Chapter Text
When Patrick tromps into the visiting locker room of the Wells Fargo Center after the second, there’s a giant goose standing in front of his stall. HONK! It goes. Behind Patrick, Bur squeaks and promptly trips over his skates in shock. “I think it’s for you, Peekaboo,” Seabs calls out from the exercise bike in the corner, pointing helpfully.
“No it’s not,” Patrick says automatically, even though the goose is staring him down with beady black eyes that won’t move from his. HONK, it says again, rising tall on its webbed feet and flapping its wings.
“Heeere, goosey-goosey,” Soupy tries to tempt it away with one of his gel packs. Immediately, the goose reveals a row of sharp black teeth. “AHHH!” He screams and jumps onto the benches.
Ladder whistles from around his mouthguard. “Looks like Kaner’s got himself a Philly broad.” He and Buf share a high-five. Most of the guys have trickled in by this point, huddling strategically close to the door. The trainers and staff hover behind them, bandages and electrolyte drinks and melting ice packs in hand.
“Kaner, go reason with your goose dude,” Steeger pleads.
“It’s not my goose,” Patrick tries again, even though it’s becoming increasingly evident that it is. He hesitates, then walks up to the goose. It has a black beak and a black neck, a white body with brown feathers. It looks distinctly displeased with Patrick as it bows, long and deep. Patrick’s stomach goes cold. This can’t be happening.
“What the hell is everyone standing around for?” Patrick turns. Jonny’s just walked in, back from his intermission interview with Tappen. His brows are scrunched in captainly irritation, like he’s confused why every guy on his team decided to transform into a disappointing moron all at once. Patrick sees it when his gaze lands on the goose, then on Patrick, then on the goose again. For a moment, he’s still. His face does something complicated. “Everyone back to work, right now!” His voice cracks on the word “right.” HONK, HONK, HONK! The goose goes at the sight and sound of Jonny, thrashing its wings wildly. Patrick fights the urge to melt into a puddle on the floor.
“Shut up!” Patrick hisses. HONK, says the goose, smug. Jonny spins on his heel and stalks out of the room, muttering under his breath. Patrick stares after him. “Look what you’ve done now,” he snaps at the goose. HONK, it says unrepentantly, and pecks at Patrick’s skate laces. Patrick sighs. “Stay here,” he tells the goose and shoves his helmet back on, because they’ve got a game to win, divine intervention be damned. They end up losing in triple OT, and Jonny screams himself hoarse afterwards, lecturing them on every broken play and missed shot.
“And stop looking at that damn goose,” he finishes, pink with fury. He jabs an incriminating finger in the goose’s direction and glares. HONK, the goose exclaims unrepentantly, excited that Jonny is addressing it. Steeger, who’d been inching towards the goose with an apple slice and a sense of hopeful curiosity, slinks back towards his stall. Jonny doesn’t say a single word to Patrick as he storms out the doors. Somehow, it’s worse than being yelled at.
There’s an emergency call with management in the hallway, and they order Patrick and the goose a special van back to the hotel, because there were certain centuries-old procedures to be followed when a Bond Enforcement Goose shows up on your doorstep. HONK, goes the goose as they cruise down Broad Street, thwacking its wing excitedly against the glass. At least it’s having fun as it’s ruining his life, Patrick thinks bitterly to himself. In the hotel room, the goose waddles to the menu binder, picks it up with its beak, and plops it in Patrick’s lap. HONK, it demands. With the tap of its beak, it orders the double cheeseburger. “Greedy bastard,” Patrick mutters, and picks up the phone to place the order.
As the goose scarfs down the cheeseburger, Patrick stares at the adjoining door between his room and Jonny’s with his arms folded over his stomach. The thing is, the universe clearly made a mistake. “Alright, buddy, listen up,” Patrick says as the goose dabs its beak on the linen napkin. “It’s been great knowing you, but I need you to hit the road now, okay?” The goose blinks at him. “I don’t have a soulmate,” Patrick explains. He thought he did, once. But then, in the aftermath of lifting the Cup for the second time, high from the buzz of winning, he’d pressed his lips to the mouth of the boy he’d loved since he was twelve years old. When he pulled back, Jonny was looking at him like Patrick was the worst thing he’d ever seen. “I’m not a fucking faggot,” he spat, and all of Patrick’s silly hopes and dreams about getting married and growing together and having a litter of Kane-Toewses crashed and burned in spectacular fashion. Patrick presses his thumb to his bicep, against the patch of skin just under the cuff of his t-shirt where a tattoo used to peek out that he’d gotten at eighteen, stupid, silly, reckless, drunk off his ass, and unable to shake the image of a pair of big brown eyes he’d locked gazes with in a locker room in this very city when he was just a kid. When Patrick came back to Chicago after the summer, Jonny wouldn’t look at him at all. So, a month into the season, Patrick got the tattoo removed.
The goose regards him evenly. Then, it shuffles over to the adjoining door at breakneck speed and starts hammering on it with its beak. “HEY!” Patrick says in alarm, sitting forward. “Quit that!” The goose does not. It ramps up in intensity the longer the door remains closed, starting to squawk and bray. Patrick hurries up behind it and hovers uselessly as it begins to body-slam the door. The door wrenches open.
Jonny steps out with a harried expression on his face. “What the fuck?” He snaps, crabby and bewildered. His hair is sticking up, partially crushed on one side and ramrod straight with static on the other. He looks adorable like that. The thought pops up without Patrick’s permission, an unwelcome but unavoidable intrusion, not unlike the giant feathered one causing a ruckus in front of him. The goose stops thrashing. HONK, it says, pleased. It waddles up to Patrick and tugs on the leg of his sweatpants. HONK, it commands. Jonny stares. Patrick stares. The goose tugs again, towards the door. HONK, it insists. Patrick pinks, and opens his mouth, then closes it. The thing is, there are dire consequences to disobeying an enforcer goose. Like getting pecked to death. And even Jonathan Toews knows he can’t have his star winger bleeding out on the carpet midway through the season in the thick of the playoff race.
“...Fucking ridiculous…can’t believe…” Patrick hears Jonny muttering under his breath as he silently moves to let Patrick and the goose inside his room. “I’m going back to sleep,” Jonny announces. “You can just…” He waves his hand at the chair in the corner, then massages his temple. “I guess, or something. Whatever.” He doesn’t wait for Patrick’s response before he crawls into bed and immediately pulls the covers over his head. Patrick watches the shape of him shift underneath the sheets and wonders, belatedly, what’s going through Jonny’s head right now—if he’s thought to wonder why exactly it’s the case that Patrick’s soul goose is insisting Patrick enter his room, or if he’s just conveniently squirreled this away into the box of things Jonathan Toews Must Not Look At Closely, like he does every other thing that inconveniences his carefully constructed worldview. Patrick doesn’t have the luxury of figuring it out. The goose honks at him, sharp, and he jumps a little, cautiously stepping into Jonny’s room.
The goose hops onto Jonny’s bed. Patrick didn’t even know geese could do that. “What the—” Jonny’s voice protests, muffled, then, “HEY!” it exclaims, shrill, because the goose has used its beak to wrench Jonny’s sheets down, leaving him exposed and staring in shock.
The goose drops the sheets and shuffles to the opposite side of the bed. It taps its beak against the empty set of pillows. HONK, HONK, it tells Patrick, turning to face him. Patrick and Jonny make eye contact. Patrick tries to convey a silent apology. From the way Jonny’s face is going splotchy, he’s not so sure it’s working. “What the hell is going on?” Jonny grits out.
“I think it wants me to get in the bed,” Patrick says. HONK, attests the goose, drumming its feet against the pillow.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Jonny,” Patrick says honestly. He doesn’t see how it could possibly help the situation. But the goose is persistent, the intensity of its honks increasing.
