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Quinn is feeling restless. He can’t really place why. Maybe it’s just the whole concept of representing his country at the Olympics; he still can’t quite grasp it yet, even though they have already been in Italy for about a week.
The preliminary stage is done and after beating Germany the USA qualified directly for the quarterfinals, which means they get two off-days.
It’s Monday afternoon now and Quinn is sitting next to Jack at one of the rinks, watching the USA’s women’s team playing Sweden for their semifinal game.
It’s cool, especially because their mom is on the USA’s bench as part of the staff, but Quinn can’t seem to focus on the game. His thoughts keep wandering of to places, he’d rather it didn’t. Or well, not places, really. People. One person, to be exact. One person, he can’t banish from his mind, no matter how hard he tries (and believe him, he has tried).
His brain just won’t listen. Flashes of Kirill keep appearing every time he closes his eyes. Glimpses of his face. His smile. His voice.
Sometimes, Quinn swears he feels a touch linger in the exact spot on his cheek Kirill’s finger grazed when they said goodbye, the day Quinn went to join Team USA for the Olympics and Kirill stayed behind in Saint Paul.
Quinn feels sad, thinking about that moment and he desperately wishes, that Kirill could be here. Not necessarily to play, but so he could be in the stands at their games, cheering Quinn on. Quinn knows he’s selfish but he wants Kirill to be close.
He has never realized how much he depended on Kirill being with him, until he got to Milan and he wasn’t there. Somehow, within his short time with the Wild, Quinn has gotten used to having Kirill around. He is always there.
The American doesn’t quite remember when it started. The Russian just started showing up on his doorstep one day, when Quinn still hardly knew anyone on the team, and he never stopped after that. Not that Quinn wanted him to.
Spending time with Kirill, he found, is easy. They can spend hours chatting about unimportant topics and never get bored. They like the same movies, watch the same sports (even though they don’t always agree on what teams to support). And then there’s just the fact that, damn, Kirill has a nice dick.
They have only hooked up a couple of times – mostly after bad losses, when they both needed a distraction; or after especially good games, when they were high on endorphins – but, fuck, they were the best hook-ups of Quinn’s life.
Just thinking about Kirill’s hands on him, the things he’d do to Quinn, made him shiver. He shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Jesus, he can’t be turned on right now. Not when he’s very much in public and Jack is right there next to him. He needs to stop thinking about Kirill, like, right now.
Quinn tries to return his thoughts to the game – the USA are playing their best and are well underway to winning – but much to his dismay that’s when the siren sounds and it’s time for an intermission. Amazing.
He bobs one of his legs rapidly as he watches the players skate from the ice, leaving for the locker rooms. His mom is trailing closely behind Team USA. Next to him, Jack shifts. “You okay, Quinny?” his little brother asks. “You seem kinda absent. Is it the ghosts again?” Jack chuckles at his own joke.
The older Hughes shakes his head, snorting. “No ghosts.” Just Kirill, he adds in is head. Jack hums. “What is it then?” he queries, eying Quinn expectantly and…Quinn doesn’t really want to talk about it, is the thing.
But he knows Jack and knows that his brother will not let up until he receives answers. Furthermore, if Quinn were to talk about this thing with Kirill to anyone, it would be Jack. Because Jack would understand (or try to understand, at least) and not judge him for making stupid decisions.
Luke, on the other hand, would probably laugh in his face. Not out of malice, but because he would find it funny that Quinn, as the oldest, seemed to have his life (or part of it) under control the least.
So, Quinn clears his throat and fumbles for the right words. “It…I…I kinda hooked up with someone.” Jack stares at him, frowning, like he doesn’t see what the big deal about this is. Fair, since it’s only half the story.
“With a guy,” Quinn clarifies and watches his brother’s expression turn from confusion to realization. “Ooooh. Okay,” Jack thinks for a minute, then asks: “So, what’s the problem?” And now Quinn is thinking and he finds, he can’t pinpoint one specific problem. It’s most definitely all of it.
The fact that he hooked up with a guy, firstly. Then comes into consideration that said guy is not anyone, but in fact his teammate. His teammate, whom Quinn can’t stop thinking about, which maybe (just maybe) has something to do with the things Kirill makes him feel every time they’re together. And not just physically.
