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Quinn can feel a difference when he steps off the bus. There’s something weird in the air but he can’t place exactly what it is.
He ignores it, the strong pull he feels to just… follow the string tied around his pinkie. It leads out of the locker room into the hall, just like it always does. Nothing is different about it today. Except the pull is fucking magnetic. It’s something he’d been tempted to do before, only ever daring when he was around ten and didn’t fully understand it yet. He was supposed to be walking home from school and just… let the string lead him through town. His mom pulled up alongside him after a few hours of mindlessly following it.
They had a long talk about soulmates that night and she explained that whoever his was probably didn’t live in their town, might not even live in the country. He’d have to walk a very long time to get to them. Plus their meeting was fated. It would happen… eventually. He just had to wait.
Quinn struggled with patience a lot. His life was fast paced and hockey only worsened that. If something wasn’t going to happen right away he didn’t think it was worth waiting for it. So he began ignoring the string attached to him. It only got in the way on the ice anyway.
He made it through high school and juniors ignoring it and now he was at worlds, playing with Patrick fucking Kane and Johnny Gaudreau on an international level. He felt out of his depth on this team. The only thing really keeping him grounded was Jack out there on the ice with him.
They did alright. Quinn wouldn’t say he was happy with how they were playing but it was his first foray into something like this so he wasn’t going to complain either. They’d at least made it far enough that they were playing Russia in the quarterfinals. It’d be a tough game, Russia always has a strong team, and if they were knocked out they wouldn’t even be in the running for a medal.
Quinn finally steps onto the ice after a final talk from their coach and it’s immediately obvious why he feels so off today. The string doesn’t lead out of the room and off into the distance like it usually does. It’s instead connected to someone out on the ice against him.
Quinn stands next to the boards and mindlessly knocks a puck around so he can try and get a look at the guy. The guy who is his fucking soulmate, in a red jersey, out on the opposing side. He’s bigger than Quinn, or at least broader, though it’s hard to tell from so far away and through pounds of gear. His hair just barely peeks out from under his helmet, wisping dirty blonde strands. Quinn wonders if he’s a defenseman too.
The guy looks up, eyes meeting Quinn’s, and his breath catches. He feels like he’s fucking drowning. The guy smiles, gives him a nod, and then goes back to his drill. Quinn thinks he might pass out on the ice.
The feeling doesn’t seem to go away, Quinn can’t find his legs all night. He spent so long just ignoring the string and now it’s all he can look at. Russia scores their first goal just over a minute into the first. Quinn hasn’t even been on the ice yet but he feels it. Can feel a hum in the air and he can’t tell if it’s the excitement buzzing from the guy—Kaprizov, he learns when he finally sees the back of his jersey—or the feeling of himself sinking into an abyss.
Quinn’s wanted to meet his soulmate subconsciously for fucking ever, a nagging thought he could never get to go away, no matter how hard he shoved down each time it popped into his head. And now here the guy is, Russian and playing hockey and for some reason, extremely handsome. Or at least, handsome enough that Quinn feels in under his head. Insecure and fumbling pucks during his own shifts while Kaprizov is out there scoring in the third like it’s nothing. He’s all crisp edges and sharp lines. He looks good. It’s intoxicating to watch.
USA loses 4-3. Knocked out in the first round thanks to Malkin and Ovechkin and now Kaprizov. Kaprizov who is skating over to him, smile wide and victorious.
He’s cute up close. Quinn could tell he was from afar but it’s different like this, being able to see his warm brown eyes crinkle up with the grin plastered across his face.
“Hi.” He says bright but accompanied by his expression shifting to something… unsure. Quinn thinks he looks like sunshine. Maybe a little cloudy right now, with his brows furrowed and worrying his lip between his teeth, but sunshine all the same. He wants to bask in the glow cast by Kaprizov.
Quinn tries for a smile. “Hey,”
He’s about to say more but he gets cut off. “Do you want to eat?”
Quinn blinks owlishly, “What?”
Kaprizov’s brows furrow together even further. “Do you want to eat?” He repeats, a little slower and more purposefully, like he isn’t sure he’s saying it right. After another second of silence he starts to mimic eating with his hand.
It takes him a second to register the question before Quinn is speaking again. “Like now?” He asks, looking around the rink. Guys are chatting so he figures they’re fine. Sure, it’s mostly NHL guys who know each other already but whatever. He looks back at Kaprizov.
The guy’s head is tilted in a question. “Uh, English is not good.” He presses his lips together. “Sorry.”
