mouth, or Zuccy for that matter. Quinn thought it was funny in its own way, but every so often he got the impression he was being left out of a joke everyone else was in on.
Still, it didn't appear to be that important, so he mostly let it go. "Right!" Moose clapped his hands together, "We're going out, get your shit together and we'll see you at Minelli's in an hour." Despite the loss of their third game on the road, Moose's hat-trick deserved to be celebrated.
Zuccy was whispering something in Kap's ear as they both glanced his way, some undisclosed decision making going as they both nodded in agreement. Quinn tried not to let the flush crawling up his chest show on his face.
There was something there. They hadn't talked about it, but it was there.
Apparently everyone else was happy to talk about it though, before Boldy got injured, him and Faber had gotten in a few comments before Zuccy had scruffed the pair of them during practice the week before.
Quinn tuned back into the conversation going on around him, smiling as Kap grabbed his bag and flicked his head in a motion to get going.
"Awh Kap, you gunna carry my bag t—" He was cut off by Zuccy wrapping him in a head lock with a murmur of something Quinn didn't quite catch as they all mad their way out of the locker room.
"I'll drive tonight, you had long game last night, yes?" Quinn knew they'd played roughly the same amount of time on the ice, but he was tired.
"Sure, yeah, thanks. You wanna shower before we go?" He heard the way it sounded as it was coming out of his mouth, spluttering slightly and feeling his cheeks go warm. "I don't mean—not together—obviously not—I just mean—" "Ah! We save water," Kaprizov was laughing at him gently, eyes flicking down towards his mouth and back up again as they loaded their bags into the trunk.
By the time Kap was letting himself into his apartment—they'd exchanged keys after only a week—Quinn was still thinking about his verbal faux pas. It was part and parcel of the job to have to be careful what he said, and yet apparently all that training went out the window the minute Kaprizov flashed him a smile. Which was a lot.
Quinn tried his level best to focus on anything other than the warm hand placed on his back as they made their way into Minelli's. It was a thing they did now, apparently. Or rather, it was a thing that Kaprizov did, and Quinn found as time went on, he was happy to let him.
The Russian was an introvert by nature, Quinn had worked out. He was careful with what he said and he meant everything that came out of his mouth. So he let himself be moved around, let the unspoken thing between them settle somewhere between the warmth of a palm and an affectionate smile.
"Nice of you to join us," Hartman smirked, placing a pint down in front of them as they settled into opposite sides of the booth. Kaprizov looked a little like he was pouting at having to separate, but Quinn got dragged into a debate about some tennis star he'd never heard of before he could make his mind up.
Two pints in and he felt the buzz under his skin. It wasn't like he didn't drink, but he'd always been a bit of a lightweight. They were getting louder, he knew. The attention of some of the patrons in the Pizzeria was solely focussed on their booth, a few too many interested eyes scanning the faces of his teammates.
He knew it was part of the job, part and parcel of having a place in the NHL, but it still got to him. It seemed to wash over the others in a way it just didn't with him, but the others seemed to have picked up on that, even if he'd never said it.
It seemed there was always someone to get him out when he was somewhere he didn't want to be. After the Canadiens loss, he'd got caught by a group of fans, well meaning but also not all that kind in their comments and it had been Moose that had pulled him out, depositing him all but in the lap of Kaprizov on the coach.
He was leaning up against the bar, Boldy—who'd made the trip out despite his injury—chatting away to his left, when he felt a hand come down on his shoulder that he didn't recognize.
He flinched left out of the touch, knocking Boldy ever so slightly off his one footed perch against the bar. "Quinn Hughes right? Man you were one of my favourite players," he turned to face the man, putting a foot or so of distance between them and plastered a smile on his face. He didn't miss the use of the past tense.
He had kind of expected this at some point, he knew what was being said about him, especially after that article, he just hadn't expected it to migrate offline and into the place he was trying to celebrate with his teammates.
Boldy was too busy paying for the drinks behind him to hear the next comment out of the strangers mouth, "Fuck you for what you said about the Cannucks though, easy to forget where you came from now you're winning all the time huh?" Christ, he'd had shoulder checks hurt less than that.
"That's a weird thing to say man, we'll take it under advisement." Faber's usually affable nature was nothing of the sort now. Quinn turned slightly to find Faber, Hartman and Foligno standing in a semi circle behind him, he hadn't even noticed them move. A cursory glance behind them showed Zuccy with his arm pressed across the chest of a murderous looking Kaprizov.
The man in front of him muttered something under his breath before slinking back to his table. When they made it back to the booth he was pulled into a seat by the still scowling Russian.
There was no way he could have heard what was said from all the way over there though, and he would have asked if it weren't for the hand resting on his shoulder, thumb stroking gently over the place that not five minutes earlier had held someone elses.
