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The Sweetest Sounds I'll Ever Hear

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The car ride is the best kind of torture.

Patrick can’t touch Jonny much while he’s driving, but he can hold his hand, and wow, how did he not know Jonny was this good at holding hands? His thumb is skating over Patrick’s skin, light strokes, then digging in harder, then brushing light again, just enough to keep Patrick’s nerves off balance and his skin tingling.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Patrick says, and he can hear how breathless he sounds.

Jonny doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but Patrick can see them go hot. “That was kind of the point.”

“Wonder what else you’re good at,” Patrick says. He lifts Jonny’s hand to his mouth to tongue along his fingers. Just the tip of his tongue at first, rasping along the pad of Jonny’s index finger. Then he sucks the finger in.

“Fuck,” Jonny gasps, and yanks his hand away. The car lurches a little. “You can’t. I have to—driving. I have to drive.”

“Sorry,” Patrick says, but he’s grinning. He can see the corners of Jonny’s mouth curving up. “Shouldn’t you have better coordination than this? What is it you do for a living again?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jonny says, but his hand slips back into Patrick’s.

Two hours is a really long time.

Long enough for Patrick to move beyond impatience and start to worry. He’s burning for it, dying for it, but—well, he’s only kissed two people in his life, and Jonny’s one of them, and he’s not really sure how this is going to go. What if he’s not good at things, and it gets awkward? What if Jonny doesn’t want to do it again?

The thought makes him cling to Jonny’s hand harder, and the buzz under his skin is half desire, half anxiety. He wants more of what they had on the porch, wants to be in Jonny’s arms again and lick into Jonny’s mouth and feel Jonny wanting him. But he’s afraid of what will happen next.

Two hours is a really long time.

Patrick tries to hide the anxiety bubbling in his stomach, but Jonny definitely notices that something’s up when they finally reach the city. They park in Jonny’s garage, and Patrick can barely stand still as they wait for the elevator. He can feel Jonny’s eyes on him, knows he needs to chill out, doesn’t want to do anything that might make Jonny change his mind, but—

They get into the elevator, and Jonny steps close. “Hey,” he says, sliding a hand up Patrick’s arm. It’s grounding, but not enough. “You know we don’t have to if—”

“No, I want to,” Patrick says, too quickly, and then feels himself flush at how obvious he’s being. But Jonny only steps closer.

“Okay then,” he says, smile in his voice, and his lips come down to brush at the back of Patrick’s neck. His hand reaches across to frame Patrick’s far hip, holding Patrick close, and Patrick feels his whole body skitter to life, nerves jumping like hockey players after the puck drop.

“Yeah,” he whispers nonsensically, and Jonny laughs softly against his neck.

They both jump when the elevator dings.

Patrick can barely see straight on the walk to Jonny’s door. He’s still reeling from Jonny’s laughter against his skin. But Jonny puts his hand on the small of his back, and Patrick leans into him, and together they stumble into the apartment.

They separate to pull off shoes and coats. Patrick feels the anxiety clamp back down on his stomach as soon as Jonny’s not touching him, as he hangs his coat on the hook. There’s nothing else between them now—no reason to delay, and he’s not going to know what to do, any Jonny will know—

He feels Jonny’s hands on his waist from behind, warm palms sliding across his shirt until they meet over his stomach. “Hi,” Jonny whispers in his ear, and Patrick shivers and leans back against him as Jonny’s mouth closes over the lobe. It’s—Patrick never knew he was so sensitive there, and Jonny’s lips and tongue send sparks all over his body. It’s like closing a circuit: the connection between them swamps the anxiety so that Patrick can’t even feel it anymore, not against the background of want. Jonny’s fingers flex on his stomach, and his teeth close on Patrick’s ear.

“Oh,” Patrick says, making it a moan without meaning it to. Jonny whispers a curse against his ear, and then he’s turning Patrick around and Patrick’s arching into his body and Jonny’s going for his mouth, hungry.

Kissing Jonny just keeps getting better. Patrick wants to be doing this all the time. Like, maybe they could figure out a way to skate like this, so that Patrick would never have to stop kissing him. Jonny’s tongue is moving against his, little kitten licks, and he’s breathing so hard from it. Just from Jonny’s body pressed against his and their mouths meeting eagerly.