Quinn smiles more genuinely then. He tries to ignore the thought about just how cute Kaprizov is, instead focusing on the language barrier and how to get past it. Eventually, he taps his wrist where a watch would be and then raises his hands in question, hoping Kaprizov understands he’s asking for a time.
Kaprizov’s eyes brighten and the smile he’d had on his face comes back full force. He holds up eight fingers, gives the name of a restaurant, luckily one Quinn recognizes, and then he taps Quinn in the center of his chest with a gloved hand.
It makes him wonder if Kaprizov feels it too. The magnetic pull to get even closer. Quinn wants to crawl under Kaprizov’s skin.
The hand lingers a second too long and then he drops it, still smiling as he skates away. Quinn wishes the string would pull him along so he doesn’t have to watch Kaprizov retreat to the bench and then down the tunnel.
He makes his way into the locker room, falls into his stall and begins shedding his gear. He has to remind himself not to smile, they just lost and are now knocked out of the running. Quinn was part of the reason why. Just because his soulmate was on the other team and asked him to grab dinner doesn’t mean he gets out of being disappointed by a tough loss.
But Kaprizov keeps floating back into his mind anyway, all smiles and sunshine. Quinn wants to feel that warmth again. He wants to get burned.
He’s replaying the stinted conversation again when someone knocks a shoulder against his.
“Hey,” Jack starts, drawing Quinn away from his thoughts. “What’s goin on over there?” He asks, chin still marred from getting slammed into the boards.
Quinn shakes his head and hopes the quirk of a smile goes away before Jack really notices it. “Nothing.” He shrugs, lifting his shoulder pads over his head.
Jack quirks an eyebrow. “You sure? You’re extra space-y today.”
Nodding, Quinn decides redirection might work better. “Yeah, is your chin okay?”
“Oh, yeah, gnarly right? You think it’s gonna scar?” He asks, jutting his chin out so Quinn can see the scab close up.
He shrugs, “Maybe.” Then returns to the methodical way he strips off his gear.
Jack keeps chatting as he does so, and Quinn lets him. It’s nice to have a distraction.
-
Quinn struggles to find a good excuse for why Jack can’t come with him to dinner. Eventually he snaps and says he wants to be alone, leaving Jack huffing and rolling his eyes at him when he walks out the door. Not exactly the way he wanted to leave things but Jack is fucking relentless and without a proper excuse he’d end up showing up at the restaurant with his little brother in tow. Not exactly a great first meeting.
He’s resigned not to call it a date, it feels too serious that way. Even though he’s in a button up and dress pants, he convinces himself it’s just to make a good impression. Seem like he’s put together. Maybe the clothes will distract from his shitty haircut and the way his face is still so soft around the edges.
Pushing open the door to the restaurant, early for once in his life, Quinn immediately spots Kaprizov sitting at a table, staring down at his phone. Maneuvering his way between tables and past servers, Quinn eventually drops into the seat across from Kaprizov who looks up right away.
He’s even prettier put together. His hair is golden, curls all over the place while somehow managing to look purposeful. He has a button up on too, though the top two buttons of his are undone, revealing a gold chain that disappears into the shirt.
“Hi,” Quinn greets with a small wave.
Immediately, Kaprizov is holding his phone out to Quinn, google translate open. There’s a message typed already. I think it will be easier to speak like this! What is your name? (say it out loud please)
A grin splits Quinn’s face and he looks up at Kaprizov who is tilting his head, not unlike a dog, while waiting for Quinn to answer. “Quinn Hughes.”
Kaprizov nods and repeats it, accent swallowing the u’s. He holds a hand out. “Kirill Kaprizov.”
Taking the hand and shaking, Quinn tries to ignore the way guy- Kirill’s hand completely dwarfs his. Quinn repeats Kirill’s name, a nervous laugh falling from his mouth when Kirill smiles at him so completely. He averts his gaze down to the phone so he doesn’t get lost in the way the lighting of the restaurant makes the green specks of his brown eyes stand out.
He taps away at the keys. Good idea! You play in the KHL? He passes the phone over to Kirill, of course resorting to hockey talk. It’s all he knows, he’s never been… with someone like this. At least he knows they have that in common.
Kirill is nodding as he types. Quinn tries to ignore the fact that to an outsider they probably look like chronically online teenagers… how old is Kirill anyway? Maybe they’re not that far off.
Yes, in the KHL for a little longer and then moving to the USA to play in the NHL for the Minnesota Wild. Are you in the NHL?
Quinn’s eyes flick back up at Kirill for a second when he sees he’s moving to the US soon. He answers it all anyway but types faster than before. I just started, I play for the Canucks in Vancouver. You’re moving soon?
