Archive of Our Own

Don’t shit where you eat. A pretty tired truism. But it’s resounded through Patrick’s head a lot over the years. You don’t fuck your teammate’s siblings, you don’t fuck your teammates. For the first, it was him laying down the law: nobody was going near his baby sisters. But the second he got schooled on. He never got caught. Most of Patrick’s indiscretions came later with alcohol and too high a limit on his credit card. But his coach must’ve seen it—him and Max being horny little shits around each other.

He’d taken Patrick aside and told him with knit brows, “You don’t fuck with team. Your shot to the big leagues is on you, but you’re gonna need all those other guys to help get you there.” And then those words. “Don’t shit where you eat.”

Patrick listened. He’s played his life in risks. You don’t win big, if you don’t bet big, and he bet big on himself, long before anybody thought he was a sure thing. But a career gambler doesn’t stack the house odds even higher against himself. Getting his kicks with teammates, no matter how easily accessible, no matter how much they get you, wasn’t worth it. Patrick loves women. Besides he loves, loves, loves women. And he loves sex, sometimes with chicks, sometimes with guys. He’s not exactly hurting for options. So he shuts that avenue down and he doesn’t worry about it.

He definitely doesn’t need to be fucking around with Jonathan Toews. It's not smart. Even at 18, he knew that relationship was going to have to last him a good long while. And Jonny’s hot, but he isn’t so hot he’s going to launch a thousand ships to Troy or whatever, so Patrick doesn’t cry himself to sleep over it.

But the problem is that he’s fucking bored. James Dean died at 24. Patrick’s already made it to 25. It’s a bit hard to live fast and die young if you’ve run out of road. Or at least that’s how he feels about it especially after the way Sochi went down.

He had a great game tonight—a buzzer-beating goal to force overtime and then another one to send them home with two points. He’s riding high, house music pulsing through his chest, his thoughts starting to turn to finding somebody to take home. He’s the fucking man. And he deserves to celebrate in just about every lecherous, debauched fashion he could possibly devise. But the funny thing is that nobody here is doing it for him tonight. He’s either hit it and quit it, or he’s not interested.

And then he spies Jonny at the edge of the dancefloor with a few of the other guys. Some brave girl had actually gotten him to dance earlier and his cheeks are flushed, t-shirt clinging to his chest with sweat. When he sees Patrick watching, he grins, raising a brow. He looks good, edible. Patrick feels an old curl of arousal go through him. He could ignore it. There are plenty of other people here, sure bets that won’t cost him his career the year before his contract is due up. But Patrick’s feeling reckless tonight. There’s something in Jonny’s smile that makes him think he’s got a good chance of making this a three-point night. And fuck it, it’s not like Jonny doesn’t hook up. It’s not like Jonny doesn’t know fucking couldn’t be allowed to get weird.

So that's it then—Patrick will leave it up to him to decide.

He pushes through the crowd of bodies, making his way across the dancefloor towards Jonny. When he gets close, Jonny reels him in with an arm around his shoulder and says, "I know that look in your eye, got the itch, eh?"

Patrick leans in, Jonny following his lead, so he's the only one that hears when Patrick says, low, "Yeah, you wanna help me scratch it?" It's a terrible line by anyone's standards, but hey, tonight is Patrick's night, so who knows.

Jonny's arm tightens around Patrick's neck. Patrick tilts his head, meeting his gaze. Jonny's eyes have gone hot.

"Peeks..." he says, a little helplessly, eyes tracking down from Patrick's eyes to his mouth, and yes, now Patrick knows he's in. That easy. Jonny must be feeling it tonight too. He grins, moving in even closer to nudge up against Jonny's side, and when Jonny starts heading toward the door, Patrick is right behind him.

Patrick's got him figured out good in the elevator on the way up to Jonny's place. He cups Jonny's chin in his hand, kissing him sweet and deep. Patrick nails it. Jonny almost misses the elevator opening on his floor, they have to stumble out right before it closes again, and Jonny hustles him down the hallway to his front door like he can't wait to get Patrick inside.

It's all going swimmingly until Patrick drags Jonny's hand to his cock when they're on Jonny's bed. It seemed like the obvious next step, but maybe not to Jonny, because he goes from kissing Patrick, to biting him right on the ear a little too hard to be fun, scraping his teeth down the side of his jaw in warning.

Patrick cries out, a little startled, cock jerking against Jonny's hand.

Jonny pulls back to look at him, still palming him. "How exactly do you see this going?"

"W-what?" Patrick mutters, distracted. His cock is throbbing, hips twitching against Jonny's weight. Does Jonny want to talk about this right now? Like absolutely in this fucking moment right now? They’ve been dancing around this shit for years. Surely a conversation could wait until after Patrick’s gotten off. Besides which, Patrick’s got no idea what Jonny expects from him. How does he see this going? Orgasms. That’s where he sees this going.

He doesn’t answer, going in for another kiss instead, but before he gets there, Jonny takes his hand off Patrick’s cock.

Patrick drops his head back to the pillows. “Fuck, shoulda known you’d be a tease.”

Jonny rolls his eyes. Well, Patrick can’t have that. He catches at Jonny’s heavy thighs, sliding his hands up to palm his ass. This he’s thought about a lot, the perfect swells of Jonny’s ass cheeks under his hands. Holding their hips tight together, he rolls them over. Jonny stares up at him, unimpressed. Which, what the fuck? Patrick has some sweet fucking moves. Patrick knows, he can feel the evidence of it against his thigh. Typical, Jonny’s being difficult.

“Don't pretend you're not into it," he breathes, nipping at the corner of Jonny’s mouth. When Jonny doesn’t answer he circles his thigh very deliberately against Jonny’s stiffening cock. Patrick grins at the way Jonny’s hips raise helplessly against his own. He bites down at his lip like he’s trying to keep from saying something. Probably just how good Patrick’s game is. Which fair, it would pain Patrick to admit that about Jonny too. “Besides, what’s that you said earlier tonight? That I was fucking awesome? Don’t I deserve something here?”

He moves Jonny’s hand back to his dick, molding his long fingers purposefully around his cock.

“It’s your job to be awesome!” Jonny shoots back. “Fuck, you’re shameless.”

Patrick chuckles, delighted. “I’ll certainly fuck you shameless.”

Jonny snorts. “I’d like to see you try.”

Well, Jonny’s put that on the table now. He can’t just throw that down and expect for Patrick not to pick it up. Patrick drops his mouth to the strong, proud arch of Jonny’s throat, flickering wet kisses across it. “Would you let me?” he asks, gratified by the pleased ‘mmm’ noise Jonny makes when Patrick reaches the place where his neck meets his shoulder, solid with muscle.

“I’d make it so good,” he says, setting his teeth into Jonny’s skin, grazing the skin. He’s a dude. Anal would be way easier with him than with chicks. It’s pretty hard to go wrong with a prostate, he figures. “You know I would.”

Jonny doesn’t answer so Patrick pulls back to look down at him and finds Jonny staring back speculatively, his palms resting across his middle. Okay, so Jonny’s gonna make him work for it a little. That’s cool, Patrick can roll with that. He knows Jonny’s done this before, more than Patrick even, and if Jonny’s gonna let him fuck his ass (he will, Patrick knows this), he supposes he can afford to be appropriately appreciative.

He pushes Jonny's shirt up, purposefully grazing the skin with his nails as he passes over it, baring his chest for Patrick’s mouth, trailing his tongue over the smooth salt-sweet skin. God, Jonny tastes good. Jonny groans and threads a hand through his hair, fingertip running over the shell of Patrick’s ear as he pushes it off Patrick’s forehead. Patrick smirks up at him.

"Tell me you don’t want it," Patrick tells him, grinding his hips in a sinuous motion against Jonny’s. Jonny tugs him up, dragging their mouths together in a kiss that rapidly gets away from them. He had a plan here. Jonny was going to let Patrick fuck his gorgeous ass. But shit, pulse pounding, lungs heaving, he can’t think past Jonny’s hands running down his sides. This is about fifty times hotter than he imagined it would be.

“Patrick, I’m getting a real picture here for how this usually works for you,” Jonny says, when Patrick pulls away. His cheeks are pink, turned on, yes good, but he mostly looks amused.

“What does that even mean?” Patrick asks, brow furrowed.

Jonny laughs. “Does anybody ever tell you no?”

Patrick blinks at him, opening his mouth. Jonny cracks up. Patrick shakes his head, a little put out. “Why would they?”

“Jesus, you’re spoiled,” Jonny says, tilting his chin up to brush kisses across Patrick’s jaw, which takes the sting out of it a little. “I bet you let girls take you home and they do every little thing you tell them to.” His voice is rumbly and deep, Patrick’s pretty sure it shouldn’t sound so hot when Jonny’s disparaging his bedroom tactics.

“Hey, everybody always has a good time,” Patrick points out, his voice descending into a bit of a whine as Jonny sucks at the same spot on his ear he bit earlier, still tender from his teeth.

“Yeah?” Jonny asks. “Prove it.”

“You know what? I will!” Patrick pulls back, goes up on his elbows to look Jonny up and down. Jonny raises his eyebrows and settles back against the pillows like he's waiting for Patrick to make his best move.

Patrick usually doesn't mind working under pressure. He's a guy who only does better the higher expectations climb, but it must be said, usually his bedroom is exempt. He has a moment of complete indecision, staring down at Jonny's flushed face. What does Jonny want, slow? Patrick can give him that. He licks his lower lip, and Jonny's eyes follow the movement.

Yeah, slow.

Patrick dips down, keeping his weight mostly on his hands, and grazes their lips together, letting their bodies brush. He stays light, backing off when Jonny follows him, waits until Jonny parts his lips on a quick, gasping breath before he kisses him open-mouthed. Jonny’s hand comes back to Patrick’s head, cupping the nape of his neck and tangling in his hair. Patrick teases Jonny with his tongue, coming in close and then pulling back, letting the movement roll their hips together. When Jonny curls his other arm around Patrick’s midsection to pull their bodies flush, Patrick grins, and drags his lips down to the pulse-point under Jonny’s jaw. Jonny tips his head up, the second time he’s laid the line of his throat bare for Patrick. Patrick traces the muscle gently with just his fingertip, then his mouth, feeling stubble and then smooth skin. Jonny lets out a groaning breath that buzzes under Patrick’s lips. Hey, look, he's found one of Jonny's soft spots.

“Sensitive here?” Patrick asks.

Jonny hums, dragging his fingers back and forth at the base of Patrick’s skull. “Yeah, always kind of tense," he admits. His adam’s apple bobs when Patrick sucks a kiss into the base of his throat, and he shivers when Patrick drifts sideways and back up to tease the skin just underneath Jonny's ear. Patrick could get used to that feeling.

Jonny’s chest shifts under Patrick, and he feels Jonny’s hands on his sides, and then his fingertips edging under Patrick’s shirt, skimming his skin and making him shiver unexpectedly. “Take this off,” Jonny mutters.

Yes, sweet victory. They’re finally getting somewhere here—PKane knows what he’s about. Patrick sits up and wrenches his shirt off with more speed than grace, and has to battle his hair out of his eyes from where it got caught in his collar. When he looks down, Jonny’s smiling, tongue running along his teeth. Patrick sucks in a breath when Jonny reaches out to unbutton his fly, peeling his jeans down his thighs. He gets up to shrug them the rest of the way off and Jonny takes that moment to pull his own shirt over his head, nonchalant. He still looks like he’s waiting for Patrick to prove something to him. Jonny’s so full of shit, as if Patrick didn’t hear the vibration of those soft moans buzzing against his lips, as if Jonny wasn’t pressing back up against him.

Patrick gets back on the bed, Jonny’s eyes on him the whole time. Jonny goes to unzip his own pants, but Patrick knocks his hands aside, hooking his fingers in the waistband to slowly drag it down Jonny’s legs. He follows each inch of revealed skin with his mouth, drifting over the vulnerable, soft skin of Jonny’s inner thigh. He savors the way Jonny’s muscles tense up underneath the touch of his tongue, powerful quads bunching and releasing. When Patrick finally gets Jonny all the way naked, he has to stop and just take a minute to look at him, Jonny's long arms and legs stretching across the bed. His pulse picks up again. Jonny sure doesn't seem to mind Patrick's attention. He pillows his head on his arm, nothing self-conscious in that motion.

After a moment, he prods Patrick in the thigh with his knee. "You know how this next step goes, right?" he says.

Patrick lets out an incredulous laugh. He’s had anal sex before. What the fuck? He thinks he can figure out Jonny’s ass. “Probably done this more than you, homes,” he says, boasting wildly. He’s not actually sure. Patrick’s mostly only done it with chicks, and Jonny doesn’t give up a lot of details about his hookups with other bros. “You got stuff?”

Jonny’s amusement doesn’t dim and he nods his head at the dresser. Patrick wrenches the drawer open, leafing through papers, an expensive tube of night moisturizer, batteries, and other various odds and ends. He isn’t surprised when the squeeze bottle of lube he pulls out is equally fancy. He has to dig all the way to the bottom of the drawer to find a condom, which is just typical.

Jonny looks over and sees the bottle in his hand. “Not that one. It’s all-natural,” Jonny says. At Patrick’s stupefied expression, he raises his eyebrows and says, “It’ll dissolve the condom?”

“I know that, asswipe,” he says, flicking Jonny’s nipple, making Jonny wince and hiss. He thumbs the abused peak, gratified by the way it stiffens up. He was just imagining it, that's all—fucking Jonny bare, his dick sliding unsheathed into Jonny’s ass. It’s a good image. He tosses the lube regretfully back into the drawer and has to rummage around again to find the ‘correct’ water-based one.

When he turns back to Jonny, he’s rolled over onto his stomach and is looking at Patrick expectantly, chin pillowed on his bicep. That’s also a good image, Jonny’s beautiful skin, his bubble butt, the flex and play of the muscles in his back as he shifts minutely, getting comfortable. Fuck, Patrick’s going to ruin him, and stupid Jonny is going to enjoy every last second of it.

Patrick just touches him at first, stroking up the backs of his thighs and over his ass, still trying to keep it light, keep everything slow and steady, but Jonny's contrary, and after a second he says, "You're not convincing me you know what you're doing, buddy." He looks over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin on his face, like he's really zinged Patrick good, there.

Patrick digs his elbow into the most muscled part of Jonny's ass and shifts all his weight onto it, making him grunt and flinch up the bed. "Oh, sorry, am I boring you?" Patrick says sweetly, then sits back in a hurry as Jonny bucks upward. He pops the cap on the lube, testing the texture between his fingers. He likes it and takes another squint as the label on the bottle before he sets it aside.

He's tempted to just plunge his finger in with no warning, given Jonny's comments, but he does have some better angels. He circles Jonny's hole, pressing inside just a little, tracking the way the muscles give under his fingers, and how Jonny tenses and then relaxes, responding to his touch. He's tight when Patrick works his finger into him to the knuckle. At first Patrick just means to do a good, thorough job and then move along, but he gets distracted by the stuttering drag of his fingers as he slides them in and out, the way Jonny settles into it, shoulder blades standing out in his back for a second as he shifts and turns his head to the other side. Patrick curls his fingers to see Jonny's rim stretch around his knuckles, and Jonny lets out a quick, punched-out breath that ripples all the way down his body. Patrick slides his fingers out, pushes back in even further, and does it again. Jonny groans, and it goes right to Patrick's cock.

"Yeah, baby," Patrick breathes.

Jonny mumbles something into his arm.

"What was that?" Patrick says.

Jonny's head pops up, red-faced and disheveled. He repeats, "Where's the condom?"

Patrick smothers a smile as he tears the foil package open. He takes his time rolling it down because after the shit Jonny's given him all night, he can wait. The problem is, Jonny takes those extra few moments to push up onto his hands and knees, looking over his shoulder at Patrick in a completely calculated tease. Whatever people may say, Patrick has high standards—he can afford ‘em. Jonny sets a bar of his own though. And hell, that look in his eyes? He definitely knows it. It spurs Patrick on, past the surreal moment where he's kneeling behind Jonny, one hand on his hip, the other holding his dick. He pushes forward, achingly slowly, Jonny stretching around him, and Jonny doesn't say one thing.

Just as well, because Patrick wouldn’t have a smart comeback for him. Shit, Jonny feels good, clinging so tight, thighs vibrating with tension as Patrick pulls out on a testing stroke. When he snaps his hips, driving back in, the muscles all along Jonny’s spine tense up.

“Too much?” Patrick asks hoarsely.

A shudder goes through Jonny and he drops his head. “You’re good,” he tells Patrick, muffled into his chest and breathless.

He arches his spine, pushing his ass further back on Patrick’s dick, needy for it. There we go, Patrick thinks, flexing his fingers on Jonny’s hips, watching his dick stretch Jonny’s hole with every push back in. He lives for this—fucking—not making love, not having sex. Fucking. God gave him a big cock and Patrick is more than happy to use it. From the sounds Jonny’s making, the little bitten-off moans spilling out of his mouth, Jonny’s pretty happy about it too.

Patrick’s fucked athletes before—what happens in the Olympic Village, stays in the Olympic Village, baby—but Jonny’s strength, the way he’s meeting Patrick thrust for thrust is truly something to behold. Patrick closes his eyes, hands slipping on the shifting muscles of Jonny's sides as he pumps his hips, and when he opens them, Jonny's dropped his head to his forearm, ass tilted up against Patrick's thrusts. He’d forgotten for a second how this started, with his victory on the ice. Looking down now, Patrick feels like he’s won again. Jonny’s elbow works under his belly in time with Patrick’s strokes and his other hand is fisted tight in the sheets. He cries out when Patrick gets him right in the sweet spot, knuckles going white.

“Yeah, you like that?” Patrick asks, satisfied with himself, shoving in even deeper.

Jonny curses and resituates himself, sweat starting to stand out on his skin. Patrick palms his ass, spreading his cheeks wider, lingering as he withdraws. He’s taking his time, pulling nearly all the way out to watch Jonny’s rim catch on his cockhead. If he could take pictures of this, he would. Save them for a rainy day. When Jonny squeezes down on him as he draws back, he’s not expecting it at all, and the slick drag out of his body has Patrick seeing stars. And then Jonny does it again, and again, bearing down like he doesn’t want to let go of Patrick’s cock, just so hungry for him.

“Oh, fuck,” Patrick mutters, throwing his head back. “Fuck that’s good.”

As he gets closer, his hips speed up and he has to bite his lip against his own embarrassing moans. He must say something about it, because Jonny answers back, all ragged, “C’mon, Peeks, come in me. Want it.”

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, a hint of a whine in his voice as he keeps plunging back in, thrusting in so hard now the bed rocks against the wall with hearty thuds. “Just a little bit more.”

Jonny pushes back with his thighs, flexing into it. Patrick can only look down in dazed wonder, trying to remember the last time he had a lay this good. Who made it look like some xtube fantasy. Just then Jonny clenches down so tight around Patrick it forces a shout right out of his chest, and that’s it for Patrick. It crashes over him, and he empties himself, pressing Jonny down into the mattress, shivering and jolting with it.

He has to blink his eyes clear before he pulls out shakily, brain fuzzy and refusing to reboot. Jonny stays hunched over, hand still pulling himself off. He watches for a moment, the red flush up Jonny’s back, the motion of his arm. Should he see if Jonny wants a hand? He's so full of languor though, the thought of moving seems impossible. Jonny presses down, mouth opening onto his own arm as he comes. Problem solved.

It takes Jonny a while to relax. Enough for Patrick to strip off the condom and wash his hands in the en suite. He considers finding his clothes and heading home for a minute, but he’s beat, so he throws himself back on the bed and stretches out his legs with a yawn. Jonny shifts and blinks sleepily beside him and Patrick feels compelled to lean over and kiss him. Jonny accepts it easily, murmuring something against Patrick’s mouth. The wet sounds of their lips meeting seems suddenly loud in the room. Jonny runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair and eventually pulls away, sinking back into his pillows.

“Hey, Jonny,” Patrick asks.

“Hmm?” Jonny blinks his eyes back open.

Patrick grins. “All natural lube? Really?”

“Shut up, Kaner,” Jonny replies, shoving at his face.

*

They’re in the gym the next time Patrick thinks about fucking Jonny. Patrick doesn’t often hit things twice. He’s out to experience life, so why repeat? But Jonny was flat-out fantastic in the sack, and that’s not something Patrick thinks a lot. It came as a hell of a surprise, actually. The next morning was chill, too, nothing weird when they saw each other again, so when he sees Jonny in his tight workout shorts a couple days later and immediately pictures bending him over the next flat surface, he thinks, why not? Jonny definitely had a good time.

He walks up behind Jonny, making like he’s on the way from the bikes to the laundry, and catches his eye in the mirror when he’s partway there. Jonny gives him a nod, swiping at his face with a towel. Patrick keeps walking until he’s almost touching him, angling in like he wants to tell him a secret. Jonny raises his eyebrows.

“Looking good,” Patrick says, dropping his voice low, eyes on Jonny’s face. He knows the effect that has on people. He leans in a little closer, lets Jonny feel his dick brush against his ass. “Come back to my place tonight?”

“Hmm,” Jonny says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile.

“Been thinking about fucking you through the mattress,” Patrick tells him, letting his breath brush Jonny’s ear.

But Jonny doesn’t say ‘what time?’ like Patrick was expecting. He turns around and smacks Patrick on the butt. “Tempting,” he calls over his shoulder with a smile as he walks away.

And what in the good goddamn is that? Is that a no?