It all adds up to the one huge shitshow, which is Quinn’s life. He shrugs, hoping Jack will leave him be, but wouldn’t Jack Hughes be a shitty little brother, if he made Quinn’s life any easier.
“Do you have feelings for him?” he questions excitedly. When Quinn doesn’t answer (because he has always been a bad liar) his grin just grows wider. “Oh my god,” Jack exclaims whisper-yelling, so he doesn’t draw more attention to them than there already is. “You’re in love!”
Quinn shakes his head desperately. Too hard, too fast to actually deny anything. “What’s his name?” Jack inquires further. The older Hughes buries his face in his hands to hide his blushing.
Right, Jack still thought this was about some man Quinn met at a club or something, when in actuality the object of this conversation was Quinn’s teammate. Someone Jack had met before. Briefly, probably crashing into him on the ice, but still.
When Quinn doesn’t respond, Jack decides to change questions. “Did you meet him in Minnesota?” Quinn nods with his head still in his hands. This much he can tell Jack. Minnesota – or, well, Saint Paul for that matter – is big. He could meet a lot of people there.
There is no way that Jack can figure out from this information alone that Quinn is crushing on- “Is it a teammate?” His head shoots up and he stares at his brother in disbelief. Well, fuck him. “How did you-?” Jack shrugs.
“You don’t go out much. So if it’s someone in Minny, I was like ninety percent sure it was gonna be someone on your team.” Sometimes, Quinn hates that his siblings know him so well. Like now, when Jack’s thoughtful eyes are examining him thoroughly. “But who is it?”
Jack isn’t expecting him to answer, Quinn can tell from his tone. It’s a rhetorical question that Jack is about to answer himself. His brain is already analysing every possible option.
“Faber?” Is the first guess, which Jack then quickly amends without even waiting for Quinn’s answer. “No…not Boldy…or Brodin…” Quinn can almost see the cursor in Jack’s head move over this year’s Wild’s roster, ruling the players out one by one, until: “It’s Kaprisov, isn’t it?”
And Quinn’s lying skills have definitely not improved in the last minute, so he nods, slowly. Kind of terrified of how quickly Jack came to the right conclusion.
“Don’t worry,” Jack says. “It’s not obvious. I just know you extremely well.” And, of course, he can’t stop himself from smirking and adding: “Because I’m such a great brother.”
Quinn groans like he’s in agony. Jack laughs. “Love you too, Quinny. But now I wanna know: How the fuck did this happen. And does he know? Are you dating?” “We’re not dating. I’m pretty sure they’re just hook-ups to him.”
Quinn’s answer makes Jack raise his eyebrows. “Only pretty sure?” “Well, we haven’t really talked about it. It just happens.” “Oh my god,” Jack rolls his eyes. “You really need to step up your communication game. What if he likes you back?”
It’s not like Quinn hasn’t thought about the possibility. He has. He’s pictured it in his mind about a thousand times, actually. Kirill and him, together. Kissing, holding hands and the Russian’s fond gaze as he told him “I love you”. But it’s not real and it could never work.
They’re hockey players, for fucks sake. And having casual sex with another guy in one of the world’s most homophobic industries is one thing. But love, real feelings? That’s an entirely new level of impossible. Or maybe not impossible. But close to that.
“It wouldn’t work, Jack,” is what Quinn tells his brother. “It’s hockey.” Jack frowns at that. “Playing hockey doesn’t mean you can’t love a man.” Quinn disagrees. “Of course, but I shouldn’t. I don’t know if I could deal with all the secrecy and the hiding.”
There’s a pinch of understanding flickering across Jack’s face but he still shakes his head. “I get that. No one should have to hide who they are just so they can keep playing in the league. And hiding is tough but…if it’s with the right person, it’s worth it.”
Why does it seem like Jack knows exactly what he’s talking about? “And who knows. Maybe sometime in the near future we don’t have to hide anymore. Maybe it will just be normal. Like it is for them.” Jack points down at the rink, where the women’s teams are getting back onto the ice.
And, right, Quinn knows there are some hockey couples here at the Olympics. Just not on the men’s teams. But he can’t spend anymore time thinking about that because his brain his too hung up on one little word Jack used.
