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Baby One More Time

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Jonny doesn’t even really like American football, but in his adulthood he seems to spend an inordinate number of Sundays on Patrick’s couch eating Lesser Evil organic popcorn and drinking the gluten free cider Patrick keeps on hand for him, watching Patrick alternately curse his widescreen and triumphantly text his fantasy buddies.

“I don’t know why you need me to audience this,” Jonny says. They started at 1 PM, with the Rams decimating the Giants, and now they’re watching the Raiders and the Dolphins duke it out. Patrick’s got Lynch in his lineup and apparently it’s not going so well tonight.

“Quit your whining, what else do you have to do today? Reorganize your spice cabinet?”

Jonny throws lightly-salted popcorn at him. Once. Just once. He’d had to incorporate his own dried herbs. Sue him.

“Yo, I just had the maid service in,” Patrick squawks.

Jonny chucks another handful at him. He might be a liiiiiiittle drunk. Five hours of continuous cider will do that to even the hardiest of men. And he’s bored. This is bo-ring.

When he looks back on it later, unimpaired by alcohol, he’s still not sure how it all spun out from there. He remembers Patrick tipping the popcorn bowl over in his lap. He remembers lunging for the remote. But the part where Patrick ended up on top of him, straining forward, trying to get it back from him, and things slotted together in a way that kinda felt good? He doesn’t know how they ended up there.

He knows that Lynch scored a touchdown at some point, because Patrick had whooped and jerked upright against his back, pushing his dick against Jonny’s ass. And he’d been hard and totally shameless about rubbing it against Jonny.

“Take it, take it,” he said, singsong, like he was a teenager, not a man a few weeks away from 29.

And Jonny’s not sure why his first instinct wasn’t to jolt forward—to turn around and shove and play it off. Or, really—he’s not sure why that train of thought passed lightning quick through his head, and then just kept on going. Whistled off into the distance and left him there with a sudden awareness of the flush all down his neck, a haze laid over his brain thicker than he’d have expected, and prickling heat between the legs.

But, there you have it.

It goes on too long—Patrick rough and uneven behind him, playing at it for—god knows why. And it inches past the point of no return almost imperceptibly, more a dimmer than a switch.

Jonny doesn’t move while it happens, while Patrick slows down to near stillness, takes a shaking breath that sounds like an intro to opening his mouth, then just bumps his hips forward.

One purposeful hump. A lingering thing in how his hands tighten in the hold he’s got on Jonny’s sides and drag him back on the withdrawal—a hard, fluid press together.

The noise Jonny makes when he does it again is not a decision.

Patrick pushes his dick up against him, doesn’t let up on his grip, and Jonny groans into the popcorn-salted couch cushion.

It’s not even loud, drowned out by the commentators on TV, but he flames up instantly, feels his heart shoot into his throat, and moves into the next press of cock all on his own.

“Jonny—“ Patrick tries, in a voice that means obviously Jonny is never going to look at him again, and cuts himself off when Jonny swings an arm out behind, catches Patrick somewhere in the chest with a wayward punch.

“Don’t—“ he says, breath a humid mist against the throw pillow jammed in his face. “Don’t—talk.”

And it goes blurry again. Jonny doesn’t remember how or when Patrick got his jeans down, or how Patrick got his own fly open, his dick heavy and thick between Jonny’s thighs, running between his cheeks, over and over. Jonny had closed his hand tight on the armrest of the couch, trying to hang on to something, and the rasp of the fabric is definitely cemented into his memory—the way he'd tightened his teeth on his lower lip, trying not to cry out. He hadn’t wanted to sound desperate for it, even right then.

He remembers Patrick cursed above him, repositioned his knees on the outside of Jonny’s, seeking a better angle, and at some point Jonny knows he just gave in.

“Just do it. Stick it in,” he breathed just as Patrick’s cock skated over his flared-open hole.

“What?” Patrick froze. “You don't mean—”

But he had. That’s the bit Jonny’s having trouble with now. He had meant it. It had seemed like a fucking brilliant idea. In that moment, he would’ve traded one of his cups to get it.

He doesn’t remember getting from couch to the bedroom either, but they hadn’t gone totally cowboy about it, because at some point there was a bottle of lube bumping his elbow every time Patrick fucked inside him, before Jonny threw his arm out and knocked it on the floor.

When he woke up, sore between his legs, the sight of two condom foils on the nightstand and a killer headache building behind his eyes, he’d had trouble figuring out where he was. And then the egregious black and red decor had sunk in. That, and the blond-dusted arm thrown over his waist.

Stomach churning and head aching, he stares at the ceiling, trying to piece together how any of it happened—he’s too old for these kinds of drunk hookups by about five years, and it’s been a dearly long time since he woke up next to somebody and thought, ‘oh fuck, what the hell have I done?’ And with Patrick, of all people, there’s no age where that’s appropriate ever. He’s too afraid to look over at him for fear of losing his shit. The things he can fit together, the things he said—he can’t believe himself. It’s mortifying.