They kiss until Patrick’s dizzy and panting and squirming against the hard bulge at the front of Jonny’s jeans. Until Patrick can’t keep his hands off the smooth planes of muscle on Jonny’s back, the dip of his spine, the firm muscle of his ass. Until Jonny starts making a high-pitched sound the runs like sweet hot butter all of Patrick’s skin.

Jonny pulls back an inch—too much—and breathes fast and light against Patrick’s lips. “Bedroom?” he asks.

“Uh-huh,” Patrick says, and it’s a good thing Jonny doesn’t move away, because he might fall down. They keep kissing, slow and thick like molasses, as they stumble down the hall to the bedroom.

They get there, and Jonny pulls him properly against him again, hands firm on Patrick’s ass and mouth open on his neck. Like—like he’s the one who can’t get enough of Patrick. Patrick can feel his cock, hot and hard against his own and making the world shimmer. He feels lost—breathes open-mouthed and heavy-eyed as Jonny shifts their hips together, pressing harder and lighter and harder again, so that Patrick’s blood fizzes and he has to hold on tight to Jonny’s arms. If this goes on, Patrick will—he’ll—

Jonny pulls back, and Patrick whines, but Jonny slides his hands up under Patrick’s shirt, and, oh. Skin on skin. Patrick wants this. He pushes into the touch, and Jonny’s hands slide further up his chest. Jonny’s staring at him, wild-eyed with color high on his cheeks and lips swollen from kissing Patrick, and he’s taking off Patrick’s shirt, and Patrick thinks he might choke on the air he’s gulping.

“Wow,” Jonny says, like he hasn’t seen Patrick’s bare chest a million times already. His fingers skate over Patrick’s skin, and all of a sudden they’re delicate: faint brushes, exploring, making Patrick’s chest jump and his skin tingle like crazy. Patrick tips his head back and tries to keep it together when Jonny touches his nipples, nails touching light light so light that Patrick thinks he might scream, might come from the arcs of sensation.

“Fuck, the way you look right now,” Jonny whispers, and he’s pulling his own shirt off, kissing Patrick again, holding tight, Patrick sucking greedily at his tongue. Jonny lowers them onto the bed, Patrick on his back and Jonny above him, pressing their hips together and kissing him so well Patrick can’t keep track of anything.

Patrick’s pictured this so many times, but he didn’t have any idea it would be like this. That Jonny would be so close, so real, so much of his skin right next to Patrick’s. That it would make him feel so crazy. Jonny’s hips nudge at his, and Patrick thrusts into the pressure, wants more of it, but then Jonny slides down and puts his mouth on one of his nipples and, oh, Jonny’s wet tongue is making his nipple peak, is making Patrick’s heart beat even harder. His cock is so hard in his pants, and it’s twitching, and if this doesn’t go somewhere else soon he’s going to die.

“Jonny,” he says, voice going high and desperate, “Jonny, Jonny,” and Jonny hums around Patrick’s nipple and Patrick arches hard into it.

Jonny pulls off, and Patrick strains after him helplessly, but he’s just taking his pants off, and—fuck, fuck, Jonny’s cock is a hard outline through the fabric of his boxers. Patrick can’t take his eyes off it. He wants to touch, wants to put his mouth on it, but then Jonny’s hands are at the fly of Patrick’s pants and he can’t possibly focus on anything else while that’s happening.

He must make some kind of sound, because Jonny stills. “Is this okay?” he asks.

“Don’t you fucking stop,” Patrick says, holding Jonny’s wrists so he doesn’t move away, and Jonny gives a strangled laugh and gets his fly open. Patrick feels flayed open, like Jonny is peeling back his skin, but it’s so good, the little hints of pressure on his cock and then Jonny’s eyes, fuck, Jonny’s staring at Patrick’s cock where it’s jutting out from his underwear, a damp patch at the head where his pre-come is soaking the cloth.

“I jerked off so many times, thinking of this,” Jonny says, voice low, and his finger touches the tip of Patrick’s cloth-covered erection and makes Patrick buck into it. “Literally thousands of times.”

Patrick sobs out a laugh. He can still feel where Jonny’s finger brushed his dick, like the nerves were seared by his touch. “Me too,” he gasps out. “Fuck, please.”