Kirill looks at Quinn from over the phone for a second. He purses his lips together and moves his head side to side while he thinks. Supposed to be soon, I don’t really know yet. Is Vancouver close to Minnesota?
Shaking his head, Quinn starts typing again. Vancouver is in Canada on the coast, Minnesota is North central United States. Not very close.
When Kirill reads Quinn’s response he looks up at Quinn and pouts exaggeratedly. Quinn has to muffle a giggle behind his hand which has Kirill smiling again. He’s about to start typing again when their waitress comes by to ask for their drink orders. Kirill orders a beer and Quinn gets a coke.
Once the waitress walks away, Kirill nudges Quinn’s ankle with his foot. He turns the phone screen around. You don’t drink?
Quinn shrugs, feeling a little sheepish, and takes the phone from Kirill’s hands. Not really. Most of it tastes pretty bad in my opinion. I prefer smoking.
Kirill pauses after looking at his phone. Looks up at Quinn with a quirked eyebrow and then back down. You smoke cigarettes?
Quinn stifles a laugh and reaches to steal it from Kirill’s hands. No, pot. Marijuana. Cannabis… Do I not fit the smoker type?
Laughing and shaking his head, Kirill says “No.” out loud. Quinn wishes they could talk more, language barrier be damned.
He’s broken out of his thoughts when the waitress comes back over with their drinks and then asks if they’re ready to order. Kirill must have been here a few times because he’s immediately pointing at something on the menu. Quinn scrambles to find something, eventually just pointing at one of the pastas and hoping for the best.
Quinn reaches for the phone again when Kirill has stared at it, questionless for a minute. Do you smoke? Cigarettes?
Tilting his head back and forth Kirill takes a swig of his beer. Sometimes. Usually when I drink. He smiles cheekily at Quinn over the phone.
Shaking his head, Quinn sets the phone on the table. He realizes for the first time that Kirill’s foot is still pressed to his ankle. It nudges him again. He pushes his beer a smidge closer to Quinn. You wanna try? appears on the phone. Maybe it’ll change your mind.
Quinn shrugs and reaches for the glass. He takes a sip and tries not to wince as he swallows. Kirill is still smiling at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. He runs his forefinger along his bottom lip and then points down at the glass. He puts a thumb up and tilts his head.
Biting his lip to hide the grin that wants to split his face in half, Quinn pushes the beer back towards Kirill and shakes his head.
Kirill sighs and waves a hand in the air. Types on the phone again. Didn’t hurt to try.
I guess not. Quinn smiles over his cup. Presses his foot back against Kirill, proud when he sees Kirill’s lips quirk back up into a grin of his own.
They keep chatting through the phone throughout dinner. Kirill asks a few questions about Minnesota that Quinn does his best to answer with limited knowledge. They talk about their families and what they do during the summers. It’s nice. And Kirill keeps finding different ways to touch Quinn, brushing their knuckles against each other when reaching for the salt, their feet stay pressed together all night. One time, Kirill leans over to swipe his thumb over the corner of Quinn’s mouth. He said that there was sauce there but Quinn doesn’t really buy it, with the way Kirill smiles like he’d gotten away with something. Kirill pays, though Quinn tries to refute. Kirill argues he can cover it next time and well, sure, whenever next time is.
They swap information— WhatsApp— something Quinn rarely ever uses but he can’t find it in himself to mind. Then they walk out of the restaurant together, pressed shoulder to shoulder.
On the way back to the hotel, they don’t talk. It’s nice but Quinn wishes they could. Wants to talk to Kirill forever. He’s going to have his head in the fucking clouds for awhile after this and he knows it. How is he going to survive however long it’ll be before they see each other again?
Probably about a block or two out from the hotel, Kirill suddenly grabs Quinn’s wrist and pulls him into an alley, pressing him against a brick wall. Quinn eyes are wide, staring at Kirill, still unbuttoned with that chain peaking out, light glinting off the metal, and Quinn doesn’t think he’s ever needed anything more.
That want gets even stronger when Kirill brings his hand up and cradles Quinn’s face with it. He runs his thumb along Quinn’s lower lip. “Можно тебя поцеловать?” He says lowly, “пожалуйста?”
Quinn is nodding before curiosity gets the best of him and he can ask what Kirill is saying. He thinks he could stay here and listen to Kirill talk in Russian until the language finally clicked in his head.
Kirill finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Quinn’s lips. It’s gentle but he feels it course through his body anyway, like things are slotting perfectly into place. He wraps his arms around Kirill’s shoulders before Kirill can really pull away, kissing eagerly.
