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Once, twice, three times (and a half)

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It starts because of a dare. A stupid bet when he and Tazer are still rookies.

They fight over something, as usual, and then make up because Patrick's a fucking adult and he can be all mature and shit when he wants to and then of course Tazer starts being an asshole again and they start arguing and somehow in the process it all turns into a series of dares with booze and… at the end of the night Patrick finds himself standing in front of the giant window in their hotel room on the 10th floor, mooning the great city of Ottawa and jerking himself off in front of his future captain.

It doesn't exactly go as planned, though, because instead of laughing his ass off or making disgusted noises or begging Patrick to pull his pants up Jonny suddenly looks… riveted. Patrick laughs as he jerks himself, he's pretty drunk and his dick isn't cooperating and it all seems hilarious somehow. But then his eyes meet Jonny's and the laughter dies in his throat.

Jonny's mouth is slightly open, his dark eyes wide, his tongue occasionally darting out to lick his lips. He looks awed and fascinated, focused like Patrick's only ever seen him in the locker room, right before a game.

Patrick keeps jerking himself, getting harder with every second despite the ungodly amounts of booze coursing through his system, and Jonny walks backwards, step by tiny step, not breaking eye contact, until his calves hit the bed and he sinks down, perched on the edge of the mattress, palms on his thighs, perfectly still.

Patrick moans and bites his lip and thumbs his slit and strokes the shaft over and over again until he comes, spilling over his hand, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

When he opens them Jonny's still sitting on the bed, leaning back with his hands supporting him on the mattress. He's breathless but he's not looking at Patrick. His eyes are fixed on some spot on the carpet, body frozen, practically radiating tension. Patrick thinks, maybe this is what Jonathan Toews looks like when he's scared. He's never seen that look on him before and it makes something seize up in Patrick's chest and suddenly he's making his way to the bed in two big strides, kneeling down between Tazer's legs with his pants still halfway around his thighs and his hand stained with come and pulls at Tazer, tugs his head down until their foreheads are touching, until he can feel Tazer's breath against his lips. Patrick's feels like his heart is trying to summersault out of his mouth right until Tazer's mouth finds his, hesitant and slow. Patrick keeps his eyes open all through the kiss because he can't fucking believe this is really happening to him.


It fucking sucks that the Olympics and the playoffs have to be fucking back to back, mostly because Patrick just won a silver fucking medal and while a gold one would have been even nicer he still feels he's owed like, at least a month of binge drinking and being worshipped by random people on the street and his mom making tearful speeches at the dinner table and all the rest of that shit before he goes back to busting his ass for the next moment of glory.

It comes as no surprise to find Duncs and Seabs share his outlook on things – because Duncs and Seabs are fucking awesome – and decide to throw a party at Duncs' house right before the team is about to play their first NHL game after the Olympics. It's not exactly the wildest shindig Patrick's ever been to – they start early and there's not that much booze because they do in fact have a bunch of games to win – but it's hanging out with the guys and eating stakes and listening to the shitty music Duncs' has on his iPod and Patrick will fucking take it.

Eventually the guys leave one by one and Patrick's left alone with Sharpy and Team Canada. In a moment Patrick will forever cherish in his mind Duncs and Seabs start singing the Canadian anthem, hitting all the wrong notes as they go, and rope Jonny into joining them. Jonny's face is fucking priceless, like he's torn between trying to take the anthem seriously and failing and it's making his head hurt. Patrick ends up doubled over on the couch, head on Sharpy's stomach, laughing his ass off and feeling Sharpy's muscles twitch as he does the same. Fuck, they must have all gotten way more drunk than they'd realized.

By the time Patrick's done wiping the tears from his eyes, the awful singing's stopped. Instead, he looks up to see Duncs and Seabs making out with each other in the middle of the living room, slow and sloppy, running their hands over each other's hair. Patrick's never seen them do that before and fuck, it's ridiculously hot.

