Patrick wakes to the sound of his phone telling Jonny to go, Jonny, go, and he curses. Jonny knows the time difference, he just calls Patrick at an ungodly hour because he can. Reaching out for the phone blindly, Patrick hits the call button and says, “You’re an asshole.”
Jonny makes a sound that Patrick hasn’t heard in a while, a cross between a snort and a laugh. “Come home, Patrick.”
Groaning into his pillow, Patrick rubs at his eyes with his spare hand, but he wakes quickly when Jonny’s words actually register. “Is it over?”
“Yeah,” Jonny says, gently. He sounds distracted, and Patrick can hear him typing on his laptop in the background. “I booked you tickets from Zurich.”
“I’ll text you the details. Come home, Pat.”
Sitting up because he needs to be 100% awake for this, Patrick thinks about the lockout being over, about being able to go home. “Jonny, I have to-”
Yeah. Yeah, okay. Patrick can do that. “Sure, Jonny.”
Jonny texts to tell him that he’ll be waiting at O’Hare when the flight lands and Patrick relaxes into the horrible plastic chairs littered around Zurich airport. He has a layover in Frankfurt because not even Jonny can will the planes into being direct. He doesn’t really care, planning to catch what sleep he can at the airport; he just wants to be home already. He tugs the cap a little further down on his head, aware that the last time he was here, he had his mom to keep him company. He knows what people say about him, what people have been tweeting and texting him, about how sad he seems on ice. They’re wrong. He’s not been sad, because he’s been playing hockey. It’s just been different - he still doesn’t know much German, and his teammates have been great, but they’re not Blackhawks. They’re not Jonny.
you better not have fallen asleep, asshole.
Patrick snorts. Ur so polite. I’m waiting for my flight.
He’s too tired to feel the excitement buried under his skin; in any other circumstance he knows he’d be bursting with it, vibrating in his seat until he boards his plane. He’s going to be playing NHL hockey in a few weeks, skating out onto familiar ice, Jonny at his back. He’s missed Jonny, even though Jonny flew out to see him and he went home at Christmas. It’s different when you play with someone every day for months, sharing a room on the road. It’s different when he’s used to Jonny touching him, tasting him, telling him that he’s good, that he’s Jonny’s. He wants that back and having to endure an hour flight, an hour layover and another nine hour flight is more than he can handle.
Next time get me a direct flight asshole. He knows it’s impossible, but he wants Jonny to know that this is not okay; that he wants to be back in Chicago, stretched out under Jonny’s hands and arching into his touch sooner than he’s going to be. He stops that train of thought before it can go much further. He’s in the middle of the fucking airport and he refuses to pop a boner that he’s not going to be able to deal with for thirteen hours at least.
settle down. sleep and it’ll be over in no time.
Letting out a slow breath, Patrick worries at the wound on his lip.
U’ll be there to pick me up right?
Jonny shoots off a quick reply of, of course, and Patrick can read the incredulity in it, as though him expecting anything else is ridiculous. Patrick puts his phone away and tries to settle down, like Jonny asked.
O’Hare is busy, but it’s not like Patrick ever expects anything different. He moves on autopilot, collecting his bags and going through the security checks until he’s moving out into the arrivals area, scanning the crowd for Jonny. His body feels alive with it, catching sight of Jonny and unable to curb the want that settles in his stomach. Jonny has a cap pulled down on his head, arms folded as if he can ward off unwanted attention with body language alone. Patrick grins, feels it widen as Jonny looks him straight in the eye. He tugs his suitcase along, dropping both that and his duffel when he steps into Jonny’s space. He doesn’t even care about who might be watching, and they don’t have the safety of Switzerland here, but Jonny doesn’t seem to care either. He pulls Patrick in close, wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders and squeezes.
“I missed you, asshole,” Patrick says into his ear.
Snorting, Jonny pulls away and drops his hands. Patrick misses the contact almost immediately but he gets it. There’s only so long they can hug before they get more attention than they want. Jonny bends down to grab Patrick’s suitcase but as he straightens, he drags a hand up Patrick’s side. Patrick shudders, feeling it even through several layers of clothing. It’s been a long time since Jonny’s touched him, and the look on his face is promising more. Patrick kind of wishes he could teleport them back home the way those dudes on Star Trek do, because enduring a half hour ride back to Jonny’s condo is going to be torture.
