#Kaner has a very distinctive walk…
Note
prompt, autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck
Lol, so, this isn’t exactly what I thought it’d be when I started this prompt fill weeks ago, but it is technically an autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck. Takes place after Thursday’s loss on 10/10/19.
***
When Jonny used to let himself consider this, back when all he thought about was hockey, being able to get to sleep that night, and the couple of unacknowledged handjobs in the middle of their second season, he would make himself panic.
He’d lie there like a fucking psychopath and let the idea of Kaner voluntarily—enthusiastically—sprawled out in his bed wash over him until his resting heart rate shot up into the hundreds.
Right here, now, the reality of it: this pressing quiet, Patrick wrapped up in Jonny’s comforter, warm at his side like it’s normal, the replay of last night like a movie, Patrick’s forehead pressed to the small of Jonny’s back, arm working for so fucking long the rhythm of it feels punched into him, stuck as deep as Patrick’s voice slurring, “Tell me when you think you can take me,” into Jonny’s overheated—
The reality of it is somehow worse.
“Gonna make some coffee,” Jonny whispers, even though he’s sure Patrick’s still out, and he rolls away from him, creaks up to his feet and across the floor on sore legs, slips a pair of underwear out of his dresser.
His body’s still half convinced it’s the middle of the afternoon, but it’s dark out in Chicago, no sun at all yet, just soft city glow and the quiet of being up this high.
He watches the traffic lights below pulse red while the coffee brews, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, and he draws in a slow breath, takes a mug out of the cabinet and waits there, palms curled around the edge of the countertop.
When he was twenty-two, he probably would’ve left. He’d have left his own apartment, would’ve stayed gone long enough for Patrick to get out, and it feels stupid now, because that might have been the right time for this kind of bullshit. Something they could’ve burned through and exploded out of instead of—this.
He pours his cup, lets it warm his hands and lets the honesty in his thoughts run loose.
He’s not sure the ache used to be this bad.
He’s not sure the want was this deep.
Back then, god, the hockey wouldn’t have mattered like this, they were fucking unstoppable, and now what? In five years—what? He’s not guaranteed Patrick’s proximity. He’s not guaranteed they’ll even—
He startles when Patrick appears in the entryway, disheveled, frowning, drawn into himself in his open dress shirt and boxer briefs.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t bother tossing Jonny even the most cursory glance, just crosses to the fridge and takes out some water, drains the whole thing while Jonny looks on with his heart in his throat—his entire stomach, all of his fucking insides crowding up his esophagus.
He watches Patrick walk the water bottle over to the sink, unscrew the lid and and lay it all under the faucet. “Just so you know,” he says, with his face half turned in Jonny’s direction, “I’m not in the mood for whatever the fuck is going on in your head right now.”
Jonny doesn’t know how to respond right away, taken aback, feels an immediate spike of temper. “No one told you to come out here,” is what leaves his mouth, heated. “I’m not in the mood for whatever snotty ass little bitch shit that is.”
Patrick lets out a low laugh, shakes his head and lets his chin dip down against his chest, stays like that for a good long moment.
“We shouldn’t have fucked after losing,” he says, quiet, amused, nonsensical. “I knew we shouldn’t have fucked after losing, but you know what? I wanted to feel good, and I waited all of fucking Europe because we weren’t home, and it would’ve been nice—” he stops, smiles, Jonny can see the edge of it, that dark, sharp curl in his cheek while he lets the cut-off sentence linger there, then, “I don’t know,” he continues, more amused than before. “I just wanted to wake up with you I guess. I don’t know why I’m so fucking mad that you got out of bed.”
Jonny closes his eyes fast, taken aback again, swallows down against the rush of feeling that tries to shove its way up into his mouth. “Why—would it—”
“Tell me you didn’t think about leaving,” Patrick interrupts, accusatory, and Jonny’s eyes fly back open.
“What?”
“Tell me right now that that’s not what you were doing.” He’s still turned towards the sink, and it very suddenly makes Jonny want to march over to him, spin him around to see where any of this is coming from.
“What are you talking about, Patrick?”
“Just answer.”
“Is there—some reason you’re strolling in here so ready to fight?” Jonny says, hand tightening around his mug, involuntary. “Would you have burst into the bathroom if I’d dared to get up and take a shit?”
But Patrick’s locked into it, doesn’t budge. “Tell me it’s not what you were doing.”
Jonny doesn’t feel like budging either, plants his feet as though readying himself for some kind of attack. “Why don’t you tell me why you get to act like you’re the only one who’s been waiting. You been living in some kind of fucking dreamland I wasn’t aware of?”
“Just fucking tell me, Jonny.”
