#toewsy

He doesn’t bother giving Jonny the tour and Jonny doesn’t ask—they both know Kaner hasn’t picked a single piece of furniture in here anyway. Instead, Patrick grabs two cans of beer from the mostly empty fridge, tosses one over to Jonny and gestures at the open door leading to the patio.

“Nice place,” Jonny offers as he slumps down in a garden chair, Patrick following suit next to him.

The open space at the far side of the patio would be great for a bunch of garden towers, he notices absently. Not too much exposure to the sun.

Patrick hums, gazing at the lawn stretching out in front of them before he lets out a soft sigh.

“You put your place on the market already?” he asks after a moment, voice painfully neutral.

Jonny shrugs. “Working on it.”

He’s made the calls, packed up the last few boxes just a couple hours earlier. No point in waiting any longer, though he can’t deny that it feels fucking weird.

Patrick nods and they fall silent again, taking long swigs of beer until Patrick lets out a quiet chuckle.

“You know, you’re the first person who hasn’t told me how stupid I am for buying this place.”

For buying this place now, Jonny adds in his head, because they both know that the size of the house isn’t the issue. Not really.

He glances over at Patrick, who’s intently staring at the pool, fingers idly drumming over the plastic of the can.

“Well—” Jonny swallows. “I don’t think it’s stupid.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow, and Jonny grins. Shrugs. “Okay, maybe it’s kinda stupid,” he relents. “But I get it, so. No judgment.”

A couple years ago, he would have wagered this would be him in the near future. Settling down in a nice house in the Chicago area, maybe in the same neighborhood as Patrick. Except that there’s suddenly no more reason to do what seemed like the inevitable, sensible thing for so long.

Which is probably exactly why Patrick pulled the trigger on this place this year. Making this city his home now more than ever. Maybe it was this that gave Jonny the last push to clean out his own condo. If he doesn’t have his own place in the city, he’ll always have a room to crash in at this place.

“If someone had told you in 2007 that this is how it would pan out,” he says quietly, stretching his leg to nudge at Patrick’s ankle with his toe. “Would you have taken it?”

The corner of Patrick’s mouth twitches and he glances over before he nods, without letting another beat pass. “In a heartbeat, yeah. You?”

“Well, yeah. Obviously.”

Patrick ducks his head and smiles, one of those smiles that always reminds Jonny of how much time has passed since rookie year. It’s not one of the cocky smirks Patrick would throw around back then but a softer, more private smile. Something warmer, reserved for the people he’s comfortable letting his guard down with.

“We had a good run,” Kaner says, eyes half-lidded like his head is back in Philly or maybe Boston or the Chicago of eight years ago.

“I’m glad it was with you,” Jonny says softly and he means you guys, the core ones, who’ve been there for it all, except suddenly, as he’s studying Patrick’s profile, he’s not so sure anymore.

Patrick’s still smiling, still all soft and thoughtful, and Jonny’s pretty sure he’s shown his appreciation plenty of times over the years—in locker room speeches and goal cellies and screaming matches in their living rooms—but he’s still overcome with the need to blurt it all out. Overcome with the incapability to articulate how much it all truly means to him. How it always will.

“I was rooting for you, you know,” is what he settles on after a long moment. “During the playoffs.”

Now, Patrick's smile morphs into a smirk, a glint of amusement appearing in his eyes. “I mean, yeah. Who else would you be rooting for? The Panthers? The fucking Golden Knights?”

Jonny rolls his eyes back. “I said I was rooting for you. Not the Rangers, asshole.”

He’d rather drown himself in his own lake than cheer for Jacob Trouba. Like having neutral thoughts on his team wasn’t bad enough already.

“Oh,” Patrick says softly, looking something between pleased and bashful.

Jonny offers another eyeroll, but he knows that fighting the fond grin on his face is a lost cause anyway.

“I’m not gonna re-sign,” Patrick says into the silence, gaze trailed back onto the water in front of them. “I guess—I haven’t told them officially, but…” He trails off with a shrug, and Jonny hums back.

On paper, the Rangers always made sense for Kaner, but things felt off in a way that had little to do with Patrick in a blue rather than a red jersey, even from the outside looking in.

“So, what’s next instead?”

“I mean, Toronto.” Patrick grimaces, patting the bad side of his hip. “Surgery next week.”

“Right,” Jonny says as if he doesn’t fucking know that. “But after that?”

Patrick shrugs. “The Leafs could still be a possibility. Maybe the Red Wings. I want a hockey town for sure, but I’m not really thinking that far ahead yet.”

Jonny nods and takes a quick swig from his beer can, gripping the tin a little tighter than necessary, to distract himself from the all too familiar frustration welling up inside his gut. If only things could be this simple. Surgery, rehab, a new contract, a couple more broken records. Easy as that.

“You’re not doubting that I’ll be back,” Patrick adds, his voice quiet but steady.

A statement, not a question.

Fair enough.

Jonny shrugs. “No,” he says, because it’s kind of as simple as that. He knows hockey, he knows Patrick. He knows Patrick will be back and he’ll be back as more than just a shell of his former self.

He hears Patrick exhale next to him and then it’s Patrick nudging him, wincing a little at the pain that must be shooting down his leg.

“What about you?” Patrick asks, rougher now.

Jonny lets out a deep groan and shakes his head. “Who the fuck knows.”

Sometimes he still surprises himself with how much he’s succeeded at being content with how things are. No point in dwelling on the what ifs, and it’s hard to feel cheated when 20,000 people are roaring your name after a meaningless, miserable hockey season.

Patrick nods shortly, and Jonny’s oddly grateful that Patrick doesn’t try to offer any words of encouragement, no false optimism about how Jonny for sure will be back or some weird speech on how losing hockey won’t be a big deal as if Patrick could ever believe that himself. He’s just there instead, in quiet understanding, and Jonny hooks his ankle over Patrick’s and presses closer.

They sit together for what feels like forever, the water of the pool splashing softly against the tiles, beer cans squeaking as they take occasional swigs.

And then, when Jonny starts yawning, trying to talk himself into getting up to head to bed, Patrick scoots closer with his chair until his elbow is pressed against Jonny’s.

“Jonny,” he says quietly, pausing like he’s still gathering his thoughts. “You know that I… I care about what comes next. Obviously, I do. I want to prove that I can be more than just a franchise guy here. But it’s still—” He lets out a soft huff. “Whatever happens next, my legacy will always be here, I guess. And I’m proud of that. When I’ll think back on it all, I’ll always think of this. And—how it matters that we did it together.”

Jonny swallows, instinctively lifts his beer can to his lips only to remember that he’s emptied it a while ago. He rubs a hand over his cheek instead, pressing back against Patrick’s elbow with his other arm.

“Couldn’t have done it without each other,” he says softly.

Next to him, Patrick offers a warm smile and another nudge. “Wouldn’t have wanted to, either.”

There’s so many more people that were in it with them. Teammates, coaches, trainers—they’d sit here all night if they had to compile a list. But at the very center of it all, it was always just the two of them—Kane and Toews; Toews and Kane—two kids that arrived in the city to save a franchise. For all they’ve been through with the other core guys, there will always be things only Patrick understands.

“You know I’ll always root for you,” Jonny says just as Patrick’s head falls against his shoulder.

Patrick hums, the sound vibrating against Jonny’s neck.