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On the Canucks’ end, morale is low when the Wild arrive in Vancouver.
They have a bit of a losing streak going on—three straight losses on their road trip—and there have been talks of trading away some of their most valuable players as of late. Quinn has tried not to poke around online, but sometimes when he’s up late in his hotel room, scrolling on social media, he sees all sorts of comments criticising his play and speculating on whether he’ll sign with another team in the near future. Hughes doesn’t want to play anywhere that can’t win, a lot of them say.
But the Canucks can win. Quinn will just have to prove it.
It’s mid-day on Friday the sixth when Quinn gets a call. He’d just finished up morning skate and was sitting in the parkade trying to think of what to have for lunch. He blinks at the contact name in surprise, stomach turning over as the implications of it set in. Kirill Kaprizov. Right. Because the Wild are probably in town now, and . . . and he and Kirill have that thing going on. Have since last year, in fact, even though they’ve only seen each other once since then.
Quinn picks up the phone. “Hey,” he says.
“Hi, Quinn.”
Quinn shouldn’t like hearing Kirill say his name like that so much, but it sounds nice when he says it, voice low, Russian accent thick as ever. He swallows hard and squirms to try and squash the butterflies in his stomach. “What’s up?”
“My team, we all just got to Vancouver,” Kirill says. “I want to see you again.”
So much for squashing the butterflies. Quinn’s breath catches in his throat and he forces it to even out. “Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, I want to see you too. But I—we have a game tonight. So . . .”
“After?” Kirill asks. “Come to my hotel. Is very nice. Has hot tub, like in my building.”
Quinn desperately wants to say yes, really. Spending the night with Kirill and letting loose after a disastrous road trip sounds like the perfect way to relieve stress, but on the other hand, he knows showing up at the opposing team’s hotel is one of the worst ideas he’s ever heard. “I want to,” Quinn tells him, “but I’m usually, like, so tired after games. Think I’m just gonna head home, and, you know, I want to be well-rested for when we play you guys. And beat you, hopefully.”
Kirill is quiet on the other end for a little while. Quinn, who hates awkward silences, swallows again and goes on. “What about after our game tomorrow?” he suggests. “I could drive you to my place after, or we could get dinner . . . whatever you want to do.”
“Sounds nice,” Kirill says, and Quinn can hear his smile through the phone. It makes his heart feel all warm. “It is date.”
“Yeah,” Quinn murmurs back, feeling oddly shy. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow,” Kirill echoes, and ends the call shortly thereafter.
Quinn stares at his phone for a long few seconds, then lets out a long exhale, leaning forward and letting his forehead thump against the steering wheel. So now he has plans. Ones he isn’t particularly prepared for. Instead of going to grab lunch, Quinn sighs and sets his GPS for his condo building, eager to hide at home until he has to leave again for the game.
This—thing—with Kirill was supposed to be a one-time thing. Seriously. Quinn never even meant to, really; he was just charmed by Kirill’s earnest flirting and, well, his looks, too, at least a little bit. Kirill is broad and strong, all bulky muscles, but he has a pretty face, nice eyes, beautiful hair. Quinn’s thought an awful lot about how nice it was to kiss him. Thinks often about doing it again.
The first time they hooked up, Quinn left Kirill his number before he went back to his hotel. He half-expected Kirill never to text, never to call—why would he? He had no reason to—but sure enough, the next day, when Quinn was already settling back into his place in Vancouver, a text lit up his phone from an unknown number. Frowning, Quinn swiped up on the notification, and in an instant it was like the breath was knocked from his lungs. Kirill had sent him a photo. He was at the gym, drenched in sweat, his blond curls damp with it. He was wearing a grey long-sleeve, similarly damp, that clung to his muscles, leaving nothing to the imagination, and he was smiling so sweetly while he took the photo in the gym’s full-length mirror. Next time I make you breakfast, the text underneath it read.
After gawking at the photo for a good two minutes, zooming in on various parts of it and ignoring the way drool pooled in his mouth at seeing Kirill’s big muscles again, Quinn had an idea. He pulled up Google Translate on his phone, typed thank you into the box, and translated it to Russian. Quinn doesn’t know how to read Cyrillic, nor did he care to fact-check the result, so he pasted it into his texts with Kirill and sent it off.