“We?” His brother looks up at him in confusion. “You said ‘we’ when talking about hiding and coming out.” Jack’s lips form a silent “oh” before he bites them, making a face. “Well…it seems like mom gave birth to at least two queer sons.”
Quinn doesn’t miss how Jack uses the word “queer” instead of “gay” because he doesn’t want to assume. It feels nice, because Quinn thinks he’s not completely gay. Maybe bi or pan or whatever else there is these days.
“You’re gay?” Jack nods affirmatively and Quinn’s next instinct is to ask “Why didn’t you tell me?” but he bites back on it because he’s not one to talk. “And are you dating someone?” is what he lands on instead. A sheepish grin spreads across Jack’s face. “I might be.”
“Who?” The word leaves his lips a bit harsher than intended. But he can’t do anything about it because his big brother instincts have kicked in and he desperately needs to know who he needs to call and give them the shovel talk.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Jack insists. “If you don’t tell anyone about Kirill.” His younger brother nods. “Okay,” he breathes. “It’s Nico.” Quinn’s jaw drops.
“Nico Hischier?” he exclaims, making Jack’s head dart around to look if anyone is listening in, shushing him. “Nico Hischier?” Quinn repeats, a lot quieter the second time. “Yes, him,” Jack hisses.
“Hm,” Quinn mumbles. “Guess I won’t have to call him.” “Call him? Why would you call him?” There is a hint of panic in Jack’s eyes when he realizes. “You will not give him the shovel talk.”
Quinn raises his eyebrows at him. “But it’s my duty as an older brother!” Jack doesn’t seem to think so. “Quinny, it’s Nico.” “So what?”
Their conversation is interrupted by the referee’s whistling. The third period is about to start and they turn their attention back to what’s happening down on the ice. Or, at least Jack is. Quinn can still only think about Kirill.
***
“You should call him,” Jack suggests when they return to their room after the game has finished (the USA won). “Why?” Quinn asks defensively, even though he knows his younger brother has a point.
“Because you clearly miss him,” Jack states. “And he probably misses you too.” When Quinn doesn’t react, he adds: “Just do it.”
Quinn sighs as he falls onto his bed and starts scrolling through his phone. A few friends have messaged him and he replies to them before he opens Instagram and scrolls through his feed mindlessly.
When there is nothing new for him to discover anymore, he closes the app and ends up opening his contacts. He scrolls down until he reaches “K” and scans for “Kirill 💚”. When he finds it, he contemplates for a moment, if he should really do this; but his fingers end up selecting the contact and pressing the little call symbol anyway.
It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Quinn is almost convinced, Kirill will not answer (because there must be something more important going on in his life) when he finally picks up. “Hello?”
Kirill’s voice sounds hoarse and then there is coughing. Lots of coughing. Quinn sits up in his bed. “Kirill? Are you okay?” He does his best at not trying to sound hysterical, ignoring Jack’s presence on the bed next to his.
It takes a while until the Russian replies, voice raspy. “’m fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. “Are you sick?” Quinn asks, unnecessarily.
Because the only other reason he can think of that would have someone coughing like this, is that a fucking sandstorm is passing through Kirill’s living room. And that’s…highly unlikely to say the least.
Kirill says “No?” but it sounds weak and more like a question than a statement. “You’re sick,” Quinn concludes and this time Kirill doesn’t argue. “How are you feeling?” Quinn asks softly, feeling worry rush through him.
“Sick?” Kirill grumbles, accent thicker than usual. Quinn hums. “Yeah, but sick how? Sore throat? Do you have a fever? Do you feel like you have to throw up?” The Russian seems to consider briefly, then he mumbles: “All of that. But better now. Talking with you.”
Quinn can’t help but feel some kind of happiness at Kirill’s words. He made him feel better. And in return, having Kirill on the phone made himself feel better, too. “I miss you,” he admits quietly, his heart is pounding heavily as he waits for the Russian to respond.
“Miss you too.” Kirill’s deep and croaky voice makes Quinn shudder in the best way possible. “I wish I could be there and take care of you,” he murmurs. He knows this is where he’s supposed to be: The Olympics, representing his country and bringing home the gold medal.
Nevertheless, he can’t help but feel bad about being all the way over in Europe, while the boy who had stolen his heart was suffering back in Minnesota. “You would make hot nurse,” Kirill chuckles, or maybe he’s coughing. That draws a laugh from Quinn’s lips. “Yeah? You think so?”