“Oh for fucks—hog any of my pillows and I’ll fuck your shit up,” Jonny snaps finally, waving a threatening finger at Patrick.
“Heard,” Patrick says, feeling faint. HONK, says the goose happily, wriggling its rear.
“You,” Jonny says with venom at the goose. “SCRAM.” Surprisingly, the goose complies, hopping down in one motion. HONK, it reminds Patrick, and Patrick makes himself move. He climbs into bed and slides under the sheets, hyper-conscious of the heat of Jonny’s body beside his, stiff as a board. The goose walks over to the front door and cranes its neck, flipping the switch off with its beak and bathing them in darkness. It shuffles over to the corner chair and hobbles on, burying its head in the crook of its wing and beginning to burble gently. Must be nice, Patrick thinks, morose, and doesn’t sleep a wink.
The next morning, the goose scales the spider plant to hop onto the breakfast bar. It climbs into the chafing dish of limp scrambled eggs and cranes its neck to swipe Hoss’ black baseball cap. It deposits the cap into Patrick’s lap and nips him in the thigh. HONK, it commands. Sharpy snickers, then squawks as the goose nips the Ray-Bans from his pocket. It marches the sunglasses over to the opposite end of the room, where Jonny is sitting as far away from Patrick as possible. Craning its neck, it drops the sunglasses directly into Jonny’s cantaloupe. HONK, HONK. Conversation halts. Guys look from Patrick, then to Jonny. “Huh,” Seabs says curiously from beside Sharpy. The goose stares Jonny down. HONK, it says, unsympathetic to the fact that Jonny is turning Blackhawks home jersey red.
Soupy ambles over from the mini-fridge, licking yogurt off the back of a plastic spoon. “Why’s Kaner’s goose hassling Tazer?”
“Go away,” Jonny hisses. HONK, goes the goose. It picks up the glasses and drops them again, then pecks the table for emphasis. HONK, it insists. Jonny’s jaw works. He wipes off the glasses on his shirt and shoves them on his face. “Fine,” he grits. “Now leave.” HONK, the goose says in approval, then bends down to tug at Jonny’s sandal straps. HONK, HONK.
“I think it wants you to go with it,” Leddy offers, watching raptly and popping his grapes like popcorn.
“I’m not going with it,” Jonny says, apoplectic behind his black shades. “We have a flight to catch. In an hour.”
The goose crosses the room like it’s on a grand stage and thumps its head into Patrick’s baseball shorts. HONK, HONK, it says like tick-tock. Patrick gets up, because he doesn’t know what else to do. He lets the goose herd him to the door and watches as it turns to go up to Jonny again. HONK, it says, and scoops its beak under Jonny’s plate, flipping it over. HONK, HONK. “You better go, man,” Duncs says, leaning in close to clap Jonny on the shoulder.
“I’m not gonna—it’s Kaner’s goose,” Jonny protests, looking around wildly.
“Clearly you’re supposed to help him find this Philly chick,” Leddy says. Duncs nods in agreement.
“Have you all lost your damn minds?” Jonny says. “We have a game at home in less than twelve hours! I’m the fucking captain!”
“You can’t argue with fate, man,” Leddy points out. HONK, asserts the goose, pleased.
“Go on, cap,” Duncs says.
“Good luck boys,” says Leddy.
“Bye,” says Soupy, waving his spoon.
“Those glasses look way better on me,” mutters Sharpy.
HONK, HONK goes the goose, and pecks Jonny on the ankle, which is enough to get him to jump to his feet. “Fine!” he growls and stomps to the door to stand next to Patrick. HONK, says the goose cheerily. HONK it reminds Patrick, and Patrick hastily shoves the baseball cap on his head.
“Sorry,” Patrick tells Jonny.
“Whatever,” Jonny says, not looking at him. “Let’s just follow this stupid bird and find your soulmate so we can go home and do our goddamn jobs.”
Patrick blinks. “…Right,” he says weakly.
“I don’t know why the hell I have to hold your hand through it—it probably knows you’re incompetent.” He sniffs. HONK, goes the goose, and bumps its beak into Jonny’s hand. It takes the tip of his fingers between its beak and presses them against Patrick’s. “Wha—no! I did not mean that literally!” Jonny says, going pink. HONK, counters the goose. Jonny stares mutinously, then finally grabs Patrick’s hand. “You must be hopeless,” he tells Patrick, crabby.
As warmth blooms in Patrick’s stomach, he thinks you have no idea. The goose leads them out the front doors and onto the street. HONK, it commands, and starts to waddle. Jonny and Patrick follow it, holding hands. They exit the hotel lobby and head out to the street, following the goose as it mostly abides by pedestrian laws and leads them through a series of twists and turns. Jonny tries to drop Patrick’s a few times, but every time he does, the goose stops, turns, and bares its teeth at them. A few people glance at them as they walk, but people mostly keep it moving; goose business was serious business, after all. In Rittenhouse Square, the goose nabs a picnic basket from a lady in an Eagles crewneck and white jorts. She turns, ready to chew them out, but then spots the goose, and Jonny and Patrick holding hands. “Eh,” she says, and shrugs. “Happy bond day I guess.”
“Woah, woah, woah. We’re not soulmates,” Jonny insists. Patrick stays silent as the goose gurgles and throws him a sly glance. Patrick didn’t even know birds could act sly.
“Uh huh,” she says. “Here, have a cookie.” She hands the cookie to Patrick then wanders off. Go Birds! it says in evergreen frosting and silver sprinkles. He hands it to the goose, who sets the basket on the ground to devour it in one bite.
“Can you believe that lady?” Jonny says, incredulous. “I swear I don’t know what goes through some people’s heads.” Patrick looks down to where Jonny is squeezing the shit out of his hand, and says a silent prayer for himself.
“Yup, she was a real whack job,” he intones dully. The goose bumps its beak into their adjoined hands, breaking up the grip.
“Fucking finally,” Jonny mutters. The goose picks up the basket, and puts it in Jonny’s hand. HONK, it says, and makes a sweeping motion at the stalls around the square, full of farmer’s market vendors. Jonny stares, dubious. “I guess it wants me to fill this up,” he says finally. HONK, the goose confirms. It tugs on Patrick’s pants in the opposite direction of the square towards a different group of vendors.
“Meet back here in fifteen, I guess?” Patrick says, scratching his head.
“As if I have a choice,” Jonny snaps, and stomps off towards the food stalls. Patrick sighs and turns, following the goose. It leads him to a cluster of flower stalls.
“No way,” Patrick says. He can feel himself going beet red. Clearly, this goose is trying to get him killed. HONK, says the goose, unrelenting. Patrick dawdles for a bit, then settles on a bouquet of purple-blue flowers, mostly because the goose starts honking wildly in front of them. He picks them up, and the goose swoops to pick something up and presses it into his hand. It’s the little white card that had been in front of the flowers, inscribed with BLUEBELLS in elegant handwriting. HONK, preens the goose, and dips its beak into Patrick’s pocket. He stretches it out and makes space there. HONK, HONK. Patrick blinks. He’s getting the sense that the goose wants him to keep the card, but he’s not sure why. He’s also starting to get the sense that asking it why might do more harm than good, so he shrugs, drops the card into his pocket, then looks for a place to pay. The vendor is a gap-toothed man with dreads who beams at him. “Hey man! Congrats. Who’s the lucky lady?”
“It’s a guy, actually,” Patrick says, then promptly resists the urge to strangle himself. How many years has he spent carefully guarding his secret? Then the damn goose shows up and suddenly he’s an open book. Maybe that’s one of the properties of a soul goose; they loosen your lips. Well, Patrick’s going to have to make sure there’s one person who doesn’t find out, because Patrick tried, once, years ago, and he knows without a doubt; Jonathan Toews might be his soulmate, but Patrick isn’t is. It’s some kind of divine joke. And no soul goose can make Jonny love Patrick back. That’s just pure objective fact.
