Chapter Text
Kent Parson doesn’t think he has a soulmate at first. Where his mark should have been is a series of squiggles, as if someone had been scratching a laundry list on their forearm but all they could write is a line of Us. As he lays his head on Zimms’ chest, panting and boneless, he jokes that it really is a grocery list he’s scribbled himself, and he had forgotten to wash it off. He spends the rest of the time trying to convince himself that the mark on Zimms’ stomach, the one that says, He did NOT just say that to my face, in small, flowing letters, is what he thinks when he first meets Zimms. He knows what he had thought when he saw Jack, when Jack shakes his hand and says “Good game” in this shy, yet determined manner, like he’s trying to live up to his name but doesn’t think he’s quite there yet. Kent knows his first thought is, He’s amazing.
Zimms drops out of the draft, and out of Kent’s life. Kent goes to Vegas and he plays hockey. He does spectacularly. He hates the pitying looks he gets when people stare at his unusual mark, so Kent binds it up with ace bandages. Once a hookup undid his bandages after sex, wanting to know what unfortunate secret the wraps held, and when Kent regained consciousness he kicked the guy out of the hotel room bare-ass naked, throwing his clothes after him.
A year later, he goes to a local coffee shop for lunch and waits for Jeff to join him. He loosens the bandages, because his words suddenly itch something awful, and when the barista comes with his coffee he doesn’t have enough time to rewrap his arm.
“Oh, cool,” the girl says, eyeing his mark. She doesn’t look more than 17. “Your soulmate’s Russian?”
Kent swallows the frosty “Shouldn’t you mind your own business?” as his irritableness is replaced by curiosity.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s your mark, isn’t it?” she says. “My grandpa’s from Moscow. That’s Russian cursive.”
He feels hope for the first time in a while. Since Zimms, probably.
“Do you know what it says?” he asks hurriedly.
“Oh–I don’t know,” the girl replies apologetically. “I don’t speak it. I just know it because I used to flip through my grandpa’s journal and it looked just like it.”
Kent stutters to a stop and settles back. He looks back at his half-undone bandages and decides to remove it completely.
Three years after this discovery, countless Google searches for “Russian pick up lines” and “basic Russian phrases,” and thirty or so dates with people bearing vaguely Eastern European last names, Kent is still lacking a soulmate. Plus, not a single person’s he’s flirted with, Russian or otherwise, can read his stupid mark. The good news is that he now knows how to say “nice ass” in Russian; the bad news is, well, everything else.
After their loss against the Providence Falconers (he doesn’t miss the fact that Jack avoids eye contact with him 90% of the time unless absolutely necessary), Kent is ready to get wasted on appletinis and complain his heart out to Jeff. He also ties up his forearm, something he hasn’t done in a long, long time.
“It’s not fair,” Kent hiccups. His glass is almost empty, and he feels a cross between sorrow and contempt. “I learned so much Russian, and I still can’t read my own mark. And I think that girl I went out with, Yuliya? I think she was faking her accent. I totally heard her slip when she was ordering.”
“You only know how to tell someone their ass is nice, Parser,” Jeff says, raising an eyebrow. “And you know what they say. If you try to look for your soulmate on purpose, you’ll never find them.”
“The fuck?” Kent lays his head on his arms. “I’ve never heard that ever.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I made it up just now. Don’t worry too much about it, kiddo.” Jeff slides off the stool and adjusts his shirt. “I gotta piss. Wait here and don’t move. I don’t want to make the rookies form another search party for you.”
Kent is too tired to argue.
“Okay,” he says sadly. “I’ll be here.”
He’s running a finger along the rim of his martini glass when he hears a person shuffle back on the stool where Jeff had been.
“Jeff, you peed super fast,” Kent says. “Did you–”
“Not Jeff,” the voice says, deep and amused.
Kent lifts his head off the counter with a start and stares straight at Alexei Mashkov. Fuck, he thinks. He’s hot. And tall. I want to die. He regrets the action immediately when he’s hit with a sudden bought of wooziness.
“You’re–ow. Everything’s moving around.” Kent swats the air. “Stop it.”
“Parson?” Alexei actually sounds concerned for him, which is funny because this is the same man who literally checked Jeff so hard into the glass Kent thought his skates were going to fly off. “Do you want water?”
“Want to lie down,” Kent whines. Everything in the club is too much: too loud, too small, too stuffy, too crowded, too lonely. “Feel like shit.“
"I will call car, hold on, Kent.” He feels Alexei’s arms under his own, holding him up as they slowly trudge out of the bar.