Kirill responded right away. Three laughing emojis, then cutie.
Quinn flushed red all over. Horrible, horrible red. He seriously considered smashing his phone to pieces and never looking Kirill in the eye ever again.
Then Kirill sent a voice message. With shaking hands, Quinn lifted the phone to his ear. There was some noise in the background—Kirill was probably still at the gym—but he heard Kirill’s voice loud and clear.
Do you even know how to say this? Kirill teased. Then he said the Russian word, low and slow, probably the one that meant thank you, or whatever. I will teach, when I see you again, Kirill added, then softly said another sentence in Russian that Quinn couldn’t understand one bit of. He itched to play the voice message into a translator, but didn’t.
Quinn wanted to send a voice message back, but ultimately figured that his voice would shake too much and too embarrassingly for him to have any semblance of dignity left. OK, he typed back, looking forward to it. Added a smiley face for good measure, then sent it off.
That was in December. In March, Kirill was injured and did not play when the Wild came to Vancouver. In April, he did.
“We are staying the night,” Kirill told Quinn between whistles when they were both out on the ice. “I cook you breakfast this time?”
Quinn bit his lip. He was nervous, honestly. Most of his teammates have never seen his condo, never mind a player from the opposing team that he’s only hooked up with once. “Rain check?” Quinn offered with an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I, um, forgot I made plans with somebody tonight.”
Kirill tilted his head. “Rain check?” he echoed. “What does this mean?”
“Oh.” Quinn flushed. He should be better at this by now, he thought. “Like, an offer to do the same thing another time, I guess. Next time we see each other, I promise.”
“OK,” Kirill said, and smiled at him, radiant as a beam of sunlight. Christ. Even back then, Quinn knew he was in deep with this one.
That whole night after the game, Quinn wallowed at home, thinking about how Kirill could be here with him if he wasn’t such a damn coward. It was fine the first time, right? Fun. Like, really fun, to the point where it’s all Quinn sees when he closes his eyes with his hand around himself late at night. Next time, he promised himself.
In the meantime, Kirill kept sending him photos. They were usually pictures of him at the gym, or relaxing in his building’s hot tub, or photos from his trip back to Russia during the off-season. Sometimes, Quinn sent some back. Photos of the lake house, of himself at the gym too, or in the locker room post-practice.
Then the season started back up and it was radio silence for a couple months. The Canucks were scheduled to play the Wild on November first, but Quinn was nursing an injury at the time and he opted not to travel with the team to Minnesota. He figured Kirill deserved to know.
I’m still hurt, he texted Kirill the morning of the game. So I won’t be there.
Rain check, Kirill texted him back a couple hours later, then added a few grinning emojis.
Quinn smiled to himself and felt an awful tug at his heart. Kirill was so incredibly endearing that it frustrated him. I’m cheering for you, he told him. Don’t tell my team.
Now it’s December and Quinn doesn’t have any excuses left to give. He’s ready, anyway, to spend another night with Kirill and finally take him up on that breakfast offer. The game against Utah on Friday night goes just as disastrously as their road trip and Quinn is thankful that he’s not heading to Kirill’s hotel after the game or something foolish like that, because he’s angry, tired, and desperate to put the game behind him.
Anyway, the next morning is a new day, a new game, so Quinn goes into it optimistic. He calls Jack before the game, then goes through the routine of readying up. When he steps out onto the ice for warmups, his heart gives an embarrassing flutter when he meets Kirill’s eyes from across the ice and Kirill smiles in response.
During the game, Quinn doesn’t have many chances to chat. In the second period, he and Fil start getting paired up against Kirill’s line, which is fun. Quinn battles with Kirill for the puck along the boards, and they can’t help but giggle through it even though Quinn’s body is thrumming with the exhilaration of having Kirill pressed up against him like that.
The Canucks secure a comfortable win, when all is said and done. It’s a satisfying end to their streak of bad luck, and Quinn is relieved when he heads to the locker room. Once he congratulates all the young guys for their stellar performance, he gets to work stripping out of his gear, hurrying out of there so as to not make Kirill wait for too long.