“Ugh, fuck,” Patrick says, coming awake beside him. Jonny sneaks a peek at him, enough to see him scrunch up his brow, muttering into the pillow, “Why didn’t I drink any water last night?”

He startles when he sees Jonny and Jonny hates that look on his face even though he’s sure it’s no better than his own. He turns away quickly, stumbling out from under the covers.

“Christ,” Patrick says, “Did we—?”

Jonny purses his lips, already on the defensive. “It’s not the worst thing we’ve done.” He clears his throat. “Pants. In the living room. Right.”

Patrick follows him out, clearing his throat loudly. “I’m sorry, what have we done that’s worse than this?” he gestures between the two of them.

Jonny snatches up his jeans and blows out a breath, waiting for the ‘I know what you did last summer’ secret they’ve long been hiding to come back to him. Surely they’ve gotta have at least one incident, some horrible indiscretion they committed. All he’s coming up with is the time they vaguely and unwittingly insulted Havlat’s mom their rookie year (how was anybody supposed to know a woman that fine gave birth to Havlat of all people?). The problem is they really are better together. They only ever got up to the stupid shit apart.

Well, every streak’s gotta end…

“Okay, I can’t talk about this right now,” Jonny says, pulling his jeans on and then snatching up his shirt. His head throbs every time he bends over, like the contents are going to slosh out his ears. “My head is pounding, my a—” he breaks off. Nope. Not going to finish that sentence. He’s not going to tell Patrick Kane his ass is sore from the dicking he got last night. That’s going down into the vault of embarrassing thoughts, never to be unearthed again. See it, will it, be it.

“I’m getting advil. We can—let’s just—this never happened,” Patrick says before he turns around and stalks back into his bedroom.

“Good talk,” Jonny says to the empty room.

*

If only it could be as final as the click of that door closing. Everything is so scrambled, but as he goes through his day, finally getting fluids and some food that isn’t bagged popcorn into his system, he sobers up a little. Unfortunately, more and more about the previous night starts coming back to him. Little moments, disordered chaos in his brain. It’s maddening. In some of those snatches of time, he’d felt so damn present, cataloguing the sound of the bed creaking, the smell of Patrick’s cologne on his sheets, the smoothness of the skin on his back down along the divot of his spine, only to be here now, unable to quite fit it all together.

He’s in the middle of loading dishes into the dishwasher, thinking about nothing in particular and he’s hit with the image of Patrick between his legs, grinning down at him, delighted, unearthing that age old conversation in that Patrick Kane way, never forgetting anything, never letting anything go, that Jonny was familiar with a little assplay.

“So what is it, Toews,” he said, leaning in close, his fingers running over Jonny’s hole, slick with lube, “are you a one finger or two kinda guy?”

Jonny had told him to shut up and get on with it, and Patrick had chuckled and twisted in two, guessing correctly.

Jonny sets the cup in his hand into the top rack and then sits down on the floor, back against the cabinets. His head is hurting again. He’s starting to think that second condom wrapper on the nightstand is because they went more than once too. He has the vague memory of fumbling for it, sliding the condom down on Patrick’s cock himself.

*

They aren’t going to talk about it.

It should be that simple.

It is that simple.

They aren’t going to talk about it, Jonny is going to stop thinking about it, and they are going to play hockey.

That’s it.

For two days, they achieve the first of that list pretty well. No texts, no calls, no popping in uninvited. It’s not unusual. It’s more normal than not, really—just two days. Jonny still finds himself glancing down at his phone every ten minutes or so, thumbing it open when he gets out of the shower; squeezing a hand around it inside his pocket; watching it on his kitchen table while he signs his way through a photo stack of his own accusing face.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and reaches to flip the phone screen-side down.

They don’t see each other at all until they’re leaving for Philly.

Jonny doesn’t know what he expects. He watches Patrick talking to Schmaltzy until he realizes what he’s doing and looks away. Catches himself doing it again a few minutes later, and when Patrick fistbumps him while he passes on the plane, mouth set in a straight line, it’s possible Jonny blushes.

He can’t even remember when he last felt so thrown off. By the time they reach the hotel, he's annoyed by it.

They don’t have connected rooms here, and Jonny doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed. Something about it makes him feel extra conspicuous—aware of himself. Like it’s too easy when they don’t run into each other except surrounded by the guys. Convenient to not have to talk without skates on their feet.

He’s not sure if it’s him, coincidence, or Patrick.

When they do get connected rooms in Raleigh, Jonny feels it like a physical presence. He can’t actually hear Patrick moving around, but might as well be able to for all the good it does him trying to concentrate on anything else.

He shifts on top of the bed, fishes the pillow out from under his back and flips it onto the floor with an irritated snap of his wrist.

He should just go knock on the door. Get it out of the way with some empty question about the stick Patrick’s been trying out, but as soon as he’s decided it he imagines yelling I TOOK YOUR DICK UP THE ASS into Patrick’s face and his stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch.