Jonny’s mouth drops open a little and his tongue licks at his bottom lip, and then his fingers hook under Patrick’s boxer-briefs and lift them over his dick so it springs free. Then—his hand, oh fuck, Jonny’s hand

His fingers are strong and hot around Patrick’s dick, and he pumps it so that Patrick practically bucks off the bed. He feels out of control, wild, and it’s good, except that Jonny’s not here with him; Jonny’s too far away, sitting back like that, and Patrick feels like he’s spinning off into the void without him. “You, too,” he gasps, as Jonny strips his cock, makes his nerves go crazy. “Come here.”

Jonny’s eyes are wide on him. “Yeah, okay,” he says, and scrambles out of his boxers so fast his dick slaps his stomach. Patrick’s mouth instantly goes wet, just at the sight of that thick cock with its dark-red head. He wonders what it would be like, stretching his lips around it—but Jonny’s coming down into his arms again, and that makes his cock rub against Patrick’s, and Patrick’s eyes are crossing again.

“Oh, fuck, yes, Pat,” Jonny says, and sinks his mouth into Patrick’s, sucking and biting a little as their cocks rub together. He’s muffling Patrick’s moans, and Patrick just has time to think that it’s a good thing Jonny lives alone, to be grateful no one can hear them, before Jonny gets his hand around both their cocks and he can’t think anything anymore.

“Jonny, Jonny,” he says, and Jonny pulls back from his mouth to look at him, to look into his eyes, and that’s what does it for Patrick: that’s what tips him over the edge of that roaring abyss, makes him arch back and gasp for air and drown in the feeling of Jonny and yes and coming coming coming, oh

“Oh,” Jonny says, voice pitched high, and Patrick’s eyes open again just in time to see Jonny’s mouth drop open and his eyelids flutter. Jonny’s losing it, Jonny’s coming to pieces above him and it makes him tremble. He can feel Jonny’s come shooting onto his cock, warm and wet and mixing with his own.

“Oh my God,” Patrick says, and Jonny’s above him, heaving for air. He opens his eyes again, and Patrick meets them, and this time the shock that goes through him is different. It’s mine, mine, yours and then Jonny’s wrapping around him again, nose pressing into Patrick’s hair. Patrick buries his face in Jonny’s neck and yes.


They hold on like that for long minutes until Jonny shifts a little, pressing his lips against Patrick’s neck. “Fuck,” he says, voice muffled. “I had no idea.”

“What?” Patrick asks.

Jonny’s hand clutches Patrick’s side. “That it could be like that,” he says, sounding almost shy, face still hidden.

Patrick huffs a laugh of surprise. “But you’ve…before. You’ve…”

“I mean, yeah.” Jonny shifts a little so that he can look down at Patrick. His cheeks are pink, and wow, he has such long eyelashes. His eyes are soft, the shy look that’s always been Patrick’s favorite. His thumb touches the side of Patrick’s mouth. “But it’s different when it’s you.”

Patrick sucks in a breath. “Is it? Is…”

Jonny lowers his face, presses a kiss against Patrick’s shoulder. “I mean,” he says. “You must know it’s not just a hockey bond anymore.”

Patrick startles. He hadn’t thought—“Are you sure?”

Jonny looks back up at him, and his eyes are crinkled at the corners. “You weren’t the only one getting headaches, you know.”

Patrick gapes at him, and Jonny leans down and kisses him, lips lush and soft. The kiss feels almost as overwhelming as the idea: a romantic bond. Patrick can’t even…Jonny never finding anyone else, never being able to look at anyone else, because all of his heart is Patrick’s. Because they’re joined by something even stronger than hockey.

Getting to kiss Jonny like this for the rest of his life.

“I thought…maybe you were going to find someone else,” he mumbles when they finally part.

Jonny’s eyes go dark. “Oh my God, no, I could never. I just didn’t—I didn’t know it was you, too, and—” He looks like he feels awful, like he’s hurt Patrick somehow. “I shouldn’t have made you wait so long,” he finishes, voice soft.

“Now you feel bad about it,” Patrick says, but he’s grinning. He feels light, giddy, like he might float away if Jonny’s body weren’t on top of him. Like maybe they’ll be so happy they’ll float away together. “But really. It’s—it’s okay now. Right?”

Jonny presses his lips to the side of Patrick’s face. “Right,” he says.

Patrick’s eyelids sink shut, skin shivering and something deeper, something that might be the bond, singing at him. Jonny breathes softly next to him, his body still pressed to Patrick as his fingers keep up a slow adoration of his skin.

