complaining, probably 🤙🏻

As it often does, Patrick’s ever-presence in his mind creeps to the forefront. He hasn’t seen him in a while. Not since Patrick retreated upstairs from the meal room after practically inhaling his food. He was quiet after the game, characteristically so after a stretch like this. There’s not much Jonny wouldn’t give to see things turn around for him in a way that Patrick can stomach. He knows the assists, while certainly not nothing, aren’t cutting it for him.

Patrick’s built for impact, for brilliance that dazzles and changes a game in its tracks. It eats at Jonny that tonight will eat at him, cost him sleep and peace of mind in his own abilities that he’s earned a million times over. He’s worked for better than the bounces he’s getting. He deserves better.

Jonny aches for him in nearly every way one can ache for another person as he finishes getting undressed, changes into a loose-fitting shirt. He wonders what Patrick’s doing, where he’ll sleep tonight, what he can do to redirect some of the blows Patrick’s undoubtedly landing on himself right now. He strains to hear any indication that Patrick’s actually in his room, but the silence on the other side of the wall is deafening, until—

Jonny hears Patrick’s bathroom door open, the sink turning on full blast. Then, seconds later, the relative quiet of running water is shattered by the sound of glass smashing against tile, loud and startling. 

It rings in Jonny’s ears as he throws the bathroom door open before the walk over to it even registers, his heart hammering in his chest. He finds Patrick standing wide-eyed, with countless crystal shards strewn around him: the remnants of what looks to be one of those heavy-bottomed glasses that hotels supply to their guests, always near the coffee pots and ice machine buckets. 

“I just fucking dropped it,” Patrick says, staring down at the mess with his hands raised innocently in front of him. Cursing to himself, “I swear. Just trying to get some goddamn water, but I guess I can’t do anything tonight.” 

He’s actually defending himself, as if Jonny would look at him while he’s this upset and accuse him of slamming it on the ground or blame him if he did. 

Jonny asks the next solid thing that pops into his head, genuinely confused about it once it leaves his mouth. “You were about to drink faucet water?”

It’s unlike him to say the least, a testament to his mood. 

“I was desperate, okay?” Patrick huffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m out of bottles and nobody will answer the fucking phone downstairs.” 

“Let me help you, Peeks,” Jonny offers, carefully stepping forward. Before the words are completely out of his mouth, Patrick’s already objecting with a brand of stubbornness that breeds confrontation, waving him off. Jonny knows it well. Patrick might feel better had he actually thrown the glass… 

All at once, Patrick squats down and starts haphazardly sweeping the larger chunks into a pile with his bare hands, fraying at his edges where he’s usually unfazed and cool under pressure. Jonny bends with him to stop him when Patrick hisses, jerking his hand back and shooting upright again— 

“Fuck!”

Jonny reaches for him, ignoring the sting when Patrick recoils from his touch and turns his back on him. He can see Patrick's bleeding, a slight, red trail down the tip of his finger. Scrambling for something to do, Jonny fetches a washcloth, soaking it in cold water from the sink, and approaches him again, mindful of the broken glass.

“Patrick…” Jonny murmurs, hesitantly placing a hand at the back of his neck. He doesn’t jerk away this time, but he doesn’t relax or settle either, tension rolling off him in waves. Jonny gently massages in a way he means to be comforting, reaching over Patrick’s shoulder to offer him the damp cloth. “Take this for your finger, and let me handle things in here, okay?”

“Jonny, I—” Patrick starts and stops, and Jonny bends his head down, daring to nuzzle his face in Patrick’s curls. “You don’t have to.” 

“It’s okay, baby…” Jonny whispers, pressing a soft kiss beneath his ear. “I’ve got it. Just go.”

Patrick breathes out a long, shaky sigh that clenches in Jonny’s chest, and he takes the cloth, wrapping it around his finger. 

It feels like a twisted metaphor. They’re bleeding in more ways than one here, and all they can do now is try and stop it… Patrick’s little finger cut will be much easier to handle than the task they’ve got in front of them tomorrow. 

Patrick moves to leave the bathroom, then turns to look at him, his eyes red-rimmed, reflecting the same kind of tired Jonny feels through to his insides. 

“You’re coming, yeah?” Patrick asks, tilting his head in the direction of his room. His voice is more unsure than it has any right to be on the subject. “‘M not sure if I’ll sleep as good without…”

Jonny’s face flushes hot under the weight of his admission, and he immediately assures him, “You don’t have to. I’ll be right there.” 

If Patrick wanted it, Jonny might make sure he never had to sleep alone again. 