He lays his hands over it like it’ll stop the feeling and frowns at the light fixture overhead.

God, he did. He took Patrick Kane’s dick up the ass. He took A dick up the ass. He thinks he did it twice and he doesn’t—

Why? Why would he do that? Why would Patrick? How did he even— How were they that drunk? Why this time out of the hundreds of times they’d found themselves in the same scenarios, the same kind of nights?

When he shifts onto his side and closes his eyes, he’s half hard and still mad. And when the clunk of knuckles against wood drums its way into his consciousness, he’s dozed off to flashes of Patrick holding his thighs apart, drilling forward, face all screwed up because it must feel—

Jonny shoots up on top of the mattress like getting caught at something, heart throwing itself against his rib cage.

“Yeah?” he cracks out, short and too loud, and cringes at himself.

“Jonny?”

It’s Patrick’s voice, muffled from the next room.

Jonny flushes at the sound of it. Even in here alone. He feels it spread over his face like an evil rash hellbent on making things awkward.

“Yeah,” he says again. “One sec.”

One sec to adjust the full, uncomfortable boner making a bid for freedom in his sweats.

“Fucking christ,” he mouths with a hand down his underwear, and staggers to his feet and over to the door.

For a wild moment he considers the pillow on the carpet for a shield, then Patrick says, “What are you doing in there, Toews?” and Jonny abandons the idea, opens up his side with as much casual ease as he can muster.

They stare at each other for a silent second, Patrick leaned against the door frame, an eyebrow raised. “Were you sleeping?”

“No,” Jonny says immediately, then, “I laid down for a second.”

A smile twitches at the corner of Patrick's mouth. “A regular sleeping routine is essential for an athlete’s needs, you know. You should try sticking to one as often as possible.”

Jonny lets out the air in his lungs, more than he thought was in there, and smiles back. Rolls his eyes.

"Thanks for the info."

"Yeah, no problem," Patrick says. "You're always so generous with your own."

He looks loose and unbothered, no different than usual, which is why it’s a little bit of a surprise when the silence spreads thick and fast right back over them, from one second to the next, sticky unpleasant.

Jonny swallows, moves his weight from one foot to the other.

His dick is still hard.

“So...what’s up?” he tries, and Patrick comes forward.

It feels like slow motion. Half because Jonny freezes, and half because that’s how Patrick does it. Purposeful, measured steps until Jonny’s side of the door is up against the wall and he is up against it. Twin thumps of pressure where Patrick pins him with his thighs. A ghost of breath hot on Jonny’s mouth before the lips.

He doesn’t know what’s happening.

His eyes slide shut and Patrick’s tongue slips in and he has no idea what the fuck is happening.

Their noses mash together in the sudden rush to get at each other in whatever way possible, but Jonny barely notices. Patrick’s humming soft against him, soft on every press forward, like it feels that good, and that’s it. That’s all that’s in his head.

“You’re hard,” Patrick whispers, right before he puts his hand between Jonny’s legs and god, that—that is all that’s in his head.

Then it’s Patrick’s mouth again, and how it tastes a little sharp from the healing cut on the side of it, then the teeth he nudges light to Jonny’s upper lip, then the kiss he lands on Jonny’s chin—under it, making him tilt back, then back again, like he can’t decide what he wants.

“Fuck,” Jonny gasps, meeting each touch with the kind of desperation he’s not sure of the source of, and Patrick gives a pained little moan, shifts both his hands to the small of Jonny’s back, then lower, cupped in the creases of his asscheeks as if to measure the weight.

“We could,” he whispers. “We could again,” and Jonny goes so weak with the suggestion he can only flop against the door, so liquid hot in his belly he’s almost certain he’d tip sideways if Patrick weren’t holding him up.

“We could,” he hears himself answer, mumbled into the new kiss Patrick starts, then groaned into it when Patrick shifts a hand inwards and rubs right over his hole, two fingers in a tight circle, Jonny gone even weaker, toes curled up in his socks—

“We can’t.”

Patrick moves in for Jonny’s mouth, kisses him breathless, then says it again like it hurts. “God, we can’t.”

Jonny can’t bring himself to care. Cannot care about Patrick’s words when his tongue is so hot and slick against his own.

“I gotta go—we—“ Patrick says, but Jonny keeps kissing, smooths hands up his neck and along his jaw and holds him there.

Patrick tries again, “I have to go,” and gets kissed.

“Jonny,” he says, and gets kissed.

“We can’t,” he groans, and Jonny wraps him up, hands sunk into his hair, Patrick’s cock hard and warm and exactly what he fucking wants and god and god and god

“You’re an asshole,” he gasps, lips tingling. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

Patrick licks him where his mouth is slack, sucks on his bottom lip.

“We gotta stop,” he says, and Jonny isn’t sure how they ever manage it, kisses turned small and quick with each inch they separate, but eventually there is a last one, a fast last one before the door snicks shut and Jonny is left staring at it like it punched him in the face.