Kirill grumbles affirmatively. “Hottest nurse. Best nurse. All I need to be healthy again.” “I’m sorry,” Quinn whispers. “I should be there for you. I’m so sorry you have to go through this alone.” It hurts him to think about that because he knows exactly how much it sucks, being sick and alone.
“No,” the Russian’s voice is gentle as it tinnily sounds through the speakers of Quinn’s phone. “Don’t be sorry. I’ll be okay. You have fun in Italy, okay? Bring home gold medal for me,” he says and adds:
“And I’m not alone. Already some guys from team came by and brought meds and soup. And now you’re here.” Quinn wants to argue that he’s not really here, that he’s on the phone and it doesn’t count. But Kirill sounds so earnest and so he decides to keep silent and just whispers: “Okay.”
They talk some more, about the Olympics about the team and also about the family of pigeons who apparently chose to move onto Kirill’s balcony. Their conversation is only ever interrupted by Kirill’s nasty coughs or Kirill’s sipping tea to soothe his sore throat.
But sadly, at one point they have to hang up because it’s getting late in Milan and Jack and Quinn have to be at an early skating session tomorrow. So, Quinn reluctantly says good bye.
“Good night, Quinny,” Kirill says, voice still hoarse (probably worse than before because of all the talking. Quinn does feel slightly bad about that). “Night, Kirill,” Quinn replies, even though it must be afternoon in Minnesota.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? To see if you’re better. Take your meds, drink loads of tea and sleep, yeah?” Kirill laughs a little, before he breaks into a cough. When it’s over, he croaks: “Best nurse, even from across ocean.” “I’m just worried about you!” Quinn sighs.
“I know,” comes from Kirill. “But sleep now, yes? I will be better.” “Okay.” “Okay, good night.” “Good night,” Quinn echoes.
“Я тебя люблю,” Kirill’s voice sounds overly fond as those words leave his lips, but before Quinn can ask him what they mean (because he doesn’t speak any Russian) the call ends. Quinn lets the hand holding his phone sink to his lap, while he thinks about what the Russian words could have meant. Maybe “good night”?
“Oh. My. God.” Quinn startles at the voice coming from beside him, before he remembers that Jack is here, too. He turns to his brother, who is lounged across his own bed on his stomach, looking at Quinn with big eyes.
“What?” Wasn’t this exactly what Jack told him he should do? “Quinn, Kirill just told you-,” he falls silent, seemingly unsure of what to say. “Told me what?” Quinn inquires. “The Russian part?” Jack nods.
“I don’t know any Russian!” Quinn exclaims. “Since when do you?” He eyes his younger brother in confusion. Did he have a one-thousand-day streak on Duolingo or what? “I don’t.” Now, Quinn is even more confused.
Jack’s look is reproachful when he questions: “Have you not seen Heated Rivalry?” Quinn shakes his head. He hasn’t.
He knows of it, sure (like everyone else who owns a social media account), but he never got around to watching it. Jack, apparently and non-surprisingly, has seen it.
His little brother sighs. “Well, there’s this one Russian sentence that is said a lot. And the thing Kirill said to you sounded exactly like it.” Quinn’s head perks up. “What does it mean?” “It means,” Jack smirks, clearly amused that Quinn can’t figure it out himself. It is, after all, a romance show. “It means ‘I love you’, you idiot.” That renders Quinn speechless.
“This is not funny,” he reprimands Jack, who shakes his head seriously. “I’m not joking. I wouldn’t.” Quinn has no other choice but to believe him and fuck. Kirill loves him. Every cell of his body is tingling with happiness. Maybe what they did weren’t just hook-ups to him, after all. His heart is beating so fast, he might be having a heart attack.
Quinn huffs, burying his face in his hands, trying to calm himself down. “I guess I’ll have to talk to Kirill about that.” “Yeah, definitely,” Jack agrees.
“You think I should ask him out? When we get back?” “Do you want to go out with him?” Quinn nods, because he does. Desperately. “Then yes. Go on a date with him.”
In his head, Quinn makes a list:
- Win gold at the Olympics
- Go back home to Kirill
- Tell Kirill about my feelings and ask him out
And after that, hopefully Jack won't be the only Hughes with a boyfriend.