“Love is love,” says the guy sagely, without missing a beat. “That’ll be $5.50.”
“The sign said $2.50.”
The guy shrugs. “That’s the cost of being Patrick Kane in Philadelphia, bond day or not.” Fair enough, Patrick thinks, and dishes out the money. The guy puts the flowers in a brown paper bag, and Patrick walks back to the meeting spot with the goose with them in tow, plagued with the distinct sensation that he’s in the possession of contraband. Jonny’s already there, straining to hold the basket.
“Okay, let’s lay this shit out and get the ball rolling, eh?” he says, panting slightly.
“Jesus, Jonny, did you buy out the entire market?” Patrick says, amazed.
“Shut up! The goose gave me the basket because it knew you couldn’t pick a romantic spread to save your life,” Jonny says, pink. “Be grateful.” When Jonny goes to set the basket down, the goose honks at him in rebuke. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Jonny says, huffing. HONK, says the goose, confirming that it’s not.
It nips Jonny’s free fingers, then Patrick’s. HONK, HONK it goes, and stares them down until they resume holding hands. “Not this shit again,” Jonny says in horror, staring at their adjoined hands. “What is this, field trip day?” The goose points its wing. HONK, it goes, and starts waddling west. “For fucks sake,” Jonny mutters darkly.
They follow the goose diagonally across the square, and turn the corner. As the blocks pass, the city grows quieter and slower, more residential. They go through a railroad crossing and approach the bank of a river, lined by grass. The goose takes a blanket from a family playing with a toddler who give Jonny and Patrick two thumbs up. HONK, says the goose after laying out the blanket. It jumps on the blanket and goes tippy-tap with its feet. HONK-HONK. Jonny drops Patrick’s hand and plops the basket down next to the goose unceremoniously. He steps back. “Alright, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but surely this is where I take my leave. Good luck, or whatever,” he tells Patrick, eyes not meeting his, then spins on his heel and starts walking away. Within the space of a second, the goose is charging at Jonny. It raises its claw and slashes the back of Jonny’s shin. Jonny yowls, falling to one knee. “Ow!” he shrieks. HONK, says the goose, beating its wings. HONK, HONK.
Jonny clasps at the bend behind his knee and hobbles to his feet. “Motherfucker,” he hisses. HONK, commands the goose and points at the blanket. Jonny walks jerkily back to the blanket and sinks onto it, looking dazed.
“Jesus, Taze, you okay?” Patrick asks, aghast, putting down the bag and climbing onto the blanket across from Jonny.
“I’m fine,” Jonny says, blinking woozily.
“Lemme see.” Jonny doesn’t protest as Patrick leans forward and maneuvers his leg. “You’re bleeding,” Patrick says, feeling absurdly guilty. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches, though.” HONK, says the goose happily. “Shut up, asshole. You could’ve seriously hurt him,” Patrick seethes at the goose. His stomach twists in worry. What the hell were they supposed to do? The goose waddles up to a bike rack, where a guy in an EMT’s uniform is locking up his bike. HONK, HONK, it says, tugging on his fanny pack. The guy walks over and surveys Patrick and Jonny, unzipping his fanny pack and tossing Patrick the first aid pack upon a directed point of the wing by the goose.
“Goose troubles, eh?” he says. “Word of advice? Listen to the damn goose.” He pauses. “And fuck the Blackhawks.”
Patrick watches him walk away, then looks down at the first aid kit. He swallows. “I’m going to clean you up,” he tells Jonny. “Okay?” HONK, HONK, says the goose, wiggling its rear in glee.
“...Fine,” Jonny says stiffly.
Patrick uses the anti-septic wipes to dab up the blood, then smears on some ointment before applying several strips of gauze. Jonny’s uncharacteristically quiet. “Earth to Tazer,” he says, waving his hand in front of Jonny’s nose. “You with me?”
Jonny paws him away and scowls. “Quit it.” There he is, Patrick thinks with a burst of warmth. “I just don’t get why I’m here. It’s your goose.” He looks like a little kid, frowning in bewilderment. He’s twisting those bracelets he’s been wearing since he was a kid, like he does when he’s really stressed out. Suddenly, Patrick is violently, absurdly guilty.
“I know, I’m sorry. But we’d better just listen to it, like the guy said. Neither of us can afford to get hurt right now,” Patrick says. The goose was downright mental, after all. HONK, pipes up the goose on cue, as if it can hear what Patrick is thinking.
“I guess,” Jonny responds. He doesn’t sound happy about it.
“Why don’t you just lie down for a second?” Patrick suggests. As shitty as the circumstances are, it’s a nice day for it. It’s about 70 degrees and sunny. Birds are chirping. There’s a gentle breeze on the river. The skyline is beautiful. They have Jonny’s picnic.
“We might miss your person,” Jonny counters. He keeps closing and opening his eyes over and over, lids heavy, like the shock of the day is catching up to him. He didn’t sleep, either. Patrick knows, because he spent the whole night listening to Jonny toss and turn.
“I don’t think the goose will let us,” Patrick points out. “Besides, we don’t know what it has in store for us. Better be prepared.”
Jonny’s shoulders sag. “Okay,” he says. He goes to lie in the corner, but the goose stops him. HONK, it exclaims and gently taps its beak against Patrick’s lap. “Wh—oh come on,” Jonny says, flustered. HONK, HONK says the goose and pecks Patrick’s lap again. Jonny scrubs a hand over his face. “Ugh.” He turns around and scoots until his back is pressed against Patrick’s knees. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“S’okay,” Patrick all but whispers and works to hold himself still as Jonny slides and sinks down until his head is in Patrick’s lap. HONK, goes the goose slyly, puffing up its chest. Jonny is stiff against Patrick, and Patrick flips the bird, well, the bird. “You can relax, you know,” Patrick tells Jonny.
“I am relaxed,” Jonny snaps, tense as a bowstring. The goose shuffles over. It plucks Patrick’s fingers and drops them in Jonny’s hair. HONK, HONK.
“Oh boy,” Patrick says, fingers tingling at the coarse brush of Jonny’s cropped strands against his skin. “Um—”
“It’s fine,” Jonny says, putting Patrick out of his misery. Jonny doesn’t exactly sound fine, but Patrick supposes he has to take him at his word at this point, even though things haven’t been fine between them in a while—not since before that day Patrick had kissed him. But something about having Jonny here like this; head in his lap under the sun, hair underneath his fingers, close, fills him with a reckless sort of abandon not unlike the kind he’d been filled with that very same day that everything went wrong. Even though things ended in disaster the first time around, Patrick finds himself bending his knuckles. And then, slowly, Patrick runs his fingers through Jonny’s hair.
Jonny makes a small noise. Patrick does it again, scratching deliberately through Jonny’s scalp. He watches in amazement as Jonny pushes slightly into it, searching for more. Jonny begins to go loose against him the more Patrick rubs, and at some point, he starts to doze off, breath going slow and heavy, chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. The sight of it fills Patrick’s own chest with a distinct, tight tenderness. Patrick takes his baseball cap off and covers Jonny’s face with it, and he scratches absent-mindedly, letting his thoughts wonder.
The thing is, soulmates aren’t real. Or they aren’t for most people, at least. You don’t know if you have one for sure until and unless a goose shows up at your doorstep letting you know you’re spectacularly fucking yours up. Patrick’s not sure what the hell he’s supposed to do about it, though. He already tried kissing his soulmate, and his soulmate didn’t want him back. This is the most time they’ve spent together since then, actually. And even though Patrick can’t tell where it’s all headed, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t enjoying it more than he maybe should.