He turns away for a moment to look for Jonny who turns out to be slumped in a chair across from the couch, eyes fixed on Duncs and Seabs. To anyone else he'd probably look tired and a little drunk and only mildly interested, but Patrick's been looking at Jonny for too many years now to be fooled by that shit. Jonny's fingers are digging into the armrests, his chest barely rising and falling which means he's holding his breath, probably without even being aware of it, and he's got that semi-turned on, semi-tortured look on his face like he's not sure he should be enjoying this as much as he is but he can't help it.

As if sensing Patrick's eyes on him Jonny, tears himself away from Duncs and Seabs and meets Patrick's gaze. Patrick smiles at him. His knowing, full-of-himself smile that makes everyone else think he's an asshole, but which Jonny knows to interpret the right way. Patrick's going to have some fun tonight.

Duncs starts making little sounds through his nose like he's begging or dying or something, and Seabs takes that as a cue to drag his ass to the bedroom. Patrick doesn't even wait to hear the door slam shut before looking over at Sharpy and saying, "That was hot."

"Fuck yeah," Sharpy says, looking from Patrick to Jonny and back again. Fuck, Patrick loves having teammates who catch on quick.

"Jonny likes to watch," Patrick says, when Sharpy's eyes finally settle on him again.

"Ah," Sharpy says, and his lips curve into a predatory little smile.

Patrick smiles back and pulls his shirt over his head before leaning in for a kiss. Sharpy meets him halfway, mouth opening for Patrick's, hands sliding down to unzip Patrick's jeans. Patrick breaks the kiss and grabs Sharpy's wrist – he has a better idea.

He climbs over Sharpy, straddling him face to face on the couch. Sharpy's taller but this way he and Patrick are forehead to forehead. They sink back into kissing, Sharpy's hands roaming over the skin of Patrick's back, sinking lower and lower, and Patrick slides a hand between their bodies, shoves his palm as far as it'll go down Sharpy's pants. The angle's awkward but it gets the desired result – Sharpy moans, his hips buck under Patrick and his fingers sink deeper into Patrick's skin.

Patrick's got his back to Jonny but he'd bet anything Duncs' chair is a breath away from being snapped in half at this point.

Making out with Sharpy while grinding his crotch against Sharpy's thighs is awesome but the position is restrictive and Patrick gets over the novelty pretty quickly. He can't reach Sharpy's dick and Sharpy can't reach his and that's no fun for anyone.

"You want a blowjob?" Patrick says, tearing himself away from Sharpy's mouth.

"Fuck, yeah," Sharpy says, and Patrick slides off him and down, spreading Sharpy's legs wide and positioning himself on the floor between them. They could do this some other way but Patrick wants Jonny to have this particular view.

Patrick unbuttons Sharpy's pants and pulls down his boxers. He keeps one hand on Sharpy's hips and wraps the other around the base of Sharpy's dick and takes as much of the rest of it as he can into his mouth. He's not super skilled at blowjobs or anything but he knows how this goes, and as soon as he starts sucking in earnest, licking the underside on every upstroke and letting the head brush over the roof of his mouth, Sharpy starts to gasp and make little moaning sounds.

His hands eventually travel to Patrick's hair. Sharpy doesn't grab or try to direct Patrick, he just caresses, gently, like he has to do something with his hands but he wants to give Patrick every opportunity to object without actually pausing the blowjob.

Which is why when, a minute later, Sharpy says "I think Jonny wants you to slow down a little," Patrick believes him. Also because Patrick can totally picture Tazer communicating get Patrick to suck your dick slower for my convenience with nothing but his creepy shark stare.

Patrick pulls off, readjusts his position to make the angle easier on his knees. He rests his head on Sharpy's thigh while his hand lazily strokes Sharpy's cock. He hopes Jonny can see how red and wet and slick it is with Patrick's spit.

"Fuck what Jonny wants," Patrick says, looking up at Sharpy, before putting Sharpy's cock back in his mouth and doubling his efforts on the blowjob.

He's so focused on Sharpy's reactions – the way his stomach rises and falls, the way he lets out tiny little gasps and half whispers "fuck" when Patrick tongues his slit – that he doesn't notice when something in the room changes. It comes as a surprise when the hands in his hair are no longer gentle or caressing but are grabbing his hair forcefully and pulling him off Sharpy's dick.