*

He can’t tell what Patrick’s playing at. He thinks about it all through morning skate. They’d both been there for the morning after, the mutual horror on their faces writ loud. And you can’t fuck around like that. There’s not exactly a hotline you can call for advice on this sort of thing, but Jonny knows enough about fucking people who are just friends to know that doesn’t end well.

Not that he thinks Patrick’s going to get the wrong idea here and think they’re together now and then cry, like, a lot when Jonny says (politely) that that’s not the case, which is what happened to him with a study partner in college. Jonny, to date, has never once felt as wretched as he did then. Patrick’s in absolutely no danger of being mistaken for a crying teenage girl. But he matters to Jonny. For reasons that extend beyond Jonny’s paycheck obviously. He knows they’ll always be able to make the hockey work. They’ve done it spitting mad at each other, sick, depressed, injured, but...

Jonny’s also hooked up with people he cared about as friends and it just ruined it. The sex wasn’t good and the friendship never felt the same afterwards and he found himself deleting numbers and no longer meeting up for drinks. He doesn’t want that for them. That would be really shit.

And he’s still stuck on the how of it all. He’s moved past the how could they ever have done it, because upon rumination Jonny knows he’s made some questionable choices in the past under the influence (see prior friendships ruined). But how was it not terrible? Jonny likes his ass being played with, but not so much that whoever could just put things in it and he’d be okay with it. But while he’s obviously still fuzzy on the particulars, he knows it hadn’t been bad. At all.

“Uh, you okay?” Saader asks after Jonny’s sat there in the dressing room with his skate laces in his hands, unmoving for what is very probably way too long. He looks around and everybody else has already hit the showers.

Jonny blows out a breath and irons his hand down his thigh like he’s trying to work out a cramp. “Oh yeah, it’s all good, sorry, just a little preoccupied.”

With Patrick Kane’s dick.

*

After taking the thoroughly demoralizing come-up-from behind beating from New Jersey later that night, he knows he should be thinking about next moves, how they’re going to come back from this, how he can work on his own game which has definitely been struggling of late. He needs to get some food into his system, maybe take another shower, and then pass out for bed. Instead here he is, standing in his foyer after he’s already toed off his shoes, and eying his cell, thinking about Patrick. His thumb hovers over his text messages for so long that he jumps when the phone starts buzzing in his hand, especially when he sees who it is.

“Yeah?” he croaks out, phone to his ear.

“Your doorman let me up,” Patrick says.

“What?” He turns around, stares at his door like it’s betrayed him.

He hears footsteps coming down the hall, and when Patrick replies, he can hear his voice through the door as well as the phone, “You gonna let me in?”

Jonny should say no, especially after the shit Patrick pulled in Raleigh. He breathes in and then out, warmth stirring in his belly. Inhale. Exhale.

“Jonny?” He hears in his ear, and it’s the first time in years that he can remember Patrick feeling unsure with him. It lands wrong in Jonny’s gut.

He yanks open the door with one hand. Patrick stands there, with the phone up to his ear, his hat pulled down to his eyebrows so that his curls only peek out at the bottom, coat hastily thrown on and not zipped.

“Hi,” he says, dropping his phone and disconnecting the call. “Can I come in?”

Jonny pauses to stare him down. There are five feet of space between them and he can already picture how every step closer is going to unfold. He’s been trying not to reimagine it now for days, the thick width of Patrick’s cock speared inside him, and the soft brush of parted lips against his nape as Patrick whispers, ‘jesus christ’ and holds himself still, waiting for Jonny to push himself back again, taking him in deep. How Jonny’s eyes had been wet at the corners, overwhelmed from the intensity of it, how he’d been unable to stop himself making the hurting hungry noises that kept coming out of his mouth, and how he burned now, knowing that Patrick had seen him like that.

Patrick meets his gaze squarely, heavily lashed eyes unblinking.

Jonny steps back and Patrick smiles.

“What’s up?” Jonny says breezily, playing dumb while Patrick slips past him. Patrick’s rarely been the type to come late-night knocking on Jonny’s door for some captainly advice, but it’s a familiar territory that Jonny understands.

When he turns his head, Patrick’s got his hands in his pockets, slowly knocking his bottom jaw from side to side, mildly uncomfortable in Kaner-speak.

“Do you want a beer?” Jonny asks, and then wishes he could swallow it back, feeling like a fool for this stilted charade of normalcy.

“You gonna drink one with me?” Patrick asks, pulling his hat off his head and scrubbing his hand through his messy curls. His cheeks are flushed from the cold and he’s seen Patrick like this a million times— sweaty, ragged, tired, hurting—but the image that flares up bright behind his eyes is colored by that night.

“Probably not.” Jonny leans back against the console table in his entryway.

“Then no,” Patrick replies.

It’s habit more than it’s anything else, like catching a pass on muscle memory alone—the purposely needling, “Look at you, finally getting some manners.”