“Come on,” Jonny says, throwing an arm around his shoulders. Patrick grabs his duffel and lets Jonny guide them out to his car. He relaxes into Jonny’s grip, the feel of Jonny’s hand against his chest. It makes it awkward to walk, but Patrick doesn’t care. Jonny’s parked thankfully close, and Patrick hovers by the passenger side as Jonny shoves his bags into the back. As he climbs into the car, Patrick sinks into the passenger seat and closes his eyes. He feels bone deep tired, knowing that he’s barely had any sleep since playing the game against SCL. Between Jonny’s texts, his flight, and hurriedly saying goodbye to Biel, Patrick’s been riding on precious little and he knows that if Jonny lets him, he’ll be dead to the world in seconds. Jonny won’t let him.
The car starts and they pull out of the parking lot, leaving O’Hare and any thoughts of Switzerland behind. Patrick turns his head to watch the way Jonny’s body curls, tense but alive in his seat. On anyone else it would be called vibrating, but Jonny’s too restrained for that, even as his lip twitches every few seconds like he can’t help himself. Patrick likes to think it’s not all hockey, that some of that is reserved for him.
He turns his head to look out of the window and watch the rush of Chicago fly by. It feels good to be back, knowing he’s going to be playing his own kind of hockey again. It’s not the same playing on European ice as it is to step out onto the UC rink to the sound of thousands of Blackhawks’ fans, to the feel of every pass connecting with Jonny’s stick. It’s been months and Patrick wants it again. Patrick wants.
Jonny reaches over, rests a hand on Patrick’s thigh and squeezes. “Soon,” he promises, eyes dark.
Patrick nods, doesn’t trust himself to speak. He keeps looking at Jonny through half-lidded eyes and tucks his own hands under his thighs. He doesn’t dare move, to press into Jonny’s touch. It’s enough that Jonny’s here to ground him, to keep him alert even when he wants to drift off to sleep.
“Stay awake, Pat.” Jonny’s voice is low and it shudders through Patrick. He swallows, leg twitching under Jonny’s fingers. He can do that. He can stay awake if Jonny wants him to. He pushes his head back against the headrest and looks out the windshield, at the spread of Chicago before him. Jonny’s hand shifts up his thigh and Patrick groans, sinks deeper into the seat. He’s already hard, has been since Jonny touched him in the airport, and he wants Jonny’s touch on his naked skin so badly he wants to cry.
“Jonny,” he groans out. He wants to tell Jonny to move his hand, wants to make a joke about driving with two hands because Jonny’s wrapped himself around enough poles for a lifetime, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He’s aching with the need to shove his dick into Jonny’s hand. “Please.”
“No,” Jonny says. Of course he does. Patrick wants to be frustrated at him, with the way he teases when they both know he’s not going to follow through. Patrick can’t be frustrated, though, because he feels it more like this. Feels the slow build of arousal, the denial, the way Jonny tugs him unprotesting towards orgasm and then staves it off again and again; gets him off like that, when Patrick’s been riding the edge of orgasm for long enough that it’s always a surprise.
Patrick closes his eyes and sinks into the sensation of Jonny’s fingers on his thigh, the way they slide against his sweatpants, the press of them against the thick line of his dick. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, thrusts his hips a little and then stills.
“Good.” Jonny sounds pleased and Patrick’s body sings with it. “We’ll be home soon.”
He says it like a promise.
They pull into the parking lot of Jonny’s condo and Patrick pulls himself out of his own head, staring balefully at Jonny. He’s smiling, his hand still against Patrick’s thigh, and he squeezes gently. Patrick shudders.
“You did good.” Jonny’s voice is thick with praise and he lifts his hand, curls it around Patrick’s neck. “We’ll get the bags later. Come on, up.”
Patrick blinks lazily and shakes himself out of it, reaches down to unbuckle his seatbelt. By the time he gets his shaking fingers to cooperate with him, Jonny’s already rounded the car. He opens the door and Patrick lets Jonny pull him out of the car. Patrick doesn’t sink any deeper into his headspace, so he’s able to focus when Jonny leans in to kiss him, the first time in weeks. Patrick groans into it, twisting his hands in Jonny’s jacket. He pushes up on his toes, deepening the kiss into something dirty and wanton. Jonny lets it happen, lets Patrick tug him where he wants, and Patrick craves it. He shakes with the want of Jonny, feels the tug against his cut lip, but it’s the wrong side of painful and he pulls away.
