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They’re the last ones in the locker room.
Quinn is taking so long on purpose. Once he exits Grand Casino Arena, he won’t be back until their last game before the Olympic break, and after that, he won’t be back until he’s either won a gold medal or fallen short. As excited as he is about his Olympic debut, he’s also terrified. Many voices drift in and out of his head, clamoring about the immense stakes that await him. He doesn’t want to step outside and make it all closer to real.
Kirill, though, is just waiting on Quinn. Which makes him feel bad. He’s really not worth that. If not for the elephant in the room, he’d try to believe Kirill’s only waiting because they carpool. Same building and all that.
But the elephant is there, and it trumpets when Kirill says, “Quinny?”
“Yeah?” he replies, slowly packing up the last of his gear.
His response comes not in words but in hands on Quinn’s waist.
Quinn simultaneously tenses and melts against the touch. He straightens and lets himself lean into Kirill. “Okay, sorry. We can go in a sec.”
“Not what I meant.” Kirill noses the nape of Quinn’s neck. “No rush. Just wanna kiss you.”
“Here?” He should push Kirill away, but he can’t get his body to do anything more than zip up his bag. “No. Bad idea.”
“Great idea.” He punctuates this point with a brief kiss beneath Quinn’s ear before gently turning him around. “You don’t think?”
There are many ways in which Kirill reminds Quinn of the sun, the most obvious right now being his irresistible pull. Quinn cups Kirill’s face in his hands instead of trying to walk away; he just can’t help it. “C’mon, I’m done, let’s just leave. You can wait.”
Kirill has the nerve to pout, which Quinn has the nerve to find adorable. “Don’t wanna. Wanna kiss you now, here. Everybody gone, why not?”
“You don’t know that.” In spite of his protest, he brushes a thumb over Kirill’s bottom lip. “Somebody might come back. You wouldn’t want them to see us, right?”
His eyes are fixed intently on Quinn’s lips, and it makes Quinn feel like his face is on fire. “Why not? Kissing pretty boy is good thing. Anybody can see, I don’t care.”
“God,” he tries to laugh, but it comes out breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Not my fault. You’re too cute.” He takes Quinn’s hand in his own—his hands are so big, Quinn thinks he’ll never get used to it—and presses it over his heart. “Please, Quinny?”
One of Quinn’s greatest skills is self-denial, but he’s pretty shit at denying Kirill anything. So he surges forward and presses their lips together like that’s where they belong. Because, frankly, he’s starting to believe it.
Kirill responds with trademark enthusiasm, pulling Quinn flush against him and tangling a hand in his hair. When they break apart, his smile is blindingly bright. “See? Great idea.”
Quinn returns his smile. “Yeah. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”
“No,” he agrees, “I have so many great ideas.” And he kisses Quinn again.
There’s still one little voice in Quinn’s head that won’t stop yelling about how foolish this is, but it finally falls silent when Kirill starts working his way from Quinn’s mouth to his jaw, then his neck.
“So cute,” he mumbles against Quinn’s throat. “My cute Quinny. Wanna kiss you all the time.”
He lets out a shaky exhale. “All the time?”
Kirill nods firmly, soft curls brushing Quinn’s cheek. “After you score. After I score. In morning. At night. When happy, when sad—”
Quinn kisses him hard just to preserve his own sanity.
Everything goes silent in Quinn’s head, a rare kind of bliss that seems a little more common since he and Kirill first brushed hands in their building’s elevator. They don’t speak, they don’t move, they stand in the middle of their locker room and just keep kissing. It’s so stupid, it really is, but it feels warm and safe and good.
An abundance of experience with one another begins to make itself obvious. Quinn drapes his arms over Kirill’s shoulders, Kirill grips Quinn’s hips, somebody requests entrance with their tongue and somebody else grants it eagerly. This is stupid, but Quinn can taste every one of Kirill’s satisfied little hums, so he doesn’t even care.
A wandering hand teases the hem of Quinn’s shirt, but before he can either swat it away or give it assistance, there’s a sound from behind them. Like a door opening.
Quinn tears away from Kirill and looks over his shoulder into the eyes of Minnesota Wild head coach John Hynes.
Fuck my life, he thinks instantly.
John’s expression doesn’t budge, much like when he’s behind the bench. He simply regards them both for a moment, then gives a short nod. “Good luck in Milan, Quinn.” And he leaves with no further fanfare.
Only after the door fully shuts does Quinn even breathe. He buries his face in Kirill’s neck, trying not to yell. “Oh my God, I wanna die.”
“No, no dying,” Kirill laughs, wrapping his arms tight around Quinn. “It’s okay. He not mad, yeah? Nothing wrong.”
“It’s embarrassing,” he huffs. “Oh my God, I knew this was a bad idea, I can’t believe… Fuck.”
“Aw, it’s okay. Kind of funny, I think.”
He gazes up at Kirill, wondering if he looks as pathetic as he suddenly feels. “My coach walking in on me having a makeout sesh isn’t my sense of humor,” he mumbles, probably not pouting, but maybe a little.
Kirill just giggles. “Don’t make that face. Too cute, will kiss you again.”
“Kirill,” Quinn says warningly, though it’s mostly to remind himself not to give in again.
“Whaaat?” His smile reveals that he knows exactly what.
It’s contagious, even if Quinn’s pulse still hasn’t returned to normal. “We have to leave.”
He hums contemplatively. “Okay, fine. But then we continue? Your place or mine?”
“Yeah, we’ll continue,” he laughs softly. He plants one last kiss on Kirill’s upturned lips. “Yours?”