Kent feels his eyelids growing heavier. Whoever is carrying him out of the club is probably supporting 99% of his weight now, and smells really good. I want to go home, is his last coherent thought before he registers someone cradling him bridal style and passes out completely.
When Kent opens his eyes again, he realizes that he’s in his own bedroom, all tucked in but still in his nasty clubbing outfit. Kit is patting her pudgy kitty paws on his forehead and there is someone snoring on his armchair next to his bed. Kent blinks blearily at the alarm clock, which reads 3:21 AM, then turns to the figure in the armchair. He squints.
“Mashkov,” he says, as he switches on the bedside lamp. His mouth is dry. He tries again, slightly louder, “Mashkov. Alexei.”
Alexei stirs and cracks open his eyes. “Kenny?” he mutters.
“Kent,” he corrects without much heat. “What happened? Why are you here?”
“I bring you home,” Alexei murmurs sleepily. “Check your license for home address. Stay in case you vomit.”
“Oh God. Did I?” Kent rubs his eyes, his head is still spinning, but marginally less. “Did I puke?”
Alexei scrunches up his face as if trying to remember, then nods. “Yes. Once.”
“Fuck.” Kent flops back down. “Shit, man, I’m sorry. Thanks for bringing me back. Ugh, I forgot to tell Jeff.”
“It is no problem.” Alexei seems more awake now, and he’s fidgeting. “I want to say good game tonight. That is why I come to you at club.”
“Huh?” The game is so far in the back of his mind at this point, it takes a moment for Kent to recalibrate and process the words. “Oh, the game. Yeah, good game. You nearly gave Jeff a concussion.”
Alexei gives a low, breathy laugh. “I am sorry,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “Was excited to play Aces. You lead great team.”
“Hah. Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” Kent sneaks a look at Alexei: his hair is mussed and he looks beyond tired, but there’s something comforting about having Alexei in his armchair at 3 AM on a Thursday. Then again, he is also pretty drunk still, so maybe any tall, handsome stranger in his armchair feels like a good idea. They look at each other for a few minutes, with Kent trying to focus his eyes on Alexei’s face and Alexei looking like he doesn’t know whether to leave the apartment or stay, before Alexei clears his throat.
“My grandmother,” he says. “She still in Russia. She just phone me yesterday. She ask me, ‘Are you playing the boy with cat tomorrow?’ Even she knows about cat.” He gestures to Kit, who jumps from Kent’s head to Alexei’s feet, staring up expectantly.
“Ha,” Kent manages. “Boy with cat. That’s me. That’s funny.” Then a more sober part of his brain clicks. “You’re Russian. Like, a real one. That’s not a fake accent.”
Alexei blinks.
“Yes, I am,” he says, bewildered. “Why would I fake—”
Kent climbs out of bed and nearly topples over. He ignores Alexei’s helping hand and rolls up his left sleeve, clawing at his bandages.
“No, no, look—God, why won’t it come off—” The strips finally fall and Kent shoves his arm under Alexei’s nose. “Read it. Please read it. I need to know what this stupid fucking chicken scratch says.”
Alexei reads it, and he says nothing, his expression absolutely blank. Kent watches him scan it again, and again, all in silence.
“Hey, can you read it or—woah, what are you doing?” Kent jumps back as Alexei suddenly stands up, unbuttoning his collar and stripping out of his shirt. Kent lunges forward and grabs Alexei’s arms, trying to pull them downwards. “This is inappropriate—shit, nice abs—but no, I might puke on your dick if you’re trying—oh.”
There, right across Alexei’s ribs, in his own handwriting, is the phrase, Fuck. He’s hot. And tall. I want to die.
“Holy fucking shit,” Kent whispers, his one hand still on Alexei’s arm. He can’t quite bring himself to look up at Alexei as he repeats, “Holy fuck. I found you. It’s you.”
“I follow my words to America,” Alexei says softly. “First chance I get, play hockey, I go on plane. I follow them to you.”
“Wha—I—” Everything in Kent’s mind is all jumbled like overcooked eggs. “You—you had that on your body as a kid? Jesus fucking Christ. And my arm—your handwriting sucks, I have asked thirty different people and no one—I can’t—”
Alexei presses his forehead to Kent’s, and Kent falls silent, his eyes still wide. Alexei feels like home, which is ridiculous given that he’s officially met the guy for about three hours.
“What do my words say?” Kent says faintly.
And Alexei replies, as if he has been practicing for a long time, wrapping an arm around Kent’s waist to bring them together, finally, “They say, My God, he is beautiful.”