“Hey, Huggy, a few of us wanna do drinks after,” Garly tells him, scrubbing a towel over his face. “You down to come with? I think tonight’s worth celebrating.”
Quinn bites his lip and keeps his eyes away. “I, uh, actually have plans,” he says shyly, lifting his shoulder pads over his head and hanging them up in his stall.
Garly raises his eyebrows. It’s a rare occasion for Quinn to have postgame plans. Like, never-fucking-happens rare. He’ll tell you outright if he doesn’t want to hang out. “Plans? Seriously? You hanging out with someone, bud?”
“Yeah, actually.” A smile tugs at Quinn’s lips, so he lets it cross his face. “Remember last year?”
“Last year? Last year, when?” Then it clicks. “Oh. Oh. Kaprizov?”
Quinn says nothing.
“Dude!” Garly bumps Quinn’s shoulder with his own. “Is this, like, serious?”
“No,” Quinn’s quick to reply, face flushing hot. “It’s only our second time hanging out. Calm down. It’s just—we haven’t had the chance to since last year.”
Garly blinks at him. “Right.” Then, with an edge of confusion: “Not even last spring?”
“I fuckin’—chickened out, I guess.”
“Well, have fun,” Garly says as he watches Quinn pull on his street clothes and gather his things.
“Probably will.”
Quinn hides down in a stairwell right by where he parked, laying low. He texts Kirill and tells him where to meet him, then waits anxiously, desperately trying not to let himself chicken out again. It’ll be fun, he convinces himself over and over, thinking back to all the suggestive photos Kirill’s sent him over the past year. Kirill treated him well last time. They took turns with each other and Kirill was never too pushy, never tried to take more control than Quinn gave him. That’s just how Quinn likes it.
His heart races when he hears footsteps descending the stairs. Tentatively, Quinn peeks his head out from his hiding spot, and there Kirill is, blond hair damp, dressed in a long-sleeve and a light jacket over top. He pulls Quinn into a tight hug, strong as ever, and he smells like sweat and a hint of cologne. Quinn hugs back, decidedly not thinking about how nice it feels to be held.
“Hi,” Quinn says into his shoulder. “Sorry we beat you.”
“Is okay,” Kirill assures him, lips brushing against his temple. “Don’t say sorry for that. Winning is good.”
Quinn laughs. “Winning is great.”
Kirill pulls away from the hug, and the two of them stare at each other for a long few seconds. Then Quinn just has to blurt something out, him and his big stupid mouth: “I missed you.”
It’s annoying. So fucking annoying. Quinn does not wear his heart on his sleeve, hardly shows emotion whatsoever, and now here he is, blurting out his deepest thoughts to Kirill because—because why? Because Kirill’s a good listener? Because he’s sweet and earnest and genuinely kind? Kirill isn’t like anyone Quinn has ever met before, and Quinn can’t decide whether that’s a good thing or something unfathomably awful.
“Really?” Kirill teases, kissing Quinn’s temple when Quinn buries his head back into his shoulder. “That’s good,” he says, softer. “I missed you too.”
With a brief shake of his head, Quinn decides not to linger on that too much. “We should go,” he says. “We’ll go out the other way. So the fans don’t see us.”
Quinn’s nerves flare right back up once Kirill is in the car with him. He keeps sneaking little glances at Kirill in the passenger seat, all comfortably leaned back, thighs spread. Kirill’s gazing out the window with such wonder, eyes trained on the nighttime Vancouver lights.
“Vancouver is so beautiful,” Kirill says, and turns his head to look at him. “You like it here?”
Quinn wets his lips. “Yeah. I do. It’s my home away from home.”
“Everyone says you will leave,” Kirill adds with an air of laughter in his voice.
“Everyone said you would leave this summer, before you signed your contract,” Quinn points out with a chuckle. “It’s always the same argument. Players like us, like, want to be on some wagon team that’ll win cups, so surely we’d sign somewhere else.” He pauses, thinks some more, then continues: “I just don’t think it’s that simple, you know? Like, would you just drop everything and leave Minnesota to play for, I don’t know, Florida?”