Jonny starts to shift in his lap, restless. He grunts and heaves himself up, whipping off his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “Feeling better?” Patrick asks, stifling a grin. Jonny always looks like such a crank when he’s waking up from a nap.
“A little,” Jonny admits. His stomach grumbles, loud enough that they can both hear it.
“Alright, let’s dig into Jonathan Toews’ grand romantic spread, shall we?” Patrick says, grabbing the basket and placing it between them.
“Woah, that’s for you and your lady,” Jonny protests, shying away from the spread on instinct.
“You just got attacked by a giant magical goose, and you’re hungry. I officially declare this picnic ours, okay?”
Jonny looks like he’s about to argue, but his stomach lets out another loud grumble and he snaps his mouth shut. “Fine.” HONK, preens the goose in approval.
Patrick pulls out a baguette, five different types of cheeses, two jams, a fig spread, a bundle of charcuterie, olives, fresh cherry tomatoes, and chocolate covered strawberries. “Ooh la la,” he whistles, snickering.
“Shut the fuck up Kaner,” Jonny says. When he goes to reach for a piece of ham, the goose snaps at him. HONK, it warns. It nips at Kaner’s fingers, then points a wing at Jonny. HONK, HONK.
“I think it wants me to feed you,” Patrick says.
Jonny looks around. A group of teenage boys practicing tricks on their skateboards keep taking breaks to glance over at them. An elderly couple sitting on the nearest bench are looking at them and whispering to each other. Even a yoga circle that had been gathered by a big rock nearby has halted its practice to peer over curiously. “Fuck,” Jonny says miserably, practically shrinking in on himself. A burst of protectiveness flares in Patrick’s chest. There’s nothing he hates in the world more than when Jonathan Toews looks small.
“Hey,” he says, then reaches out to tuck his finger under Jonny’s chin. He tilts it up gently. “Don’t pay attention to them. They don’t matter. You haven’t done anything wrong, right? Just tell me what you want to eat, and I’ll get it for you. Easy peasy.”
He meets Jonny’s gaze head-on and doesn’t look away. “I want that ham,” Jonny says finally. “And a little havarti. Please,” he adds.
“Ay ay, Captain,” Patrick says, and gets on it. And that’s how the next several minutes pass. Jonny dictates, and Patrick serves. And as Jonny grows more and more comfortable telling Patrick what he wants and easily opens his mouth to accept each forthcoming bite, Patrick thinks that scoring that OT cup-clinching goal had been pretty cool, but this is quickly slotting its way into the top place amongst his all-time Philly memories. HONK, the goose tells Patrick once Jonny’s done, and Patrick fashions it an assortment of bite-sized chunks of cheese, meat and fruit. As it eats, he quickly crams down a remaining hunk of bread and salami. He’d kind of forgotten about his own hunger in the midst of tending to Jonny’s. HONK, HONK. The goose nudges the paper bag by Patrick’s ankle. “Oh,” Patrick says and blushes. “Um.” He takes out the bluebells and holds them out to Jonny. “These are for you.”
Jonny blinks. “Don’t you mean for your soulmate?” HONK, warns the goose. It wasn’t a good idea to lie around them.
“They’re for you,” Patrick reiterates, carefully skirting the question. “A thank you, for the meal.” He gestures at the wrappers and packaging around them.
“The meal I ate,” Jonny mumbles, embarrassed. He takes the flowers, though, staring down at them with pinking cheeks.
“The goose wanted you to,” Patrick reminds him. “They’re bluebells,” Patrick says suddenly, remembering the card. It feels important to mention for some reason.
“They’re nice,” Jonny says quietly. “Thanks Kaner.” He has a spot of jam stuck to the corner of his bottom lip. Patrick resists the urge to kiss it away, and uses a paper napkin to do it instead. Surprisingly, Jonny doesn’t yell at him for it.
“Are you Jawn-a-then Tay-fes?” A little girl has walked up to them, clad in pink fairy wings and holding a silver star wand.
“Sorry to interrupt your bond day,” her mother apologizes. “We couldn’t hold her back!”
“Can I get a picture?” In the face of her bouncing feet and bubbly smile, Jonny doesn’t have the heart to protest that he’s not actually Patrick’s soulmate.
“Sure sweetheart,” he tells the little girl. Patrick has to look away for a moment, and steel himself against the ache in his chest.
The little girl crouches between Patrick and Jonny, and smiles sunnily. The mother whips out a lilac Polaroid and takes two pictures. One she keeps, and the other she hands to Patrick. “For the memory,” she says to him. “Congratulations!”
Their forms emerge from the blur and begin to take shape. A part of Patrick wants to throw away the picture, tear it up and dump it in the trash along with the remnants of their meal. That little girl, smiling between him and Jonny clad in normal clothes—they look like a family, almost. A normal one. It’s a reminder of everything he wants most in the world—and everything he can never have. He wonders, then, if this goose has just been sent from the heavens to torture him in particular. He pockets the picture anyways.
HONK, says the goose after they’ve thrown away all their trash. “Oh boy,” Jonny says warily. It nips his fingers, then Patrick’s. HONK, HONK. Jonny puts on his glasses and hands Patrick his hat. This time, he’s the one who intertwines their fingers. “You ready?” he asks Patrick.
“Not even a little bit,” Patrick answers.
The goose leads them over a bridge, then through a campus. Students stop and stare, and Patrick firms his grasp against Jonny’s, leading him forwards; they can’t worry about what people are thinking and saying. They reach a place called Clark Park, and weave through several running dogs; they make a right, then a left, and the goose leads them to the wide front porch of a blue and pink rowhome where several college kids are lounging on a porch swing having a spirited debate.
“Wilde was a socialist!”
“No, he was a republican.”
“He was an anarchist, actually.”
“And that is a soul goose. Woah.”
The two boys and two girls stop to gawk. HONK, says the goose and hops onto the porch. It marches/strolls up to the guy with red converse holding a guitar and nips his fingers. He shrieks, nearly dropping the instrument. The other guy snickers.
“Very smooth, Dennis,” The girl with two braided pigtails tells him. She’s wearing an oversized Tweety-bird tee and an olive green bucket hat; there’s a smear of white sunscreen on the bridge of her nose and she’s sucking the straw of her giant Wawa cup while peering at Jonny and Patrick over her aviators.
“Spare me,” Dennis begs. “I subsist on nothing but Cheeto dust and Red Bull, my flesh is foul, I promise you. Take him. He goes to the gym!” He points a flailing finger at the guy in the flannel, who quickly stops laughing.
“Put that down you asshole,” flannel guy hisses, eyes going wide as saucers as he swats Dennis’ finger away.
The other girl, a brunette in a black jean jacket and a messy bun atop her head, rolls her eyes. “It doesn’t want to eat you, dipshit.” She juts her chin at the guitar. “I think it wants your guitar.” HONK, affirms the goose.
“Nessie? No way!” Dennis hugs the guitar protectively to his chest. The goose turns and honks at Patrick and Jonny, flapping its wings. They exchange looks.
“Sorry to intrude guys,” Patrick starts. “But I think we’re going to have to step onto your porch.”
Bun girl closes the giant blue binder that had been in her lap and tosses it to the side. “Finally, a sweet release from the death knell of Eigenvalues. I was gonna kill myself. Come on in.”
“Wh—no, we’re not inviting these strange men into our abode,” Dennis hisses.
“Those aren’t strange men, they’re Stanley Cup champions Patrick Kane and Jonathan Toews,” flannel guy tells him.
“So apparently these sunglasses are fucking useless,” Jonny mutters, following Patrick onto the porch.