Jonny’s eyes are wide and dark. He gets a hand around the back of Patrick’s neck and holds it there. Patrick stares back, his fingers loosening and then falling down to his sides. Jonny thumbs the stitches above his lip and frowns. “Does it hurt?”
Patrick doesn’t want to say yes, doesn’t want Jonny to stop kissing him, doesn’t want Jonny to stop.
The fingers on the back of his neck tighten and Patrick stiffens. He tilts his head, lets it press back against Jonny’s fingers. He doesn’t understand why it’s this touch that grounds him, the rub of Jonny’s thumb against his throat, the gentle squeeze of Jonny’s fingers against the skin of his neck. Whatever the reason, it does and it allows him to stare back at Jonny unblinking. He nods, slowly, and says, “Yeah.”
Jonny just nods in return, leaning down to kiss Patrick again. It’s more gentle this time, but still riding the edge of desperate as he licks into Patrick’s mouth. When he pulls away, he drops his hand from Patrick’s neck. “Inside.”
Patrick’s still a little dazed, still hard. He bumps into Jonny as he walks, body tingling with want. He sticks to Jonny’s side enough that Jonny sighs, throwing an arm around his shoulders. They walk into the building that way, Jonny’s fingers eventually gripping and curling around the fabric of Patrick’s jacket. The ride up in the elevator is excruciatingly slow and Patrick twists his body, stands so that he can press down against Jonny’s thigh, a good kind pressure against his dick. He buries his face in Jonny’s neck and is only slightly surprised when Jonny pushes up, lets Patrick grind down against his leg.
“Don’t come,” Jonny says low and dirty into his ear. He licks at the skin just below Patrick’s earlobe, where he knows Patrick is hyper-sensitive, and bites at the wetness he leaves behind. Patrick whines, hips jerking against Jonny’s thigh. He wants desperately to come but he listens to Jonny; stills his body because he’s close, dick hard and leaking. His legs are shaky as Jonny presses a hand to the small of his back, guides him towards the front door of his condo.
Patrick’s sweatpants don’t do a whole lot to hide what he’s packing so he’s glad there’s nobody in the corridor. He doubts Jonny would let them be seen if they were in danger of that; he’s intensely private, even when he’s no doubt getting off on the way Patrick’s dazed and shaking against his hand. It seems to take an age for the door to open and for Patrick and Jonny to stumble inside. When the door closes behind them, Patrick expects Jonny to kiss him, to touch him, to do something, so when he merely stands there staring, Patrick frowns.
“Jonny-” He takes a step forward but Jonny shakes his head. Patrick stops, feels self-conscious as Jonny watches him, dropping his eyes to the obvious bulge in Patrick’s pants. Patrick snaps, “What?” and then regrets it as Jonny’s eyebrows shoot up. There’s a long silence but Patrick doesn’t back down. Eventually, Jonny shrugs out of his own jacket and hangs it up. The whole time, Patrick’s skin prickles and he wants to demand Jonny do something, touch him. He doesn’t; whatever Jonny’s aiming for will be worth the wait.
“Take it off,” Jonny says, when he finally turns back around.
Patrick blinks, thinks through the fog in his brain and pulls off his own jacket, hanging it up because Jonny’s right there. He’s only got a threadbare t-shirt and sweatpants on because he hates wearing a hoodie on planes and he can see the lecture that Jonny is keeping from giving him. Probably because Patrick drops a hand to his dick and pushes up against it. Jonny’s fingers wrap around his wrist almost immediately, pulling him away.
“Don’t touch yourself. Take it off.”
Shoving a hand up under his t-shirt, Patrick groans as his fingers brush a nipple. It sends a thrill down his spine and he rocks back on his feet. He does as Jonny asks and pulls his shirt over his head. He shivers, not from cold but from the way Jonny’s looking at him, desperately, longingly, as if it’s been longer than it has since he last touched Patrick. Almost like he’s never seen him before. Jonny’s still looking at him, so Patrick hooks his fingers in the waistband of his sweatpants. He tries to make it good, wants to make it good because he’s never not been one for teasing Jonny. “You want?”