*

He puzzles over it for a few days, because who turns down great sex? Nobody does that. Certainly not Jonathan Toews, who has done many, many things in the name of getting ass. Patrick knows. Usually he was there.

But then one afternoon, he forgets his phone in one of the rooms while he was watching tape and returns for it just in time to overhear Sharpy ribbing Jonny pretty hard in the locker room where they’re still getting dressed.

“What’s this about settling down?” Sharpy says, toweling his hair. “You are so full of shit.”

“Fuck off, Sharpy,” Jonny tells him as he buttons the fly on his jeans.

“You wouldn’t know how to get through a date without bolting, son!” Sharpy replies. “It’s just fact.”

“Yeah?” Jonny replies. “Didn’t Abby have to ask you out the first five times because you were too fucking nervous?”

Seabs breaks in. “You’re serious about this?”

“Yeah, I’m serious about this, jesus,” Jonny replies. “I’m tired of hooking up.”

Patrick leaves quietly. Well, that answers that. And while yes, he’s sad that he won’t get another crack at Jonny’s ass, he can respect that. Sort of. At least he can respect that it wasn’t about Patrick at all. So Patrick does his thing. That night he goes home with somebody else. Everybody has an excellent time. She even makes Patrick breakfast the next morning.

But, he can’t stop thinking about Jonny. It’s stupid. Patrick knows what’s going on here. He has kind of an oppositional response to the word ‘no.’ It’s what got him to where he is today. Every time somebody told him ‘no’ or ‘you can’t’ it made him want it that much more and work that much harder. Jonny isn’t interested. So Patrick’s own contrariness makes him want it that much more. It was good, but having sex with Jonny wasn’t like cosmic Nirvana or whatever.

Unfortunately, he bangs four other people, and he’s still thinking about Jonny’s ass at the end of it.

It's not the end of the world or anything. He figures any day now the memory will fade into a fond recollection. Patrick's got a busy life, the next good surprise is just around the corner.

Jonny’s irritating him though. He steals pucks at every opportunity, even when Patrick's just trying to work on his stick-handling alone. He tells Patrick his fly is open right before they're about to film a TV spot, then snickers like a teenage boy when he makes Patrick glance down. "Ah, fuck off," Patrick says, elbowing him in the side. He must knock Jonny out of frame, because then they both get scolded by the director.

"Hey, Kaner, focus," Jonny says. "We've got a job to do." Asshole.

When he starts True Detective, he’s actually thanking Jonny for the recommendation, and he fucking ruins the ending. Patrick brings up how weird it is to see Matthew McConaughey play evil and Jonny looks at him like he’s stupid.

“What? Um, no, Rust didn’t do it, it’s a cult,” Jonny says.

Patrick punches him in the shoulder. “Why would you do that? Just why?”

Jonny laughs cruelly. “Oh? Who became president at the end of House of Cards, Kaner?”

Which okay, fair. Patrick did spoil the ending of that for him. But truly this bullshit cannot stand. What aggravates him further is that despite years of successfully ignoring his attraction to Jonny, all of that is over. Now he knows what Jonny tastes like, what the bare skin at the small of his back feels like, and the soft moans he makes when Patrick’s cock slides into him. And it’s weird because Jonny honestly is kind of pissy—short-tempered and feathers ruffled in a way he hasn’t been since they were kids—not what Patrick would consider a turn on. The exact opposite really.

And he’s acting like Patrick’s the one tooling it up. He makes some under-his-breath crack about Patrick needing to, direct quote, ‘blow off some steam,’ because he’s looking ‘a little hot and bothered,’ after Patrick responds sharply to Shawsy teasing him with more True Detective spoilers. Which, okay then, man, Patrick will show him ‘hot and bothered.’ He'll make Jonny solidly regret saying that one.

*

He doesn’t have to engineer sitting next to Jonny at team dinner that night, it just happens, but Patrick is a-ok with that. Just after the waiters set entrees down, Patrick makes his move. He starts with his left hand on Jonny’s knee, gratified by the way Jonny’s thigh tenses up under the pressure of his hand. He pushes his fingers into the muscles around Jonny’s kneecap and slowly starts to drag them upward, letting his fingers slide along Jonny’s inseam. Jonny shifts delicately under the table and Patrick stuffs a bite of food into his mouth to smother his grin.

He’s slow about it, hand riding higher and higher on Jonny’s thigh. Never let it be said that Patrick Kane can’t be patient. Jonny’s dick has started to swell against his thigh by the time Patrick reaches it, rubbing his thumb against the head. Jonny shifts again, scraping his fork across his plate. But when Patrick looks over at his face, he looks almost entirely unbothered. When he glances back at Patrick, his mouth is kicked up at the corner in the beginning of a smile. Patrick feels his own cheeks flush pink.

Jonny has a nice dick and he’s better groomed than most girls even. Usually though, when Patrick hooks up with dudes, he’s not terribly interested in their dicks. He’s thinking about Jonny’s now though, the hot, hard length of it firming up against his palm. He’s starting to think his plan has kind of backfired, especially when he starts sliding the fabric of Jonny’s pants back and forth over the head of his cock and all Jonny does is reach for his water glass and take a swallow.

“You alright there, Peeks?” Sharpy asks. He drops his eyes to Patrick’s plate. “You’re not eating.”

“What?” Patrick asks, startling. He tightens his hand on Jonny’s dick and Jonny actually lets out a breath. Ah, sweet justice at last.

And then Jonny blows that to hell by wiping his mouth with his napkin and asking, cool as a cucumber, “Yeah, are you okay?”

Jesus christ. Beaten at his own game. “Yeah,” he says clearing his throat and moving his food around his plate with the tines of his fork. “Uh, just, it’s not very good.”

“Uhuh,” Sharpy replies, looking nonplussed.

He pushes the heel of his hand into Jonny’s cock as soon as Sharpy looks away again, circling it. This time Jonny bites at his lip and finally reaches down to move Patrick’s hand off his dick. He keeps his fingers looped around Patrick's wrist for a second, thumb brushing against the thin skin over his pulse, before he releases Patrick and goes back to his food. His knee nudges up to press against Patrick's, who picks up his water and takes a drink to hide his expression. He almost fumbles his glass across the tablecloth setting it down. The rest of the meal passes agonizingly slowly. Jonny keeps their thighs pressed together until the very end, when he stands up with the rest of the guys and looks Patrick square in the face and jerks his head toward the door.

Patrick has to marvel for a moment at the ease with which Jonny turned the tables on him. He drags his eyes down Jonny's form as he follows behind him, and he can't even be mad.

“Why you been ridin’ me the past week?” Patrick asks between kisses as soon as they’re through the door to Jonny’s hotel room.

“Maybe you’re a shitty lay,” Jonny says.

Patrick snorts. “We both know that’s not true.”

Jonny pulls away long enough to see-saw his hand in the air, which is just ridiculous, especially since he starts working his way down the buttons of his shirt. Patrick tugs him forward by the open wings of his dress shirt, drawing him close enough that he can mouth at the line of his neck, making him gasp. Yeah, he remembers how Jonny likes that.

They separate long enough to get the rest of the way naked. Jonny keeps groping Patrick as they stumble to the bed, payback for Patrick’s stunt at the dinner table, and Patrick ends up tripping over the edge of the mattress and falling onto the bed, pulling Jonny after him. He rolls over and pins him, nipping at Jonny’s lip as he rubs his hardening cock against Jonny’s thigh. Jonny huffs, amused, tilting his head to get away from Patrick’s teeth, before executing a neat turn of his own that lands Patrick flat on his back with Jonny on top of him.

“Hey there,” Patrick drawls, grinning. He runs his hands up the backs of Jonny’s thighs and over his ass. He pauses, then does it again. Who knows if this is another one-time deal? If Jonny’s serious about looking for love, probably. Patrick’s gotta get his groping in now.

“You sound like you’re going to ask me if I come here often,” Jonny says. He leans down and pulls Patrick into another kiss before Patrick can point out that he already knows Jonny will. It’s for the best. Patrick already knows Jonny’s got some sharp teeth on him.

Eventually, Jonny breaks the kiss and sits back, running his hand over his disordered hair. He glances around and says absently, “I think I brought stuff with me,” before getting up off the bed and walking over to his bag, naked. The shifting of muscle under smooth skin as he crouches down is something Patrick would pay to watch.

Jonny stands up and turns around, walking back to the bed. Patrick stretches and crosses his arms behind his head, appreciating the view. Jonny shakes his head, kneeing his way back up the mattress with the lube and condom in one fist. “What are you doing, lazy?” he asks, and jabs a finger into Patrick’s side where he’s most ticklish.

Patrick yelps, dropping his arms and curling around his midsection. “What the fuck?” he says, indignant, and reaches out to grapple with Jonny, who drops the lube and condom onto the floor at the side of the bed.

“So you can move!” Jonny says, scrabbling his fingers across Patrick’s sensitive ribs. He’s already got the advantage, straddling Patrick, and Patrick bucks up, trying to get leverage, even as he twists away from Jonny’s hands. He manages to roll them back over when Jonny unbalances and almost falls off the bed, and then Jonny’s the one underneath his hands. Patrick pins Jonny’s wrists to the mattress and drags his chin down Jonny’s sternum, feeling Jonny flinch as he catches at the knots of muscle and bone there.

“Cheap shot,” Jonny pants.

“You started this,” Patrick says. Jonny wrenches his wrist up, almost breaking free, and his entire body lurches against Patrick’s. When Patrick pushes down, he ends up right over Jonny’s cock. For one second, Jonny just stops. Before Patrick has time to think it through, he’s sliding down, hands still braceleting Jonny’s arms, and putting his mouth right on the head of Jonny’s dick. Jonny makes a surprised noise above him, muscles slackening like Patrick just cut the puppet strings.

Patrick glances up to find Jonny staring down at him, eyes dark. This is so not how he saw this going when he got up from that table, yet Patrick finds himself snaking his tongue out, curling it over the slick head, expression mischievous. This is probably an unfair way to win a fight, but Patrick believes in pressing his advantages. The thing is—he’s only planning on messing with Jonny for a little bit and then pulling off and going for the condom, but the first salty jet of precome hits his tongue and Patrick finds himself sliding Jonny’s dick deeper into his mouth. He's not into giving head, so he thought it was pretty clear that Jonny was going to have to take a pass on that, and now here he is. It’s kind of hot to have Jonny’s eyes on him like this, unwavering, as Patrick experimentally slides his tongue under his foreskin. Jonny’s expression doesn’t change, but his thighs tense up as Patrick starts to suck, letting go of Jonny’s wrists to tighten his fist on the shaft.

Patrick closes his eyes as he starts to get into a slow rhythm, Jonny's dick hardening in Patrick's mouth. The muscles of Jonny's stomach quiver like he's trying to move forward and keep still at the same time. Patrick’s no expert at this. His spit’s running down Jonny’s shaft and he’s finding it difficult to coordinate the motion of his hand and his mouth. He’s not sure how long he’s gonna be able to keep this up, choking himself a little on Jonny’s cock. Actually, he’s thinking he’s going to have to call this whole thing off. But then Jonny reaches down, threading his fingers through Patrick’s curls, pushing them back behind his ears. Something about it, the soft scrape of Jonny’s fingers, the way he breathes out as Patrick slurps messily at the head of his dick, makes him aware of the way he’s shoving his own hardon against the bedsheets.

He flushes bright red. Sucking Jonathan Toews’ dick is turning him on. When he opens his eyes and looks up to meet Jonny’s gaze as he runs his lips up the head, he can see that Jonny knows it too. He quickly shuts them again, cheeks blazing even hotter. Jonny had better come soon.

He takes Jonny’s dick as far into his mouth as he can, struggling a little around the width of it, doing his best to keep his teeth covered. He’s so focused on it, that when when Jonny starts talking it takes him aback, makes him shiver. “Ungh, Peeks, feels good,” he says simply. His hand curves around Patrick’s jaw, thumb coming to rest at the corner of Patrick’s mouth where his lips are stretched wide. His heart pounds harder and harder in his chest. He keeps waiting for Jonny to make some crack about his pretty pink mouth, but it never comes. Instead, Jonny twists a little, under him, like he’s struggling not to thrust up, hand dropping back down to the sheets, and repeats, soft and breathy, “Making me feel so good.”

Jonny sounds like he’s losing it. Which, shit, fuck, goddamn, Patrick couldn’t come the first time a virgin blew him. That’s heady stuff. He’s figured out by now that Jonny doesn’t need him to choke on it, that he likes pressure soft and wet at the head. When Patrick pulls Jonny’s foreskin back and just licks at him, a shudder passes through him. He’s easy to read, Patrick thinks, and then has to thrust his cock down against the bed hard lest he come just from Jonny’s dick in his mouth.

“Mmm,” Jonny breathes, turning his cheek into his pillow, even as he reaches down and trails a finger over Patrick’s ear. “Just like that,” he says when Patrick starts sucking hard, hollowing his cheeks around the crown. He pants, stomach dipping, ab muscles tightening up, with each swiftly indrawn breath. Oh fuck, Jonny looks so good like this, falling apart under Patrick’s hands and mouth.

He tells Patrick he’s coming moments before it happens and Patrick pulls off, watching Jonny jizz up his own stomach, body curling inward like he just had one of the best orgasms of his life. Patrick’s lips feel hot and abraded, and as he sits there, pulse throbbing in his temples, watching Jonny come down, he thinks, I have to get off right now.

He’s not prepared for Jonny to weakly shove the condom and the lube over at him. “You uh...you don’t mind…” Patrick stops. He really wants to fuck Jonny, and the last thing he wants to do is dissuade him from the idea just because he came already. If Jonny’s down, Patrick’s more than down. Only, Jonny’s murmuring something dreamily, orgasm flush slowly leaving his chest.

“I guess you earned it,” Jonny tells him, rolling onto his side. He shifts so that the muscles in his ass flex tantalizingly, distracting Patrick for a long moment before his words register. Jesus, sex with Jonny is so weird, Patrick never knew he could feel so irritated and turned on at the same time. He's going to fuck the patronizing comments right out of him, make Jonny come a second time right on his dick. He reaches down and gives himself a quick squeeze, just for a second of relief, before he picks up the lube.

Jonny made Patrick take his time last time, but that's nothing compared to how slowly he goes this time. Jonny's more sensitive under Patrick's hand, doesn't react the same way when Patrick pushes in and curls his fingers. He hisses, legs widening, hiding his face in the pillow as Patrick works them in and out. Pressing in close, Patrick finds himself wrapping his body around Jonny as he fingers him open, kissing along his shoulder, because Jonny liked that. Jonny arches his neck, eyelids flickering as Patrick works his wrist in a slow circle. His lips part, and when Patrick curves over his shoulder and kisses the side of his mouth, Jonny turns his head and returns it at a slow, luxurious tempo. They break apart and Patrick keeps kissing his way down Jonny's neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin under his ear. Jonny stirs and pushes back against Patrick's hand like it's starting to feel good again.

It's gotten quiet in the room. Patrick almost startles when Jonny's throat vibrates under his mouth as he says, "Look at you, pacing yourself."

Patrick snorts into his shoulder, pulling his fingers free. “Way to ruin the mood, Toews.”

“‘Zat so?” Jonny asks, arching his back so that his ass brushes against Patrick’s cock.

“Fuck off,” Patrick says with a laugh.

“Well get on with it, son,” Jonny tells him. “I don’t have all night.”

Patrick stares at Jonny’s neck, incredulous. This should be a total dick softener. Patrick likes ‘em mouthy, but he doesn’t actually like having his every move questioned. It’s like some weird opposite world though, where everything that Jonny does that absolutely shouldn’t work for him, is totally working for him. Patrick wants to get in there and fuck him until he’s sobbing. And then he wants to do it again.

He fumbles around for the condom and then when he finds it, rolls it on slow and careful, making Jonny idle a bit.

“Get on your knees and grab the headboard,” he says, swatting Jonny on the thigh.

Jonny stares at him, eyes half-lidded like he’s considering a no. Like he’s gonna make Patrick make him. Patrick almost wants him to do it, to see where that would take it. But Jonny slowly does as he’s told, knee-walking up the bed to grab the headboard, widening his stance so that he sinks down just enough, ass tilted up. Patrick looks him over for a minute—his lube shiny hole, the minute twitch of the muscles in his back as he waits for Patrick to do something, the vulnerable nape of his neck.

After a long moment of just drinking Jonny in, Patrick finally moves, kneeling in close behind Jonny’s slightly spread thighs. Just as he’s lining himself up, Jonny turns his head, already opening his mouth to demand Patrick get on it with. Patrick can see it on his face, that classic impatience he knows so well from many years of fighting on and off the ice. Jonny stops, silent, teeth sunk into his lip, as Patrick slowly forces his cock into his ass. He must get the angle just right, because on the second of Patrick's initial short strokes, Jonny shudders and bites back a shout, hands tightening on the headboard. Patrick rolls his hips and Jonny does it again, kindling smug satisfaction in Patrick's chest. He grips Jonny firmly around the waist and keeps going.

His dick looks as good going into Jonny's ass as it did the first time, and the way Jonny arches up when Patrick drags across his prostate makes Patrick want to stay here all damn day. He's got no idea how long he's been in this room. It feels like he's been hard for a million years already, and now, finally, he can fuck Jonny like he'd been picturing since he saw him in that weight room. Jonny braces his arms, biceps and forearms taut, holding himself firm against every powerful shove of Patrick’s hips.

“Ungh,” Jonny breathes, widening his stance, knuckles whitening as he grips the headboard tighter. “Not quite so—not quite so deep, Peeks.”

Even as he adjusts, the rush of masculine pride that goes through him is undeniable. This is his cock that Jonny’s struggling to take.

“I can fucking hear what you’re thinking,” Jonny tells him.

Patrick chuckles into Jonny’s shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Mmm, you’re thinking about how you’re fucking me open on your ‘big, fat cock’ isn’t that right? You’re thinking about how you’re making me take every inch of it. Never had somebody as big as you. Isn’t that right, Peeks?”

“You said it, not me, baby,” Patrick replies, skimming his lips up the side of Jonny’s throat. Positioned like this it’s easy to sweep his hands up and down Jonny’s body, flat palms running over his skin. He stops at Jonny’s broad chest to tweak his nipples to hardness, while he sucks soft kisses into the skin of his shoulder.

“You like it,” he says, right in Jonny’s ear, voice pitched low, before scraping his teeth down the lobe.

In response, Jonny tightens down on Patrick's dick with a quick, brutal squeeze of pressure that makes him swear, eyes closing as he struggles not to come too soon. If he admits that, though, Jonny's going to win this little contest, and he can't have that. He’s gonna fucking last.

"Do that—fuck, do that again," he stutters, lying through his teeth like he’s not inches away from losing it. He's got a goal here.

He wraps his hand around Jonny's dick, starting to jerk him off, and that just makes it worse as Jonny shakes and clenches down on him involuntarily. Patrick curves around Jonny with his entire front plastered to his back, one hand coming down near Jonny's on the headboard to hold on with desperate fingers and anchor himself against the clutch of Jonny’s body.

Jonny groans at the change in angle, head falling back to the hollow of Patrick’s shoulder. When Patrick drags Jonny’s foreskin back and forth over the head of his dick, he turns his face into Patrick’s neck, chanting, “Fuck. Please, god, right there.” He sounds like he’s right on the edge of coming. His breath ruffles in short puffs against Patrick’s sweat-damp skin. All Patrick has to do is hold on. He starts to jab his hips in with short strokes, vision tunneling as his muscles tighten up.

He’s not going to make it, he isn’t, he’s thinking that as he thrusts in, a sob caught in his throat. “Christ,” he says hoarsely in an obscene prayer, head tipping forward, and his orgasm gets wrenched out of him. He shakes, thrust in so deep Jonny chokes. His heart pounds in his chest, breaths gone thready, it’s almost painful. He can feel the throb of it in his head, spots dancing in front of his eyes, like he just pedaled hard at max resistance on the bike and now desperately needs air. It’s difficult to keep himself from sagging back to the bed, but Jonny’s muttering epithets, dick hard and wet in his hand. Patrick pushes in even closer, resting his forehead on Jonny’s shoulder as he speeds his hand up, but it’s like Patrick’s orgasm gets Jonny the rest of the way there, because barely a few moments later, he’s shuddering hard within Patrick’s embrace, jizz exploding all over Patrick’s fist, before he reaches down and stills Patrick’s wrist.

“F—fuck,” he breathes, sounding about as destroyed as Patrick feels. At some point his hand came down on top of Patrick’s on the headboard and he flexes his fingers between Patrick’s. Patrick didn’t even notice he’d done it until this moment, but now Jonny’s relaxing his grip, dropping his arms to his sides and finally, finally, Patrick can collapse back to the bed, spent.

He’s still catching his breath, eyes closed, when he feels the mattress shift next to him. He cracks one eye open. He’s willing to shift over a couple inches if Jonny needs more space, but no more. His arms and legs feel like jelly. But, no. They can’t have been lying here longer than two minutes, but Jonny’s already moving to the side of the bed, swinging his feet to the floor. Patrick rolls his head to the side. Even his jaw aches slightly.

Jonny’s humming tunelessly as he wanders off to the en suite. The shower turns on. Jonny’s jizz is still rapidly drying on the headboard, and he’s off taking a shower? Patrick doesn’t even want to think about moving. He’s wrung out, and he thought Jonny was in the same state.