“Sports town,” flannel guy shrugs. “You ruined the whole year of 2010 for me, by the way, /so thanks for that/” he tells Patrick.
The other girl runs inside. She appears with a stool and a plastic chair in hand and places them across from the swing. “There you go. I’m Bree by the way. That’s Mina,” she says, pointing at the other girl. She points at flannel guy. “Claude. And that’s Dennis,” she adds finally, pointing at converse guy.
“If one of these toddlers is your soulmate, I’m going to judge the fuck out of you,” Jonny tells Patrick, perching on the stool.
“They’re not,” Patrick assures him hurriedly, taking the plastic chair.
“How do you know?” Bree asks, curious.
Patrick steadfastly avoids Jonny’s gaze. “It’s just a feeling, I can’t describe it. I just know, okay? Sorry to disappoint.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “As if.”
Dennis, who’s looking marginally less harassed, pipes up. “So you need this to woo your girl or something? It is a total chick magnet.” He goes to hand it over to Patrick, but the goose honks in warning. It points its wing at Jonny. HONK, HONK. Dennis blinks. “Give the guitar to Jerry?”
“Jonny,” Claude corrects, and resumes eating his bag of Lays. HONK, the goose affirms.
“To Jonny, huh?” Mina says, a calculating look in her eye. “But it’s Patrick’s goose? Am I hearing this right?”
“Yup,” Jonny says, oblivious to the glances Mina and Bree are exchanging.
“And you’re just what. Helping him out?” Bree asks innocently.
“That’s what this damn goose wants, so yeah,” Jonny says, shrugging.
“Huh,” Mina repeats, eyes boring into Patrick’s.
“You can’t take Nessie off this porch,” Dennis says, handing Jonny the guitar. “That’s where I draw the line, bird of Satan.” HONK, goes the goose. Jonny accepts the guitar gingerly. He looks around. Claude is still munching on his Lays, looking vaguely intrigued. Dennis looks expectant. Bree and Mina are practically vibrating in their seats.
“Well?” Bree asks, brows raised.
“Well what?” Jonny says.
“Play something!” Bree says.
“Yeah, come on,” Mina urges.
Jonny opens his mouth, then closes it. HONK, HONK encourages the goose. “I mean, I could, I guess,” he says. “I still don’t get why, though. I’m not fucking Orpheus. We’re not gonna get Kaner’s lady to stop in her tracks and come up here just by the magical power of my playing and singing abilities.”
“Does it really matter?” Claude interjects. “I heard goose day stuff can be like this. Kinda whacky. More about the destination than the journey type shit. It’ll get you there eventually.”
“Somehow, you playing this guitar ends in Patrick Kane here finding his soulmate,” Dennis says. “Don’t you want that for your friend?”
Jonny looks at Patrick then. They lock eyes, and for a moment, the rest of the kids around them disappear. Jonny swallows. “I guess,” he says quietly. An ache starts in Patrick’s chest. Old, slow, throbbing. Jonny averts his gaze, and starts fiddling with the strings. He clears his throat. “Okay, well. A guitar was actually the first thing I got when we signed our rookie year contracts way back. Always wanted to learn. I’ve never been able to practice all that much, but I guess I know a few things.” He shifts on his stool, scratches the back of his neck. “Here goes nothing I guess.” And then, Jonny starts to play Chelsea Dagger.
A wave of amusement passes through Patrick’s body. Now that’s his captain. Claude groans. “Not the PTSD, now.” Jonny’s voice is a little shaky and off-key, but Patrick feels warmth spreading through his limbs anyways. There’s something, horribly, awfully charming about seeing Jonny like this: perched on a stool in a T-shirt and sandals, strumming along to a guitar in the middle of a circle of rapt early 20-somethings. He’s taken off his glasses and shoved them on top of his head, and the tops of his cheeks are slightly ruddy with sunburn. His brows are scrunched from concentrating on the chords, or maybe the lyrics. Patrick finds himself singing along to the do-do-do-do’s and Claude looks appropriately horrified. “I take it back, make it stop,” he complains, sticking his fingers in his ears. Jonny snorts a little, shaking his head. Patrick and Jonny make eye contact, and they sing the final verse together, at top-volume.
“Cute,” Bree says smugly, sipping at her Wawa cup.
Mina’s eyes flick from Patrick, to Jonny, then to Patrick again. “I’ll say.”
Jonny finishes the song, scratching his nose a little self-consciously. Mina, Bree, and Dennis all applaud while Claude makes a retching motion. Dennis swats Claude. “Manners!”
“Me, manners?” Claude says incredulously. “Weren’t you the one threatening to kick them off the property five minutes ago?”
“Okay, so. Played a song. Let’s see if we can leave,” Jonny says to Patrick.
Patrick shrugs. “Sure.”
Jonny tries to get up from the stool, but there’s a sharp honk from the goose. It pecks Jonny’s fingers, then the neck of the guitar. Again, it seems to say. Jonny all but growls in frustration. He throws up his hands, letting the guitar hang from his neck. “Seriously? What the hell does this damn goose want?”
“Encore,” Dennis suggests.
Mina points in agreement. “What he said.”
So, Jonny plays “Go Johnny Go,” his old goal song. Patrick smirks. “Typical.” When that’s not enough for the goose to let them go, he plays Patrick’s goal song, “Rock You Like a Hurricane.”
“Maybe play some songs not related to your hockey team,” Claude suggests.
So, Jonny cycles through Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, Neil Diamond, Billy Joel, and Johnny Cash. Still, the goose won’t stop honking or biting. People have been passing by as he plays; an elderly professor in a tweed suit and yellow glasses, a middle-aged couple holding hands and passing an ice-cream cone between them, some clusters of college students and grad students, and while some of them spared a second glance, no one so much as stopped, let alone felt compelled to come up to the porch. Jonny’s clearly growing frustrated, the ruddy flush of his cheeks growing brighter, hair getting messy as he’s raking his fingers through it as he keeps expelling short, harsh breaths and casting glares in the goose’s direction every time it nips his fingers. “I give up,” he says moodily. His voice had just cracked singing, “Last Dance With Mary Jane” on the line, “one more time to kill the pain.” He takes the guitar off his neck and hands it to Dennis, ignoring the goose’s squawk. “I’m just using the bathroom.” He stomps into the house. Surprisingly, the goose doesn’t stop him.
Patrick looks after him, heart in his throat. “I think I should—”
“Yeah,” Bree says, answering the question in his voice. “Go after him.” Patrick gets up from his chair, knees wobbly from disuse. They really had been sitting there for quite a while by this point—no wonder Jonny looks about ready to tear his hair out. Patrick opens the door and weaves past the big beige couch, turns the corner past a wall of various Eagles and Phillies memorabilia and passes a hallway full of picture frames and follows the sound of a running faucet to the bathroom. He hovers outside, unsure what to do from there. When the water keeps running, he eventually knocks. “Jon?” he says tentatively. “You good?” Finally, the faucet turns off.
“Fine,” he gets back from Jonny, short and stiff. Patrick frowns. Jonny sure as fuck doesn’t sound fine. He knocks again, firm.
“Open up.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“Yeah I know what you said, asshole,” Patrick says, unable to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Open up. I’m not leaving unless you do.”
He hears Jonny mutter something under his breath. After a few moments, the door clicks. It swings open, and Jonny’s standing there, not meeting his eyes. His skin is wet, hair damp at the temples, like he’s been splashing his face. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and he’s taking noticeably measured breaths like he’s actively working to control his breathing. His fingers, once again, are twisting in his bracelets, worrying them over and over, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip. “Talk to me, Tazer,” Patrick says as gently as he can manage. It’s about damn time Jonny did. This silence between them, the tension and unease that’s stretched on for months didn’t just start with the damn goose, after all.