Jonny isn’t even looking at him when Patrick abruptly hooks his arm around his waist, drawing him in close, but he turns into it as easy as breathing, their lips sliding together, Patrick’s cold coat pressed to Jonny’s front. Without thinking, Jonny slides his hands up Patrick’s arms to push it off his shoulders, pressing in even closer when it hits the floor. Jonny hadn’t gotten farther than taking off the jacket on his suit, but he feels strangely naked pressed up against Patrick here, tilting his head down to trade kisses with him. He wants to set his teeth into that pillowy lower lip and tug, but for all that he knows Patrick so well, he doesn’t know him this way. He doesn’t know if he would even like that. They part on a sigh.

“Gonna let me take you to bed?” Patrick asks, voice roughened out, a hand at his jaw, thumb sliding over his cheekbone.

Jonny has to fight the laughter bubbling up in his throat, because he can picture it so clearly, Patrick talking to some girl in a club, making out with her, going back to her place, and then saying this exact line in that same tone of voice. And it shouldn’t fucking work, because Jonny has been where Patrick is, he knows this game. But it does work, because he’s helplessly picturing it all over again. It’s road they’ve already traveled. What would it hurt to do it again? They could hardly make things worse.

“Yes,” he says, because it was only inevitable.

Lying on his bed fifteen minutes later, with their clothes strewn about the floor, and Patrick’s fingers buried inside him, he doesn’t have the benefit of drunkenness to say he doesn’t know how he got here, because he can count every last step, every turning point, and all the places they could’ve stopped themselves. Patrick’s mouth is at his throat, curly hair brushing against Jonny’s jaw, a delicate contrast to the obscene wet squelch his fingers make moving in and out of him. He’d used so much lube and is still curling his fingers to shove more inside.

“Trust me,” he said with a half-mischievous smile, like Jonny was going to fight him on it.

He doesn’t think Patrick does this on himself or has been interested in letting any of his girlfriends do it, which has Jonny fighting a smile. It’s not bad, it’s just not quite…

“Hey,” he says, turning his head to brush their mouths together. “Little bit deeper and press up.”

Patrick works his middle and ring finger in a little further and finds his prostate, stroking across it. Jonny sinks his teeth into his lower lip, pressing his head back into the pillows, as sparks shoot across the back of his eyes.

“Oh fuck, it’s getting all swollen,” Patrick says, pressing on it in little pulses that make Jonny’s belly tighten.

“‘Cause I’m getting hard,” Jonny says with a breathless laugh.

He watches Patrick’s eyes drop down between their bodies, tongue swiping out seemingly unconsciously over his lower lip. And Jonny wouldn’t—he wouldn’t ordinarily—widen his thighs to display himself, the very thought of it makes him burn, but here he is, spreading them further apart and tilting his hips so that Patrick can see.

Patrick ducks back in, catching his open mouth in another kiss. “You look so good,” he mumbles against Jonny’s mouth, robbing Jonny’s ability to pay attention with each clever stroke of his fingers.

It feels like being stretched between two different places. Three-quarters wrapped in the sharp, building pressure lighting his dick up, and then a separate, marveling awareness of himself.

He wants Patrick to think he’s hot.

Right now, in this space, that’s what he wants, and something about it doesn’t feel new. Beyond having done this once already.

He lies there sprawled in the flush of it, Patrick's cock nudged thick to his side, and he tightens his ass on Patrick's hand. Closes his eyes when Patrick sucks in a sharp breath and lets it out as a groan.

Jonny’s dick jumps at the sound and he almost laughs again then, a different kind—has to tamp down on the hysterical urge and tightens up harder.

“Jesus christ, Jonny,” Patrick says, pressing fingers up against the shifting roll of Jonny’s hips. “How did I even fit inside this?”

“You fit good,” Jonny answers, and blazes up hot, pulls Patrick to him—over top of him with an arm around his neck and a ready mouth.

“God,” Patrick whispers, nasty with his tongue in the next second, a slow lick in against Jonny’s, underneath it to draw it into his own mouth, and all Jonny wants is to get fucked, sudden and overwhelming. Wants to see if it felt that good. If the sounds Patrick made with his cock inside him are the same this side of sober.

“Get the condom,” he says, and parts one leg open further so Patrick fits there, gets the picture.

It still takes him a moment, an achingly long kiss and enough rub to Jonny’s prostate that he’s leaking against his abs, breathless when Patrick pulls away.

The outward slip of his fingers feels strange, leaves Jonny all unpleasant and buzzy with emptiness, clenching down on nothing.

“Hurry,” he whispers, and shifts himself even wider apart, feet planted while Patrick rips at the foil with his teeth. He keeps pressed in close to Jonny while he does it, skin touching, eyes continually flickering from what he’s doing with the rubber to down between Jonny’s legs, making it take longer than it has to, but Jonny can’t look away either. Has to hold in another hysterical laugh when it crosses his mind that Patrick Kane rolling a condom onto his ridiculously stiff cock feels like one of the hottest things he’s ever seen.

He reaches out and rubs a thumb to the head through the latex, one firm pass before Patrick gets quick, slippery hands to the insides of Jonny’s thighs and splits him wider still.