“Take them off, Patrick, or I’ll fucking-”
“Yeah,” Patrick says. He knows what Jonny will do - what Jonny won’t let him do - and shoves his sweatpants down. He steps out of them, kicks them off to the side and Jonny doesn’t even twitch, just reaches out for Patrick. He shoves him up against the wall but keeps a distance between them, keeps Patrick aching for the touch of Jonny’s body against his half-naked skin. He feels feverish with the need to get it, to press against Jonny. “Jonny, I-”
Jonny leans in to kiss him, drops a hand to Patrick’s dick and cups him through his boxers. Patrick groans, reaches up to grip Jonny’s shoulders. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Patrick wants to hear more; wants Jonny to keep praising him because it means he cares, he notices. Patrick wants more of Jonny and whimpers.
“Ssh,” Jonny says, kissing the corner of Patrick’s mouth, the curve of his jaw. He tilts Patrick’s neck so that he can get at the tendons, bite gently and draw blood to the surface. Patrick keens, hips jerking erratically against Jonny’s fingers. The brush of Jonny’s clothes against his skin is almost too much but Jonny told him not to come and it still stands; Patrick can’t, won’t, until Jonny says he can. He wants it, wants the delay and the build up. It’s been weeks since he’s had Jonny’s touch and his skin is burning wherever Jonny presses his mouth, teeth, fingers.
Patrick blinks. “What?”
Jonny smiles but his eyes are still dark with want. “What do you want, Patrick?”
It’s been a long time since Jonny’s told him it’s okay to ask. He’s always been able to ask, Jonny has said so before, but Patrick’s never really had to because Jonny’s always just known. “You always-”
Leaning in to brush his lips against Patrick’s ear, Jonny says, “I know what you want.”
Patrick closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the wall. “Then just-”
Jonny drops to his knees and Patrick has to grab his own dick to keep from coming. Shit. Jonny just tugs down Patrick’s boxers, doesn’t even let him step out of them before he has his mouth around the head of Patrick’s dick. Patrick bites back on a shout and lifts a hand. Jonny looks up at him through his lashes and fuck, shit, Patrick drops his hand, knows what that looks means. He digs his fingers against the wall, hopes he won’t leave marks. Jonny takes more of Patrick into his mouth, tongues at the vein running along the underside of Patrick’s cock and holds it there. Patrick’s legs shake with the effort of keeping him up; he’s been hard for too long, can feel his orgasm building at the base of his spine and says, “Jonny, Jonny, I can’t-”
Pulling off, Jonny fists Patrick’s dick, squeezes enough that Patrick can breathe. Jonny stands, tucks Patrick against his body, his fingers still wrapped around Patrick’s dick. “Did you practice?”
Patrick keeps his breaths slow and steady as he tries to get a hold of himself. He still wants Jonny, still feels the arousal coiled in his belly and he shivers. “Practice?”
“You said you could take it and not come till I said so.”
It feels as though his mind is fogged and slow but Patrick knows what he means, remembers his promise to Jonny to be better. Usually Jonny’s the one that pulls back before Patrick comes, is the one to dictate how fast and how soon Patrick orgasms. He had a lot of time on his hands in Switzerland and he said he could be better, practiced being good. “Yeah.”
Jonny leads him into the bedroom, guides him up until he’s spread out, flushed and shivering against the duvet. Patrick takes the time to breathe, to close his eyes and come down a bit. He’s not going to fail.
“Don’t come,” Jonny says, and before Patrick can make a snide comment, he’s pressing a cold, slick finger just behind Patrick’s balls. Patrick lets out a strangled gasp - he hadn’t even heard Jonny uncap the lube - and jesus fuck. Jonny starts fisting Patrick’s dick, running his thumb over the head and Patrick whines, twists his fingers in the sheets. Jonny rubs against his perineum, over and over until Patrick’s legs are shaking and he’s desperate to come, to spill over Jonny’s hand. He grits his teeth, digs his heels into the mattress and says, “Come on, Jonny.”
The look on Jonny’s face is so fucking hot. He holds Patrick’s gaze as he drops his head, bites the skin of Patrick’s inner thigh and runs his tongue over the bruised skin. Patrick reaches for his dick, wants to stroke himself because he can stop himself coming if it’s his hand doing the work, but Jonny bats his hand away.