Finally, Jonny’s lids flutter shut. He breathes out, short, and lets his chin swing down. “Have you always known you’ve had a soulmate?”
Patrick blinks. He doesn’t know what he expected Jonny to say, exactly, but it wasn’t that. “I’ve known for a pretty long time, yeah,” he says cautiously.
Patrick watches Jonny chew on his answer. He nods slowly, jaw working. “So, you’re just gonna—how’s it going to work? With the team? With hockey?” Jonny’s gripping at the door sill now, fingers tight. “Like, are you going to get yourself traded to the Flyers, or—”
“Woah.” Patrick raises his palms. “Hey. Nothing’s changing with hockey.” Jonny still won’t look at him. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, Jonny does. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says fiercely.
Jonny gets a bashful twist to his face. “I mean—you could.”
“No I couldn’t,” Patrick shoots back.
“You already gave the city two Cups. It would make sense, for you to move to be with your person.”
You’re my person, Patrick wants to scream at him, but in the face of Jonny, damp-haired and pink-cheeked, he can only muster up helpless, endless adoration. You’re going to be the death of me, he thinks at the beautiful boy standing in front of him. “I want to give it three,” Patrick counters, calm. “And besides. I’m not playing without you.” He can’t risk telling Jonny again, that he loves him, that he’s the one, that he’s always been the one; Jonny’s not ready to hear it. Patrick doesn’t know if he’ll ever be. But this truth, Patrick can tell him. In fact, he can’t not tell him—not when Jonny’s holding himself so tightly, clearly scared Patrick is going to leave, but too stubborn to come out and say it.
At the words, the bashful twist to Jonny’s face gets impossibly deeper. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” he says quietly. “I haven’t exactly been the greatest captain, or teammate. Or friend.” He sweeps a look up at Patrick through his lashes. “I’m sorry, Peeks. For everything,” he adds.
I’m never going to get over you, Patrick thinks. “Apology accepted.”
Jonny’s nose wrinkles. He lets out a reluctant laugh. “Just like that?”
Patrick grins. “Just like that.”
“Ah, fuck.”
They burst out into snickers, and it feels good. It reminds Patrick of their rookie days, the both of them bursting into stupid laughter after having fought for control of the TV remote in their room. HONK, HONK they hear, coming from the front door. “Oh, god,” Jonny says, shuddering. “I guess we better go deal with the bird of Satan, now.”
“I guess so,” Patrick says.
They walk out together, Jonny leading and Patrick following. Patrick studiously avoids the enthusiastic thumbs up that Mina levels in his direction and resumes his position on his chair. The goose pecks at Dennis’ fingers, and Jonny takes the guitar before the goose can get to him, too. “I’m learning,” he says sarcastically when the goose honks, pleased.
“Bree and I were talking,” Mina starts. “And—how about something from the heart?”
“From the heart?” Jonny echoes, brow creasing.
Bree nods, and pats her chest in demonstration. “Yeah. Something from right in here. It’s a soulmate goose, after all.” Claude and Dennis voice their agreement. Patrick shrugs. It sounds like a pretty good idea to him, actually.
Surprisingly, Jonny blushes. “Okay, well. There’s really only one song I can think of. So hopefully this will do.” He starts strumming. “Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la,” he goes, voice high and clear and a little shy. “Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.” And then, he starts singing in French. “Qui vient dans mes rêves? Qui vient me voir? Posant sur mes lèvres, un baiser d'espoir?”
“Oh wow,” Bree says dreamily. Patrick has to concur. Hearing Jonny speak French is always a treat, but hearing him sing it is a transcendent experience altogether. He’s closing his eyes, getting lost to the music. “Oh baby, c'est vous. Sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. Baby, c'est vous,” he sings the chorus, swaying. When his lids flutter open, his eyes meet Patrick’s. “Quand je dors, qui s'en vient avec moi? Cueillir au jardin du ciel, un arc-en-ciel de joie?” Patrick couldn’t look away if he tried. And for some reason, Jonny doesn’t look away either.
Patrick thinks back to the first time they locked eyes. It had been during a Junior Flyers tournament in Philadelphia when they were kids. They were playing on the same team for once. Patrick walked into the locker room carrying a duffel bag, and Jonny was already inside. On his way to his stall, his gaze caught on Jonny’s big, brown one. And he remembers being filled with a shock of warmth, and an old, deep pull, like he was being caught in a current too fast to stop. And he had a very distinct thought: bambi eyes. He thinks it now, as Jonny sings to him, brown eyes wide and lovely and insistent on his.
Jonny finishes the song to a chorus of thunderous applause from the kids. Bree and Mina clap, while Claude and Dennis whoop and holler. Maybe Patrick should keep things bro-appropriate, but he can’t really help himself. “That was beautiful,” he tells Jonny, viciously pleased at the way it makes Jonny duck his chin and go pink-pleased.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
HONK, says the goose and nips Jonny’s fingers. It hops over to Dennis and pecks his hand, indicating Jonny can hand the guitar back over. “Guess that did the trick,” Patrick says. “Nice thinking, girls,” he tells Bree and Mina.
They wave him off. “No problem. Boys are dumb,” Mina says cheerfully. Patrick can’t really disagree with that. The goose hops up and hobbles to the front door. HONK, HONK it goes and pecks at the handle. Bree gets up to let the goose inside. It returns a couple minutes later with a pair of keys in its mouth, which it deposits in Claude’s lap. It pecks his thigh. HONK.
Claude picks up the keys, frowning. “I think maybe it wants me to drive you guys around? I have a big white van. I’m in a band,” he explains. “I also don’t have class tomorrow. I wonder if the goose knows that, woah.” HONK, says the goose.
“Weird,” breathes Dennis.
“Patrick, can I see you inside for a sec?” Bree says, setting down her Wawa cup.
“Uh. Sure?” Patrick follows her inside, and they turn into one of the bedrooms on the first floor. It’s covered in camping gear and crystals, and when they get inside, Bree fishes around her dresser. She emerges with a pamphlet. She holds it out until Patrick takes it. In rainbow letters, it says, Welcome to the Gayborhood.
“For later tonight,” she says.
“Woah—”
“Just think about it!” she interjects before Patrick can say anything else. “I know you guys are professional athletes and everything. But trust me, this city doesn’t judge. And I just think it’s what you need. Or at least what he does.”
Patrick stares at the pamphlet for a second. “Is it really that obvious?” he says.
“That you’re head over heels in love with him? Yes,” she says simply. “But so is he.”
Patrick oogles. “Wh—with me? No he’s not. Jonny’s straight.”
“As a circle,” Bree snorts. “He’s your soulmate, he’s not straight, Patrick Kane.”
Patrick opens his mouth, then closes it. Tries to swallow down the dangerous surge of hope rising in his throat. “Well he thinks he is.”
“He’s a moron then. Something tells me you already know that though.”
“I might,” Patrick admits.
“You know what? I actually think this crazy ass bird knows what it’s doing. And you know what we say in this city. Go Birds. So just—listen to the bird.”
Listen to the bird. Could it really be that simple? “I don’t think I have a choice, to be fair,” Patrick points out.
“There is the whole getting pecked to death thing, yeah,” Bree agrees. “Anyways, I’m rooting for you crazy kids.”
Patrick guesses they don’t call it the city of brotherly love for nothing. “Thanks,” he says, folding up the pamphlet into neat squares. He still can’t imagine a reality where he’d need it, but for some reason, he finds himself sliding it into his back pocket anyways.
They walk back out, and the goose hops up-and-down. HONK, HONK. It pecks on the door and Bree lets it in again; it emerges with a cap in tow that says Jim’s South Street on it. It brings the cap to Claude. HONK, it says. He raises his brows. “Guess we’re going to Jim’s, boys.”