Was Jonny exaggerating that shit? He came twice. Patrick hasn’t come twice since he was in his teens and spending a significant portion of his non-hockey time loving his right hand. Whatever. This line of thinking is a buzz-kill.

Still, though. Sex with Jonny is weird. He’s not used to feedback that isn’t “yes” and people calling out his name at increasing intervals. Or people demanding so damn much of him. Usually his dick is enough for them. PKane in the flesh, so to speak.

*

It's really started bothering him the next morning though. Patrick knows you can't fake that shit. Dicks are refreshingly straightforward that way. But there are highlight reel goals and then there are greasy garbage goals. Not every time you get off leaves you breathless and so rocked you forget your own name. So maybe Jonny was kinda exaggerating how good a time he was having.

What the fuck? He doesn't even know why he cares. Only, he’s getting hot just remembering last night, and it seems kinda lame that Patrick got off so hard and Jonny was barely even winded. Hell, he gave Jonny a blowjob. He’s not exactly passing those out like party favors and that at least deserves some recognition.

He's trying not to stress about it all through practice and back at home. There are plenty of people who want up on his business, and he keeps reminding himself that Jonny’s looking for his person now, or whatever. His forever girl, boy, something. Even if the sex is good and Jonny were fool enough to look in his direction, he’s after something Patrick Timothy Kane can’t give him. He’s not interested in that shit. He is a free spirit, a man of the world, and it would be a shame to waste all this goodness on just one person when he could be spreading the wealth.

A couple days later, he ends up on the phone with Erica, trying to get her to stop telling him about her date with some loser named Ron, who she actually met at a wine-tasting class.

“It was so bad,” she complains. “First he told me he had to be on top ‘cause otherwise he wouldn’t be able to get off. Have you ever fucking said that in your life?”

Patrick stares up at his ceiling. “Please stop telling me about your sex life,” he begs, absently rotating his left arm back and forth.

“And then,” she says, picking up steam, “he didn’t have any other settings between, like, zero and 60. Why do guys do that?”

“That sucks,” Patrick says. “This guy sounds like a lame-o. Block his number.”

“He’s just pounding away, like the way I’ll find happiness is by being stabbed with his magic dick,” Erica says. “Spoiler alert, I did not find happiness.”

Patrick groans, and covers his eyes. “Why?” he says sadly, trying not to think about the last person he fucked, who was Jonny. Who seemed to appreciate Patrick’s dick just fine.

“He was so promising earlier,” Erica says. “I think that’s the worst part. He could’ve done so much better. Like, he was good at kissing. What is it about guys and their penises?”

“I’m hanging up now,” Patrick says.

“No!” Erica says. “Wait! Wait wait wait wait,” her voice goes tinny as Patrick brings his phone away from his ear. “I need an answer!”

Patrick hits “end,” and sags back on the couch. He scrubs his hands through his hair and drags his palms down the sides of his face like that’ll induce amnesia. He has a feeling that turn of phrase is going to stay with him for a while, unfortunately. “Stabbed with his dick,” he mouths. It gives him some uncomfortable food for thought, especially when he can’t stop going over his last sexual encounter.

He amply demonstrated his skill there, though. Sure, Jonny might’ve given him shit, but that’s just what they do. Probably. Patrick’s ninety percent certain. He fingered Jonny to within an inch of his life. No way is Patrick a bad lay.

He gets up from the couch and heads for the door. He wants a workout and then a massage. He’s feeling all jittery, probably because he’s been cooped up in his own home all day. Time to get the blood moving.

Patrick doesn't obsess over things exactly. But he's a lot less relaxed than people try to make him out to be, and also, these days especially far less zen than King-of-positive Jonny. So yeah, it's still bugging him hours later, after he's had a couple beers and tried to rewatch a few episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia. Did Jonny feel like Patrick had just pounded away at him without any care? It couldn't be. Jonny came both times. He got Patrick fucking Kane to suck his dick. He should be amply satisfied. Of course the only remedy for this is more beers.

He moves to his bedroom after a while, when sitting upright on the couch starts to seem like a worse choice than being in his bed. He takes the beer with him, though, because that way he won't have to keep getting up. He should just get a mini-fridge for his bedroom.

"Mini-fridge," Patrick mutters. He needs to remember this. He digs through his nightstand drawer, looking for a pen and some paper. There are so many great ideas he's lost because he fell asleep before he could write them down. He finds a handful of cough drops, travel tissues, a Walgreens receipt, and a strip of condoms. His bottle of lube rattles under his fingertips. Patrick stops. Holy shit, he could just answer this question once and for all. This is better than the beer thing. He pulls the bottle out and tosses it on the bed, then shuffles his way out of his pants and shorts and kicks his covers out of the way.

The cap on the lube is weirdly tricky to open. He has to pry at the join in the lid, and ends up with a line of it squirted across his fingers. Whatever, though, no one ever cried about too much lube. He reaches down and smears it across his hole, massaging in little circles a couple times, which feels okay, but doesn't light his world on fire. On the TV, Danny DeVito is spitting mouthfuls of pistachio shells across a therapist’s office. He pops the tip of his finger inside, and oh, that feels weird. Not even really good. His rim contracts around his finger, and wiggling it just makes Patrick real aware that he doesn’t ever do this. When he slides his finger in and out, that ring of muscle stays tight. There’s enough lube to make it a glide, but it’s still not a good time. Patrick’s gotta find his prostate. He pokes around a little more, trying to circle his fingertip and crook his finger, but all it feels like is pressure. This is bullshit. And boring. Maybe one finger isn’t enough. He’s pretty damn sure he got Jonny with his dick, and that’s way wider than one finger.

Two fingers doesn’t set any sparkling fireworks off in his ass either. Now he’s just uncomfortably stretched open around his knuckles, contemplating a third finger. But his wrist is starting to hurt from the jacked up angle and his butt is honestly a little sore. Holy god, either everything he’s ever heard about prostates were horrible lies or he doesn’t have one. It would totally figure that his butt wouldn’t come with one. That is just his kind of luck.

He doesn’t remember getting his phone out and he certainly doesn’t remember dialing Jonny, but Jonny picks up a few moments later, sounding sleepy and unamused.

“I don’t have a prostate,” he informs Jonny as soon as he says hello.

“What?” Jonny asks, sounding a bit out of it still.

“I’m looking around in here. In my butt that is.” He shoves a little viciously with his fingers trying to find it and interrupts himself with a grunt. “There is no prostate.”

“What?” Jonny demands again, sounding way more alert. “Patrick, you couldn’t come without one!”

“Well I don’t know where it is, but it’s not in here.”

“Jesus christ, what are you even doing right now?”

Patrick looks down his body, at his very sad unerect cock, and his hand disappearing between his thighs. “I got two fingers in my ass,” Patrick explains. “I think they’re stuck.”

“They are not stuck,” Jonny replies, sounding a little odd.

“Jonnyyyyyy,” Patrick replies, “I don’t know how I’ve been making you come. Like, where the hell is it? I mean you have one. You weren’t lying to me?”

“Lying to you!” There’s a noise at the other end of the line, a muffled thud followed by several weird sounds. It takes Patrick a moment to realize that Jonny has dropped his phone from laughing. Jonny must fumble it back up to his ear, because after what seems like a solid minute of listening to him laugh, he says, “Pardon me. I’m sorry, you were telling me your fingers were stuck?”

Patrick pulls his fingers free with a wince. Fuck, oh lord. Who does that? Who sticks things up their butts? Morons, clearly.

“It’s not funny!” he moans into the speaker. “The sex has been bad. I am bad at sex. I’ve been stabbing you with my dick.”

“You uh...you…” he breaks off, clearly struggling not to start laughing again. Asshole. He clears his throat and says firmly, “Patrick, you’re drunk. Go drink some water and go to bed. After,” he amends hastily, “you pull your fingers out.”

As if Patrick’s gonna walk to the kitchen with his thumb up his butt. Thanks man, real nice. “I already did!”

“Oh good,” Jonny says, “I’m very proud of you.”

“Bah,” Patrick replies, hanging up the call and tossing his phone aside. Jonny sucks. Patrick goes to get himself another beer. Fuck the water.

That turns out to be a terrible idea. When he wakes up the next morning his head is pounding and his mouth is dry as a desert. When he rolls himself out of bed, his phone clatters to the carpet.

“What?” he announces, staring at it. The screen looks like it’s been smeared liberally with lube. The entire night comes roaring back to him in high definition. Motherfucker. It takes a moment to psych himself up to even unlock the phone and see what damage he could’ve done before passing out.

Luckily he only finds one text to Jonny: There is no god and there is no prostate.

*

When he sees Jonny the next day, he’s grinning pretty hard.

"Yeah, okay," Patrick says, resigned. He opens his arms in a lay-it-on-me gesture.

"Hey, just happy to see that you didn't give yourself a, uh, lower-body injury," Jonny says, smirking.

"Clever," Patrick says. He hunches his shoulders and puts his hands in his pockets. He wants to go hit something, preferably a puck with his stick on the ice.

"Ah, cheer up," Jonny says, clapping him on the back. "Like that's the worst thing you've ever drunk-dialed me about." They start moving toward the locker room doors. "At least you weren't asking me where your toilet was in your own bathroom. Again."

That was totally understandable. Patrick had wandered into his closet by accident and gotten confused by the mirrors. "Post-Cup, that doesn't count," he says, and knocks Jonny's hand off him.

"Yeah, the first time was post-Cup," Jonny says. He wanders away chuckling before Patrick can respond with a hit list of Jonny's most embarrassing moments.

Patrick steals the puck from Jonny at every opportunity during practice, the last time so brazenly that Jonny shouts, "Come on!" at him as he skates away. Jonny snow-showers him later in retaliation, but Patrick still steps off the ice more cheerfully than he'd stepped on.

Back at home a few hours later, he trips over the half-empty bottle of lube when he’s puttering around his bedroom, and he’s reminded that he still hasn’t solved the prostate question. Now that he’s not drunk and has looked up some anatomical diagrams on the internet, he knows he’s got one, somewhere up there, although it’ll probably kill his majestic wrists trying to find it. He stares hard at the bottle lying on the floor, contemplating.

The doorbell rings before he can move to pick it up. When Patrick squints through the peephole, he sees Jonny on the other side. He pulls the door open.

“Did you think of another zinger? ‘Cause it still won’t make up for the way I beat you at practice today,” Patrick says. He steps out of the way.

Jonny shakes his head as he enters, scoffing. “That’s not what happened, but no. Not exactly.” He gives Patrick a pointed look. “I thought I could help you out. If you want.”

They’d been moving down the hall toward the living room. Patrick comes to a stop, Jonny at his back. He scowls, feeling an embarrassed flush rising. "I can find my own prostate, thanks.”

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Really? ‘Cuz from here, it looks like you could use an assist.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick says. “Why don’t you fuck yourself if you’re so interested.”

Jonny squints at Patrick incredulously, and then he tilts his head and the creases in his forehead smooth out. He meets Patrick’s gaze squarely for a long moment. Just like that, looking Patrick up and down, he’s no longer just Jonny, chirping at him and getting him back for a drunk-dial, he’s the guy Patrick’s had sex with twice, who’s interested in having sex again.

Patrick runs his tongue over his teeth and leans back against the wall. “Whatever, fine. But I’m going on record now, there’s nothing of note up there. Because prostates are lies.”

Jonny steps in closer, eyes crinkling as he suppresses amusement. “Sure. Go on record.”

Patrick lets out an irritated little growl and tugs Jonny’s head down for a kiss, fingers curling in the short fine hairs at the nape of his neck. Jonny goes easily enough, tugging Patrick in by his hips. They make out in the hallway for a while, and Jonny's hands slide around to the small of Patrick's back. He cups Patrick's ass and squeezes, and Patrick shifts forward into his space, rubbing up against him, then turns and leads him into his bedroom.

Jonny lets go of Patrick and picks up the lube bottle from the floor when they get inside. "Nice," he says, laughing.

"Hey, at least it's readily available," Patrick shoots back, refusing to be embarrassed. "Didn't have to hunt for it, unlike some people."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's why it was on the floor. Convenience," Jonny says. There’s a casual sort of arrogance to Jonny, who always knows when he’s good at something. He’s so certain and confident in himself that he doesn’t need others to build him up, or even to remark upon it himself. People mistake that ease and surety for self-deprecation, but Patrick has always seen right through that selfless Canadian boy act. Deep down they’re just the same. Standing there, lube in his hand, Jonny’s pretty proud of himself right now, and in front of just Patrick, he’s not going to bother to hide it. He can be sharp-edged like this, but Patrick has always found that compelling. He hopes Jonny’s forever person, whenever he finally finds them, doesn’t cut themselves on those edges. In the mean time, Patrick digs that confidence, turned on by it even though the search for his prostate sounds like a major downer.

Jonny's within arm's reach still, so Patrick takes advantage of it to grab a fistful of his t-shirt and start pulling. "Take this off," Patrick says. "Give me something to look at. I'll probably need it."

Jonny snorts, but tugs his shirt off anyway and then moves to help Patrick undress. He gets Patrick stripped and on his back on the bed, knees bent with Jonny kneeling between them, and then just starts touching Patrick all over, a light teasing whisper of his fingertips. Not touching his dick, but rubbing up his thighs, and when Patrick shifts restlessly on the bed, aroused almost against his will, he strokes gently over his perineum. Jonny’s face is intent, eyes downcast and lower lip caught between his teeth as he slowly drags his fingertips over the same spot just below Patrick’s balls. He's never paid this much attention to his taint in his life.

"Get on with it," Patrick tells him, thigh muscles tightening in nervous anticipation.

"Perfection is not to be rushed," Jonny replies, grinning. He chooses that moment to push down hard, and Patrick watches in frozen shock as precome bubbles down the head of his dick and onto his abs. It's embarrassing, but when Jonny does it again Patrick’s eyelids flutter and an unconscious moan filters past his lips.

Jonny just keeps doing it until that strip of skin is so sensitized, every delicate touch is almost too much. His dick is angry and red against his belly, plumped up to full hardness. Patrick's so distracted, desperate for Jonny to do something, he barely notices the sound of the lube cap popping off.

“You ready?” Jonny asks, circling Patrick’s hole teasingly with one lube-wet finger.

“Yeah, for like, the last ten years, jesus,” Patrick replies, throwing an arm over his face. He’s kind of looking forward to the giant ‘I told you so’ as soon as Jonny tries to do his thing.

Jonny huffs, but he pushes his first finger in nice and slow. It goes in easy though, Patrick’s kind of annoyed. He’s even more annoyed when Jonny flicks his wrist up and drives right into it on the first try.

Jonny laughs at his startled grunt.

“Shut up, Jonny,” Patrick grits out, even as his hips tilt upward seeking more of that contact. Trying to hold himself back from arching into it and giving Jonny more ammo, he squeezes his eyes shut. There’s nothing about this sensation that’s going to replace his dick, but fucking christ, if this is what it’s supposed to feel like, no way was he anywhere close last night. He opens his mouth to cry out and Jonny bends down and darts his tongue past his parted lips, taking him in a filthy kiss as he's curling his fingers right into the gland. He moans straight into Jonny’s mouth, sucking on his tongue, a little helpless.

Jonny pulls away after a moment, trailing his lips over Patrick’s face, before resituating himself so that he’s on his side, rather than awkwardly propped between Patrick’s thighs, trying to give his arm room to move. He has better leverage this way and Patrick can’t help lifting his head to watch Jonny slide his fingers in and out.

“Fuck, I have no clue where the prostate is,” Patrick mutters, dropping his head back to the pillow and throwing his arm across his eyes. So much for not stabbing Jonny with his dick.

“It's easier to get it with a dick, fool,” Jonny replies, sliding a second finger inside and angling it upward, pressing in a way that makes Patrick want to swallow his own tongue. For one bright, hot moment, Patrick imagines Jonny fucking him. He tries to banish it from his mind, because uh, Jonny’s entire cock in his ass does not sound like a good time, but it takes on life in his head, until he's picturing Jonny over him and inside him. He reaches down to grab at the sheets, his nails catching on the fabric, and groans.

"Like that, eh?" Jonny says. He keeps moving his hand at that angle, draped over Patrick's body, and it does feel good, but that wasn't what sent Patrick reeling for a second. But, sure, he'll take it. He opens his eyes and catches Jonny staring at him intently, that flush on his face he gets when he's aroused. Jonny's into this, and for whatever reason, that sends Patrick's nerves flaring. The next thrust of Jonny's fingers makes his mouth drop open as he takes a harsh breath.

His dick leaks across his belly, he can't keep himself from writhing up, following Jonny's hand. It's not quite enough to get him there. He can see now why Jonny needs a little extra help, because he's got one hand twisted in his own hair, the other clenched in the sheets as he bucks up, fruitlessly trying to get over that last hurdle, and it's not going to happen.

He lets go of the sheets and wraps his hand around his own dick, making a choked noise of relief. Jonny breathes out a laugh, low and soft in Patrick's ear. "So that's where we are?"

"Shit, Jonny," Patrick grits out. If Jonny's not going to give him what he needs, he'll have to take it, nothing wrong with that.

But even as he thinks that, Jonny shifts position on the bed, bending to take the head of Patrick's dick in his mouth, going down until his lips brush Patrick’s fingers where they’re curved around the shaft. Patrick groans at that sudden wet heat on his cock and the soft touch of Jonny's lips against his hand. Jonny sucks hard, curling his fingertips over his prostate at the same time, and Patrick digs his head into the pillow, his entire body shaking as he struggles not to push up into Jonny's mouth. All it takes is a couple more pulls of Jonny’s hollowed cheeks and that’s it, that’s all she wrote. Patrick doesn’t even get a chance to say anything in warning before he comes. Christ, though, Jonny brought that on himself.

Jonny sits up, face flushed, hair ruffled. Patrick’s entire body buzzes. He lets his feet slide down, legs sagging flat on the bed. Does Jonny expect Patrick to be useful right now? His hands feel like mittens. He blinks slowly, and then just lets his eyes close for a second as Jonny shifts around, feeling the mattress flex under him. He must space out for a moment, because the shower's on in the other room when he opens his eyes, and Jonny's not next to him in bed anymore.

When he slides to his feet and pads over to the doorway to investigate, he finds Jonny in the shower, one palm braced against the wall, eyes shut tight as he jerks himself off. Patrick licks his lips, eyes darting between the steady, casual rhythm of Jonny's hand on his dick and the cascade of water sheeting over his shoulder and back, that proud arch of his neck all the way down to his ass. It's mesmerizing.

Jonny turns in the spray and opens his eyes, catching sight of Patrick through the billowing clouds of steam fogging up the bathroom. "You gonna give me a hand?" he asks.

Patrick startles. "Yeah, of course," he says, even though it hadn't actually occurred to him yet, to move past looking at Jonny and start touching him.

He steps into the stall and loops his arm around Jonny's waist. Jonny widens his stance and leans back into him, then lets out a breath as Patrick curls his hand around his hard dick. Patrick hooks his chin over Jonny's shoulder and watches himself stroking him off. He likes doing this in the shower. It hits a spot he didn't anticipate. Patrick spent a lot of formative years showering naked with other dudes, and when he was fifteen he had a pretty sweet fantasy worked out, before he moved on to actual sex and forgot all about it. So the fact that he's got Jonny here, a teammate, and he's jerking him off while the water pours over them...it sends an illicit thrill through him. He turns his face into Jonny's neck, blinking water out of his eyes. Patrick's eyelashes tickle Jonny's skin and he shudders, body pushing up into Patrick's hands.

He’s warm in Patrick’s arms, skin hot to the touch even despite the water. Patrick runs his nose up the back of Jonny’s neck and is gratified by the way he lets out a low contented murmur, sinking back into Patrick. He drops his mouth to that same spot, brushing his lips across it, before opening his mouth to suck at the wet skin, tongue tracing over the prominent knob at the top of his spine. Jonny doesn’t hold out on him for much longer, he comes with a muttered oath, Patrick working him through it.

Jonny leans on him for a long moment afterward before he straightens up and turns. Patrick's hands skip across his stomach and sides to settle low on his back, and then he bends his head and slants their mouths together. They kiss without urgency, leisurely and soft, until Patrick gets tired of tipping his head back, and loosens his grip, turning his face to the side.

Jonny’s palms slide over the wings of his shoulder blades, then creep down his back to rest on the swell of his ass. He clears his throat, the sound vibrating against Patrick’s own mouth. “So,” Jonny says, and just from that one word, Patrick can feel the smirk he’s probably wearing. “For the record, how’d we do?”

Sheesh. “Eh,” Patrick drawls, pulling back and letting go so he can see-saw his hand in front of Jonny’s face, then laughs when Jonny pushes him under the shower-head.

“Can’t lie to me, loser, I saw you passed out on that bed,” Jonny says, muffled by the water.

“Then why the hell are you even asking?” Patrick demands. He swipes his face clear and goes for the soap, starting to wash up.

Jonny just hums a considering noise and plucks the soap from Patrick’s hand in a blatant act of thievery. Patrick opens his mouth to protest, but Jonny’s hands start skating over Patrick’s skin, cleaning him up, which is nice. Jonny makes an appreciative noise when Patrick trades places with him under the shower spray and returns the favor.

He doesn’t stick around after he’s out of the shower and dressed. It’s kind of a shame. By the time they’d finished, Patrick was turned on again, dick trying to harden in his shorts. He closes the door behind Jonny and adjusts himself, then slouches over to the couch. Another erection, and no one around to help him deal with it.