Quinn’s bad, he knows he’s bad, he’s never done this before but he can’t find it in him to care when it feels so good. He threads his fingers through the golden hair he’s been staring at all fucking day. It’s like he’s holding the sun in his arms, heat spreading through Quinn’s body in a way he’s never felt before.
He pulls Kirill further into him, gasping when Kirill grabs at his waist, pulling them together at the hips. He feels a muscled thigh slot between his own and can’t help but breathe heavy into Kirill’s mouth.
Kirill kisses across the side of his face, then down along his jaw, open mouthed and wet. He pulls away. “Ты хочешь-” He starts before cutting himself off and fishing in his back pocket for his phone. Do you want to come back to my room?
Pressing his lips into a line, Quinn reaches for the phone. I can’t.
Kirill tilts his head at the message and then leans forward to nose at Quinn’s jaw. “пожалуйста.” He whines, reaching for the phone. Why?
My brother would flip if I didn’t come back. Quinn frowns, turning the phone back around. He’d give anything to go back to Kirill’s room but the drama wouldn’t be worth it.
Rolling his eyes, Kirill leans in to kiss Quinn again. “Окей.” He pulls away and reaches for the phone. Next time then.
Quinn smiles and nods.
Kirill grabs his hand again and tugs him back out of the alley.
They walk back to the hotel, fingers still intertwined. Red string touching red string. It feels entirely surreal.
He thinks Kirill will for sure drop it when they walk into the lobby but he doesn’t. Not while they wait for the elevators either. Once they get in and the door slides shut behind them, Quinn pushes Kirill up against one of the walls and kisses him. It’s probably his last chance for it and he doesn’t want to miss a second.
The elevator dings and they slide apart. Quinn’s floor. He lets his hands come down from their spot around Kirill’s shoulders to rest on the front of his chest. Kirill smiles dopily down at him. Quinn smiles back then steps out of the elevator, leaving Kirill holding up his hand, fingers curled so it looks like he’s holding a phone. He shakes the hand to mimic a phone ringing and then nods until the doors slide closed and Quinn can’t see him anymore.
He sighs, letting it all wash over him. Tries not to bring a hand up to touch his lips like he’s a teenager who just had his first kiss which, well… not wrong.
Shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, hair that is for sure mussed but maybe Jack won’t notice, he slides the card through the slot and then swings open the door.
Jack sits up on the bed and watches Quinn take his dress shoes off. “Date went well?” He asks as soon as Quinn walks into the main room. Quinn tries his best not to tense but knows he does a bad job when Jack keeps fucking talking. “Looks like it went well.” He comments while Quinn rifles through his suitcase for some pajamas. “So talkative tonight, Q.”
Quinn shrugs and heads to the bathroom. Does his stuff and comes back out in comfy clothes. He fucking hates wearing suits. Even if it was to make a good impression. Kirill looked really good in his, all unbuttoned and- Quinn stops himself. Shakes his head and then falls onto his bed.
“Is that a hickey?” Jack asks immediately and Quinn is fucked.
He squeaks out a “What?” and walks right back into the bathroom. Checks everywhere he can think of until Jack comes up and leans against the doorway.
“Gotcha.” He grins, running away when Quinn chases him out of the bathroom. Snatching a pillow from the bed Quinn starts swinging wildly at Jack with it, only stopping when Jack finally calls out a wimpy “Uncle.”
“You dick.” Quinn huffs, throwing the pillow back onto his bed.
Jack grins, getting up off of the floor. “Just wanted you to admit it.”
Rolling his eyes, Quinn falls back onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. “Okay, fine, yeah, I… went on a date.” He says after a moment, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s bracing for impact.
“I know.” Jack says, walking past Quinn at the perfect time for Quinn to snap open his eyes and land a cheap shot into his stomach. Jack folds over for a second. “Okay, deserved.” He says cradling his hands over his belly. “You should’ve just told me though! I’m curious! Locked up in here with nothing to do while you’re out there on a date and hiding it from me!”
“Yeah, it’s ‘cause you have a loud mouth.” Quinn sighs, running his hands over his face. It will be a minimum of twelve hours before Luke and his parents know. Jack has never kept a secret in his entire life.
“You don’t tell anybody anything. Someone needs to keep them updated.”
Quinn’s phone buzzes next to him on the bed. He reaches for it as subtly as he can. “You ever think maybe there’s a reason I don’t tell anyone anything?” He asks, looking at the message on his lock screen. It comes from an unknown number and is in Russian.
He clicks through to safari, looking for google translate. Copies the text in while Jack’s voice fades into the background.
I miss you already.
Quinn stops listening to Jack completely and lets his phone fall to the center of his chest. His eyes slide closed and he thinks about golden hair and sunshine.