Kirill laughs too, soft. “I think I would die there,” he jokes. “Is too hot. Not good for Russian blood.”
Quinn smiles. Feels another tug at his heart. “Yeah, good point,” he says. “But, like, you get what I’m saying, right? We kinda build a life in these places. And especially with me having the C, you know. It’s just not that simple.”
Kirill reaches over the centre console and plants a big warm palm on Quinn’s thigh. “I think they need to shut up,” he says simply, which shocks a laugh out of Quinn. “And you not worry so much.”
Quinn lets off a breathy chuckle. Okay. Yeah. Maybe he shouldn’t worry so much. And it’s damn hard to think right now, anyway, with Kirill’s hand on his thigh, sending heat spreading throughout his entire body. Quinn feels his dick stir—fuck being touch-starved, seriously—and tries not to squirm in his seat. He takes one hand off the wheel and lays it over Kirill’s, tangling their fingers together atop his thigh. It’s, like, embarrassingly romantic, Quinn thinks, and not something he’d think to do with anybody else. But Kirill is different. Always has been.
Thankfully, on the way up to Quinn’s condo, they don’t run into anyone in the elevator, or the hallways. It’s usually quiet this late at night, so the two of them make it into Quinn’s place without being seen. Quinn flips on the kitchen light and hurries to draw the curtains shut.
“I like them open,” Kirill says. “You have nice view. City is very pretty.”
“OK,” Quinn says, soft. “What, uh . . . what do you wanna do? Watch a movie?”
Kirill shakes his head. He draws closer to Quinn, steps soft on the hardwood. “Movie is boring,” he says decisively, and pulls Quinn down onto the couch with him. In his surprise, Quinn falls back against the cushions, and Kirill grabs his wrists and pins them, boxing him in. “But you are not boring.”
Quinn smiles, already breathless. He makes no move to squirm out of Kirill’s grasp. “No?”
“Like I said,” Kirill goes on, voice soft and low, “you are interesting. Like puzzle, maybe.”
“What happens when you finally solve me?”
Kirill laughs. “Oh, I will not solve you,” he says. “I am, ah . . . missing piece.”
It’s corny. It’s really, really corny, and Quinn should laugh and tell him it’s ridiculous, but he finds it tugs at his heart again. Kirill’s his missing piece. Huh. There might be something to that. “Kiss me,” he begs, just a whisper.
Kirill obliges him, and it’s just as good as the first time they did this. Back then, he was spread over Kirill’s lap in his building’s hot tub, and figured it couldn’t get much better than that, but this is pretty damn good too. Kirill eases him to lie back, head against the armrest of the couch, and lets go of his wrists in favour of sliding his hands up underneath Quinn’s shirt.
Quinn makes a sound into the kiss, low and throaty, as Kirill feels him up, palms warm and rough against his skin. His cock is already reacting enthusiastically to the touch—he hasn’t slept with anyone since the summer, and even then, that’s different—and when he gasps into the kiss at a flood of heat through his body, Kirill takes the opportunity to lick into his mouth, kiss him deeper.
He snakes one hand down Kirill’s body, over his chest, the hardness of his abs, before reaching his cock. Kirill’s already hard, too, and still so, so fucking big. Quinn doesn’t think he’ll ever forget what it felt like having Kirill split him open, fuck him so good, make his eyes roll back in pleasure. But Quinn’s been thinking about doing something else, too, and has been thinking about it for the whole year since they’ve done this.
“Hey,” Quinn breathes when Kirill pulls away to trail kisses down his neck. “I wanna, like, do something.”
Kirill pulls back, just a little, enough that he can blink owlishly at Quinn. “Do something?” he prompts, tilting his head.
Quinn scrambles to sit up, then grabs Kirill’s wrists to pull him down onto the couch. “Just sit,” he tells him. “Can I, um . . . would it be all right if I sucked your dick?”
Kirill’s eyes absolutely light up. He smiles with all his teeth and pulls Quinn in for a kiss, thumbs dimpling his cheeks. “Is all right,” he says, and laughs. “Is great. I will love it.”