*

Patrick’s doing his best not to spend all his time watching Jonny ever since they started fucking around. A) because he has to think about other things besides getting his dick wet and B) because it’s hard to keep your secret occasional hookup with your captain on the DL if you’re staring at his sweet ass all day long. But after a rough practice hard on the heels of a shoddy, embarrassing loss, Patrick’s really too exhausted to think about where his eyes are wandering. He just lets himself look a little bit while he’s sitting in front of his stall trying to catch his breath, as Jonny pulls his UnderArmour up over his head, revealing the smooth planes of his back and the gentle dip in his spine just before the flare of his ass. God, but it’s a sweet ass. Jonny rubs at the back of his neck, distractedly, and that’s when Patrick notices the bruise underneath his fingertips. A hickey, left by Patrick’s mouth when he was biting and sucking at that tense muscle in Jonny’s neck. He goes hot all over, wondering if Jonny even knows that it’s there. Jonny hits the showers while he’s thinking about it.

Patrick scrambles up off the bench to get out of his gear. He’s not into that possessive shit or anything, but he’s got the strong desire to put another one of those bruises on Jonny’s throat. He hadn’t even had any real plans to get laid tonight, but when opportunity and inclination presents itself who is Patrick to say no.

“Whoa, tiger,” Jonny says, when Patrick catches up to him in the parking lot.

There’s nobody in sight but Patrick still takes a quick glance around, before reaching out and tugging Jonny into a kiss. Jonny gasps, but he kisses him back, losing himself for a moment. Patrick throws his arm around Jonny’s neck, pressing his entire body to Jonny’s front, letting him feel the beginning swell of his dick, before Patrick steps away. Jonny’s cheeks are all pinked up, his breaths come a little shallow. He looks like he’s thinking about asking Patrick to just bend him over the hood of his car.

“Come back to mine tonight,” Patrick says with a slow grin. If Jonny’s looking for love, he can fucking well tell Patrick no if he’d really like to pass up good sex.

Jonny doesn’t tell Patrick no. Instead, he goes home with him and rides Patrick into the mattress. It’s a ridiculously athletic endeavor, like some sort of sexy workout. Just the controlled power of Jonny’s thighs keeping him moving smoothly up and down, no need for Patrick to help out with lifting his hips or any of that junk. Patrick, flat on his back, stares up at him and just tries not to nut early.

“You look good under me,” Jonny says breathlessly, tightening on Patrick as he rises up. He stalls out for a second, hovering over Patrick until he can’t help pushing up into the welcoming heat of Jonny’s body, and then Jonny descends so slowly, stopping before he’s gone down too far, and rising up again. He does that a few times, shallower every time, before Patrick catches on and arches up to follow him with his dick. He’s rewarded by Jonny groaning, “Yeah, fuck,” neck muscles standing out as his head rolls back. Patrick does it again, and Jonny says, “Fuck, yes, that’s good.”

Patrick takes his lower lip between his teeth and bites down. If Jonny thinks he looks good under him, Patrick thinks he looks aces above him. He misses being able to see Jonny's ass taking him in so good, but watching Jonny's face, the way he's gone all red and sweaty is no hardship, eyelashes spiky crescents against his cheeks.

He cups the backs of Jonny’s thighs, fingers digging into solid muscle, trying to get leverage so he can get in deeper.

“C’mon, Peeks, make it worth my while,” Jonny tells him. Patrick flushes, his breaths coming hard and fast. God, Jonny never makes this shit easy. It’s a workout for Patrick’s core, lifting to meet him, and just after he was so blissfully reflecting on how Jonny could handle this without his help. Patrick has always counted himself blessed. He’s especially grateful for the size of his cock right now because he can tell from the way Jonny’s thighs are trembling that he’s getting his prostate with every upward shove. Jonny’s palm comes down on Patrick’s shoulder, gripping tight as he braces himself against Patrick’s thrusts.

Patrick wonders if this is always what his face looks like when Patrick’s fucking him—vulnerable almost—with his lips parted, eyelids fluttering closed. Either way Jonny’s getting somewhere fast. His flush keeps spreading down his chest and the sounds out of his mouth are unselfconscious, like he’s forgotten himself completely.

“You know I’ve always heard it’s better for the pitcher to come first, because your little hole will be too sensitive and too tight to keep going,” Patrick says, reaching back to run his fingertips along Jonny’s taut rim. Jonny’s eyes flash and he’s already opening his mouth to make some smart retort, but Patrick gets there first. “But I think you like it, don’t you, being fucked afterwards?”

“Patrick,” Jonny says helplessly, and just from that Patrick knows he’s scored a hit.

“Yeah you do,” Patrick says and curls his fingers around Jonny’s cock. It only takes a couple of pulls before he’s coming up Patrick’s abs, eyes wide and surprised. Patrick deserves Jonny’s Olympic gold for managing to time his wrist with his hips. He’ll settle for the way Jonny’s contracting around him though. That’s fucking great, the tight squeezes on his cock as Jonny’s orgasm rips through him.

God but his lower back is starting to kill him. “Yo, we’re rolling this party over,” he rasps out, giving Jonny a little warning before he dumps him on his back.

Jonny’s so tight now, he can barely move, and every little push causes a gratifying moan from Jonny. He looks down between them and watches the way he can barely do more than roll his hips, before looking back up. Their eyes meet for a weird, fraught moment and then Jonny drags him down into a kiss, carding his fingers through Patrick’s hair. Patrick’s close now, he just needs a little more, he can feel that edge rising up before him, ready for him to fall over it. A few more moments, sinking himself into Jonny and that’s all he needs. When it happens, he groans his orgasm into Jonny’s mouth, forcing his cock in as deep as it’ll go.

“Ow,” Patrick says when it’s over. Jonny laughs, shaking underneath him. He must have drifted for a while because his head is pillowed on Jonny’s chest, sprawled as he is between his thighs, with sweat growing cold on his skin. “Yeah, whatever,” Patrick grumbles, smacking Jonny’s thigh as he detangles them. “Shoulda known you’d try to make assfucking some crossfit challenge.”

Jonny yawns and reaches his arms up over his head as he cracks his spine. “Do you mind if I shower before I head home?”

Patrick rolls over, thoroughly winded. “Do whatever.”

He passes out after dealing with the condom and doesn’t hear Jonny leave.

*

He doesn’t know if Jonny’s going on dates when he’s not with Patrick, getting somebody to hold his hand or stare into his eyes or whatever bullshit he’s looking for, but in the meantime, when Patrick asks, he still comes over. Sometimes he puts Patrick through his paces, which Patrick doesn’t get at all, because they obviously have a good time, but he takes cock like nobody’s business and he genuinely enjoys sucking Patrick’s dick. Wins all around. It’s getting a little competitive, which is not typically how he likes this to go. Sex should be easy, but same shit, different day with Jonny. He’s got plans though. Making Jonny straight up beg for Patrick to let him come hasn’t happened yet, but he’s working toward it.

A few weeks in though, Patrick has another great night and he’s horny enough to feel on edge, but both he and Jonny are exhausted. After they’ve talked to the media, Jonny takes one look at his face and shakes his head.

“It’s my cousin’s birthday so I gotta call him,” Jonny says, “Open the door up on your side though. I’ll come over after.”

“Mmm,” Patrick replies. “What’s my reward for tonight?”

“You can barely stand upright, numbskull, you should be fucking glad I’m offering at all,” Jonny replies, but his tone is teasing.

Back in his room, Patrick putters around for a while, unlatching the connecting door and changing out of his suit. He runs out of stuff to do while Jonny's voice is still rising and falling in conversation on the other side of the wall.

When he settles on his bed, he realizes how easy it would be to just fall asleep. His limbs feel leaden, even with arousal jittering under his skin. That would be a hell of a waste. Jonny’s taking forever—way longer than is required to wish some random cousin happy birthday. So, whatever, fine, Patrick will just get started without him. Patrick drags his laptop toward him and clicks through a couple of pretty blonde chicks giving out perfunctory blowjobs. Boring, boring, boring. He switches over to a video of two guys fucking on a bed. Patrick knows you can’t get pointers for sex from porn, but you know, sometimes with Jonny he thinks he could use a few new ideas. He slides the computer over to rest on the bed near his hip, and starts massaging his dick through his underwear. He’s tired enough right now that the not quite right pressure just feels good rather than a tease, but when they start kissing on the screen, he gets his dick out, stroking himself leisurely.

He’s just starting to get into it, hand speeding up on his cock with a purpose, when he’s conscious of Jonny’s eyes on him. He rotates his head on his pillow and finds Jonny leaning in the open doorway between their rooms, dark eyes intent.

“Hey, man,” Patrick says with a smirk, refusing to feel embarrassed as he keeps stroking himself. He fumbles to turn the video off with his left hand.

"Leave it on," Jonny replies, stepping away from the door.

"Oh, yeah?" Patrick says. It sounds kind of high school to him, but he can roll with that, especially when Jonny settles down next to him close enough that Patrick can sense the heat of his body and smell his clean, just-showered scent. Jonny's like Patrick, bare-chested and in just his briefs, but he takes a moment and pulls them off, and then he's lying back, naked skin and long limbs. Well, that's sure a difference from high school, because Patrick did just fine back then, but he didn't have anyone like Jonny in his bed.

"That third period," Jonny's saying, "I thought I'd dry-heave a lung onto the bench." He gives Patrick's thigh a companionable squeeze. "This sounds like the right speed to me."

Patrick is startled into a laugh, hand stopping on his dick. "Now, there's an image," he says, shaking his head.

Jonny grins. "Sexy, eh?" He leans over and gives Patrick a kiss, then settles back against the pillows with one hand flat on his belly, the other thumbing a slow line up his cock.

The only sound for a little while is from the video. The camera angle pulls back to show the entire bed. One guy is riding the other while they kiss, and with the wider shot, Patrick can see the languid pace the guy is setting as he moves on the other guy's dick. Patrick glances over at Jonny. "Hey, on top. You like that one."

Jonny's eyelids lower on a satisfied look. "Yeah," he says. His thigh brushes Patrick’s as he spreads out further on the bed, and he curls his fist around his cock and starts moving his hand.

“What do you like about it?” Patrick asks curiously. For one brief, stupid second he’s torn between staring at Jonny’s hand on his dick, or the video. But, Jonny’s right next to him. Jonny wins.

Jonny keeps his hand moving slowly as he says contemplatively, “I like to control the depth and the timing.” He gives Patrick a sly sideways look. “Go as deep or as shallow as I want.” Now they’re both definitely thinking about the same thing. Patrick blows out a breath.

“Get to look at you,” Jonny adds, mouth kicking up in a smirk. Patrick’s not a fucking peacock like Jonny, strutting around half dressed, but he likes the thought of it.

“Yeah? You wanna watch me fucking you?” Patrick asks. “Kinda hard to see it at that angle. I should lay you out in front of a mirror one of these days.” Jonny snorts as if he doesn’t like the idea. He should give that shit up. Patrick’s known him far too long to believe that derision. He leans over and bites at Jonny’s mouth, listing over into his body. It’s a lazy kiss, Patrick’s still focused more on his hand around his cock, but Jonny doesn’t seem to mind. He loses track of what’s happening on the laptop after that. Jonny's hand tangles with his around his cock as he starts jerking Patrick off. He gets his own hand around Jonny's dick, fondling his junk in time with the rhythm Jonny's setting, and keeps kissing him. This might be the least ambitious orgasm Patrick's had yet with Jonny. He likes it, though. It's easy, which isn't a word he's associated with Jonny in bed before. Companionable.

They both sound like idiots, little smothered grunts and the slick sounds of their mouths moving together, but Jonny's hand feels good enough that Patrick stops noticing anything other than that after a while. He ends up coming before Jonny, can't keep up either the kiss, or his hand stroking Jonny's dick, despite his best efforts. When he manages to uncurl himself from his slump over Jonny's side, Jonny's back to pulling himself off, lower lip tucked under his teeth.

Patrick has a hazy impulse to just watch, see how Jonny handles himself. Jonny turns his head and meets Patrick's eyes, then laughs a little, nudging him in the ribs. "What, are you falling asleep over there? Not gonna keep helping me out?"

"Always hassling me," Patrick grumbles, but shifts up so he can start moving his fist again. Jonny's breathing picks up speed, ab muscles tensing up under Patrick's forearm. One of his palms lands on Patrick's thigh, the other braced on the bed. Patrick can tell how close he is by the way he keeps twitching upward, trying to follow Patrick's hand. This is a good view too, his fingers wrapped around Jonny’s dick. He pushes up onto his elbow. It's the second time he’s been able to look Jonny full in the face when he’s about to come, and see the way Jonny’s mouth falls open, color high in his cheeks, expression turned inward. This time he tips his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he bows his body up with Patrick’s strokes, fingers biting into Patrick’s thigh, and comes across his stomach in spurts that shine white against his tanned skin.

Patrick keeps his hand moving until Jonny slumps back against the pillows. He turns over to grab a tissue from the box on the nightstand, and almost knocks his laptop onto the floor. “Oh, shit,” he laughs, and lurches backward onto Jonny’s arm, which makes him grunt and shove at Patrick. He’d forgotten about it, but it’s still going, the video playing merrily along. Patrick shifts over more carefully and grabs the tissue box, wiping off his hands and giving Jonny a half-hearted cleanup before lying down again. On the computer screen, the two guys have changed positions. The guy that was on top is now on his stomach on the bed, the other guy kneeling behind him, but not like he’s going to keep fucking him. More like he’s going to eat him out.

Patrick grimaces. Yeah, there he goes, parting the other guy's ass cheeks and leaning down. "Yuck," Patrick mutters. He should have looked closer at the tags for this video. He reaches out to hit stop.

"Not into it?" Jonny says. Patrick pauses with his fingers on the keyboard and glances over. Jonny's half-lidded, sleepy eyes are focused on the screen.

Patrick makes a face, and Jonny laughs.

"It's your tongue going into someone's asshole," Patrick points out. "What's supposed to be hot about that?"

"That guy getting rimmed seems to be having a pretty good time," Jonny says.

"Yeah, well, that's porn for you," Patrick says, and Jonny tips his head in acknowledgment. "I mean, come on, have you ever done it, though? For real?"

Jonny shrugs. "Hasn't ever been on the table," he says, which proves Patrick's point, but when he goes to say that, Jonny’s staring at the video again.

Patrick looks back on the screen where the top has hauled the bottom up onto his knees with a low moan. They can’t see much in this side view, just the bottom’s hard cock bobbing against his belly as the top eats him out, but all of a sudden the bottom is tensing up and coming everywhere without a hand on his dick.

Patrick swallows. He wonders if Jonny hears the dry click of it, because he looks over at him, face speculative. “Yeah, and that’s not hot?”

“Nope,” Patrick lies.

Jonny laughs. “So full of shit,” he says. He smacks Patrick affectionately on the stomach and rolls to his feet, then reaches down and snags his underwear from the floor before wandering bare-ass naked to the connecting door. “Good night, Kaner.”

“Night,” Patrick says. He rewinds the video and watches it again before he passes it out. Without Jonny lying next to him, it’s just porn. Now that he’s already come, he can’t summon the same level of interest, even for the ass-fucking part. It’s still impressive when the one guy comes untouched, but again, that’s porn for you. Maybe the guy’s got a trick dick. Porn would be a good place for that.

When he pictures Jonny in that guy’s place, it starts to get a little interesting again. He still doesn’t find the thought of rimming to be awesome, but the idea of Jonny falling apart like that? That’s something to think about.

*

It doesn’t come up again, so Patrick thinks that’s the end of it. A few nights later, he’s lying in bed, and Jonny’s heading south on him. Patrick’s quite pleased with this turn of events, and he’s groaning very appreciatively.

“Yeah, such a good slut for my dick,” he tells him and then Jonny just freezes, expression on his face indecipherable, pausing the action completely.

“Sorry,” he says, looking like he’s trying hard not to laugh. “Thirsty, I need a glass of water.”

And then he leaps from the bed, leaving Patrick lying there. What the fuck is that?

"Dude," Patrick calls, irritated, and gets only Jonny's muffled voice in response. "Are you kidding me?" he demands as he follows Jonny down the hall into the kitchen. "Are you fucking dying of thirst?"

Jonny looks over his shoulder and puts his glass down. "Oh, sorry, did you want one?" he asks, falsely solicitous. He moves to the cabinet and pulls down another glass, turning and filling it from the tap on the refrigerator, before leaving it on the counter in front of Patrick. "You know what," he says. "I better clean this up here. Don't want to leave a mess." When he takes his cup to the sink and starts running the water, he's got a hint of a smirk curving across his face. Yanking Patrick's chain, standing there wearing only his skin-tight, tiny briefs in the middle of the kitchen. He doesn’t know who pissed in his cornflakes, everything was going along great, and now they’re in his kitchen instead. Jonny being Jonny about this whole thing again. Patrick’s eyes drop down to the movement of Jonny’s glutes tightening as he shifts his weight, and it just hits him all of a sudden. That stupid rimming scene.

He wants to do it, peel Jonny’s shorts down his thighs and get his face in there, show him what for. Fuck, it’s so messed up. Patrick barely even understands where it’s coming from and he wavers for a moment, hesitating. Whatever Jonny says, rimming is fucking weird, but as Patrick knows from experience, Jonny’s ass is a thing of beauty, and the compulsion to just give in and do it is strong.

Well. If it’s the worst thing ever, he can always stop. No shame in that. He breathes deep, coming up behind Jonny, watching the thick muscles of his shoulders move smoothly under his skin as he rinses the glass out.

Jonny’s just shaking the excess water off the glass and setting it on the counter when Patrick closes in on him. “Hey,” he says, amusement still present in his voice.

Patrick responds by tugging his briefs down over his cheeks, yanking until they’re straining around the bulk of his thighs. “Patrick, what—” Jonny starts to say.

“Hands on the counter,” Patrick replies, voice a little hoarse, as he drops to his knees. He pulls Jonny’s underwear down with him as he goes, fingernails scoring parallel lines down the back of Jonny’s thighs that come in white before filling in with red. Jonny shivers. He steps out of the briefs when Patrick’s got them low enough, kicking them aside, hands still obediently at the counter.

When Patrick looks up, Jonny’s looking speculatively over his shoulder at him, like he’s not sure what Patrick’s up to at all. Patrick smiles and then he leans forward, spreading Jonny’s babysoft cheeks with his palms and licking a stripe straight up the cleft.

“Holy shit!” Jonny breathes, tensing up, but he doesn’t say no and he doesn’t say stop, so Patrick does it again. He moans as Patrick delicately tongues over his hole, the furl of muscle tensing and then relaxing against the press of his mouth. Patrick’s not really sure of the gameplan here. With girls it’s pretty simple: find clit, lick it, but there’s no magic button here, so Patrick’s winging it. Not that Jonny seems to mind as Patrick strokes his tongue over him. He keeps making these punched-out noises that go straight to Patrick’s dick.

Patrick clutches at Jonny’s cheeks so tight, holding him still. There’s a pale outline around his fingertips. Jonny shifts back against him and Patrick presses in even harder, making Jonny huff out a gasp and shake in Patrick’s grip. Holy shit, indeed. Patrick’s cheeks and chin are getting wet from his own spit, his legs ache where he’s sitting back on his heels and Patrick doesn’t give a fuck. Jonny chokes off another moan as Patrick starts stabbing at his hole with the point of his tongue and Patrick’s dick pulses, precome dampening the front of his underwear. His face flames up with a blush. This is by far the dirtiest shit Patrick has ever done and he’s fucking gagging for it.

He reaches down, pressing at his dick, trying to ease the insistent ache of it, but all it does is make it worse; especially when Jonny whines as Patrick licks him and gets his thumb down over his taint at the same time, pressing at it the way Jonny did for him that one time. When Patrick eases off a little with his mouth, Jonny curses up a blue streak, hips rolling against nothing. Fuck it, Patrick thinks, and fumbles his dick out from the slit in his boxers, jerking it like he’s trying to win a contest.

"Christ, that's good," Jonny rasps out above him. "It's so—I've never—" When Patrick licks in again, Jonny's voice breaks. "Patrick," he says desperately, "touch me. Come on, I need your hand on my dick. Please."

The blood buzzes dizzyingly in Patrick's ears. He can hardly hear Jonny over its pulse in his head, but when Jonny transitions from ordering to begging Patrick to make him come, he groans, "Oh, fuck," right into Jonny's sensitive skin, and comes like a shot all over his own hand.

Patrick has to pull away to catch his breath. What an embarrassing showing. No way was he prepared for this experience. He wipes his forearm over his hot, damp face, head bowed as he tries to collect himself. He looks up and he realizes Jonny’s still hanging on to the counter, but his hands have gone white with strain. He’s a little shaky from the force of his orgasm, lightheaded almost, still raw and unsure why he went to his knees like that. Just, Jonny shaking apart just like that clip had made Patrick feel liquid inside, so hot he could barely breathe. When Patrick blows out a gust of air, humid breath drifting over Jonny’s skin, he turns his head.

Jonny says, “I need—”

“Yeah, not gonna leave you hanging,” Patrick tells him, voice husky, and heaves himself to his feet. He swipes his fingers over Jonny’s wet hole, pushing in just a little with his fingertip, just to feel Jonny contract around it. He would laugh at the way Jonny swears under ordinary circumstances, but now Patrick feels too out of it. He plasters himself to Jonny’s back, cheek pressed to Jonny’s smooth skin, and slides his fingers around to flatten Jonny’s dick to his belly, dragging his palm up the length of it. They’ve done it like this a couple of times, Patrick wrapped around Jonny, jerking him off. Jonny’s always going to be bigger, but right now, he’s slumping back on Patrick, relying on him to take his weight. Patrick holds on to him, thumbing back his foreskin and listening to Jonny’s soft appreciative ‘mmm.’ He’s less frantic now, with Patrick pressed up against him, less consumed by whatever it was that took them both so hard.

