This never comes up in the locker room. Probably because Johnny isn’t packing serious heat in his shorts and he doesn’t play take-a-ride-on-my-disco-stick-and-I’ll-tell-the-whole-Blackhawks-organization-about-it like some people Patrick knows. Who are, let’s be clear, not himself.
He never tells anybody about any of his shit. The world of the smartphone has just cursed him to look like he’s a veritable Caligula, starting orgies up wherever he goes. By comparison to this vaunted image of Patrick ‘Rome-is-burning-let-me-get-my-dick-sucked’ Kane, Johnny looks like a Benedictine monk. Which is bullshit, because Patrick is not at the stage of his life where he feels like he needs to get regular STD panels every three months, unlike some supposed monks of the order of Benedict who do it like clockwork. For somebody getting laid as much as Johnny, he must be a fucking ace in the sack. Johnny is actively a shithead to women, their grandmas, their best friend, and their funny uncle and he still gets repeat rides. So unless bitches be crazy, he has some amazing powers of the orgasm variety that has them coming back for more. How somebody that personality-challenged even gets a first date Patrick doesn’t know.
One time he met up with Johnny and a girl he was seeing after they’d been to the movies and she’d playfully hit Johnny on the shoulder and said, “I still can’t believe you got us popcorn without butter.”
And he’d looked at her and said, point-blank, “I’m saving you from cancer.”
There was this heavily accented pause, between the girl and Patrick mind you, because Johnny had just walked casually as you please to the curb and hailed a cab like he hadn’t just busted his girlfriend’s eating habits like a fucking parent. He’d thought, that’s it, this is over. No more crazy late night sexts from this lady, because yeah, he’d seen some of those over Johnny’s shoulder, and he was almost mournful on Johnny’s behalf.
He’d found a convenient reason to leave—possible awesome spontaneous sext of his own? Although, if such a thing were ever to happen, Patrick would suspect Burish of fucking with his contacts again (magically from two timezones over)—and raised a hand in supplication to the heavens that the poor girl wouldn’t kill Johnny right before their next away game.
Two weeks later, he’d swung by Johnny’s apartment in the evening and who’d come tottering out the door on unsteady legs? The same girl, most assuredly wearing the rumpled post-getting down edition of last night’s outfit, looking like she couldn’t remember which way was up anymore. In fact, she’d been so dazed and dreamy she didn’t even seem to care that she’d been caught in an epic walk of shame.
Johnny was just out of the shower, still toweling off his hair and wearing only sweatpants when Patrick let himself inside. “Oh hey man,” he’d said. “You’re early.”
Patrick had pulled up the time on his iPhone and then shot Johnny a look. He’d been half an hour late. “Did you just spend the entire fucking day fucking?”
Johnny’d sidestepped the question and told Patrick he was allowed to order Falco’s rather than Giordano’s, which nobody else would ever let him do, because ‘Chicago style was the awesomest,’ yadda yadda yadda, lies, lies, lies.
One time when Patrick was convinced he’d been hit with Norovirus and would die never having left the bathroom for a final farewell, Johnny had actually abandoned a woman in the middle of a dinner at Alinea to show up with groceries after Patrick had texted him an impassioned goodbye.
“You’re going to die old and alone,” Patrick had told him when Johnny showed up. Patrick was a sorry case, cheek resting on the lip of his toilet seat from where he was too tired and wrung out to even arrange himself out of the sprawl he’d collapsed in after the 547th heave, but at least he knew how to make a graceful exit that didn’t involve throwing down a wad of hundreds and asking if he should call a cab if she planned to finish that bottle of wine by herself.
Johnny had snorted and said, “You let me worry about that.”
His hand on Patrick’s forehead had been cool and dry and he’d somehow got Patrick into a more comfortable position, forced orange juice mixed with seltzer down his throat, and then sat on the cold tile with Patrick, playing Madlibs until his fever’d broke and he’d finally been able to keep a packet of Saltines down.
“Team comes first,” he’d explained when Patrick had apologized for being a cockblock, like that had explained anything at all. It’s really important for Patrick not to be a cockblock—that article on Deadspin about the dude he’d cockblocked still makes him feel bad three years later—but it hadn’t mattered, because abandoned-at-Alinea girl had stuck around for three more months before Johnny, of all people, had given the woman the axe.