“OK, cool,” Quinn says in an exhale. He feels all nervous and fluttery, suddenly. This isn’t his first time sucking dick—he’s had his experiences here and there—but he knows how big Kirill is, and also knows he can have a sensitive gag reflex at times. Still, he pulls back and sinks to his knees on the floor in front of Kirill. Kirill parts his thighs for him, leans back against the couch cushions, and smooths some of Quinn’s sweat-damp hair out of his face for him.
This is, like, daunting, Quinn realises. It’s never been this tender when he’s sucked other guys off. Usually it’s a quick, dirty thing, grabbing his hair and fucking his face, pulling out just in time to come all over him, but Quinn can already tell that this is different. Kirill’s still stroking idly at his hair, eyes soft where they’re trained on him but simultaneously dark with want.
Meeting Kirill’s eyes is enough to spur Quinn on. His fingers work to get Kirill’s pants undone, and thankfully Kirill helps him along, lifting his hips just enough for Quinn to pull them down past his cock, along with his boxers. Quinn’s mouth gets all wet when he lays eyes on it, stiff and flushed and leaking against Kirill’s shirt.
“You look pretty,” Kirill says, thumb feathering along Quinn’s cheek. “You always look pretty.”
“Yeah?” Quinn breathes in response, cheeks flushing pink. Then he opens his mouth, leans in, and takes just the head of Kirill’s cock at first, lips closing around it, soft tongue brushing against the tip.
Kirill draws in a sharp inhale, thighs tensing up underneath Quinn’s hands, and that’s all Quinn needs to keep going, sliding his mouth oh-so-slowly down onto him, enveloping Kirill’s cock in perfect wet heat. Quinn moans around it, drool escaping his mouth, and the deeper he takes Kirill into his mouth the fuzzier his body seems to feel. His lips are stretched so wide around Kirill’s cock and the warm weight of it on his tongue nearly makes him dizzy with the need to have Kirill spill down his throat.
“Oh, fuck, Quinn,” Kirill moans, fingers curling into Quinn’s hair. “Your mouth . . .”
Quinn finds he feels all warm with the praise. He takes as much of Kirill’s cock into his mouth as he can without choking, then curls his fingers around the part that doesn’t fit in his mouth and strokes Kirill in time with the suction of his mouth. Kirill seems to be fighting hard not to rock his hips up and fuck Quinn’s mouth, but strangely enough, Quinn thinks that if he did he wouldn’t mind at all.
“I will be so fast,” Kirill tells him, breathless. “Is so good. If you don’t stop . . .”
Quinn pulls off for just long enough to murmur, “Want you to,” before he dives back in for more, slurping obscenely around the head. Kirill is steadily leaking onto his tongue, and Quinn forgot how good he tastes, all musky and salty and straight up addictive.
He keeps sucking him, desperate to get his prize. He’s thought excessively about what it might feel like to have Kirill in his mouth like this, all huge and hot and overwhelming, and now all he wants is for Kirill to come in his mouth.
It doesn’t take much longer, anyway. Kirill tenses up all over, makes a soft, low noise from the back of his throat, almost like a growl, and fills Quinn’s mouth. Dutifully, Quinn swallows it all down, throat working, and cleans Kirill’s softening cock up afterwards with gentle laps of his tongue.
When Quinn resurfaces and gets back up off his knees to join Kirill on the couch, Kirill has his head tilted back, panting into the sticky air. He lifts his head when the couch dips next to him, and smiles, eyes half-lidded, when he lays eyes on Quinn. “You are good at that,” Kirill tells him, bringing one hand up to touch underneath Quinn’s chin and pull him in for the gentlest, softest kiss.
“Been thinking about it a while,” Quinn admits shyly. “Since last time.”
Kirill rests his forehead against Quinn’s. Quinn takes in every detail of his face—his damp blond curls, the laugh-wrinkles around his eyes, his pink lips, his missing lower tooth. He’s beautiful.
“Will you fuck me?” Kirill asks. Then he smiles and kisses Quinn again. “Please? I can be prize for tonight’s winner.”