Jonny comes all over Patrick’s kitchen cupboard with Patrick stroking him off and Patrick wishes again that he could see them, see what it is they look like. As it is, he spends an inordinate amount of time with his chin propped on Jonny’s shoulder watching his jizz slide over the woodwork. Funny the things that get you. He guesses that’s why squirting porn is so compelling. He wants the evidence.

Jonny turns to kiss him and Patrick jerks back, throwing up a hand in front of his mouth. “No,” he says scandalized. “No ass to mouth.”

Jonny kisses the center of his palm and then when Patrick drops his hand, says, “That’s exactly what you just did,” laying a kiss right on his lips before he can protest. Patrick guesses that means Jonny’ll rim him if he asks. There’s a moment where Jonny leans into him a little bit, like half of a hug, before he straightens up again, standing solidly on his own two feet.

He thumps Patrick in the side and fishes his underwear up from the floor. “Hey, I have to be up early tomorrow, so I’m going to head out.”

“Right,” Patrick says, standing in the kitchen, wondering why he feels so off-balance when Jonny just walks out.

*

If there's one thing Patrick can't stand for, it's something knocking him off his game. He spends a grumpy practice trying to ignore how the random chatter of his teammates feels like nails on a chalkboard. When they're changing, Shawsy starts telling him in ridiculous detail about someplace he went for brunch, and Patrick wants to shove his sweaty glove in his face until he shuts up. He ends up just walking away to the showers, Shawsy still in mid-sentence, but it's close for a moment there.

Jonny's the worst, though. Patrick can't shake a peripheral awareness of him, dragging at his attention like he's jogging his elbow, but Jonny's not doing anything in particular. It's irritating. Then Jonny catches his eye, and Patrick's skin prickles, pulse-rate rising. He jerks his chin up in a quick nod that Jonny returns before Patrick looks away. He's not embarrassed or anything, but for the first time since he and Jonny started fucking, he feels a little uncomfortable, and he doesn't like it.

He carries his mood with him the next day, not shaken by a night of killing monsters on-screen and trash-talking with friends back in Buffalo. They're playing the Jets, and the first hit Patrick takes jars him to his teeth. Now he’s got to chase after Buff and the puck. Christ. They’re on him every shift, he can’t get clear, can’t make anything happen. It’s infuriating. He gets one good chance on a breakaway before someone hooks him from behind and sends his shot winging up fruitlessly to bang on the glass. He spins, swearing up a storm as he struggles to keep his footing, and the whistle blows before he can do more than knock Bogosian hard in the chest.

By the end of his second shift on their wasted powerplay, he’s fuming, spitting out anything that comes into his head. He gets in a shoving match in the corner that Jonny fishes him out of, putting himself between him and the other team and pushing him back toward their bench.

“Hey,” Jonny says sharply, and Patrick looks at him, then away as he skates over to the bench door. “Hey!” Jonny follows him. “Fucking get your own back on the score sheet. Make it count out there.”

“If you gave me anything to work with,” Patrick growls. He keeps his gaze forward, tracking the movement on the ice.

“Grow the fuck up and play the game,” Jonny says. “Right now they’re playing you.” Q calls his name and he heads over the boards without a second look before Patrick can respond.

“Fuck you, Tazer,” Patrick mutters, spitting on the floor. He looks up at the Jumbotron in time to see Jonny, moving with that beautiful efficiency of his, steal the puck and deke around the D to send a pass across the ice to Hoss, who chips it over Pavelec’s shoulder like it’s nothing.

Patrick jumps to his feet, anger abandoned as he lifts his arms in celebration. "Hey, Hoss!" he shouts, holding out his fist as Hossa skates by. “Nice assist,” he says to Jonny, giving him a thigh tap when he slides in next to him.

The rest of the game picks up speed after that. Patrick finally manages to shake his shadows on the ice long enough to sneak a puck in through traffic. “Boom!” he yells, and if he ends up pointing in Jonny’s direction, it’s mostly a coincidence. He’ll show him on the fucking score sheet, though.

It’s always good to leave the ice with a win. Patrick walks with the team back into the locker room, singing along with the music. He's toweling off his hair, half-listening to the chatter in the room, when he hears Jonny taking a ribbing on his careful shaving job.

"Make yourself look pretty," Hammer says. "We want you to clean up good."

"That's a lot to ask from a razor," Bicks comments to general laughter.

Jonny pauses, one cheek flecked with foam, the other still covered in shaving cream. "What did you tell this girl?" he demands, and Hammer whistles innocently on his way out the door.

"The Captain's got a date?" Sharpy says from the corner.

"It's just a drink," Jonny mutters, turning back to his shave. The razor slides over the angles of his cheek in steady strokes that leave clean damp skin behind. Patrick realizes he's staring a second before Jonny meets his eyes in the mirror.

"This that friend of Elina's?" he asks, mostly just to say something. He doesn't really care. So Jonny's dating.

"Yeah," Jonny says. He tips his head up to get at the underline of his jaw.

"Well, good luck," Patrick says.

"Shit, even Kaner thinks you'll need luck. I'm sure it's not that bad, bud," Shawsy says, rapid-fire. He smacks Jonny's ass, then ducks away from Jonny's return swipe, cackling.

Patrick tosses his wet towel toward the bin and heads for the door. Behind him, the conversation devolves into chirping Jonny's choice of bars and then general table manners. What a shitshow. Half the guys in that room are either married or dating their high school sweethearts. Like they've got any clue about dating.

*

He goes out, but winds up going home after a few drinks, because he’s just not feeling it. It brings all of the old irritability back. He’s idling around his apartment when his phone rings. He’s surprised to see it’s Jonny, what with the date and all, but he picks it up anyway. Who knows, maybe he needs tips on sticking it in now that they’ve been doing this for a while.

However the first thing out of Jonny’s mouth is not a desperate plea for advice or even a ‘hello,’ it’s, “Were you in on it?” said with a note of desperation.

“In on what?” Patrick asks, perplexed.

“Kaner, I’m not fucking around here,” Jonny replies.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Good for you. I have no idea what you’re talking about though.”

“Jesus,” Jonny says and lets out a long sigh.

“What’s up, man, date didn’t go so hot?”

Jonny makes a noise like a strangled cat. “I…” he starts. “Never again.”

Patrick laughs at the melodramatic defeated note in his voice. “Oh, come on. You’re making her sound like Uncle Bad Touch. Although,” Patrick adopts a serious tone, trying hard not to laugh, “did she touch you, Jonny? Inappropriately I mean?”

“Well, she might’ve invited ‘the aliens’ to do it, at this point who can say!”

“Say what now?” Patrick asks. Aliens? That is not where he was expecting Jonny to take it. Now he’s genuinely intrigued. “Oh man, Jonny, who did you just go out with?”

“A certified crazy person!” Jonny replies. “I walk into the restaurant and she’s already at the table. And I’m thinking to myself, ‘nice!’ I mean, she’s hot, great smile, great legs. Everything is going fine. She’s funny. But then the appetizers arrived and she, check this, genuinely believed she’d been abducted by aliens in college.”

“Collegiate aliens! Terrifying!” Patrick replies, cracking up.

“Fuck off! When she was in college. Not the aliens. There were no aliens in college.”

Patrick’s shaking with laughter now. “But, Jonny, how can you be so sure?”

“I should’ve known she was weird when she started talking about applied kinesiology, the alt medicine version, not the stuff Paul does, like it was an actual thing,” Jonny mutters. “She started poking at my shoulders, saying it was strengthening my abdominals.”

Patrick’s got tears in his eyes now just picturing it—Jonny’s horror warring with his general desire to appear like a nice boy.

“How’d you get out of there?” Patrick asks, settling himself on his bed to hear the rest of the story.

“I am so out of practice, man,” Jonny replies. “You don’t even know. I said I had laundry to do.”

That starts Patrick up all over again. “Ah, amateur, man,” he says when he’s finally calmed down enough to get the words out.

“I know,” Jonny replies mournfully. “I just don’t know why Hammer would do this to me!”

“Yeah? You think he knew?” Patrick can’t help snickering. He’s betting Hammer definitely knew. Insofar as pranks go, this one was freakin’ genius.

“Shut up, you know he knew,” Jonny replied. “This level of crazy? You can’t miss it.”

“How did he find her?” Patrick asks.

“She’s Elina’s yoga instructor.”

“That’s where you went wrong, bud,” Patrick replies.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jonny says. “But, hey, there’s nothing wrong with yoga.”

Patrick goes silent, thinking about Jonny doing yoga now. He made it a part of his routine fairly recently and sometimes when they left the door open between their hotel rooms, he caught Jonny doing sun salutations. He’s always been aware of Jonny’s appeal, so whenever he used to catch him at it, he always had to take an appreciative moment just to watch before going off to do other things. But that’s all it had ever been. A bit like looking at Katy Perry strutting her stuff. Yeah, he’d hit that, but it was such a distant reality he couldn’t even be bothered to invest effort into the thought. Now though, he thinks of Jonny doing his asanas or whatever, and it’s immediately visceral. The image creates a sweet jolt that goes straight to his dick. He looks down his body to where it’s starting to swell up against the fabric of his sweatpants and has to shake his head. Unreal.

The pause on the line stretches on until Patrick clears his throat and asks, "So what are you wearing?"

Jonny snorts and replies dryly, "A clownsuit."

Patrick chuckles. "Didn't know that was something you were into."

“You know me, just full of surprises,” Jonny answers. He drops his voice an octave and says creepily, "What are you wearing, Patrick?"

"Jesus, you sound like you're coming to wear my skin,” Patrick tells him, and Jonny laughs, delighted. He should’ve known Jonny wouldn’t make phone sex any easier than he makes anything else. Whatever, the P in his initials should be for ‘Persistent’ or ‘Pretty Fly,’ because he’s gonna keep on keeping on until he gets this shit to work out. Jonny will get with his phonesex program. Patrick rests his hand on his stomach, fingers tapping idly. "Seriously though, I'm thinking about you."

"Mmhm, my ass?" Jonny replies, pretending to be bored.

Patrick nearly says yes out of habit, because it is a fantastic ass, but he wasn't actually. He was thinking about the way Jonny's ab muscle tensed up when he got close. "No, the way you look when you come."

Jonny stays silent for a second, and then, voice a little scratchy, says, "Yeah?"

Patrick grins up at his ceiling and asks again, "What are you wearing, Jonny?

Jonny shuffles about at the other end of the line, making sounds like he’s getting settled. “Well, I'm not wearing anything particularly interesting. Would you like me to take something off?”

“You still wearing that button-down from earlier? I think that should come off.” Jonny says ‘okay’ a little too easily after a short pause and Patrick is instantly suspicious. "Did you do anything? it doesn't sound like you took anything off."

Jonny makes a disgusted noise at the other end of the line. "Ugh, Peeks,” he says. Patrick hears the sound of footsteps and a door being opened and closed. He’s not sure why all these apartment gymnastics have to be included in him taking his shirt off.

“What, are you setting the stage for some sexy striptease?” Patrick asks. Jonny doesn’t reply, but two seconds later his phone buzzes with a text. Patrick pulls it away from his ear and opens it up to find a shot of Jonny standing shirtless in front of his mirror. He wonders if Jonny’s done this a lot, because he’s framed it well. The light of his bathroom brings out the line and cut of his muscles and the smooth gold of his skin. He laughs at the text that Jonny sent along with it: Proof of shirtlessness.

“Well,” Patrick says, bringing the phone back to his ear. “Good to see you can follow direction.”

"Where's my picture?" Jonny replies.

“All you had to do was ask,” Patrick replies. He’s still lying on the bed, and he’s very comfy right now, and categorically unwilling to get up. He thinks for a second, before just yanking his sweats down his hips and taking a shot of his dick starting to rise up on his belly, his free hand stroking it to hardness.

He hears the sound of the notification when it shows up on Jonny’s phone and waits for Jonny to open it. Jonny makes a startled noise and Patrick laughs.

"Upped the ante there," Jonny says, voice warm.

"Mm, gotta go with my best feature here,” Patrick tells him, still stroking himself lazily.

Jonny chuckles. "That's not your best feature."

Patrick grins. "Then what is? You should tell me."

"Your hands, your mouth, your eyes..." Jonny clears his throat. "And nobody gives your ass enough credit."

"You're saying my ass is better than my dick?" he looks down at his dick with narrowed eyes. He does not believe this. He has a most excellent dick.

Jonny makes a considering noise. "Come on, though. Dicks are about what you can do with them." He laughs when Patrick scoffs. “When you fuck me I like your dick just fine. But I don’t like, dream of it or anything.”

“Hey!” Patrick protests.

“Telling it like it is, bud,” he replies, laughing some more at Patrick's outrage. The thing is though, it brings him back to that worry he had after his conversation with Erica. Patrick can freely admit that he skated by on the size and shape of his cock. He never had anything other than enthusiastic approval, but these last couple weeks as Jonny’s been giving him hell, he’s been wondering if that was all just white lies for his benefit. And if he starts going down that road, what if it’s still not good enough for what Jonny wants? Fuck, he isn’t sure what to do with this sudden self-doubt. He’s unfamiliar with the concept and doesn’t like it.

“Doesn't mean I'm not crazy turned on by you,” Jonny says, interrupting his thoughts.

“Oh yeah?” Patrick says, going hot all over.

Jonny clears his throat again and changes the subject. "I took off my shirt, what are you going to do here?"

Patrick tries not to feel disappointed that Jonny didn’t continue his thought. Patrick knows he’s awesome. Doubting yourself is for others, and he’s getting the phone sex he wanted. “You mean, what would I do if you were here?

“Yeah.”

Patrick closes his eyes. “I'd get my mouth on you. You know, that sweet spot on your neck?”

“You wouldn't kiss me?" Jonny says, a little mocking but mostly warm.

Patrick hums. "You want me to kiss you, baby? Yeah, I'd kiss you. Then keep going down."

Jonny chuckles again, but it’s a little breathless. Patrick wonders if he’s started jerking it. "You're good at it," Jonny tells him.

"Yeah?"

"I'm touching myself thinking about it," Jonny replies. Hah, Patrick called that one.

"Guess I'm a quick study," Patrick says confidently, but he’s absurdly flushed from the praise and glad Jonny can't see it. "I uh...I like making you feel good."

Somehow that slipped out. Patrick wants to brain himself with his phone, but Jonny makes a soft ‘unh’ noise and Patrick feels himself flush up even brighter, and then before he can help himself, he’s reaching desperately for his dick again.

“You do, Peeks,” Jonny replies.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, he’s so close, just from Jonny saying that. As his hand speeds up, he thinks about how he really didn't give a shit before. Not for Jonny specifically, but for everybody. Sex was supposed to be easy and uncomplicated and honestly he didn’t think he should have to try too hard. He worked hard enough as it was. But now he watches porn and thinks about experimenting with Jonny, sometimes he feels he might as well be taking notes. And Patrick wants to know how Jonny looks when he says those things about Patrick. If he gets all flushed up like Patrick does, or if that admission that Patrick makes him feel good comes easily to him.

The words spill out of Patrick like water through a dam. "If I was there, I'd get my mouth on you the way you like, just the head, my hand covering the rest. That what you're thinking about?"

Jonny exhales. “Fuck.”

Patrick smiles, passing his tongue over his lower lip. He imagines the look that comes over Jonny’s face when he’s near the edge, the furrow between his brow, face gone all red. He wonders if that’s what Jonny looks like right now. “Do you want me to lick you, Jonny? Tell you how good you taste?”

He listens to Jonny’s breath speed up on the other end of the line. “How’d you get so good at this, eh?” Jonny asks him, voice thick.

Patrick tongues at the corner of his mouth, shivering with arousal. “God I wanna fuck you. Love being inside you.” He tightens his fist on his cock, wishing for the hot clench of Jonny’s body. “The way you feel, so tight around me. I’ve never—” he cuts himself off to curse. Eyes closed, he pictures it—Jonny riding him, Patrick pulling him down for a kiss—as he hears Jonny’s orgasm wash over him on the other end of the line. Yeah, he wishes Jonny were here for this, letting Patrick fuck him through the aftershocks.

He’s so lost in the fantasy that when Jonny starts speaking again it hits him hard. “C’mon, Peeks,” Jonny says, voice still rough. “Come in me.”

Patrick’s involuntarily reminded of the first time Jonny said that to him, trying to get him over the edge so he’d come quicker he realizes now. He’d thought about fucking Jonny without a condom almost as a matter of course. When he thinks about it this time, it’s too much, and he comes without warning all over the place, accompanied by a shameful groan.

He has to ask if Jonny's still on the line, after he catches his breath, because it's gone so quiet.

"Oh," Jonny says. He sounds half-asleep. "Yeah, I'm still here." He chuckles. "Wasn't expecting this when I called to bitch you out for that date." He yawns. "Better end to the night, though."

"Yeah, you're welcome," Patrick says, biting down on a grin, and Jonny doesn't disappoint, scoffing in Patrick's ear. "What? If it wasn't for me, you'd still be thinking about Miss Yoga-I-want-to-believe."

"Thanks for reminding me," Jonny says.

"No problem," Patrick says. He closes his eyes. That restless irritability has faded into satisfaction. He feels good, body loose, bed soft underneath him.

"Yeah, well," Jonny says, and trails off into another yawn. "Shit, I'm beat."

"So stop talking to me and go to bed," Patrick says. After Jonny hangs up, Patrick passes out in a heartbeat.

*

It's only a couple days later that he's at the doctor's as part of his routine mid-season check-up. He's pretty much sleep-walking through it, since the appointment was scheduled first thing in the morning after they flew back from Dallas. So when the doc asks if he's been sexually active since his last check-up, Patrick can't stifle the laugh that comes out. "Uh, yeah," he says.

"So, we should probably do another STI panel," the doctor says.

"Yeah," Patrick agrees, even though he’s pretty certain he doesn’t like, have the clap or anything. Patrick is careful for a multitude of reasons, not least of which is that his mother would fly to Chicago in an unholy rage and murder him if there were any mini-Kanes running around. And you know, his dick is his buddy and Patrick likes to do good for it. Syphilis ain’t nobody’s friend.

It’s not until he’s peeing into a cup that it occurs to him what a clean bill of health really means. They can test out that all-natural lube Jonny likes so much, for one. If he walks out of there looking a little glazed, well it’s no worse than he looked walking in, exhausted and desperate for another coffee.

He gets the results when he’s at practice a few days later. He doesn’t even wait to open it in private, just tears the envelope open right there in the middle of a conversation with Steeger.

“What’s got you grinning so big?” Steeger asks, watching him look over the paper.

Patrick laughs. “Oh, nothing.”

Jonny’s in the middle of pulling on his pads, laughing at some dumb impression Sharpy’s doing and Patrick walks over and pushes the folded paper at him. Jonny takes it gingerly and stares back at him in confusion. “What’s...this?” he asks slowly.

Patrick shrugs. “Open it and find out,” he says. He turns around and heads back to his gear so he can finish suiting up while Jonny unfolds it.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Peeks?” Jonny asks. Patrick looks over his shoulder in time to see Jonny crumple Patrick’s clean results up into a ball and stuff it into his bag. Patrick laughs and winks.

Steeger stares at him, nonplussed. “I’m not gonna ask.”

“Better not,” Patrick tells him cheerfully. It doesn’t really occur to him until he’s out on the ice that he just told Jonny he wasn’t sleeping with anybody else, and then he’s horrified.

He’s still running it over and over in his head, mortified, at home. He may as well have made this huge declaration of exclusivity, when all he wanted was to fuck ungloved. And, Jonny’s still dating. He might be sleeping with other people. It would be difficult with their schedule, but it’s not inconceivable. He’s going to look like such a fool if that’s the case. His doorbell rings as he’s obsessing over it on his sofa, trying to focus on Any Given Sunday rather than on Jonny’s stupid ass.

He groans and gets up off the couch, shuffling over to open the door. He knows who it is. It’s not like his family would just drop in unannounced. Still, he hates the way his cheeks flame up when he finds Jonny on the other side looking so goddamn hot in his jeans and a t-shirt, the fresh scent of body wash rising off his skin like he just showered.

“Why does security keep letting you up here?” he asks irritably as he steps aside so that Jonny can walk in.

Jonny rolls his eyes. “There are better ways to ask to fuck me without a condom, buddy,” Jonny tells him. He pulls something out of his back pocket and shoves it in the center of Patrick’s chest, forcing Patrick to catch it so that it doesn’t drop to the floor.

He squints down at it for a moment before he realizes he’s looking at Jonny’s own clean STI panel and then his eyes snag on the date—nearly three weeks earlier. And if he’s using this older one as a guarantee against chlamydia and whatever else, then that must mean he’s not sleeping with anybody else either. Not since they started.

A smile curls around the edge of Patrick’s mouth, and when he looks up, Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Figured you should see that first,” Jonny says, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“It’s okay, I know this is all a pretense to make me believe you ever got laid before I came along,” Patrick replies, waving the paper around.

“Shut up, Kaner,” Jonny replies.