“What’s that?” asks Jonny, getting up from his stool.
“Best cheesesteaks in Philly,” Mina says.
“What, did Angelo’s burst into flames when I wasn’t watching?” Dennis says.
“Charceuterie, now cheesesteaks. We sure your soulmate isn’t just a double agent for the Flyers? None of this shit is in our meal plan,” Jonny says dubiously.
“Live a little, Jonathan,” Bree says, popping up and slugging Jonny on the shoulder in a friendly motion. She winks at Patrick.
Patrick grins. “Yeah. Live a little, Toews.” Jonny gives him a stink eye, but there’s the hint of a smile curling at his lips. His shoulders are loose, easy, shirt rumpled from his earlier nap and collar in a disarray. He actually looks—relaxed, for once. It’s such a rare sight, especially during the season, that Patrick finds himself unable to move for a second, throat tight and feet caught in place. The only times he’s really seen Jonny look like this—worry-free, dare he say happy—were in the direct aftermath of their cup wins. It’s Jonny looking like this that made Patrick kiss him in the first place.
“You ready?” Jonny asks him when Patrick remains rooted in place.
Patrick forces himself to move. “Yeah,” he says, lying through his teeth. Bree and Mina wave goodbye to them from the porch; Dennis waves Nessie the guitar in the air.
“Good luck Patrick Kane!” he hollers.
Patrick, Jonny, and the goose load up into the back of the van. This time, it’s Jonny that takes Patrick’s hand, having already anticipated that not doing so was going to get them honked at. They sit side by side, hands intertwined as they drive back over the bridge. Jonny’s quiet as they pass the FMC building, mid-afternoon sun harsh and glittering over the water and buildings. “How’re you holding up?” Patrick asks him, still feeling slightly guilty that Jonny has to be dragged all over town on his account like this.
Jonny looks up, squeezing his hand slightly. “I’ve had worse days,” he says simply.
Something in Patrick’s chest loosens. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
They drive in silence for a while, until Claude fiddles with the sound system, and a familiar sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la starts to flood the speakers. “Oh hey, it’s your song,” Patrick says, surprised. It sounds like it’s being sung by a woman. “What’s it about?” He’s curious why this song in particular worked on the goose.
Jonny thumbs his nose. “Uh. It’s a love song. Baby c’est vous means baby it’s you.”
Patrick’s about to press him on what the lyrics mean, but just then, Claude starts to parallel park. “Alright, we’re here.” Once he’s finished parking, he fishes out a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his pocket and jots down his phone number. “Look, I don’t know if I’m supposed to stick around or not. But if you guys need me, I’ll be around. Just call and I can drop you off anywhere you need.”
Patrick clasps their hands together. “Thanks man.”
“No worries.”
They all clamber out of the car, with the goose leading the way. Patrick takes a moment to do a spin around. They’re in a very different part of Philly than the wide and grassy Clark Park. They’re on a road called South Street; across from them is a bar called Milkboy, and around them, there are a bunch of streetwear and sneaker stores. A selection of tattoo parlours line the cross street. Jim’s South Street is brightly lit, a wide window showcasing chefs chopping up cheesesteaks and onions on a large griddle. Patrick assumes they’re about to walk in there, since the cap the goose deposited on Claude’s lap had an ad for Jim’s Steaks on it. Patrick wasn’t sure why they were going there—it wasn’t all that long ago that they had their riverside picnic. When they cross the street, the goose has them cross the street again, though, away from Jim’s Steak’s, and towards the row of tattoo parlours. Trepidation curls in Patrick’s gut, squeezes to a strangle-hold when the goose leads them to the door of a shop called Eddie’s Tattoo’s and then stops, honking. “Uh…I am not liking where this is going,” Jonny says dubiously. Patrick has a sneaking suspicion that he’s not the one that has anything to worry about, though. He’s hyper-aware of his bicep, then, can feel his skin practically prickling across the stretch where the ink of his old design used to be; the one he’d gotten etched into himself with Jonny in his head in his heart, and to try and get Jonny out of them, he’d gotten it scrubbed away.
The artwork of this shop is a little different than the bold lines and brash colors of the place he’d chosen when he was a kid. The designs are clean, elegant, muted colors and tasteful lines. If Patrick were to ever get a tattoo again, he supposes he’d get it in a place like this. But of course, Patrick isn’t ever going to get a tattoo again. “Hey,” he tells the goose, an edge in his voice. “No.”
HONK, goes the goose. It waddles up to him and looks him dead in the eye, rising on its feet. It swoops, pecking him once, sharp, against the vulnerable stretch of skin covering the bend between his foot and leg, peeking out from over his socks. “Jesus,” Patrick hisses as it draws blood, bubbling to the surface, dark red under the harsh lights lining the storefront.
“Fuck,” Jonny says, sobering up. He touches Patrick’s wrist, gentle. They’d stopped holding hands in their trek across the street. He fishes for something in his pocket; his hand emerges, clasped around a bandaid and a wipe. He must’ve pocketed them from the first-aid kit earlier. He tears the packaging for the wipe and dabs at Patrick’s wound, then carefully applies the band-aid overtop. “Haven’t you learnt a damn thing Peeks?”
The sound of the nickname on Jonny’s tongue, twice in the space of an hour, does something to Patrick’s head, to the point that the pain becomes an unpleasant blur, replaced by a spark of joy. “We’d better go in.” Patrick stares at the strip of beige now covering his pale skin.
“Okay,” he finds himself saying.
They enter the shop. The guy at the counter looks to be in his late fifties, with round glasses and a grey-ponytail. “Well hello there,” he says, blinking at the goose. HONK, says the goose, ruffling its feathers. “Are we doing a matching set today?”
“Nope,” Jonny says quickly.
The goose waddles over to Patrick, and pecks his thigh. HONK. “That gentleman?” the man asks. HONK, affirms the goose.
“Wh—I don’t want a tattoo,” Patrick says, glaring at the goose. HONK, argues the goose.
“Your goose, I’m assuming?” the man says.
“Yup,” Patrick replies. In his head, he adds unfortunately.
“Ah. Sometimes a goose will insist on a tattoo to commemorate a bond. They’re highly ritualistic and symbolic, you know.”
“My bond hasn’t been commemorated yet,” Patrick says.
The man smiles. “You might be closer than you think. Some people are born with soul marks; some choose theirs. I suggest you choose something that reminds you of the essence of your soulmate.”
“Patrick hasn’t met them yet, so how would he know?” Jonny says.
The man shrugs. “Even still. If the goose asks of it, you know the answer deep down.”
Patrick can feel the goose’s beady eyes boring into the side of his head. “I really have no idea what I’m supposed to get,” Patrick tells Ronnie carefully. It’s not a lie, exactly.
Ronnie hums contemplatively, flicking his eyes to the aquarium, where Jonny has wandered over to crouch by and peer at the fish. He flicks his eyes to Patrick again, who is still mostly hovering by the entrance, still a fair few paces away from the front counter. “Why don’t you gentlemen—and gentle fowl—follow me?” Ronnie leads them to a back room, smaller and darker. There’s an artificial waterfall in the corner, along with a comfy blue couch with orange pillows. On the coffee table in front of the couch lay an array of labelled albums.
Motorcycles
Teacups
Old logos
Disney Characters
Terrariums
Swords
“Some inspiration for you,” Ronnie says, waving a hand at the albums. He points to a mini-fridge across the room. “Drinks in there. I can also make tea upon request.”
“I’m good,” Patrick says.
“Me too,” Jonny says.