Satisfied, Patrick goes, closing the door behind him, and Jonny blows out a deep breath, left with a mess on the floor he doesn’t really feel like dealing with either. He picks up the largest pieces, tossing them in the trash, then quickly grabs a towel, draping it over the worst of the microscopic pieces and using it to push them into a pile in the corner of the bathroom. There’s no way he got everything, so it’ll be slide-ons for them until housekeeping comes in, but oh well… 

Then Jonny brushes his teeth, barely bothers with washing his face. After going into his own room to gather some things—his phone, an extra blanket, and pillow—he stops by his mini fridge to grab a bottle of water for Patrick before going over to the other side. 

It’s where Patrick should’ve come in the first place if he needed something, instead of resorting to faucet water and hurting himself, but frustration and stubbornness is a powerful mix. 

When Jonny opens the door, Patrick’s in bed already, staring at the ceiling by the light of the lamp by the looks of it, his arms stretched above his head. The washcloth is on the nightstand, so Jonny assumes his finger stopped bleeding. He should’ve called for a bandaid or something, probably, but whatever, they’ll get one in the morning. 

“Hey,” Jonny says, smiling a little when Patrick looks at him, the corner of his mouth curving up sheepishly in return when he sees the bottle of water. Jonny walks over to the bed to set it on Patrick’s nightstand to a hushed but appreciative, “Thank you,” before moving around to his side, shrugging off his shirt and crawling under the covers. 

Jonny still half-expects the distance to hold, for Patrick to keep to himself despite wanting Jonny in bed with him. Instead, the second Jonny settles, Patrick shifts over into his side, maneuvering Jonny so he can fold himself into his arms, wrap himself around him. 

Since they started sleeping together, most often it’s been Jonny who does this—in the moments he craves Patrick’s touch like oxygen, consumed by him, or coming down from whatever mind-blowing sex they’ve just had, when he can still feel that Patrick was inside of him so viscerally it’s like he’s still there… Sometimes it seems like he’ll never get close enough when Patrick’s holding him, so he tries to give Patrick exactly what he would want in a time like that: strong arms that surround him and make him feel safe and loved. 

Because Patrick is safe with him and so fucking loved it threatens to knock the breath out of him. 

Jonny wishes he could say it without sounding totally insane. Instead, he whispers Patrick’s name into the silence of the room, dragging his fingers gently through his hair. 

Patrick grumbles, rubbing his scruffy face against Jonny’s chest. “Hm?”

“You know I believe in you, right?” Jonny murmurs, squeezing him a little tighter when he feels Patrick start to stiffen in protest. It’s been obvious all night that Patrick doesn’t want to talk, but the thing is, Jonny doesn’t really want to either. He just needs Patrick to know this, for whatever it’s worth. 

“We don’t have to get into anything. We’re both tired and need to sleep, I just—” Jonny takes a deep breath, lets it out in a rush. “No matter what, Patrick, I do, and no matter the fucking result, I’m here.” 

After a stretch of nervy silence, Patrick lifts his head, propping on his elbow to meet Jonny’s eyes, searching. “You’re here?” 

It was loaded, and Patrick knows it.

Jonny leans up to capture his mouth in a kiss for lack of words, relieved when Patrick relaxes into it. Pulling back just a fraction, Jonny breathes out, finding them, “I’m in this with you.” 

He means it in every conceivable way. 

“Jonny,” Patrick says, reverent as he deepens the kiss, pressing him back to the pillow…

For now, it’s the only answer he needs. They’ll see about the rest tomorrow. 

Patrick’s not standing in front of his house with a to-go cup made from recycled materials for a hookup though. Not that he would turn one down if the opportunity presented itself. He’s here because Jonny didn’t mention skipping today, and if he came for any workouts or treatment, Patrick didn’t catch him. 

He doesn’t particularly care for that, the hollow disappointment of not seeing him when he’s anticipated seeing him, having to wonder what’s going on with him… Jonny’s business feels a lot like his business most of the time, especially where it concerns the Hawks, and he’d say that even if they hadn’t fucked. He tells himself his reason for being there is mostly rooted in concern for the team so close to leaving for Edmonton. They’re not good unless Jonny’s good, and sometimes what the coaches hear and the truth don’t match. He’s just checking up on him. That’s all. The thought reassures his purpose as he waits, like the truth of it alone gives him the right to drop by and ask questions whenever he wants. 

It’s not like that invitation doesn’t swing both ways. 

Finally, Patrick hears him throw the deadbolt, then the door swings open, and Jonny’s there, upright and in one piece. There are pillow creases across his cheek, his hair flat on one side and sticking up in all directions on the other. He’s wearing black, tight boxer briefs—the only kind of underwear he seems to own—and nothing else. Patrick wouldn’t answer the door like that if somebody paid him, but he’s got nothing but gratitude that Jonny should be so bold, a familiar heat simmering on low beneath his skin when he lets himself really take it in. 