Jonny's fucking hands.

Jonny doesn't tug back far, just enough that Patrick's mouth can't reach Sharpy, though strings of spit still connect Patrick's lips and Sharpy's cock.

"Slower," Jonny says mouth pressed against Patrick's ear, voice raw and wrecked and fierce. Patrick's favorite fucking register.

"Fine, asshole," Patrick says, sounding hoarse even to his own ears.

Jonny loosens his grip enough to let Patrick get back to work on Sharpy's dick, but his hands never leave Patrick's hair. He watches Patrick's nose rub against Sharpy's carefully trimmed pubic hair on the downstroke, watches Patrick's mouth swallow Sharpy's cock over and over, gives Patrick directions from time to time by pulling on his hair or growling out a word.

It's been such a long fucking time since Patrick's had this. Jonny keeps him trapped between himself and Sharpy, keeps Patrick steady and anchored, dictates rhythm and timing and pace, and Patrick lets himself get lost in the sensation, in the feeling of being here, on his knees for Jonny, sucking cock and feeling utterly fucking cherished.


Everything changes after Jonny gets a concussion. Well, the obvious things change – Jonny doesn't come to practice anymore or join them on road trips or go out with them when they have a drink because crowded bars and flashing lights are strictly against doctors' orders.

But everything else changes too. It becomes like a thousand times worse than Patrick ever thought it could be. Because suddenly Jonny isn't there, when he's been there for everything since Patrick started playing for this team.

It's like they built this thing together, their lives during the season, their place on the team, this balance Patrick's used to where he gets to bitch at Jonny and yell at him and share all his bitterness and frustration when shit isn't going right and then also to have Jonny there when they win, when the world is amazing. Patrick gets to hug Jonny and laugh with him and kiss him and fuck him when they're alone in yet another anonymous hotel room. Patrick doesn't know how to take all of that, all the things he's been for the last five years, fold it up like a napkin and put it aside. Jonny's absence is like having a missing tooth – he knows it's gone but his tongue keeps reaching for it, keeps expecting it to be there. And even though they text and call each other all the time, every fucking moment on the road feels like another heartbreak.

But the biggest change is Jonny himself. Everybody knows Tazer isn't doing well – of course he's not fucking doing well – and the guys and coaches and everyone who works for the team are great, they send cards, come over for dinner or video games when they can. Everybody tries to keep Jonny cheerful and occupied and refrains from pushing him too hard at the same time.

Patrick's the one only one who knows that pushing is the one fucking thing Jonathan Toews could really use right now.

Which is why when a bunch of the guys from the team get together to visit Jonny during one of their rare days off and Patrick ends up staying long after everyone's gone he and Jonny don't play video games into the night or eat those amazing sandwiches Jonny makes sometimes from his mom's recipe or fall asleep watching TV. It's why they don't spend the evening with Patrick jerking off all over the sheets on Jonny's mattress while Jonny watches from the chair he's set up in his bedroom specifically for those evenings. Instead they end up on the couch in the living room where their teammates were sitting not half an hour ago. Patrick lies on top of Jonny, fully clothed while Jonny's tshirt and sweatpants are discarded on the floor, and rubs Jonny's cock through his boring, black boxer briefs.

Patrick goes slow, careful of the fabric. The cotton is soft but it soaks up moisture, leaving Jonny's dick more sensitive and vulnerable. Jonny moans, quietly, taking deep breaths like he's trying to steady himself. Patrick keeps going.

Jonny's breaths turn increasingly frantic. Patrick's hand doesn't let up, until Jonny's skin is flushed all over, his hair in disarray on the couch.

Patrick lets his hand dip lower, slide past Jonny's cock on the downstroke and rest over his balls instead. Patrick doesn't squeeze but his fingers are insistent. He wants Jonny to feel this, to keep the edge of discomfort he's been riding. "More?"

Jonny nods, eyes gleaming.