“So,” Patrick says, eyes still shut, “how long are you going to make me wait before you fuck me?”

It’s gratifying to hear Jonny’s intake of breath, sharp and quick. “Probably not very long,” Jonny says, voice a little unsteady, and yeah, Patrick thinks as he drifts off to sleep. He’s good with that.


He wakes up the next morning and thinks, Jonny.

His whole body is humming it to him, so much more strongly than it ever did before: the way Jonny’s pressed in behind him, nothing but skin against skin, warm and sleeping and soft and everything Patrick’s ever wanted.

There have been so many mornings almost like this—mornings when Patrick’s woken up and wanted to slip back into the fantasies that lived in his sleep. Now he doesn’t have to be asleep, though. He can think about this when he’s awake: last night, the way Jonny’s mouth had been on his skin and his hand on his cock and, oh fuck, the way he looked when he came. Patrick remembers that look and feels a spike of arousal sharp enough that—

Jonny jolts behind him. “What the,” he mumbles, and Patrick feels a burst of surprise that…hm. That might not have come from him.

Jonny’s cock is growing harder where it’s shoved up against his ass, and Jonny’s hand is suddenly a lot more insistent on his stomach. “Good morning,” Patrick says, and moves Jonny’s hand down to his dick.

Jonny’s hand closes around it, and he shifts around to let Patrick settle onto his back, half under Jonny’s body. “Was that—was that you?” Jonny asks, and his voice is already thick with lust. “Just now, were you thinking about, with the—”

Patrick nods, though he can feel his eyelids getting heavy at the way Jonny’s hand is stripping his cock. “I think,” he says, trying to speak through his gasps, “that Q is going to be interested in this development.”

Jonny gives a startled laugh, but his hand doesn’t stop moving. He leans in to kiss Patrick, and it feels even better than last night: like the pleasure is doubled, like he’s getting the echo of Jonny’s sensations on top of his own. He imagines being on the ice with Jonny like this, feeling where Jonny is and what he’s doing and what he intends. The two of them, more unstoppable than ever.

There’s a huff of amusement from Jonny—a silent huff, one Patrick only feels inside his own head, and wow. This is happening. “Maybe we don’t tell them all the details,” Jonny says, voice low, and he shifts on top of Patrick and everything gets much, much better.


Unfortunately, there’s no such thing as subtlety with the team.

Maybe it has something to do with the way Jonny won’t get more than six inches away from him in the locker room that morning—the way his hand lingers in the small of Patrick’s back, or the way Jonny keeps looking at him and forgetting what he’s saying, or the silly grins they’re both wearing. Patrick’s trying not to be obvious, but it’s hard not to lean in towards Jonny when he’s talking to him. At one point, when they’re pulling on their pads, Jonny giggles at something Patrick says, and Sharpy says loudly across the room, “Okay, who let them fuck?”

Jonny jolts up straight like he’s been stung, and the team descends into whoops and laughs. Patrick can feel his face burning.

“I mean, not that the sexual tension was a lot of fun for the rest of us,” Sharpy says, coming over to slap them on the back and ruffle Patrick’s hair. “But Jesus, I thought the two of you were bad before.” There’s a smile tugging on his lips.

“Sorry, Sharpy,” Patrick says, not sorry at all, and he scoots closer to Jonny, just because he can. “You’ll just have to live with our combined awesomeness now.”

Jonny looks at him, eyes warm. “Taking the NHL by storm, eh?” he murmurs, leaning in.

Patrick just beams back at him. Fuck yeah, they are.


Almost a year later, Patrick is on the ice of the U.C. about to begin his first game as a Chicago Blackhawk.

He knows this ice. It’s the same ice he once skated on alone as a friendless foster kid, thinking this was the only hockey he'd ever get; the same ice he used to watch from high in the stands, wishing he could play in games that weren’t his own; the same ice where one night he happened to skate with Jonathan Toews, and his life was changed forever.

It’s different now, though. His teammates are antsy on either side of him, and his sisters are cheering in the stands. Ahead of him, on the blue line, Jonny is waiting, and Patrick doesn’t need to see his face to feel his excitement. It’s the same excitement that’s bubbling in his own gut.

The announcer calls out, “And on right wing, number eighty-eight, Patrick Kane!”

Patrick grins and skates towards Jonny.