“So where do you want to do this?” Patrick asks, heading back to his bedroom, stripping off his shirt as he goes. He looks back over his shoulder and catches Jonny running heavy-lidded eyes over him. “I was kinda thinking the shower.”

“The shower?” Jonny says, voice blank.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “Yeah, you heard of one of those, padawan?”

Jonny laughs and shakes his head. “You’re not fucking me in the shower.”

“Oh, come on,” Patrick answers. “Gimme one good reason!”

“I’ll give you three! Number one, I am too tall. Don’t make that face, I am,” Jonny starts listing off on his fingers. “Two, water makes it impossible to keep lubed up, and the lube that does stick around in the shower is impossible to wash off.”

Patrick snorts. These are mere details.

Jonny ignores him. “And three, pretty sure if we slipped and injured ourselves, which seems like the only possible outcome, we’d be in breach of contract.”

“You think fucking in the shower counts as ‘reckless disregard’ for our health?”

“With you? Yes!” Jonny shoots back. Patrick isn’t sure if he’s supposed to take that as an insult or a compliment. He’s going with compliment. Jonny moves in close. “Peeks, I’m pretty sure you don’t want to explain to my parents how you killed me in the shower.”

He kisses Patrick before he can argue his case any further. Well, Patrick wasn't one hundred percent gunning for it. Jonny pulls back after a second and shakes his head as he walks them back toward Patrick’s bed.

“Ah, shut up,” Patrick says. “Just thinking outside the box, here.” He edges his fingers up under Jonny’s shirt to palm the small of his back.

“Sorry to stifle your creativity,” Jonny says dryly, shifting into Patrick’s hands. He pulls his shirt off, and Patrick skates his fingers up the line of his spine, following all that newly-bared skin.

“I”m just saying, one day it’s gonna happen,” Patrick says.

“Not a chance,” Jonny says, and shoves him down onto the bed. He makes short work of his jeans, gets naked while Patrick is still fumbling with his own zipper.

“Did you bring your own stuff with you?” Patrick asks, but Jonny’s going unerringly for the nightstand drawer.

“Hm?” Jonny says. He turns around and drops Patrick’s bottle of lube on the sheets, crawling onto the mattress.

“Oh,” Patrick says, a little disappointed. “I wanted to try your fancy no-condoms lube.”

“Sorry, maybe next time,” Jonny says, not trying to hide his amusement. “You saw everything I brought with me.” He moves toward Patrick, leaning over him to brush their mouths together. Patrick kisses him back, bringing his hands up to cup Jonny’s ass. His thumbs brush along his cheeks as Jonny shifts onto his elbows and deepens the kiss. Excitement is building in Patrick’s stomach, and he scrabbles with one hand for the lube, unwilling to break the kiss to find it. Jonny’s finally the one to pull away, laughing, going into an effortless push-up before he sits back on his knees. “Looking for this?” he teases, tossing the bottle onto Patrick’s chest.

“Yeah, yeah,” Patrick says, sitting up and letting it fall into his hand. Jonny’s hair is sticking up from when he took off his shirt, and he’s still grinning down at Patrick, chest and neck and cheeks starting to flush. Patrick slides his tongue along his lower lip, trying to stay focused, but then Jonny turns over on his hands and knees, easy as anything, and Patrick rolls his eyes right up to the ceiling to give thanks. He slides up behind Jonny and gets two slicked-up fingers in without any hassle, nothing new about this part, though he still enjoys the way Jonny shivers when he strokes over his prostate, spine lengthening as he shifts into Patrick’s hands.

It's funny, Patrick still hits a mental hitch in his stride when he pulls his fingers out, looking around for the condom for one second before he shakes himself out of it, trying not to laugh. "It's just habit!" he says, when Jonny peers over his shoulder at him.

It’s weird though, not having that ritual of sliding the condom on. Not that he doesn’t appreciate giving it a miss when he slides into Jonny’s body and he feels Jonny’s slick insides clinging to his bare skin. It’s overwhelming. God, rubbers suck. It’s the most amazing sensation ever, here in Jonny’s body, thrusting into his tight heat. Lordy, Patrick feels like he’s been turned up to 11. Each push inside is blowing his mind.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, involuntarily sounding like he’s about to sneeze. The next thing he knows he’s giving it up, coming hard like a teenager after barely any stimulation at all. He slumps forward over Jonny’s back, unable to believe what just happened.

“Did you just—” Jonny starts.

Patrick groans and rolls off him, arms covering his face. Jonny starts cracking up, hiding his face against his bicep. Patrick reaches out to swat him. He’s not even embarrassed, not really. That was fucking phenomenal. All like...thirty seconds of it.

“Shut up,” he says weakly. “If you had to fuck your ass, you’d probably disgrace yourself too.”

“Yeah sure,” Jonny replies. “If that makes you feel better, I’ll play along.”

He flops over onto his back, dick still hard against his thigh. Patrick watches with interest as his come drips thick and viscous out of Jonny’s ass. Jonny takes himself in hand, running his fingers lazily up and down the shaft. “Hey, give me a hand here.”

“Mmm, just enjoying looking at you,” Patrick says, but after a moment he leans forward to take Jonny into his mouth. Jonny makes a pleased rumble in his chest and Patrick resolves to redeem himself. Nobody gets much sleep that night and in the morning Patrick’s sheets are thoroughly trashed.

*

Patrick takes some heat from the guys for being in such a good mood for the next couple days, but he can’t help it. His life is great, and if he walks in the door whistling, he’s just doing his part to keep things light in the room. Which is why he isn’t expecting it at all when a conversation with an old friend from Buffalo turns into an actual fight. They started out chirping each other because Jimmy had the bad taste to move to Boston and become a Patriots fan, but something Patrick says must hit too close to home, because the conversation turns nasty. Jimmy starts getting on Patrick for some of the more colorful stories that have run in the press, tone light like he’s making a joke except for how he’s not saying anything funny. Patrick hangs up the phone feeling a little raw. He’s got a pretty thick skin, but he wasn’t expecting that. Not from a buddy of his.

“Fuckin’ christ,” Patrick says, tossing his phone onto his couch. What does that asshole know, anyway? He wasn’t there, he washed out at the age of fifteen, and now he’s doing insurance assessment in an office all day, 9-to-5 in a cubicle and then he goes home. Shit.

It's just bad timing that when Patrick goes online later to look up the basketball highlights, front and center in his sports headlines is one of those top-five blog posts trashing his contributions to the Hawks. It's sensationalist bullshit, but he still clicks on it. These sorts of stories are going to follow him around until the day he dies.

He's not whistling later that day when he walks in the locker room to get ready for the game. Sharpy teases him about it, saying, "Who woke you up on the wrong side of the bed, Smiles?"

"I'd say your mom, if Mama Sharp wasn't such a classy lady," Patrick says, trying to shake off his bad mood. It doesn't work. He straps his pads on with more vigor than necessary and pulls his jersey on with short motions. The visor on his helmet is fucked again, which pisses him off. He makes their equipment guys go over it twice before he's satisfied that it's fixed. He tries to keep the impatience out of his voice, but something in his tone must catch Jonny's attention, because he looks over from where he was chatting with Seabs.

Patrick hunches his shoulders. "Thanks, man," he says to Troy.

"Yeah, sorry about that, Kaner," Troy says.

Patrick nods, and pats him on the shoulder as he turns away to show he's got no hard feelings.

They don't win that night, which is icing on the cake as far as Patrick's concerned. He had a pretty good game, but that doesn't matter when the other guys get a crazy-luck bounce and end up getting a goal with less than a minute left in the third.

He ducks out on talking to reporters after the game. He's partway home when his phone buzzes with a message. Jonny, asking if he wants to come over later. He takes a second to think about it, but he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts tonight, and he doesn't want to go out.

sure, he sends back, and goes past the turn to his place.

Jonny's not home yet when Patrick gets to his front door, so he has to kill time in the hallway, sending irritated messages out at regular intervals while he tries to beat his high score.

Jonny's at least carrying take-out containers when he deigns to show up.

"You lose your phone on the way?" Patrick demands.

"I was driving," Jonny says. "Sorry you had to wait." He unlocks his door and ushers Patrick in, then he hands the food over and points Patrick in the direction of the kitchen.

"What's this?" Patrick asks, poking through the clamshell boxes. There's some sort of tabbouleh salad and hummus in one, a pound of chicken breast in kabob form in another, and a green salad in the third.

"New Mediterranean place I found," Jonny says from the other room. "They're open late."

"Huh," Patrick mutters. He grabs a plate and starts excavating chicken from one of the skewers. He doesn't love Mediterranean, but Jonny does. The pita bread is still warm, and Patrick grabs most of it. If Jonny's going to get tabbouleh, which Patrick can't stand, he's going to eat all the bread.

"Jeez, you were really blowing up my phone," Jonny says, walking into the room as he thumbs through them. He's changed into shorts and a t-shirt, padding over in bare feet to fetch two bottles of water out of the fridge. He slides one across the counter to Patrick, then takes in the lack of a second table setting, and goes back to the cabinet for a plate.

Patrick eyes him sideways. "You told me to come over, then left me cooling my heels outside."

Jonny doesn’t take the bait. Patrick doesn’t know what’s up with him. Ordinarily, he’d be all over that, telling Patrick not to be an impatient ass. It just pisses him off even more, that Jonny is acting all weird and failing to chirp him back. He can feel himself being a brat all through dinner right up until the moment that Jonny laughs at him, and drags him up from the table.

“Jesus, you’re on a tear tonight,” he says, hand tight around his wrist, but his voice is fond and warm.

Patrick finds himself tugged into Jonny’s bedroom and pushed flat onto the bed, Jonny gets his pants and briefs off with one efficient tug.

‘What—?” he asks.

“Just shut up for a little while, alright?” Jonny says and then he’s crawling between Patrick’s knees, looking up at Patrick with an amused expression as he fists Patrick to hardness. Patrick thumps his head back against Jonny’s pillows as Jonny puts his mouth on him. It draws him right out of his previous irritation. Jonny's hands are pinning down his thighs, mouth hot, and his mind empties itself so fast. Jonny knows just how to turn his crank. He puts his hand on the back of Jonny's neck, skin soft under his palm. He can't see much. He drops his head back onto the pillow, teeth digging into his lip, eyes winching closed as Jonny hollows his cheeks.

It feels good. It should feel perfect, he doesn't need to do anything but lie here, Jonny's made that clear, but he grips Jonny's shoulder and mutters, "Hey," trying to tug him up.

Jonny pulls off. "Something not to your liking?" he says with gentle mockery, chin brushing Patrick's belly.

Patrick's not even sure how to put his dissatisfaction into words. Jonny's looking up at him, eyes still amused. He knows Patrick better than pretty much anyone in his life and likes him better than a lot of people. Patrick thinks, sudden and fierce, that fuck anyone who's just looking into his life and not living it. He's doing just fine. Patrick pulls on Jonny again until he shifts up the bed, laughing a little as he lets Patrick draw him into a kiss.

"You were going to do me in there," Patrick says. "I want to see you come."

Jonny pauses, like he didn’t expect Patrick to say that, but his eyes have gone all dark. “Yeah, okay then,” he says with a little curl of a smile, reaching for Patrick’s hand and molding it around his cock, a perfect parody of the very first time they fucked. He’s hot through the fabric, Patrick strokes his fingers over the head, pleased with the way Jonny’s lids flutter.

Patrick gets his pants open and settles into a good rhythm. Jonny sighs. "Feels good," he says, low, near Patrick's mouth. That’s better. Patrick wants to know that Jonny's here with him.

“Fuck, get these off,” Patrick tells him, pushing at the waist of his jeans, annoyed by how he can’t see anything. Jonny rolls over onto his back to work his jeans down his thighs. Patrick can’t help getting his hands in the way, trying to help.

Jonny chuckles when he’s naked, rolling back over and tipping Patrick’s chin up for an easy slow kiss, lingering at Patrick’s lower lip like it’s candy. He draws his hands up and down Patrick’s body in indolent soothing passes until Patrick feels like he’s going to melt into the bed. He’s hot for it, but he could go for a while, he thinks. Just set it aside to focus on the more immediate sensations of Jonny’s callused palms on his skin. Jonny’s strong fingertips press in along the tensed muscles in his spine, making him groan and relax further still. Jonny’s usually pushily demanding, making Patrick work for it, but he’s different right now. He dips his fingers down between Patrick’s cheeks, playing them over Patrick’s hole, making him hiss. Jonny hasn't done this much since that first time fingering him, so the sensation is still new, thrilling at Patrick's nerve-endings.

"Okay there?" he asks, running his fingers so delicately over Patrick's skin, pressing in on that spot between his ass and balls that makes Patrick's eyelids flutter closed again. It distracts him from his own hand on Jonny's dick, which slackens until Jonny laughs and curves his spine to arch into it.

"Uh-huh," Patrick mumbles, but it's even better when Jonny pushes his thigh between Patrick's. He arches back into Jonny's stroking fingers, rubbing his cock against his leg. That slow rhythm starts to speed up, the relaxation in Patrick's body transforming into sweet tension again. When he looks down, he can barely see his own hand on Jonny's dick, sandwiched between their bodies, but he can feel how it's getting harder in his palm in response to Patrick's erratic rhythm. In comparison, Jonny's light touch, just the pads of his fingertips passing over his rim in a steady back and forth, feels like it's doing almost nothing, but it's still driving him crazy as he works his cock more and more frantically against Jonny's thigh.

Fragments of thoughts keep coming and going. Assplay is so not his speed, or so he would’ve told you if you’d asked him a month ago. Patrick would be glad to give it to whoever, but they were sure as hell staying away from his backdoor. Now though, Jonny’s forcing rule changes right and left. Patrick’s not sure how he feels about it. Well, he’s fucking lying to himself with that one. Patrick knows exactly how feels about it.

He's getting loud, he can hear himself, a sound that's almost a whine coming from his throat as Jonny keeps him pinned between his hand and his thigh. He feels a stroke away from just taking his own orgasm, shoved up tight against Jonny's leg. His own hand has gone slack and loose between them. He's no longer even keeping up the pretense of doing his fair share. Fuck. That’s not what he wanted. He shoves into Jonny, pushes him flat on the bed and rolls on top of him, and when he gets their dicks lined up together, Jonny freezes, a shudder running through him.

He’s warm and solid underneath Patrick and Patrick shifts against him, bracing his palms on the pillows on either side of his head, face shoved into his neck. He gets the power of his thighs and back behind it as he rocks down against Jonny, sticky cocks sliding low on Jonny’s belly. Jonny lets him, head arching back, exposing his vulnerable throat. Shit, Patrick never would’ve settled for something like this with another hookup, but this here, working his hips, doesn’t feel like settling.

Jonny gets his palms back on Patrick’s ass and stretches underneath him, rolling their hips together. Patrick’s unable to prevent an embarrassing broken moan. “Oh fuck, that’s it,” he breathes, biceps trembling as he holds himself partially suspended above Jonny. Patrick has this very brief thought, an image of splitting his thighs over Jonny's lap and just impaling himself on Jonny's dick. It's so unexpectedly hot, the thought of taking Jonny inside him like that, that his arms shake.

Almost as if he knows what’s going through Patrick’s head, Jonny's thumbs press in along the crease, right over the thin sensitized skin, this added stimulation at just the right time, the image is seared in his brain as he comes. He’s not really sure how he gets Jonny the rest of the way there, but soon, he’s pulsing between them, clinging to Patrick and gasping.

They drift for a while, until finally Jonny dumps him off and rolls away. He comes back a few moments later with a washcloth that he swipes over Patrick’s skin a couple times before he pitches it back toward the bathroom.

“Thanks,” Patrick says around a yawn.

“You’re welcome, lazy,” Jonny says as he lies back down.

“I’m not lazy, I’m tired,” Patrick objects, curling away from the fingers Jonny jabs at his ribs. He flops back onto Jonny’s arm to trap his hand against the bed, which isn’t a killer strategy, but he really is tired. Jonny must be as well, because he just pulls his arm out from under Patrick’s weight and shifts over a little bit. He reaches down to pull up the sheets and blanket they’d kicked to the end of the bed, then lies down next to Patrick.

Patrick’s starting to drift off when Jonny’s voice startles him awake. “Huh, what?” he says, opening his eyes wide.

“What got you all pissed today?” Jonny says. He rolls onto his side to face Patrick and curls his arm under the pillow. His face is soft, hair ruffled, eyelids drooping. He puts a warm hand on Patrick’s chest over his sternum. “You were buzzing all day.”

“Oh,” Patrick says. The emotions from earlier in the day feel hollowed out, no longer important. He turns his head. Jonny’s waiting, still looking at him. Finally, Patrick says, “Just, stupid shit. Not bugging me anymore.”

Jonny raises his eyebrows. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah, someone busted up my train of thought,” Patrick says.

“Nothing big, then?” Jonny says, persistent.

“Naw, man,” Patrick says. He rolls over to face him and Jonny’s hand drops to the mattress between them. “I’m good,” he murmurs, and brushes their lips together. “Just a bad day.” He reaches over Jonny to turn off the light. “It ended pretty good, though.”

Jonny’s laugh is low and soft in the dark. “Glad I could help,” he says.

*

Patrick doesn't dig being injured. Trying to keep up your conditioning when you're not playing a game every two days with practices in between is rough stuff. But when Jonny gets injured only a few games later, giving them both an involuntary vacation, there's at least a silver lining. They can have sex twenty times a day without having to worry about on-ice performance issues, and once they figure out how to avoid aggravating Jonny's shoulder or Patrick's knee, they try to put that to the test. Being on IR still sucks, but with Jonny to bang, it's not the worst thing that's ever happened. Patrick gets to practice his control when Jonny sinks down onto him with no latex barrier between them, and he gets pretty good at it. Maybe too good, because after a week, when Patrick brushes his fingers down Jonny’s gym shorts, lingering over his crack as they're making out, Jonny pulls away.

"Nope," he says, looking honestly regretful. "Gonna have to take a break, I think."

"Really?" Patrick blinks. He spreads his hand flat over the curve of Jonny's ass.

“I’m all fucked out,” Jonny tells him. He follows it up quickly with: “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Patrick laughs. “Baby, I would never.”

Jonny shakes his head and then rolls flat on his back on the bed so that his ass is safe from Patrick’s reach. “Well,” Patrick says, drawing out the syllable.

Jonny looks at him with brows raised. “Yeah?”

Patrick's thought about it off and on, how it might go if they switched things up. Sometimes even outside of bed, when he didn't have Jonny in front of him, starting to harden in his shorts. He's a guy with a healthy sense of curiosity, and once the thought entered his brain, it hadn’t left.

“You’re always going on about my ass not getting enough attention or whatever,” Patrick says, eyes on the ceiling. He doesn’t look over, but he can hear Jonny shifting around, moving closer.

“What kind of attention do you want?” Jonny asks, breath drifting over Patrick’s ear.

Heat prickles down Patrick’s spine. There’s a lot they’ve already put on the table—rimming, fingerfucking, mostly to Jonny though. He could say any of those things instead of what he’s thinking about. He doesn’t know if Jonny’s actually asking or if he’s being deliberately obtuse to what Patrick was trying to suggest. The problem is, when he goes to tell Jonny definitively, ‘fuck me,’ the words simply don’t come out.

Patrick licks at his lower lip and says, “I, uh…” and doesn’t get much further than that.

Jonny seems to get where his aborted explanation was going though, because he rolls even closer, pushing himself up onto his elbow so that Patrick is forced to look at him. “Hey,” he says, voice even. “It doesn’t make you any less if you like to be fucked, Peeks.”

Patrick laughs, shutting his eyes, cheeks flaming up in a hectic blush. "I don't think that. But uh...I'm a little...just not sure how much I believe it’ll feel good." He sticks his dick in Jonny all the time and mostly it’s just made him really glad Jonny lets him do it, not that it lessens Jonny in any way.

From where Patrick sees it, Jonny’s dick in his ass is hot in theory, but his cock is a different order of magnitude from his fingers, thicker for sure, but also longer. Looking down at where it’s lying tumescent against his thigh, nylon shorts molded around it, it’s kind of a scary prospect. Patrick shrugs ruefully. “Just not sure, dude.”

Jonny’s face softens. He nudges Patrick’s thigh companionably with his knee. "It's not going to ruin my night if we do something else."

Patrick breathes out, unsure why that answer dissatisfies him. "You're not going to tell me you could make me feel so good?" he’s says, keeping his tone light.

Jonny snorts. "That's more your bag than mine, you brash motherfucker."

"Hey, it works!” Patrick protests, elbowing Jonny’s ribs. Jonny makes a skeptical noise and Patrick looks over at him, considering the past couple of weeks with a groan. "Although, fuck, not on you."

Jonny just grins smugly, eyebrows raised, provoking Patrick into rolling on top of him, landing as heavy as he can.

"Oof," Jonny says. His hands come up to curve around Patrick's sides, fingers pressing into the muscle below his shoulder blades as Patrick dips his head and kisses him. The clutch of nerves in his stomach eases a little as Jonny angles his chin up and kisses him back, familiar and easy. After a moment he pulls back and sits up, knees braced wide and straddling Jonny's hips. He's right over Jonny's dick this way, and Jonny grunts when he shifts his weight, which makes Patrick grin and do it again.

"So how do we do this?" Patrick says.

Jonny gives him a speculative look, hands sliding down to cup Patrick's ass. Patrick takes a breath, and Jonny's gaze sharpens.

"Actually, stay like that," he says. He sits up a little, brushing his lips along Patrick's cheek as he reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand.