He smooths up Jonny’s legs until he’s hooked a grip under his knees, then leans forward to kiss again, the hot length of him like a wild kick of pleasure to Jonny’s dick.

“Hold yourself here?” Patrick says, voice gone a little shaky. “Just for a second.” And he doesn’t move back until Jonny’s replaced Patrick’s hands with his own, tight behind the knees, so fucking turned on he wants to yell it out.

He stays as quiet as he can though, breath coming out on partial, tiny moans he can’t help while Patrick lifts up and looks down to aim his cock.

“Fuck,” he says, hushed, pink in his cheeks, and Jonny nods—a go-ahead and in agreement. Fuck, indeed.

“You don’t—“ Patrick goes on, pinker when he moves his cock in a slow swipe against Jonny’s hole, fucking mean. “You can’t even—this looks so easy access.” He does it again, slow, slow. “This looks like it was made for this.”

“Oh my god,” Jonny breathes, eyes wet already, legs a mess of trembling muscle, then Patrick gets in him, just a little, just barely in, and Jonny goes so hot it doesn’t seem real.

Patrick’s dick is fucking big. It feels bigger than the vague memory of it suggested, soreness the next morning and all, and Jonny lets out a surprised jolt of a noise, not hurt, but ache. Stretch that makes his toes curl in hard and his nails bite into his own skin.

“That’s a lot, that’s a lot,” he whispers, head thrown back, chest rising and falling in rapid motion, then more insistently, “Don’t stop.”

“You want me to bottom out?” Patrick asks, voice strained and high, body held perfectly still, and Jonny nods quick, hitches his knees higher up his chest and waits for Patrick to get at the thick hum of want inside him, the pulse of it started up at the suggestion of being filled this good.

He doesn’t know how he made it this far without—god he doesn’t know. But this is not the same as a few sparks from tentative rubs while he gets blown. This is from another planet, a different galaxy.

The sink inside is so slow, the stretch so consuming he can barely think until Patrick asks, “You good, babe?” all torn up, eyebrows pulled in tight.

He said that last time—called Jonny that last time, breathed it while he was coming, when his arms gave out because he’d gone weak. The vision of it flares up bright, Patrick’s face buried in Jonny’s neck, mouth hot and running fast—babe, babe, fuck, baby.

It’s impossible there’s any blood left to blush but Jonny thinks he manages a flash of it. He nods again, readjusts the hold under his knees. “Just do it,” he says. “You’re killing me here, just fuck me.”

Patrick doesn’t make him wait, thumps his dick in to the root, that last little punch and oh god, oh god.

“Say that again,” Patrick whispers, slumping in to take the weight of Jonny’s legs with his arms, easing up under them until they’re pressed all the way back to Jonny’s chest, thighs spread so wide and vulnerable it’s almost beyond what he can take.

His eyes dart to Patrick’s face, his burning blue eyes and grit teeth. Jonny reaches up, arrested, smooths his thumb over that full lower lip and then up over the dramatic slash of one of his cheekbones, red with exertion and stubble-rough, and then finally along the delicate, thin skin underneath his right eye, watching his eyelashes dip as he blinks. Patrick holds them both there, Jonny pinned on his cock, waiting for one breath and then two.

Jonny leans up, their lips ghosting together. “Fuck me,” he breathes. Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat and finally moves, thrusting in again, bouncing Jonny on the bed and lighting up that place inside. Jonny grunts, thighs tightening, as Patrick withdraws and, hips snapping forward, does it again.

Jonny drops his head back to the pillows with a shudder and Patrick follows him down, palms braced on the mattress, Jonny’s calves still hooked over his forearms. He never could’ve imagined being on his back like this for anyone, and there’s a part of him that still can’t believe it with every controlled, rough shove of Patrick’s hips.

When Patrick says, “Fuck, I know,” he’s startled to realize he’s said it out loud, and even more so that Patrick, who talks to Jonny more than many people, but is still nobody’s definition of an open book, goes on to say, “Can’t believe it’s real.” He punctuates it with another thrust that has Jonny’s spine lengthening into an arch. “Don’t want to let you down. Fuck, Jonny, wanna give it to you so good.”

“Peeks,” Jonny interrupts brokenly, stoppering up the flow of words with a kiss. Has to strain up for it, stretch for it for the barest moment before Patrick’s on him like it was his idea, like there’s never been another use for his mouth, just hot, wet, open for Jonny’s.

The jolt of his hips turns constant, a long, streaming beat up against Jonny’s prostate, in in in in in. Jonny doesn’t know what to do with his hands, squeezes them in the sheets and then digs them into Patrick’s hair, the thick curls at the back of his neck. Feels already close to the edge of something, separate from his dick, a deeper, thudding bassline of pleasure slicked all over his insides.

He breaks his mouth away for air, gasps, “Holy shit,” and his voice doesn’t sound like his own, pitched high and unsteady, alarmed.