He filed that away under things better left alone and turned his attention back to the table as the hand migrated to his knee with a little squeeze before settling with a stretch.
"Something about Quinnerini forgetting where he came—" "Quinnerini? Bro we have got to get you some new material," Matt interrupted, "Well Kap says I'm not allowed to call him—"
"Brock! Focus," Zuccy snapped. Faber blinked slowly, like he was remembering something important and then moved on, "Oh yeah so, well he said it was easy to forget where he came from now he was winning all the time which like a, that is rude and b, weren't you born in Florida?" Quinn let out a little snort at that and took the reprieve from discussing it further as the rest of the table started arguing that he grew up in Toronto.
The conversation moved on, but the hand on his knee didn't.
Kaprizov remained mostly silent for the rest of the night, occasionally contributing to the conversation but the pinched look on his face stayed there so Quinn found himself nudging the other man with his shoulder, tilting his head to the side in question.
The scowl broke almost immediately, splitting into a gentle smile. It was enough for now, so Quinn let him be, left their shoulders pressed that little bit closer together too.
It was only when they were settled on his couch—as had become their little ritual after an early dinner—that the other man finally spoke his mind.
"You are best defenseman in league, he is idiot with idiot opinion," Kaprizov had his chain in his mouth, wet gold glinting off the overhead lights in a way that gave Quinn ideas it really shouldn't.
"Who? The guy at Minelli's?" He knew who he was talking about of course, but it surprised him to know the other man was still thinking about it, "It's nothing they aren't saying about me online, it's fine—"
"Is not fine, is fucking stupid." Quinn felt that warmth under his skin again. He twisted his chain between his fingers just to give himself something to do under the other man's gaze.
"Cannucks were not good to you, do not owe them anything, they get three good players and first round pick. Minny is much better fit for you."
All he could do was nod, because despite the voice in his head telling him not to get ahead of himself, the other man had a point. The Cannucks hadn't exactly gone without when they were going to lose him anyway, plenty of teams hadn't been willing to cough up the necessary cost to have him.
And the bottom line was that the results didn't lie. It's what coach had been telling him since that goal in his first game. Still, it was curious how much it was bothering his teammate, the man who had proclaimed to him after their first loss "Be like duck, Quinny. Let water go over, like duck, yes?" It still made him smile to think about all these weeks later.
"I think you might be right," he replied quietly, laughing as he caught the cushion thrown his way, "of course am right, Quinny. Kaprizov's is always right," Quinn launched the cushion back at him, letting out a little squawk as Kirill lunged at him, long fingers digging into that ticklish spot below his ribs.
The fit of giggles was uncontrollable as they tumbled across the couch, heated skin and long limbs colliding to get the upper hand.
The hand that caught his head as they fell to the floor surprised him, but then that was why the Russian was the franchise golden boy, quick reflexes, on and off the ice apparently.
What brought his heaving chest to a momentary standstill was the fingers that threaded through his curls, finger tips pushing into the soft flesh below his skull, the kind of gentle touch you might think the Russian incapabable of if you didn't know him.
But Quinn did know, didn't he? He'd known from that very first day when he'd steered him into the bar. He'd known that night when he'd held him close through the anxiety of his new life. He'd known when he'd taken a particularly nasty hit against the Kraken and Kaprizov had let himself in, icepacks and chocolate in hand.
"Quinny, you okay?" He snapped back to reality, to the body hovering over him, weight pressed through the other man's arms so there was a sliver of space between them.
"Hmm? Yeah—Yeah I…yeah," He shifted a little, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. Kaprizov's chain was hanging down between them, moving in time with his heaving chest, Quinn didn't blink, couldn't blink, too enraptured by the rose tinted cheeks and wide grin of his teammate.
"Quinny…" the other man said, voice low, eyes flicking down to his lips for a second as his tongue poked out to wet his lips.
"Yes, Zee?" He was smirking now, feeling the kind of confidence he reserved for the ice take over, and then he reached for the dangling chain and tugged.
Warm lips slammed together with a satisfied sigh. Quinn might have been the one to tug, but the other man quickly took over, twisting the fingers in his hair to line their mouths up. He sucked his lower lip between his teeth, tongue running over the now slightly swollen flesh with satisfaction.
Quinn let him have it, snaking his hand up to the back of the Russian's neck, squeezing the muscles there as a tongue made its way inside his mouth. Those lips were going to end up taking top spot for his favourite thing in the world.
He couldn't help the little moan that escaped as they lay there making out like a couple of teenagers and he put a halt to the embarrassment he should feel at the whimper he let out when they pulled apart for breath.
When they went into overtime the following night, the red haze that descended as he watched Larkin bust the other man's lip with an over zealous hit didn't recede until the early hours of the following morning.