“Very well. Take a seat, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back to check in with you,” Ronnie says, and disappears back behind the beaded curtain leading towards the main room. For a moment, Patrick and Jonny just stand in the middle of the room. Jonny looks around at the walls, taking in the art work. Patrick just takes in Jonny.
“I guess we should sit, huh?” Jonny says finally, averting his gaze back to Patrick. HONK, affirms the goose, who has already parked itself across from the couch on the other side of the coffee table.
“Let’s do it,” Patrick says. They sit, side-by-side, knees knocking, athlete bodies too big to fit on the humble futon and crashing into one another. Patrick picks up Terrariums for no reason in particular and starts flipping through. Jonny picks up the one underneath it, Winter Wonderland, and does the same.
“Didn’t you used to have a tattoo?” Jonny asks, squinting at what appears to be a rendering of an Evil Frosty the Snowman holding a chainsaw.
Patrick hesitates. “Yeah,” he says eventually.
“But you don’t anymore.” It’s not a question, exactly, but it’s close. It’s—an opening. Small, soft, dangerous.
“I don’t,” Patrick says when he can get his voice to work properly. They’re skirting the edge of something raw, unbeknownst to Jonny. Getting rid of the tattoo had been nearly as rash a decision as getting it in the first place, something he’d done when he was choking on his own heartache, unable to escape the misery that came with replaying the aftermath of those glorious few moments his and Jonny’s lips had been pressed together. It’s not like getting the ink physically removed from his skin actually made him fall out of love with Jonny; it would have been so much simpler if it worked that way. But maybe he’d been hoping it would’ve helped. If the presence of the goose is any indication, it didn’t. “I was young when I got it,” he adds when it feels like Jonny’s waiting for him to continue.
Jonny smiles, flicking a page. “Young and dumb?”
Patrick snorts and picks up Motorcycles. “Young and dumb,” he agrees.
“What about this one bud?” Jonny asks the goose, holding up a picture of Bobby Clarke hoisting the Cup. HONK, the goose says vehemently, shaking its head. “Maybe I should try Sakic.”
Patrick points at the Cup. “How about just that?” he asks the bird. HONK, he gets back with a head shake. “Had to try,” he mutters.
Jonny’s flipping through Disney Characters and pauses. “Isn’t that your old tattoo?” He’s flipped open to a drawing of Bambi. The goose starts squawking in excitement. Oh shit, Patrick thinks.
“It—similar, yup,” he says, because there’s no point in lying—not when the goose is scrambling onto the table and bending down to peck at the design in Jonny’s hand, honking triumphantly.
“I think we have a winner,” Jonny says.
At the commotion, Ronnie palms through the beaded curtains and steps inside. “Did we find the one?”
“I think so,” Jonny says. He shows Ronnie the Bambi drawing while the goose tippy-taps its feet in excitement. Ronnie’s brows draw together in surprise.
“An interesting choice,” he says diplomatically.
“It’s Kaner’s old tattoo,” Jonny informs him. “Kinda weird, huh?”
“Old tattoo?” Ronnie inquires.
“I had it removed,” Patrick explains, fighting the urge to squirm in his seat. “Last summer.”
“Guess you shouldn’t have,” Jonny says. “I never asked you why you got it. Just assumed you lost a bet or something.” His head is tilted, brown eyes curious.
“Not exactly,” Patrick hedges.
“You got it removed, and this soul goose shows up. Maybe that’s why,” Jonny says, picking up steam.
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Well, what made you get Bambi in the first place?” Jonny persists.
Patrick can feel blood rush to his face. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I think it does, actually.”
“Why are you on my jock right now?” Patrick asks, incensed.
Jonny opens his mouth, then closes it. “That’s not fair,” he says. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well you’re not,” Patrick snaps. He regrets it as soon as the words are out, hates the shuttered expression that envelopes Jonny’s face. Fuck. “It just—it reminded me of someone,” he says finally, as close to the truth as he can manage without both of them shattering.
There’s a moment of silence. “Your soulmate,” Jonny says softly, naming what Patrick is too much of a coward to.
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “Yes.”
HONK, HONK, HONK, goes the goose, the noise sudden and violent, breaking the thick tension that had been building in the room. It waddles over and it bends, sneaking its beak under the gap that’s formed in the space where Jonny is twisting his bracelet. It yanks the bracelet off his wrist, squawking in triumph.
“Hey!” Jonny exclaims, voice breaking. “What the fuck?” The goose shakes its tail feathers, bobbing its head with Jonny’s bracelet clasped between his beak. Genuine distress has twisted onto Jonny’s face, his fingers trembling around the place the bracelet used to be. And if there’s one thing Patrick won’t stand for, it’s seeing Jonny in pain. Patrick draws himself up and steels himself against every shred of fear in his body, and reaches his hand out. “You want me to get the tattoo?” He reaches out his hand, and places it in front of the goose’s many pointed teeth. “Give me the fucking bracelet back, right now.” The goose meets his eyes for a moment. Then, it drops the bracelet in Patrick’s hand, and bows.
“Huh,” Ronnie says.
Patrick blinks down at the bracelet, surprised. He didn’t think that would actually work.
“I got that thing at the art museum right after the first day of training camp. Junior Flyers,” Jonny says. Patrick looks back towards him. He’s staring at the bracelet, his face doing something complicated.
“Do you want me to put it back on?” Patrick asks.
“Yes,” Jonny says quietly, reaching out his wrist. He doesn’t explain further. So, Patrick takes Jonny’s wrists between his slightly trembling fingers and ties the bracelet back on. It’s red leather, and he secures it with a double knot. “Better?”
“You have no idea,” Jonny mutters. He lifts his chin, makes his gaze meet Patrick’s directly. “Thank you Kaner.”
Patrick swallows. “What are friends for?”
The goose honks. It waddles over to Patrick and pecks at his ankles. “Woah, what the hell?” Patrick asks, incensed. It cranes his head and swoops its beak to tap against his back pocket, where hours earlier Bree had deposited the Gayborhood flyer. Patrick’s stomach sinks. “Shit,” he mutters wildly.
“I’m sensing we might not be on the books for a tattoo tonight,” Ronnie says, a twinkle in his eyes.
“Is there something in your pocket?” Jonny asks, peering around.
Patrick closes his eyes. Behind them, he sees Jonny saying fucking faggot. But it’s replaced by the vision of Jonny wet-haired and pink-cheeked, apologizing to him earlier that day. Patrick slowly reaches into his back pocket, and jimmies out the pamphlet. Jonny’s eyes catch on the title, Welcome to the Gayborhood. Patrick’s heart starts to pummel in his chest.
“Your soulmate,” Jonny says. “They’re not a woman, are they?”
“No,” Patrick says, impressed at how even his voice is coming out. “He’s not.”
Patrick watches Jonny chew on the information. “Shit,” he says finally. “I’m a total asshole. I’m sorry Patrick.”
“You already apologized,” Patrick points out.
“It’s not enough.” Jonny reaches out his hand, and plucks the flyer out of Patrick’s hand. “We’re going.”
Patrick’s mouth falls open. “Are you serious? People will see.”
“So?” Jonny says defiantly. “The love of the best American born player in the NHL’s life is a man. It’s about time the world knows.”
“May I suggest Tabu? It’s a piano bar. It’ll ease you in,” Ronnie suggests. “I’ll call you a cab.”
HONK, goes the goose, flapping its wings. It pecks Jonny’s ankles, then Patrick’s. Then, it nips at their fingers.
Jonny reaches out, and grabs Patrick’s hand. “Looks like we’re walking.” He has that look on his face, when they’re tied with less than a minute left in regulation, like we’re winning this game if I have to crawl to hell and back. And no one, God included, can argue with him. The goose looks at Patrick expectantly. He firms his grip around Jonny’s. “Okay. Take us to the Gayborhood.”