“Jesus Christ,” Quinn mutters, flushing hot, and realises he’s been hard as nails ever since he got on his knees for Kirill right on his own living room floor. “Yeah. I will. Let’s go to my room.”
Quinn gets up from the couch, his legs still shaky from the leftover fuzziness in his body, and leads Kirill to his room. Kirill unceremoniously leaps up onto the bed, and as soon as his back hits the mattress he’s scrambling to get his pants off, his entire strong lower half laid bare for Quinn to see. Before Quinn can think, he leans down and bites into the meat of Kirill’s thigh, hard enough to sting, but miraculously, Kirill doesn’t push him away—only yelps in surprise and giggles.
“My teammates will see that,” Kirill points out. “It’ll bruise.”
“Good,” Quinn teases back. He gestures broadly at how Kirill’s laid out on the bed, on his back, head cushioned against Quinn’s pillow. The splay of his blond curls out along the pillowcase around his head makes him look like an angel. “Is this how you want it?”
Kirill nods, sure as ever. “Want to see you,” he says like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You are pretty. Liked seeing you before.”
Quinn hides his smile by reaching over to his nightstand drawer for the lube, and . . . “Do you, uh.” He blushes yet again—seems like he’s been doing that a lot tonight—and casts a glance over at Kirill. “Do you want it, like, bare?”
“Yes,” Kirill says, impatient, greedy, and eager. “Of course.”
Quinn snaps the drawer shut and settles back between Kirill’s spread thighs, admiring the muscle, the strength of them. Then he gets to work opening Kirill up. He takes his time with it, leans down to kiss Kirill just to swallow all the little noises he makes as he’s fingered open. Kirill relaxes so nicely around his fingers, lets Quinn push deeper, and delightedly Quinn notices how Kirill’s cock has already stiffened back up, leaking profusely against the grey fabric of his shirt.
“So good when you do it,” Kirill pants against Quinn’s lips. “I was thinking about you so much. You are not like anyone else.”
“Yeah,” Quinn breathes. He wets his lips. “I think about you too.”
Kirill reaches up and takes Quinn’s face between his hands, thumbs once again dimpling his cheeks. “So fuck me,” he says, and his lips curl into a smile—a challenge. “Enough tease.”
As it turns out, that’s all the encouragement Quinn needs. He pulls his fingers free from Kirill’s hole, leaving him clenching down around nothing, and hurries to kick his pants off, along with his boxers. He’s still so, so painfully hard and it makes him hiss when he curls his hand around himself to coat his cock in lube. It’s damn near aching to get inside of Kirill at this point—the memory of the tight heat around his cock has haunted Quinn’s wet dreams since they first hooked up—so Quinn doesn’t wait any longer and shuffles forward on his knees to fit the blunt head of his cock up against Kirill’s hole.
He grinds up against him at first, the tip catching on him with every pass, then decidedly pushes in. Kirill is tight from not having done this in a while and so it’s difficult to slip inside, but eventually Quinn gets there, the first inch sinking into him as quick as ever. Kirill makes a choked little noise when it happens, reaching up for Quinn and pulling him down to kiss him again.
“Fuck, fuck,” Quinn groans against Kirill’s mouth as he pushes deeper. Kirill’s clenching down around him, tight and perfect and everything Quinn could possibly want. He looks so pretty like this, anyway, all spread out on the bed, coated in a wonderful flush, blond hair haloing his head, lips kissed raw. He’s all smooth skin and tight, rippling muscle, thighs and arms fuzzy with fair hair.
“So big,” Kirill murmurs, the flush creeping up to his ears now. He feathers another kiss against Quinn’s mouth, then curls his legs around Quinn’s hips, urging him closer. “You can be more, ah, strong. I will not break.” His lips tilt into a teasing smile, his eyes warm with a challenge.
Quinn grins right back. “OK, yeah,” he says, and grabs Kirill’s hips, fucking the rest of his cock into him in one quick motion. Kirill cries out when he does, then nods all desperate, eager for more. “You’re so pretty,” Quinn says, honest, almost delirious with how good Kirill feels around his cock, hot and tight. “All your gym pics, fuck. So hot.”