At first, Jonny’s brow is furrowed with an annoyance that Patrick’s no stranger to. He learned early on in their career that Jonny hates having his sleep fucked with to an irrational level. Then he visibly softens, the corner of his mouth curving upward in a charming, sleepy smile when he registers Patrick and what he’s got in his hand. 

Patrick suddenly feels lighter, infinitely more settled in being there because he can tell that Jonny wants it too, even if his default setting after waking up is grouchy as fuck. 

“Sorry, I was asleep,” Jonny apologizes, as if that wasn’t obvious. 

“No way? I couldn’t tell,” Patrick jokes, then, “Wait—” He covers his mouth and nose in the bend of his elbow and asks, muffled, “You didn’t pop a positive, did you?” 

He’s mostly kidding. Jonny’s been with them every day until today, so if he’s got it, they’re already fucked. Patrick, especially. He assumes the team would’ve been informed immediately and re-tested roughly a million times, but now that he’s said it out loud into the universe, he’d like to hear a solid “no” here. 

Jonny’s half-smile breaks into a huffed laugh. “No, I didn’t—” He nudges him in that playful way that makes Patrick’s stomach do flips, then steps out of the doorway for Patrick to come inside, which he does, kicking off his shoes beside the mat because that’s where Jonny’s are. He sounds annoyed again when he continues, grumbling, “And thank god for that. I’m so fucking sick of those tests already.” 

“They suck, for sure,” Patrick agrees. It’s like somebody’s poking a Q-tip around his brain. Shit makes his eyes water worse than watching sad movies. “I always sneeze like ten times when they take it out.”

They were told if anybody gets a positive result, the number of tests that person has to take triples until it’s over or something, and nobody wants any of that action. But Patrick didn’t come to talk about COVID tests either, especially now that he knows for sure Jonny’s in the clear. 

Casually as he can muster, which is pretty fucking casual, but still pointed enough, “What’s up though?” 

“Nothing, just woke up from a nap, like I said,” Jonny shrugs, rubbing at his eyes and talking through a yawn as they walk into the kitchen. It wasn’t exactly what Patrick was asking, but he can work with it. “What’s up with you? You bring that for me?” 

“Maybe I did,” Patrick answers. He’s not sure why they stopped here, but he perches on the edge of a barstool at the island, Jonny across the corner from him. With baiting curiosity, he asks, “What’s your favorite again?” 

“The mango and kale one,” Jonny says. “With blueberries.” 

And flaxseed, he’s pretty sure. Patrick hmmms, fighting a smile, feeling himself a little bit for remembering. He gestures with the cup, “Just happens to be what this is.” 

Jonny chuckles, says with an amused dryness that Patrick finds unreasonably attractive, “What are the odds.” 

Patrick pushes the smoothie across the counter, and Jonny takes it, nodding his thanks. He looks so soft and open, his bare chest so smooth… 

“Where were you today?” Patrick finally asks outright.  

“You keeping tabs on me, Kaner?” Jonny returns with a self-satisfied grin, taking a sip of the smoothie after he pokes the biodegradable straw through the lid. 

“No,” Patrick denies. “Trying to, maybe.”

“Jeremy would’ve told you if you asked him,” Jonny notes, and it’s true, he would’ve. 

Patrick says, “I’d rather ask you.” 

Jonny holds his eyes for a brief, curious moment, and Patrick catches himself wishing he could reach out and touch him without feeling weird about it. Physical displays of affection aren’t really his thing, but Jonny has him aching for them in a way that makes him feel like a stranger inside his own skin. Maybe it’s quarantine, social distancing stuff that’s got him itching for something he rarely thinks he needs… 

Either way, Patrick wants to trail his finger along Jonny’s forearm or stroke the back of his hand where he holds his cup, just as casually as Jonny’s leaning against his white marble countertop. But it’s like there’s an invisible wall between them that has to come down first, a switch that needs to be flipped to turn their normal interactions into the kind where they do things like that. Once that line is crossed, they barrel forward full speed ahead, but it’s always a game to see who will make the first move. 

“I’m good. Just taking a day, trying to ease back in,” Jonny says. “Fuckin’ back’s kinda tight, but nothing new there.” 

“Tight, huh?” Patrick runs through the last couple days in his mind, trying to remember if he saw Jonny favoring it at all. Nothing sticks out. “You let Gaps work on it?” 

“A little bit yesterday,” Jonny answers. “Probably sore from that more than anything.” 

“Want me to?” Patrick offers with a smirk. “I’ll stretch you out good.” 

It’s not an accident how it sounded, all the ways he might mean it, if Jonny wants it. 

Jonny snorts a laugh, says, “Yeah, I bet.” 

It’s not a no. 

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