“You need to stop?” Patrick asks, so hurt and good he sounds like he’s gonna fucking cry, and Jonny shakes his head, holds Patrick to him, says, “No no no no.”

He can’t feel anything except the radiating heat of Patrick working him open, bright and glossy all over, piling up like he’s being pumped full of sensation he only has so much room for, and Patrick keeps going. Fucks him and fucks him, does not let up, breathing harsh and desperate against the side of Jonny’s face.

“I think I’m gonna come,” Jonny tells him, hanging onto him, fingers clutched at a shoulder blade. “I think I’m really clo—oh god, I think—“

Patrick kisses him again, swallows whatever else might spill out. Jonny groans and wedges a hand between them, attention fractured amidst the kiss and the mounting pressure building into a steady, near unbearable ache in his balls. The first stroke of his fist is clumsy, barely able to get a good grip on himself threaded together as they are, but it still has his back coming up off the bed.

Patrick gets his knees under him, spine curving to give him space, even as he refuses to give up Jonny’s mouth. His pace speeds up with each tight pull of Jonny’s fist, and he tears his mouth away with a gasp, dragging his gaze down Jonny’s chest to his swiftly working hand and on past to the place where they’re joined, Patrick’s cock still punching down into him.

“Look at you, all stuffed with cock,” Patrick says, voice soft, reverent. It catches on a ragged exhale, somehow disbelieving, as his eyes dart up to meet Jonny’s in a sudden shock of awareness. “And you like it.”

Jonny cries out, flexing back into Patrick’s last stroke, and gives it up, comes explosively over his fist. Patrick keeps fucking him through it, prolonging it with every unearthly thud against his prostate.

Through the fuzz of his own orgasm he’s conscious of Patrick stilling and crying out, “Holy god.” He trembles like it’s costing him to keep himself propped up above Jonny, breathing in deep against his throat. He finally relaxes and shifts his arms, allowing Jonny’s boneless thighs to drop to the mattress.

Jonny blinks hazily up at the ceiling, his heart only just returning to a resting rate. He feels good, high almost, every limb too heavy to lift. Patrick slowly rolls off to the side, but he doesn’t go far, turns into Jonny’s neck to mouth all dirty at his skin until Jonny’s eyes dip closed involuntarily.

“I felt you nut. Felt you tighten up—I’ve never—not like that—jesus, Tazer,” he says, lips vibrating against his throat.

Nothing about that felt like it could be real, Jonny thinks, but the ache in his lower back and the tender place between his thighs says otherwise, as well as the condom Patrick ties off and then deals with. It’s weird not being the one doing the after sex man errands, as his last girlfriend called them. Jonny swings his legs over the edge of the bed to go wash his hands. He’s not sure what he would do if Patrick went to get him a washcloth to clean up the come. Laugh probably. God this whole thing. He thinks nonsensically of the Talking Heads: And you may ask yourself, where does that highway go to? He keeps waiting for panic or regret to set in, but it hasn’t hit yet. Maybe in the morning when he isn’t so tired or buzzing from that improbably amazing orgasm.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Patrick’s sacked out on top of the sheets.

Jonny flops back into bed next to him and Patrick frowns with his eyes closed, says, “Where’s my jeans?”

Jonny, suddenly exhausted, says, “Shhh, Kaner.” He flicks out the light, if Patrick wants to find his jeans he’ll be doing it in the dark. He’s certainly not going to help him look.

Patrick turns over, pressed even closer to Jonny now. “Mm gettin’ up,” he mumbles.

“Shh,” Jonny grumbles. He’s comfortable, eyelids heavy with lassitude. They had a rough game earlier. This season is not shaping up the way any of them hoped, and he would just like the welcome oblivion of sleep to avoid it a little longer.

“I gotta get my pants,” Patrick whispers, more like he’s talking to himself than Jonny.

Jonny snuggles deeper into his pillow and doesn’t bother to respond.

***

It takes two bleary minutes of staring at the mole on Patrick’s cheek for Jonny to realize that his heart is beating too fast.

He lies there as still as he can make himself, his leg tensed up where it’s pressed along Patrick’s shin, and he feels twenty listening to him breathe. The same quiet snore Jonny hadn’t known that he knew.

Then Patrick moves, shifts himself more fully onto his side, and Jonny feels all of almost-thirty, with a sore asshole and a shared mattress and a thumping pulse.

Twenty-year-old Jonny had not done this.

Half of him wants to get up, slide out of bed before Patrick's awake too, make it easier on both of them.

The other half wants to keep staring, just like this, held tight as an aimed slingshot.

He's saved having to make the decision when Patrick's snore pulls in abruptly and cuts off, turns into a slower exhale as his eyebrows crease together.

Jonny automatically crinkles his own face into something sleepy before Patrick can look at him. Takes an abrupt, noisy inhale himself and turns further into his pillow, like he doesn't want to get up yet.

He wishes his heart would fucking cut it out.

It doesn’t though. It keeps on through Patrick squirming into consciousness, through the stretch Jonny feels more than sees, through the yawn next second.