"Going in blind?" Patrick says skeptically as Jonny pops the cap.

Jonny's face brightens, his look of concentration fading into amusement. "Have some faith."

Like Patrick would be here if he didn't. "Hah," he says. Jonny reaches around and rubs his first slicked-up finger along the pucker of Patrick's ass, and then presses in as Patrick's lips part on a quick puff of breath.

Patrick has to give credit where it's due. Jonny's got some bright ideas. It’s easy like this, the gentle press of Jonny’s fingers inside, without his arm working awkwardly between him. Those nylon running shorts are slippery against Patrick when he grinds down in response to the insistent rhythm of Jonny’s fingers pushing into him, and it feels so good that he rolls his hips, shamelessly sliding his dick across Jonny’s hip and the bulge of his cock. Jonny’s breath comes short in his ear, that slip-slide starting to affect him as bad as Patrick. When they both look down, his dick is leaving dark streaks across the fabric, and Jonny’s cock is full, an obscene silhouette in his shorts. He looks as cranked up as Patrick feels, eyes dark, a flush climbing the planes of his face. His fingers still move, steady as he opens Patrick up.

Patrick reaches down and slides his fingers under Jonny's elastic waistband with the hazy thought of returning the favor. Jonny isn't even all the way naked, the least Patrick can do is get his dick out, maybe toy with that steady composure of his. But once Jonny's dick is out, lying on Jonny's tensing abs above the light blue band of his running shorts, Patrick remembers how hot the idea of taking him inside had seemed. The next thrust of Jonny's fingers hits him hard, those nerves coming back to prick his skin.

He shivers. "Oh fuck, fuck, how much is it gonna hurt?" No way did he know he was going to say that until he opened his mouth, words spilling out in a rush. But he feels it, he wants to know, because he wants to go forward, but his stomach is flipping, heart beating in his chest.

Jonny comes up on one elbow and slides his lips along Patrick's jaw. "It doesn't have to if you do it right," he says quietly in Patrick's ear. "You ride me, remember, you're in control. You're in the driver's seat."

Patrick feels a bubble of inappropriate laughter squeezing his lungs at that thought. Jonny's giving him car metaphors? It does steady him, though. "Oh yeah," he says. "You're making me do all the work, as usual." Whatever Jonny was going to say in response, Patrick stops with his mouth, brushing their lips together and then tugging at Jonny's bottom lip with his teeth. Jonny makes a noise in the back of his throat and opens his mouth, letting Patrick control the depth and pace of the kiss. His free hand curves around Patrick's hip, stroking down his thigh. Patrick's the one to pull away. He reaches down and grabs the discarded bottle of lube from the sheets.

Jonny slides his fingers free and hooks his thumbs in his waistband. He starts to say, "Here, shift off and let me," when Patrick curls his slicked-up hand around Jonny's cock, his palm skating over the exposed head of Jonny's dick, foreskin already pulled back. Jonny hisses and his stomach tenses underneath Patrick.

Patrick pours more lube onto Jonny’s cock with a heavier hand than he meant. It gets everywhere, darkening Jonny’s neat pubic hair and running down his balls. “Uh…” Jonny says, looking down his belly.

“Do you think we need anymore?” Patrick says very seriously, staring down at him, the slick river of it sliding over his skin. Jonny puts his lips together and laughs. When Patrick drags his fist down Jonny’s cock to spread it around, it makes a wet squelch, adding to the absurdity. “So I’m thinking,” he pauses, meeting Jonny’s eyes, “this is not enough.”

“Yeah, now that you’ve turned me into a luge event,” Jonny tells him.

Patrick circles his thumb and forefinger just under the head of Jonny’s dick, staring at the pink glistening crown rising up from the loop of his fingers. “If I got up right now and walked away, would you beg me to let you fuck me?”

Jonny’s face grows serious. “Do you want me to beg?” he asks.

“I don’t—” Patrick stops, chewing on his lower lip.

“If you’re asking me if I want this, then yes, the answer is yes,” Jonny tells him, going back up onto his elbows.“But shit, man, you know how it goes. Fucking is not the end all, be all.”

Except for how, for Patrick, for a long time, it kind of was. There’s still not a lot that he would say is better. Scoring goals and setting up plays, speeding along Lakeshore with the windows down on a warm night, and fucking—he’d be hard pressed to find anything better. It's kind of weird how easily Jonny is able to disrupt that though. A strange sort of hold compelled by intense and frequent orgasms, he supposes. His dick knows what's up. He just likes how easy it is with Jonny. Well, not easy. Jonny makes him fucking work for it. Simple might be the word for it.

“I’m not going to make you beg,” Patrick says, voice rough. He slides his hand down Jonny one last time and then reaches behind him to fit Jonny at his hole. He sinks down, and for a split second, tightening around Jonny's dick, which is noticeably wider than a couple fingers, all he thinks is, oh shit. That moment of panic fades as soon as he backs off, easing into something he can handle. This is definitely something his body can do, he realizes, certainty of it settling in and giving him confidence to keep going.

Jonny's been rubbing small circles on his lower back. As Patrick takes the last few inches in a sudden rush, his fingertips bite into Patrick's skin. When Patrick looks down, Jonny's eyes are rolled up in his head, lips pressed tight together. He looks like he's white-knuckling it, quads bunching and relaxing underneath Patrick as he tries to keep still. Patrick feels a slight sense of vindication then for the way he came like a shot when he first fucked Jonny bare.

When he screws his hips down he gets his first real reminder of why people do this. Jonny's right, it's easier to get his prostate with a dick than with his fingers.

"Oh, that's—yeah," Patrick mutters. He shifts forward, bracing his palms on Jonny's chest, and rolls his hips back, tightening down on Jonny's dick and releasing as he chases a rhythm and angle that feels good. He's new at this, and he can't quite find it, keeps catching it for a second that sends pleasure shivering through him, before losing it the next time he moves.

Jonny groans, the sound shaking through Patrick's hands. He's got his eyes closed, face taut, thumbs digging little circles into Patrick's sides now.

"Looking pretty close to the edge, there, Tazer," Patrick says breathlessly.

Jonny opens his eyes, focusing on Patrick's face. At this point Patrick thought he'd seen pretty much every expression Jonny had, but he can't decode this one.

“You think I ever thought this would happen?” Jonny replies, voice gone hoarse. “That you’d be riding me like this?”

Patrick pauses, a tremor going through his thighs. “I—”

“Yeah, fuck,” Jonny says, cupping his palms around Patrick’s cheeks and lifting his hips to get deeper inside, dick sliding all too briefly across his prostate.

“Jonny, how do I—” he breaks off, unsure what he’s really asking.

“Lean back,” Jonny tells him, flushing even brighter, sweaty hair plastered to his forehead. A little unsure, Patrick tilts himself backwards, bracing his hands behind him on Jonny’s thighs. It’s an oddly exposed position, stretched back into an arch like this, but when he lowers his hips down, the angle must be good, because Jonny’s cock catches him just right.

“Holy—” Patrick says, rocking back into it. He blinks unseeing up at the ceiling, still tilted back in that ridiculous arch, fucking himself on Jonny’s cock, his own completely forgotten. “Th-that’s better.”

Jonny exhales, abdomen tensing and contracting. He lets go of one of Patrick’s hips to grab for one the rungs in the headboard, like he needs to anchor himself down to the bed. He lets out a soft rumbling moan, hanging on while Patrick uses his body like a toy. Patrick’s figured out that if he rolls his hips just so, it pushes Jonny’s dick right up against his prostate. He's not even bouncing up and down on him anymore, just squirming, trying to get more of it. And Jonny lets him.

“God, Peeks, you—” all of the tendons in Jonny’s extended wrist stand out in sharp relief, “—are a trial.”

“Fuck off, I rock,” Patrick replies, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. Jonny’s other hand at his hip tightens and Patrick leans into it. The last time he remembered Jonny looking this wound up was when he had him shoved up against the kitchen counter, trembling from the touch of Patrick’s mouth. And dear lord, does he look good that way, out of his head, strung taut, all because of Patrick. The way Jonny’s just taking it in a way he never does when Patrick fucks him.

“C’mon, touch yourself,” Jonny tells him, dark eyes darting from Patrick’s face to his swollen erection. “Get yourself off on my cock.”

Patrick groans, getting his fist around his cock, gathering the fluid at the wet tip and spreading it down the shaft, before starting to stroke in a rhythm just this side of punishing. Jonny slams his head back onto the pillows.

“Do you know what you look like?” Jonny asks. Patrick couldn’t get more flushed at this stage if he tried, but a hot embarrassment still threatens at his cheeks. “Jesus christ, I’ve never seen anything like you.”

Patrick groans and shudders. Suddenly he’s right at the edge, that stupid “hah, hah, hah” noise filtering past his lips, impossible to stop. Jonny sits up underneath him, keeping Patrick in his lap in a ridiculous show of strength that shouldn’t surprise him anymore. It’s too much, and he leans in, practically biting at Jonny’s mouth as he comes right on Jonny’s dick, Jonny’s arms banded tight around his back, holding himself deep inside Patrick. The orgasm contractions hit and Jonny digs his fingernails into Patrick’s back, gasping into Patrick’s mouth as Patrick clenches down around him. And then he feels it as Jonny comes, finally after holding off for so long, filling him up.

Patrick slumps forward, forehead dropping to Jonny’s shoulder as his breaths return to normal, Jonny’s sweat-sticky skin beginning to cool against his own. He nudges his face into Jonny’s throat, just listening to the pounding of his speeding pulse for a little while. He doesn’t think about anything, lets himself drift until his knee starts to twinge a little bit and Jonny stirs underneath him. He disentangles himself and rolls off of him, wincing, and stretches his legs out in front of him on the bed. Jonny’s got his eyes slitted open, face slack. This whole experience went different than Patrick had thought it would. He’s not unsettled—that’s not right. But there was something unfamiliar in the air at the end there. Intense. Patrick feels pretty reverent when he’s got his dick in someone, so he gets it. He’s just not sure how to explain his own feelings. Whatever, maybe this is how everybody feels after they let somebody fuck them the first time.

“Man,” Patrick says after a while. He feels like he’s gone a couple rounds in various places. He thumps Jonny in the thigh with his loosely-balled fist. “Can’t believe you’re still wearing those shorts.” He spreads his hand flat on the smooth fabric.

“I tried to take them off,” Jonny says, not moving.

Patrick drags his fingertips in a small strokes, remembering how it’d felt on his dick. “Pretty good idea, though, to let me rub up against ‘em.”

Jonny smiles. “It’s a thing people do. Not with shorts, though. Satin pillows. Whatever’s slippery. Makes it good.”

Patrick hums. He’s gonna remember that one. “Where’d you get all these tricks for getting off, anyway?”

Jonny shrugs. He’s got his eyes closed now, and his voice comes lazily as he says, “I don’t know, sometimes you have to take care of yourself if you want to get there. Not everyone’s as good at following directions as you.” His lips twitch. “You weren’t even as good as you.”

Patrick snorts. Not that they're keeping score, but he's pretty sure he's at least been staying even on getting Jonny off. “Why bother, then?” he asks, laying himself open for the second part of the joke.

But Jonny doesn’t follow the script. Instead, he just shrugs again. "Hey, if I'm gonna hook up, I want it to be good."

Patrick freezes.”Still looking for your one and only?”

“Yup,” Jonny says brusquely, and then hoists himself out of bed.

It’s the answer he expected, it’s the answer that made sense, and yet Patrick is still inexplicably irritated by it. “You heading out, then?” he says, trying to keep his tone light.

Jonny clicks his tongue against his teeth and goes in search of clean clothes to change into, now that the shorts have been thoroughly ruined. Patrick looks away from them. “Yeah, I think so. Long day tomorrow,” he says and stretches his arms up above his head.

He’s right, they’re finally getting back on the ice tomorrow. Patrick breathes out, staring up at his ceiling. “Yeah,” he says. It’ll be good. He’s ready for it. Right now he’d kill to throw himself into a hard practice, something to wipe the weird doubt and queasy feeling out of his stomach.

He puts clothes back on after Jonny leaves and goes and gets himself a beer, sipping it in front of his windows, staring out at the skyline. What the fuck is up with him? It’s not like he wants Jonny to want him or something. The thought of getting into a relationship is scary and kind of suffocating. He doesn’t understand people’s obsessive quest for love or why anybody finds it so consuming and necessary. His parents got married because that’s what people do. They get on fine, so it’s not like Patrick’s from some broken home.

It would suck though for Jonny just to find somebody because that’s what people do. Patrick knows that not everybody wants casual sex. But he wants better for Jonny than falling into something permanent, maybe getting fucking married, with somebody that way. He’s got friends from childhood whose eventual divorces he can see coming a mile away. Why do that to yourself? Life is so short. Patrick’s not going to saddle himself to somebody just for societal expectations. That’s not his life.

If Jonny did want to date him it would just be all kinds of awkward. It’s been an unspoken rule since the beginning that this shit wasn’t allowed to get weird, if Jonny broke it they’d have to have that painful conversation about how he shouldn’t have gotten attached. So yeah, thank god Jonny’s still looking for his person. They’ve got a good thing here—easy, no strings sex—they shouldn’t fuck that up.

*

Ever since they first made the playoffs, it’s been the same every year. There’s a stretch of time where Patrick just doesn’t get laid. And that’s okay with him. Sometimes he’s too tired to think, let alone try to dip his wick. His right hand knows him pretty well at this point. It’s funny to be jerking off in the shower to thoughts of Jonny with Jonny just on the other side of the wall. In the old days he never even let himself think about it—you don’t fuck with team. Now, though, he may not have the energy to even open the connecting door and see if Jonny wants to exchange handjobs before passing out, but he's got no shame in letting his imagination fill the void, remembering Jonny's tight heat around his dick, the proud arch of his spine and the strong muscles of his back under Patrick's mouth.

At least Jonny's going through a similar dry spell, too, because he hasn't tried to start anything with Patrick, and no way would he begin dating someone during playoffs. It's a satisfying thought, that he can count on Jonny to be right there with him.

Although, fuck. Patrick has to take a moment, head leaning against the tiles. He thinks he might actually be jealous of a person he doesn't even know, who doesn't exist yet, the next person Jonny's gonna bang that isn't him.

This whole line of thinking is a total dick softener. So now Patrick knows what he's been abstaining from all these years when he’s refused to stick with the same person more than a couple of times, so what. The future will take care of itself. One thing he knows from experience is there will always be more fish in the sea. He gets his hand moving on his cock again, resolutely thinking just about that. Which is why he’s got no way to explain the image that flashes up right as he’s coming of Jonny on his back, looking up at him with those dark eyes, breathing, “There’s only you,” on a choked groan as Patrick pounds into him.

“Jesus,” Patrick cries, chucking a bar of soap at the wall in disgust. It knocks into a stack of toiletries at the lip of the tub, causing them to tumble in with a loud clatter.

When he gets out, towel wrapped around his waist, and walks by the open door between their rooms, Jonny’s looking at him curiously. “You didn’t fall did you?”

Patrick snorts and doesn’t bother to answer. For the first time in a while, he’s tempted to shut the door in Jonny’s face, except that would just invite more questions. But, man, just Jonny looking at him is making him feel itchy under his skin. He’s got more important things to worry about. They’re gonna repeat this year and he’s gonna win a second Conn-Smythe and Jonny can suck his dick while he holds it in his arms. Okay, that thought doesn’t really help him. God, he’s so fucking screwed.

“Going to bed,” he says, and wraps one hand around the door.

“Oh, okay,” Jonny says, looking surprised. “Good night, Kaner.” He gives Patrick a smile he can only describe as sweet. “Sleep well.”

“Uh huh,” Patrick says, and closes the door, feeling a little winded. It’s two steps to the bed, which he topples onto and mashes his face into the pillow. He’s exhausted enough that as soon as he’s horizontal he can feel sleep blessedly trying to tug him down.

*

He thinks about Jonny a lot. Not just because he has stupid, weird feelings he doesn’t like trying to quantify or explain, but because he always has. Their lives are so closely entwined, it’s kinda hard to avoid the guy. When they lose to LA at 5:47 in OT, his first thought is for Jonny and how they failed him. Jonny stands frozen on the ice a little bit apart from them all, chin propped on his stick, eyes shining like he’s trying not to cry, and it’s like being kicked in the chest. He’s seen Jonny upset before. There have been other losses, other playoff losses, hard battles they just couldn’t fight through. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jonny this upset. And Patrick doesn’t know what to do with that.

He knows Jonny’s feeling the injustice of it. If only they’d been out there on the ice. If only Jonny had gotten to take that faceoff. If only Patrick had put that last shot past Quick. Now the entire fairytale of the Blackhawks winning back-to-back cups has come crashing down. Duncs is saying something to Jonny and he’s nodding like he’s hearing what Duncs has to say, but his eyes swing over to where Patrick is, and it’s like some connecting tightrope strings taut between them.

Neither of them would say it was just the two of them on that team. They get uncomfortable with the Blackhawks being reduced to the Kane-Toews mythos often enough, but sometimes, it really does feel like they’re the only ones on the same plane, inhabiting the same space. That started a long damn time ago. If one thing is true, Patrick knows his uncomfortable emotions haven’t changed anything between them on this ice. Perhaps nothing ever could. That’s good, he thinks. Although the thought hurts strangely.

Everyone starts moving and Jonny turns away, skating with his head down, shoulders hunched. He's moving slow, like he's injured, like all the life was sapped out of him. Patrick skates forward and comes up behind him, brushing against Jonny's gloved hand and scooping it clumsily toward his chest. He presses hard through the bulky padding of his own glove to feel Jonny's fingers. He doesn't know what to say, this isn't a role he's played much with Jonny, but he wants him to know that he's here, anyway.

Jonny looks over at him and he doesn't look any less devastated, but his hand curves in Patrick's so that they're gripping each other just for a moment before Patrick lets his arm relax and Jonny lets go.

He goes home to his apartment, heart-aching, and as his parents order pizza and his sisters put Seinfeld on his TV, he remembers how he used to deal with this shit. Too much alcohol followed by bad decisions until the disappointment in himself had been replaced by something else. He doesn’t want that now, but he’s never really learned to deal any other way. Last year they won it all. This year he thought they had it again.

Halfway through his second slice he sets it down and shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I have to go.”

“Pat,” his mother replies, concerned eyes on him. “Is everything…” she interrupts herself before she can say ‘alright,’ because he’s obviously not fucking alright.

Patrick summons up a smile for her. “Everything’s fine. There’s just something I’ve gotta do.”

His mother doesn’t look particularly reassured by that and Patrick doesn’t know what to tell her. That all he wants is to go be with Jonny right now, to fucking kiss him and hold his hand, and god knows what else.

“It’s okay, Donna,” his dad tells her. “Pat, we’ll clean up in here and head back to our hotel. You’ll call us in the morning?”

“Promise,” Patrick replies, picking up his keys. Looking at his mother’s face, he repeats it. “I promise.”

*

Jonny definitely isn’t expecting him when he arrives at the Regatta. He answers the door, cheeks white and clean-shaven, that same lost expression still on his face. He looks terrible really. They both do. It’s been a hard playoffs. That opening round against the Blues. Nearly shitting the bed against the Wild. Actually shitting the bed against LA.

“Hey,” he says.

The corner of Jonny’s mouth lifts. “Hey.”

Jonny steps back from the doorway so that Patrick can step inside. “I should probably take care of this,” Patrick says, scrubbing his fingers over his beard.

Jonny jerks his head at the bathroom in the master suite. “I’ve got stuff in there.”

Patrick nods. “I’ll be right out.”

Patrick’s got a Braun electric razor and a can of Gillette on his bathroom counter. Jonny’s definitely playing a whole different ballgame. He knew this. He did room with the guy. But he still stares at the expensive Merkur DE safety razor and the Truefitt & Hill pre-shave oil, along with all the other accoutrements sitting next to the sink for a second, unsure what to do with them. Jonny’s also got three separate tubs of shaving cream in different scents, pricey ones, all from either London or Italy. He’s very serious about his grooming.

It takes longer than Patrick expected to shave using Jonny's whole unfamiliar set up, DEs are not like cartridge razors. He can’t just swipe at his face. He hears Jonny moving around in the other room when he's almost finished, but it's gone quiet by the time Patrick rinses his face for the last time and dries it on a towel, skin scraped bare and smooth. He runs his fingers along his jawline—he supposes this is why Jonny’s skin is always so soft.

He steps out of the bathroom thinking of crawling into bed with Jonny and telling him he’s gonna be the goddamn little spoon, because that’s what Patrick needs right now, but instead, he finds Jonny sprawled out naked, knees hanging over the bed and his arm over his eyes like he’s just napping for a moment before getting up to do something else. He must hear Patrick step into the room, because he shifts and peers up at him from under his arm. At the end of the playoffs, he’s not the gorgeous muscled machine he is during the regular season, but he’s still impressive, tapered down to leanness. He’s beautiful, to Patrick at least.

Jonny spreads his legs and draws them up so that his heels are resting at the edge of the mattress, baring his hole. Patrick sees it’s already shiny with lube. While Patrick was in there, struggling with the safety razor, Jonny was out here, finger-fucking himself open. Patrick swallows. He has to pry his fingers off the doorframe so he can cross to the bed. This isn’t actually what he was thinking at all, coming over here. But fucking he can do.