“I wasn’t,” Jonny answers, fierce. “I wasn’t going to leave.” He puts his coffee down, too shaky to hold it, thrown off balance. “I would’ve at one point, back when you would’ve done the same fucking thing, but I didn’t—wouldn’t—not now, even though it’s probably a better idea to now.”
“Why would it be a better idea to now?” Patrick finally turns to face him, crosses his arms, his features carrying sleep in a way that makes Jonny want to smooth him out, pass fingers underneath his eyes even though he’d like to fucking deck him.
He doesn’t want to answer the question with Patrick’s gaze on him, a bubble of nervousness in his blood that saying it aloud will make Patrick realize it’s right, that they had their night and they should shut it down before it grows into something that’ll take chunks of them with it. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Our contracts are up in—”
“Jesus fucking christ, Jon.”
“Don’t,” Jonny says, a spike of fury in his chest. “Don’t act like that’s not a factor.”
“Our contracts are four years away.”
“Four years.” Jonny mirrors Patrick and crosses his arms too, wishes he was in more than fucking Calvin Kleins. “Four years is nothing, Patrick. That’s fucking nothing.”
“That’s a fucking eternity in hockey. This is why I knew it shouldn’t have been after a loss. You’re talking about fucking contracts after two games.”
“You know the same shit about this team that I do.”
“Alright, Taze.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs at his temples. “Glad to know two games is what it takes for the captain to give it up.”
It’s a low blow, hurts like one, and Jonny knows he deserves it, but it’s also unfair because,
“It’s a lot easier,” he says, voice thicker than he wants it to be, “to throw everything into this—to just—not even think about it, just work and push and wait to see where shit’s gonna land—if you’re not riding on it for me too.”
Patrick doesn’t answer, drops his arms to his sides.
“If we start something up,” Jonny goes on, shoving past the shame lurking in the back of his head at that admission, “I’m not gonna want to stop, and if we have to stop, if we—”
“How,” Patrick starts, slowly, carefully, “are you so convinced we’d make it more than four years at the same time as thinking two games is enough to say how four years of hockey and contract negotiations are gonna go?”
“I didn’t say I think two games is enough.”
“And yet here I am, freezing my fucking nuts off in the kitchen instead of getting to roll over and lick you awake.”
That sends sharp heat rushing through Jonny’s limbs, up to his face, a shock of it, and fresh anger. “Oh,“ he says, flustered, and even madder because of it. "So you’ve decided it’s just easy now, huh? Since when do you say that kind of shit to me?”
Patrick’s face has definitely gone a little pink too, but he doesn’t look away, leans against the counter. “Like I said, you’re four years down the road here, and I can’t even tell you I want you.”
“God, Patrick—”
“What, Jonny?”
He’s so infuriating, every single part of him, including the part of him that looks cold, and the part of Jonny that wants to bombard him with body heat.
“I didn’t mean it like—” Jonny starts, turning back to coffee that’s lukewarm at best, fingers fidgeting at the handle. “I didn’t mean you can’t tell me you want me.”
Patrick’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.
“Don’t,” Jonny says again, eyebrows pulled together. “I just mean—by all of this—I’m not saying I don’t want it. I’m just saying it’s—important.”
“I know.”
“It’s really fucking important.”
“Jesus Christ, I know.”
“And I’m not giving up on the fucking team.”
“I know, Jonny.” Patrick rubs at his face, flushes himself up, looks out through the window and then gives Jonny a tired smile. “Don’t make me mad at you and I won’t get mean.”
Jonny rolls his eyes at him, but turns towards him just a little more, and they stand there in the quiet, still and strung tight.
The lights below have switched now, turned onto their regular timer.
“I’m not gonna leave,” Jonny says on a careful breath, once the silence feels laid over them in a thick layer. He knows Patrick, knows him arguing means something about how far he’s waded out. “I don’t want to. That’s—why it feels like this.”
Patrick turns towards him too, the side of his hip tilted into the lower cabinets. “I want to be done letting it feel like this,” he says, tongue pushed into his upper lip, a thinking tic. “I’m ready to start letting it feel good. Right now. If you’ll come get back in bed with me.”
Another shot of heat zips through Jonny’s body, settles low.
They’ve kissed five times ever—distinct ones. Three last night.
He’s not sure which of them moves first, maybe both of them, unrushed, and the sixth happens right there, soft to each other’s mouths, fingertips little points of ice to each other’s bare skin.
It stays slow like that, pliable, enough that it’s a surprise when Jonny finds he’s backed them into the wall.
“At any point in the next week,” Patrick whispers, pressed up close, his stubble a nice hurt against Jonny’s chin, “if you’ve gotta shit before I’m awake, just fucking hold it.”
And Jonny laughs, pained. Tries to steel himself against this good kind of stomach ache, the worse one underneath. Wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck.
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