He watches him reach down and scratch himself somewhere under the covers, and then the abrupt blink of his eyes coming open, meeting Jonny’s own. He’d forgotten how Patrick would do that, go from heavy-eyed and out-of-it to headlong alertness. It made sense with the rest of his personality—the way he could just laser in on you unexpected. The way he kept doing to Jonny these past few days after what felt like a lifetime of learning how to deal with exactly that.

Everything feels leaden in his chest. He should look away, find the words to make light of the situation, and then force himself out from underneath the warm covers so that they can start over and put this in the rearview mirror, but they’re not coming. He breathes in, intent on saying something surface and bland and then hoisting himself from this oasis of mattress to reset the clock on all of this, but instead, as if weighted by gravity, he leans forward to press his mouth to Patrick’s, their noses bumping together, and when Patrick kisses back, thinking vague and nonsensical, this isn’t where I parked my car. God, but here they are, and somehow it keeps going even as every thought in his head is screaming at him to let go.

Jonny’s alarm goes off in the middle of Patrick pushing him onto his back, startling him.

“What the fuck is that?” he demands, blue eyes narrowed like he’s about to do murder, amidst the discordant cacophony coming from Jonny’s nightstand.

“My alarm clock,” Jonny replies, craning his neck to look at the time. Still more than three hours until practice. It is an offensive level of noise, but they both know how hard it is to yank him out of bed in the morning. Something that wasn’t lost on his mother either when she gifted him with that horror years ago. Patrick rolls himself more fully on top of Jonny so that he can reach the offending piece of electronics, batting at it, trying to turn it off.

The casual ease of it, using Jonny as a pillow and a springboard, makes him laugh helplessly, and he leans up to press another kiss to the side of Patrick’s mouth, before reaching out to turn it off for him.

Patrick breathes out in a relief that Jonny knows isn’t entirely unfeigned. Years of rooming together had taught him how much trouble Patrick had with repetitive noises, Jonny’s breathing until he got used to it and learned to hear it as white noise being one. There are so many years of history here. Heavy and scary and all of those things that Jonny was afraid of are still true.

“No wonder you’re always in such a terrible mood in the mornings,” Patrick bitches.

For once, for just once, even if it was only a moment more, Jonny doesn’t want to give in to the weight of all of those responsibilities.

“Mmm,” Jonny replies, shifting against him, thigh slotting up against his half-hard cock. “Doing battle with the alarm clock got you hot, eh?”

“It’s just morning wood,” Patrick denies.

Jonny deliberately looks over at the nightstand and the roll of condoms still unspooled there, his gut going all funny. Really, what difference does it make if they do it one more time? They’re already in the bed. As soon as somebody’s feet touches the floor this will be all over.

Patrick follows his gaze and catches on. “You sure?”

Jonny bites at his lip and nods. “Just this last time, why not?”

Patrick reaches out for the condom and lowers himself down for another kiss, hands working busily between them while he draws his teeth over Jonny’s lower lip. Just as he’s got the latex rolled down he pauses, pulls away from Jonny’s mouth with a thoughtful noise. “It’s not on snooze, right? It’s not going to interrupt me just as I’m about to come and totally fuckin’ ruin that for everybody, is it?”

Jonny laughs and tugs him down. “It’s off, it’s off.”

*

He heartily regrets it later when he feels like he can’t even lean back against the boards without wincing. That was a terrible idea. Going in the fail column for his life, never to be attempted again, dear god.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sharpy asks, knocking his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Jonny bites back, fiercely, even as he’s asking himself the same thing. He’d just had to know for sure that whatever crazy ass voodoo had happened in Patrick’s apartment that night hadn’t been imagined. Fucking brilliant. Now he’s wondering if he needs to put himself on IR, christ.

“Really? You look like you’re trying to set the net on fire with your mind.”

Jonny rolls his eyes and shifts his weight again, aware of that deep ache in a way that goes beyond pain. “It’s nothing.”

And Patrick seems so prosaically and unfairly normal, just skating around, going through line rushes and drills, like mere hours ago he wasn’t desperately telling Jonny he wanted to give it to him so good, just the way he wanted, like he’d fucking thought about it a lot. Like it was something that stuck with him.

Maybe he’s just that good, knew just what buttons to push, Jonny doesn’t know. He keeps thinking look over, look over, look over, but Patrick doesn’t, not once.

Jonny shifts his hands on his stick and sighs, looking down. It’s for the best really, what are they gonna do, make this a regular hook up thing? Two guys who’ve known each other since the age of 13 getting a little curious at nearly 30? More than a little curious, he thinks with a snort.

“Tazer, what the hell, get moving,” Dineen calls, busting him out of his thoughts.

Jonny shakes his head, looks up, straight across the ice and into Patrick’s sharp blue gaze.

His heart jumps, and it takes both of them a moment to look away, Patrick like it's on purpose, playing off getting caught.

“Yeah, coach," Jonny answers when he remembers himself. "On it.”