"Yeah?" Patrick says, not moving his hands.

Jonny nods again. "Please."

Patrick moves his hand, goes back to stroking Jonny's cock which feels hot like a furnace under his fingers. He lets the fabric drag this time, making the strokes slower, making Jonny feel the roughness. "Doesn't this hurt?"

Jonny pants and swallows and bites his lip so hard Patrick's sure it must be bleeding. "Yeah," he says, finally, looking up at the ceiling.

"You like it when it hurts," Patrick says, not intending it as a question but knowing Jonny’ll feel compelled to answer anyway.

"Sometimes," Jonny says. The word is half whisper half gasp, spoken to the chandelier in Jonny's living room rather than at Patrick.

Patrick's hand stills on Jonny's cock. His other hand grabs Jonny's face, forces him to look at Patrick.

"I can keep going till there's blood," Patrick says, eyes locked with Jonny's. "I can keep going after that. What's it gonna be?"

Patrick can see the words sink in, make their way through the gears of Jonny's consciousness, register in the different parts of Jonny's brain. It washes over Jonny like a wave, every muscle in his body tensing up, expression going stoic and fuck, fuck this is what Patrick's been waiting for. Fucking Jonny must be high if he thinks Patrick's going to let him keep this secreted away like he wants.

He keeps Jonny's face where it is, keeps him from turning his head away and burying it between the couch's decorative pillows. Keeps his eyes locked with Jonny's, daring him to look away.

But Jonny doesn't. Not when his face goes all soft and crumply, not when the tears well up in his eyes.

Jonny whispers, "Kaner," and Patrick wants to say Stop, wants to say I know and You don't have to say it but he doesn't, because sometimes Jonathan fucking Toews needs to get his words out and Patrick's not going to let himself get in the way.

"I'm sorry," Jonny says, tears running down his face, soaking the bright fabric of the couch drop by drop. "I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to."

Patrick's not sure what he's apologizing for. It might be the concussion in general, or the fact that it's keeping Jonny from playing, or the fact that it took Jonny five fucking games to finally come clean and let them take him off the roster.

It doesn't matter.

Patrick stays quiet, listens until he's sure Jonny's done, until Jonny closes his eyes and lets out a sob.

Then Patrick leans in, kisses Jonny's salty, wet cheeks, his swollen lips, his eyelids. "It's OK," Patrick says, quiet but firm. "You're going to be OK. Everything's going to be fine."

Jonny reaches for him, wrapping his arms around Patrick's shoulders just as Patrick buries his face in Jonny's neck.


Losing the playoffs feels fucking awful. The team spends a few final days in Chicago before dispersing, giving interviews and saying their goodbyes for the summer. Jonny's going home to stare at himself in Lake Toews for a few months, Patrick's going home to Buffalo.

They talk during the summer, text each other, chat online whenever they're both bored at 3am and have nothing better to do (which seems to happen more and more often during the summer the older they get).

They don't Skype though. There's only one reason to Skype with someone you're not related to, as far as Patrick's concerned, and he and Jonny... they've never done that shit long distance, by some mutual unspoken agreement.

Training camp is a blessing and a curse, as always. Fucking awesome to get back to work, to see the team again, to start gearing up for the season, but the first few days of training are always such a fucking chore. Patrick's been better about staying in shape and taking care of himself this year than ever before and it still takes him fucking eons to feel like himself again, like the motherfucking superstar he is on the ice.

Coach throws a barbecue over the weekend and invites everyone, giving the team a chance to get to know the new rookies and Sharpy to play his first prank of the season. One of the new guys comes out of the basement covered in flour and eggs and the entire team loses it for like five minutes. It's a stupid prank, but Sharpy needs time to get his groove back just like the rest of them.

Patrick gets a ride home from Tazer afterwards. They drive to Patrick's and Jonny parks the car, stops the engine, pulls the keys out. They head upstairs.

"You here to see the show?" Patrick says, huge fucking grin on his face, as he unzips his jeans and lets them drop to the floor.

"Always," Jonny says, his own stupid grin firmly in place, lying back on the bed.