Quinn’s set a steady, intense pace, fucking into him nice and rough, rocking the bed with each thrust, but Kirill thinks it’s perfect. “I will—ah—send more,” Kirill says, biting his lip. “But only if you send too.”
“Deal,” says Quinn, breathless. He’s panting hard, his heart racing, his body on fire from the adrenaline and the pleasure soaking into his every bone. He watches as the wet spot on the front of Kirill’s shirt grows, more and more pre-come wetting the fabric, and Christ, Quinn thinks he might die before he comes inside Kirill’s tight little hole.
At this pace, quick and rough, it only takes a few more long strokes into Kirill before Quinn tenses up all over and comes, ducking his head and whimpering into Kirill’s chest as he shakes through it. It’s the best orgasm he’s had in months, since the summer, easily, and thankfully he has enough of a mind to reach down and stroke Kirill’s cock to get him there too.
Kirill comes all over his fist a moment later, and for a long while they’re tangled together panting and making exhausted, pleased noises. Quinn is so tired that he desperately wants to let his arms give out and lie splayed on top of Kirill, head on his chest, but he manages to gather the energy to lift his dirty hand to his mouth and lick off the mess from his skin.
“Give me some,” Kirill demands, grabbing Quinn’s wrist and leaning up to suck some of his mess from the back of Quinn’s hand. He’s never thought to taste himself before, Quinn guesses from the look in his eyes, and Quinn laughs at his conflicted expression.
They’re silent for a few more moments. They exchange a few more soft kisses, then Quinn groans and pulls away, softened cock slipping from Kirill’s hole. “All right,” Quinn says, “we should shower. I didn’t even shower postgame.”
Kirill bites his lip and smiles. “Me too. Wanted to see you.”
So, after a long, hot, satisfying shower, and after changing into some fresh clean clothes, Quinn and Kirill curl up in bed together, Quinn’s head pillowed on Kirill’s chest. Kirill idly brushes his fingers through Quinn’s damp dark hair, his other hand splayed across Quinn’s back.
“Last spring,” Quinn pipes up, voice soft, “when we could’ve hung out and I said I had plans . . . I didn’t, really.” He pauses, lifts his head for a moment to gauge Kirill’s expression, but he doesn’t look mad, or sad, or anything. “I guess I was, like, scared. I dunno. I’m not, like, used to being close with people like this.”
Kirill still says nothing. He brushes some of the damp hair from Quinn’s face, fingertips soft and gentle against Quinn’s forehead.
“But I really like you,” Quinn goes on, hand sliding over Kirill’s side, clinging onto him. “Or, I think so, at least. Like, I like doing this. And being, like, held, I guess.”
“I like you too,” Kirill finally says in response, voice low and rumbly and Quinn can hear it right there with his ear pressed to Kirill’s chest. Then he says a word in Russian, and it sounds weirdly familiar to Quinn’s ears. Distant, but familiar. “Remember what that means? From your first text to me?”
Quinn thinks for a moment, his brain too tired and fuzzy to piece it together. Then it clicks, and it makes his cheeks warm with fondness. “Oh. Yeah.” Thank you.
Kirill smiles. His hand smooths over Quinn’s back. “Try saying it.”
Quinn hesitantly repeats the word, and the soft chuckle he earns from Kirill in response makes his heart flutter. He tilts his head up, craning his neck to look into Kirill’s eyes. “When am I seeing you again?” he asks softly.
“April, I think.”
Fuck. That’s so far away.
“But I can fly,” Kirill offers, casual. “Whenever you want.”
“And breakfast tomorrow morning, right? You’re not leaving tonight?”
Kirill laughs and kisses the crown of Quinn’s head—tucks a few kisses into his hair, just for good measure. “I am not leaving.”
After a year of fantasising about waking up with Kirill in the morning, tucked against his strong chest, and eating breakfast alongside him—an offer Quinn was devastated to reject last winter—he’s beyond happy that tonight, Kirill will be keeping his promise. Absolutely no rain checks required.