Jonny watches him the whole time Patrick undresses, though he doesn’t say anything, not even when Patrick tosses his shirt and trousers in the corner of the room where they’ll wrinkle, because right now he can’t imagine wearing this suit again, so who cares where it lands? When Patrick reaches Jonny to stand between his spread legs, he runs his thumb over Jonny’s kneecap and cups the back of his calf, feeling the muscles shift under Jonny’s skin. Jonny lets his legs fall open a little farther, and Patrick has the fleeting impulse to sink to his knees and press a kiss to the inside of Jonny’s leg. That’s not what Jonny’s looking for right now, though, clearly.

He picks up the bottle of lube that Jonny left by his hip and slicks himself up. Even with Jonny spread out in front of him, it takes a few strokes of his hand before his dick starts to get with the picture, because the spirit is willing, but he can’t go from zero to 60 in 10 seconds. Jonny’s eyes stay on him, dropping down to watch the motion of his hand on his dick. Patrick can feel it on his skin. His face heats, pulse starting to pick up, because Jonny looking at him like that never fails to turn him on. He smooths his dry hand down Jonny’s inner thigh as he moves in closer, lining up with his dick pressed against Jonny’s hole. He glances up.

Jonny drags his teeth over his lower lip. “I want to feel it,” he says hoarsely, and if that’s what he wants, Patrick can give him that. He curls his hands around Jonny’s thighs and pushes forward, breaching Jonny’s body in one long stroke that has Jonny shouting, back arching off the bed, hips twisting as he struggles to take Patrick. He’s so tight. He must not have opened himself up much at all, nowhere near as much as Patrick had expected. His fingers bite into Jonny’s legs, going nerveless as he fights not to come, and when he withdraws a little, trying to cling to some semblance of a rhythm, the drag of Jonny’s insides on his cock just about undoes him.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” Patrick says helplessly, words spilling out of his mouth without any filter. He’s in so much trouble. He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep this up. “How could you do this to me?”

Jonny’s breathing hard, eyes open wide and fixed on Patrick’s face. His mouth drops open and his throat works as Patrick shifts in little increments, rolling his hips in minute circles. Patrick wants to gets his mouth on that sweet spot on the join of Jonny’s neck to his shoulder. He hasn’t even kissed him yet and he wants to, because this feels like a struggle, and Patrick’s done fighting.

He loosens his grip on Jonny’s thighs, leaving behind indents that fill in slowly, white then red. He pulls out entirely and Jonny makes a noise of protestation, eyebrows furrowing.

“What are you—” he starts to say as Patrick curves forward, blanketing Jonny with his body. Jonny blinks up at him, but his arms wrap around his shoulders obligingly to pull him down, skin to skin, solid below him. Patrick gets his lips on Jonny’s for a shaky kiss. They’re an awkward tangle of limbs like this at the edge of the bed, but Patrick doesn’t care. Jonny makes these soft hiccuping noises into the kiss, like each moment is a surprise.

“Peeks,” he whispers helplessly, hand tightening on the back of Patrick’s neck when he pulls up to nuzzle Jonny’s cheek and brush their noses together, chest full of something he doesn’t want to name.

Their mouths slide inexorably back together and when Patrick fits himself back at Jonny’s entrance, holding his cock steady to push in, it changes everything. Patrick fucks into him with slow, languid rolls of his hips, nipping at Jonny’s lip, right where the scar bisects it, as he does. Jonny’s arms tighten around him, clutching Patrick close, hips rising to meet him. Jonny’s dick lies hot and hard between them, but for once Jonny doesn’t order Patrick to give him a hand, he just hangs on, like he’s trying to make it last.

Patrick can push in deep this way and every time he does, Jonny taking every last inch of him, it elicits a choked little moan that Patrick can’t help but want to taste. Jonny’s still so tight, but he’s relaxed into it now, and every stroke inside is fluid and effortless.

Patrick pulls up, brushing his lips across Jonny’s cheek right below his eye before whispering in his ear, “Talk to me, Jonny.” He pumps in, buttocks tightening and thighs flexing. “Am I getting you there?”

Jonny digs his head back into the pillow, arching his neck back. “Peeks, nobody does me like you do,” he breathes. “Nobody.”

Patrick has to bury his face in Jonny’s neck, a wave of emotion crashing over him that makes his heart beat faster and harder. He snaps his hips forward, putting the power of his lower body behind it, and Jonny arches beneath him, head turning on his neck to press his cheek to the pillow. It takes Patrick a moment to realize he’s coming, jizz shooting up between them, just like that, from Patrick fucking him.

“You—” Patrick breaks off, shocked, looking down at Jonny’s face. His eyes are shut-tight and his orgasm flush is starting to recede but he’s still making hungry little moans as Patrick keeps working his hips. He clenches down around Patrick in a dirty squeeze, like he’s trying to keep him inside, so much heat and pressure around Patrick’s dick he can’t take it. “Oh, fuck—oh fuck, baby I—”

Patrick comes, heart flipping over in his chest. It’s so overpowering that he can feel his eyes start to prickle at the corners and has to drop his forehead to Jonny’s shoulder as he thrusts in one last time, screwing his hips in tight.

It takes him a long time to come down. He’s shaking, taking big gasping inhales, fighting not to cry, all the pain and frustration of losing finally washed away clean, but replaced by something else, a soul-deep ache for this person who’s looking for love, but isn’t looking for him. Well, Patrick tells himself with a calming breath, he’s decided to ride this train for as long as there’s track in front of him.

Patrick tries to be careful as he pulls out, the blunt head of his cock catching on Jonny’s rim, but Jonny still twists underneath him, making a pained sound in the back of his throat.

“Shit, sorry,” Patrick says, eyes flying up to Jonny’s face.

Jonny’s lashes flutter as he blinks his eyes open fully. He reaches up to cup Patrick’s cheek with a steady hand and Patrick’s heart seems to speed up in his chest again. Each long moment, staring down into his dark eyes, as Jonny searches his gaze seems strangely weighted. Finally, he says, “Nothing to be sorry for,” and drops his hand.

It swamps him then how great Jonny is. Patrick knows he doesn't like everything about him. There have been enough fights in their hotel rooms and on the bench over the years to make that patently clear. It would be impossible to be cool with everything a person did. But right now he feels like he likes every fucking thing about him. He’s so angry at himself. This is why you don’t fuck with team. He went and got attached and now it’s all fucking ruined. How could this happen to Patrick? It makes sense for some other poor schmuck, but Patrick lives for fucking. Live fast, die young. That’s his goddamn credo.

“Need to clean up,” Jonny says after a moment, pushing at Patrick’s shoulder so that he rolls off of him. He creaks up off of the bed with a groan, putting his palms at the small of his back to crack it before disappearing into the bathroom to deal with the smeared mess of their come. Patrick should get up too, he needs to deal with this, but he’s so damn tired. His eyes are just starting to close when Jonny comes back out.

“Mind my sheets, man,” he says, tossing a wet wash cloth at him like everything is all the same. Well, for Jonny it is. He didn’t fall in love with his teammate. The washcloth hits his thigh with a damp smack. Patrick sighs gustily, wiping down his junk. One thing to be said in favor of condoms. He pitches the washcloth at Jonny’s laundry basket, and it sails in easily.

“Nothing but net, baby,” he says, injecting his voice with all the bravado he can muster. Jonny snorts, but he slides into bed behind him, wrapping an arm around Patrick’s middle. Patrick makes a noise of protest.

“Son, I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Patrick tells him, “but I am not the little spoon.”

Jonny laughs, running his nose up the nape of Patrick’s neck, pulling Patrick in a little closer. “What are you going to do? Fight me?” Patrick shifts a little in his arms like he’s considering it, but the truth is he’s too fucking tired and Jonny’s warm and comfortable wrapped around him. Jonny chuckles again. “Yeah, I’m calling your bluff. You like it.”

“I’ll fight you tomorrow, Toews,” Patrick replies. He’ll let himself have this tonight, because tomorrow he’s going to have to put a stop to it.

Jonny hums a response, but his breathing is already starting to even out. Patrick succumbs to sleep not too long after.

*

Patrick wakes up before Jonny the next morning, the sun streaming in, limning Jonny’s dark eyelashes in gold and setting a warm glow to his skin. At some point in the night they shifted around in the bed. Patrick wound up with most of the covers twisted around himself, Jonny bared to the waist. Lying there, it hits Patrick in the face all over again just how sideways this went. He’s a big boy and he needs to clean up the mess he made.

He rolls carefully onto his back, still hampered by the blankets and trying not to wake Jonny, and stares up at the ceiling. Jonny stirs after a minute anyway, digging his face into the pillow with an unhappy noise. He likes to call himself a morning person, and once he's upright he's not too bad, but those first few moments are always a little rough.

There’s locker clean-out in a few hours and neither of them are looking forward to that press circus. “Yo, get up,” Patrick tells Jonny, swatting his thigh. “Where’s your electric trimmer?” he asks, running his fingers through the mullet. “I need to deal with this.”

“Breakfast,” Jonny says hoarsely.

“Get your ass up and I’ll take you out,” Patrick replies. Patrick would much rather do this conversation over a dozen shots of tequila, but pancakes will have to do.

It still takes Jonny a while, but eventually, he rolls himself out of bed for a shower. Afterwards, rather than handing over the electric trimmer, he makes Patrick sit on the toilet seat, a towel wrapped around his shoulders and his head bent, while Jonny buzzes off the curls at his nape.

“Don’t jack me up,” Patrick says warningly as the longer pieces hit the floor.

“Doin’ a better job than your so-called barber,” Jonny shoots back. When he’s finished, he runs his fingers over the newly shorn area, and then bends down to blow the tiny short hairs left behind off of the back of Patrick’s neck. Patrick shivers when Jonny’s lips brush across his skin. His heart drops in his chest, settling heavy. God, Jonny needs to not do shit like that.

He waits until Jonny’s working his way through a full stack and some bacon at a diner not too far from Jonny’s place before he even broaches the subject.

“So I know we said no getting attached,” Patrick tells him, setting down his iced tea with a determined thunk.

“Who said that?” Jonny asks, eyebrows going up as he sets his fork down.

“Okay, so nobody said it, but it was like, implied,” Patrick tells him, waving his hand. Jonny stares at him and Patrick swallows. God, this is harder than he expected. “Yeah, so, I like...I broke the rules.”

“You broke the rules?” Jonny repeats unhelpfully.

Patrick blows out a breath. “Jesus, you always make everything hard. I like you, man. I like-like you. So you know, we need to stop.”

Jonny leans back in his seat, rubbing his fingers over his mouth, not saying anything. Patrick scowls, shoulders hunching. When Jonny starts to smile, Patrick feels his blood pressure spike. He's not trying to be funny over here. No way would he have predicted that Jonny would be a dick about this.

Then Jonny says, "Guess it's a good thing for you that I didn't know your rules." That smile spreads until it's all over his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Didn't want you to pull a runner, so I kept my mouth shut."

Patrick makes a strangled disbelieving noise, knee-jerk, and Jonny says, "Don't lie. You would have."

"Not necessarily!" Patrick responds. His brain is going in a hundred different directions, but the one that comes out of his mouth first is, "Wait, this whole time?" He feels a little shaky right now, the weight he was carrying in his stomach evaporating in an instant. It's a struggle to keep his voice level.

Jonny scoffs. "No," he says.

"How long are we talking, here?" Patrick asks. "Before the date with Elina's crazy friend?"

"Hey," Jonny protests. "She might not have been crazy." He shrugs. "Anyway, after that."

Patrick points at him. "You are such a punk. Seriously, when?"

Jonny's lips twitch. "I don't know, probably when you dumped a whole bottle of lube on my junk." He gives Patrick a smug look. “After that I was just playing a long game."

"Oh, cuz you were so far ahead of me, you asshole," Patrick says. Though he refuses to believe that was actually the moment. There's just no goddamn way.

He drops his eyes down to the table where their fingertips are resting on the table-top, so close they nearly touch. Patrick wants to reach out and take his hand so badly.

When he looks up, Jonny's giving him a crooked grin. "Hey, Patrick," Jonny says. "Wanna go out with me?"

Fuck, go out with him! As if. Jonny’s gonna buy him a big house where he doesn’t have to worry about the neighbors. Patrick can see it already. He can’t say that he minds.

*

He knows that people are surprised by their good spirits during exit interviews—Jonny’s especially. But even though they just lost in the stupidest way possible—one fucking goal keeping them out of the final—it feels like the lights just went on in his life. It’s hard to keep it tamped down, but he tries.

The whole team goes out to a Cubs game, one last outing before everyone scatters for the summer. They take over a few rows and everyone plays musical chairs as they get up and sit down, making the rounds. Patrick is caught up in conversation with Sharpy when Jonny slides in next to him, but he nudges Jonny’s knee to say hi, and then has to settle his hat when Jonny scrubs his hand over his head in response.

Patrick stands up when he runs out of beer and starts edging around Jonny to get out. He stops in front of him, standing between his parted legs. “You want another one?” he asks, reaching out and running his finger over the shell of Jonny’s ear, sappy as shit, but it’s a beautiful night and he’s got his guy in front of him.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jonny says, smiling up at him. Patrick grins back, and Jonny’s hand slides down his side before dropping away as he makes his way toward the aisle.

“Hang on, wait for me,” Sharpy says from behind him, and so Patrick stops on the stairs so they can go up together.

As they’re waiting in line, Sharpy leans over. “So,” he says slowly. “You and the Captain?”

Patrick stiffens, turning his head quickly to look at him. “You gotta problem?”

Sharpy chuckles. “Nope, no problem.”

Patrick feels his shoulders drop in relief. He’s not sure what he would’ve done if Sharpy had said yes.

“Can’t say that I’m not surprised though,” Sharpy continues. “You’re pretty high maintenance. J-man’s not usually into that.”

“High maintenance!” Patrick repeats, incredulous.

Sharpy nods seriously. “Now I’m not saying there were rumors around Rockit that you were uh...a little goal oriented in the sack. Oh well, no. That’s actually exactly what I’m saying.”

“What the fuck!” Patrick shouts. Sharpy looks so goddamn amused. Patrick can’t believe this. There were rumors about him being selfish in bed? What the hell. Patrick wasn’t selfish in bed, he just had objectives or whatever. He thinks about how that sounds in his own head and it’s pretty incriminating. Goddamn it. So he used to be selfish in bed, whatever. It’s not like Jonny isn’t satisfied.

“There there, Peeks, you still picked up, clearly it wasn’t denting your game any. Still though. Did Tazer train you up right? You know ‘she comes first’ and all that?”

“Oh fuck off,” Patrick replies. He can’t believe Sharpy is giving him hell about this. Mr. I-have-never-changed-a-diaper-in-my-life. SELFISH indeed. He's keeping the puck to himself from now until forever. See how the Sharpshooter likes that. “Jonny’s plenty satisfied.”

Sharpy cackles with laughter, clearly delighted with himself, and then he makes Patrick pick up the tab for his beer along with the one he’s already buying for Jonny, also. Unbelievable.

“Thanks, Peeks,” he says and salutes him with the plastic cup before heading back to their seats. Patrick trails behind, double-fisting his and Jonny’s beers. He makes it back just in time to see Sharpy run his fingertip down the shell of Jonny’s ear.

Jonny jerks and swats at him in surprise. “Get the fuck off me!”

“Oh, is that not a thing?” Sharpy asks, faux innocent, looking deliberately at Patrick as he makes his way over. Patrick hands Jonny his beer, shaking his head at Sharpy. As soon as he has a free hand, he draws it across his throat. Sharpy smiles beatifically back.

“What was that about?” Jonny asks, leaning in close when Patrick sits down next to him.

Patrick clears his throat. “Sharpy knows.”

“And?” Jonny says. He widens his legs so that their knees are touching.

“And he’s giving me shit for being bad in bed,” Patrick replies darkly. “He made up some bullshit about a rumor at Rockit that I’m, direct quote, goal-oriented.”

Jonny stares at him for a second in silence before he bursts into laughter.

“What? What’s funny?” Saader asks on Jonny’s other side. Patrick rolls his eyes skyward. Jonny can fuck right off too.

Jonny pats Saader consolingly on the knee. “Inside joke.”

After a moment, pitching his voice low, Jonny says, “You know I never came untouched before?”

Patrick sits up a little straighter in his seat. God, now he’s thinking about last night again, about how perfect that was.

“I wonder if you can make it happen again,” Jonny tells him, like they’re not surrounded by all their teammates and hundreds of Cubs fans. Like Patrick isn’t wearing fucking chinos at a baseball game that still has six innings to go. Motherfucker, what did he sign himself up for?

That night, back at Jonny’s apartment, hard, aching and desperate, Patrick demands that Jonny get him off.

“Want you to suck me,” he says breathlessly, rolling his hips against Jonny’s.

Jonny laughs and for once complies easily, going to his knees right there in the hallway and pulling Patrick’s shorts down to take him into his mouth. Jonny sucks him slow and sweet, like he has all the time in the world, cheeks hollowing around Patrick’s cock like he was made for it.

When Patrick comes, Jonny swallows it down, lapping at his cock like a pornstar. Patrick can barely hold himself upright against the wall afterwards.

Jonny rolls to his feet, pushing in close to press a kiss to Patrick’s neck right below his ear. “Sharpy was probably right,” Jonny says voice gravelly and low, betraying exactly what they just did. Jonny scrapes his teeth across Patrick’s vulnerable throat, making him shiver and moan. “But I know you’re good for it.”

Sharpy never has to know that after Patrick gets Jonny off, he gives his aching shoulder a massage, and maybe also tells Jonny he loves him. Jonny didn’t train him. He was going to do all that shit anyway.

*

EPILOGUE…

Patrick sits in the spotter’s chair in the rear of the speedboat with Dan in the other one, recording Jonny on his iphone as he nominates Hammer and Brad Richards and some Elvis impersonator that Patrick insisted wasn’t funny for the ice bucket challenge. This whole enterprise is totally over-the-top embarrassing, but he can’t deny that Jonny looks so damn sexy, v-cuts and pectorals sheened with lake water as he smooths back his hair and pulls his trunks into less of a Playgirl photoshoot arrangement after getting himself up onto the board.

Jonny extravagantly discards the tow rope, riding the wake close to the back of the boat.

Patrick hands over a bucket for him to dump on himself, restraining laughter. He ruined the last two takes by cracking up in the middle. They’d lost most of the ice on their previous two attempts. The third time’s a charm though and he manages to get through it biting on the inside of his cheek as Jonny pours water all over himself.

It wasn’t part of the plan, but when Jonny does this ridiculous little flourish as he throws the bucket aside, Patrick just can’t help tossing more water at him. He tumbles right off the board into the lake and both Dan and Patrick descend into laughter, collapsing back into their seats.

“Turn around, turn around,” Patrick calls to Jonny’s friend, Marc, who’s driving the boat. “He’s down.”

Marc looks over his shoulder and does a circle to where they can see Jonny’s head bobbing up above the waves. Marc does too tight a loop and the wake swamps Jonny right in the face. The outraged spluttering Jonny makes when they drift alongside him makes Patrick start laughing again.

“I think I just swallowed half the lake, you assholes” Jonny says, coughing as Patrick reaches over the side of the boat to help pull him inside.

“Oh no, is it poison?” Patrick asks. “Do we need to get you to a hospital?”

“Shut up,” Jonny tells him, halfway over the rail, tugging him down into a kiss, lips sliding cool across Patrick’s.

“Aww, cute,” Dan’s girlfriend says, the telltale noise of a picture being taken on an iphone. Patrick pulls back and looks over as she turns the phone around to show him the shot she took of him and Jonny mid lip-lock. Patrick colors, hiding his face behind his hand. He’s still getting used to this whole PDA thing.

Jonny hauls himself up into the boat and then goes over by Dan, dripping everywhere, to see how the video turned out. Patrick leans back in his chair and watches him, considering. It’s beautiful out here on the lake and Patrick’s glad he agreed to come. Back in Chicago Jonny’s started speaking with a real estate agent, talking like he’s looking for a home, not just another fancy condo.

When Jonny first began looking for his special someone to settle down with, Patrick had no idea that would be him. They’re moving pretty fast. By any normal reckoning, they’ve only been together for a short while, but in some ways Patrick feels like he’s been with Jonny since he was 18. It’s time for a couple of big steps.

“This is gonna get way more hits than yours,” Jonny says, interrupting his train of thought to wave Dan’s iphone around.

“Only because you got half-naked!” He makes a T with his hands. “Technical foul to number 19.”

Jonny snorts at his basketball reference. Usually, Patrick calls technicals on Shawsy in the dressing room when he says something totally out of line. This is the first time Patrick’s used one on him. “Please, I got 3/4ths naked. I don’t fuck around.”

Patrick gives Jonny the sleaziest look, eyes lidded, and says, "Baby, you sure don't."

“Flagrant foul, two shots,” Dan calls out, extending the metaphor, but he looks more amused than perturbed. He holds out his hand. “Gimme back my phone, Jon.”

Jonny tosses it over and then settles himself down in Patrick’s lap, getting him all wet. “Hi,” he says, touching his nose to Patrick’s.

Patrick smiles up at him. It’s a hot enough day that he barely even minds that Jonny’s swim trunks are soaking through his own clothes. After this they’ll probably eat and then go back to the cabin to fuck before going out to dinner with Jonny’s parents. In a few days they’ll fly back to Chicago with their matching contracts and Jonny’s ridiculous home-buying plans. Patrick can see the whole thing stretching out ahead of him and for the very first time, that kind of future doesn’t scare him. “Hi yourself,” he says.