“Fuck you,” Patrick snarls, his eyes clenched shut as he tries not to think about how badly he needs to come. His dick is thick and full against his stomach and he wants it, wants to touch himself, wants to come but he can’t, he can’t, he wants-
“I can,” Patrick says, feels the pressure of Jonny’s finger behind his balls. “Please, Jonny, I can do this, I can take it, I can-”
He trails off as Jonny presses his finger into Patrick, slow and steady and it’s fucking torture. They haven’t done this in a long time but that’s nothing compared to the way it makes Patrick feel, the way it continues to feel as Jonny slides in deeper. Patrick babbles nonsensical into the air between them, dick leaking so much precum against his stomach that Patrick’s sure he’s just going to come. Heat pools in his stomach and he grits his teeth. He did this just fine on his own and it’s no different just because that’s Jonny’s hand, because Jonny’s panting and whispering hot and dirty from his position between Patrick’s legs. His hips rock down onto Jonny’s finger because Jonny didn’t say he couldn’t. “More,” he gets out. His voice sounds raw, used, and he hasn’t even sucked Jonny’s dick.
Jonny slides his finger out, slicks two up with more lube. “You’re so fucking-”
Good, Patrick’s mind supplies. He wants that, wants Jonny to say it. He digs his heels into the mattress and moans, “Yeah, fuck, Jonny come on, come on,” as Jonny slides two fingers in this time, right to the third knuckle. Jonny’s hand still, doesn’t move no matter how many times Patrick moans, whimpers, asks. He keeps talking, keeps begging, but Jonny doesn’t move. He wraps his other hand back around Patrick’s leaking dick and it’s too much stimulation, too much and Patrick can’t do this, he wants to fuck up into Jonny’s hand and come, every nerve in his body is on fire.
“You’re doing so well,” Jonny says. Patrick sobs as Jonny runs his tongue over the bruise he’s already made on Patrick’s inner thigh. It’s getting difficult to think, to understand what he’s supposed to do, what he’s supposed to want. His orgasm is right there and he could just take it if - “You can keep going, Pat.”
Patrick shudders and pushes his face into his own arm, thrown up against the headboard. He’s sensitive everywhere his skin touches Jonny. “Please.” He sounds broken, confused. “Please, Jonny.”
Jonny’s still talking, Patrick watches his mouth move and the words matter, so he tries to focus on them. “You look so hot, so desperate to come.”
Yeah, that’s what he wants. He blinks slowly. “I can come?”
Jonny smiles, not unkindly, and crooks his fingers.
Patrick’s back shoots up off the bed, feverish, flushing hot and cold. “Fuck, Jonny, Jonny, please.”
His dick twitches and he almost comes. When he looks down at Jonny, he has to blink back tears and fuck, fuck, he’s so desperate for this. Jonny presses his fingers deeper, slides them against the bundle of nerves that Patrick doesn’t want him to touch.
“Don’t,” he gasps out. “I can’t, if you, Jonny, I can’t.”
“I know,” Jonny says. He keeps doing it, keeps ghosting his fingers over Patrick’s prostate and Patrick shakes his head, knows he can’t last any longer. It hurts, his entire body feels weak, skin prickling and body tired from the effort. He falls into his headspace, let’s everything fall away except the sound of Jonny’s voice. “You’re so good for me.”
Patrick feels good when Jonny says that, feels like he’s done what Jonny asked. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper. “Can I come?”
“Yeah,” Jonny says, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s hipbone. “You can come.”
“Jonny, Jonny, I-” Patrick bites down on the skin of his bicep as his orgasm rolls over him, his whole body shaking with the force of it. He’s barely aware of the come spilling over Jonny’s hand and onto his stomach, of Jonny sliding his fingers out and the smooth, gentle strokes of Jonny’s hand as he works him through his orgasm. He’s still got his eyes clenched shut when Jonny cleans him up.
He starts when Jonny touches his jaw, strokes gently at the column of his throat. “Come on, Patrick.”
Patrick stops biting his skin, barely registers the blood as Jonny gathers him up in his arms, sits back against the headboard. He’s still shaking, still feels raw and open, like he’s still waiting.
Jonny kisses his temple. He’s stroking the back of Patrick’s head gently and Patrick closes his eyes. He’s so tired, wants to sleep for hours. Before he can drop off, Jonny tips his head back, thumb pressed against the curve of his jaw. His voice is low, so quiet Patrick isn’t sure he hears it right. “I’m proud of you.”
Patrick smiles, a slow, lazy grin. “Good?”
“Yeah,” Jonny says, kissing the curve of his cheekbone. “You were good.”