“I don’t get it,” Patrick said without preamble after a game of Battleshots at Shaw’s place that got entirely out of control. “Have you discovered a new trick of stimulating the G-spot?”
“What?” Johnny’d replied, flabbergasted from where he’d moved on to Shawzy’s foosball table. He’d somehow escaped Battleshots largely unscathed, employing some Grand Master Chess strategy that was beyond all the rest of them after the first couple of ‘Hits.’
“Like, is there something magic going down there with you and pussy?” In the past month Johnny had horribly insulted a girl’s mother, refused to take someone out on their birthday, and canceled plans on a girl because Patrick could only get a reservation for four at Tru and she would’ve been the fifth.
“Kaner,” Johnny’d replied patiently, “when I first met you, you thought you could reach the G-spot if you pushed down on a woman’s stomach while you were inside her.”
“It could’ve worked!” he cried, “you know if...”
Johnny groaned and took a bracing sip out of his solo cup. “If you asked her to remove her pubic bone along with her panties!”
“Alright,” Patrick had replied equably, acceding the point. “I am not a sex genius.”
“You know, Kaner, you get better at sex the more you have sex with the same person,” Sharpy interjected, also still sober. “You talk more, you learn to listen better, you’ll get there.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Patrick answered, “I do not need some pep talk, I am merely attempting to eluci-celuci-dilate--oh you know what I mean--why women allow Tazer anywhere near them.”
Johnny straightened up to his full height. “What are you talking about? I get along with women.”
“Are you delusional? Last week, that girl with the hair and that horrible baby voice asked you if her dress made her butt look big and you came back with, ‘do you want it to look big? if so, yes.’ Men have been trained from time in memoriam how to answer this question and you say, ‘do you want it to look big?’ I love you man, but you are a disaster.”
Johnny’d gotten that awkward pinched look he got far too often, because he is...not a robot, those at least could be programed with appropriate responses, but a rock or a sledgehammer—a particularly awkward sledgehammer.
“Tazer, you don’t really get along with anybody,” Sharpy said.
“I—” Johnny tried, and even though he was drunk, or perhaps because of it, he seemed to see the wisdom in not starting a fight and merely proving Sharpy’s point. Patrick wanted to give him a gold star for successfully navigating a social situation correctly.
He settled with shouting “A+!” into Johnny’s bemused face.
He supposes it’s sort of inevitable that he gets confronted with Johnny’s storied sex-robot skills.
There’s a bunch of them, out at a bar, celebrating their win double, because after they beat the Sharks they couldn’t go out in San Jose unless they actually wanted to be murdered in San Pedro square. Not even for Bur, who wouldn’t be enough to hold back the ravening hordes of angry fans. It puts a lie to that whole chill Northern Californian stereotype, which must end when it comes to sports, with you know Raiders fans being what they are and all.
So they’re celebrating two wins in a row, which means twice as many shots and four times as many beers. He doesn’t know who picked this shitty bar, because all they’ve got on draft is Blue Moon and Bud. He loses track of Johnny pretty early on, he figures he found some lady he could horribly insult and then soothe with mind-blowing orgasms back at her place. More power to him.
He eventually has to give in to nature’s call and go to the men’s room to take a leak. He’s a few drinks in and the music’s pulsing pretty loud in the other room, but all it takes is a few moments to make it pretty clear there’s a couple getting busy in one of the stalls. Unless some dainty-footed man in skyrocketingly high heels is showing another dude how to point-and-shoot. He mentally raises a glass to the guy in the other stall. The bathroom is clean and all, but he’s never met a lady yet who wanted to be debauched with her knees jammed up against the toilet.
He freezes when he recognizes Johnny’s voice issuing forth a truly impressive plan of what exactly he’s going to do to High Heel’s clitoris. That’s not in and of itself surprising, Johnny spends a lot of time impressively planning things, but sex in bar bathrooms is more of Patrick’s deal. If Patrick really didn’t have to piss, he’d be out of there—solidarity and all that—coming can be kind of tricky when somebody’s eliminating on the other side of a thin barrier, but he’s just slung back 6 bottles of Corona and the pressure on his bladder is getting a little distressing.
So he just says fuck it and goes with it. Hopefully Johnny will be too preoccupied to recognize his shoes. And if not, he can only blame himself for choosing a multi-stalled bathroom for getting down. What Patrick doesn’t count on is how mortifying it is to hear High Heel’s high-pitched gasping while he’s trying to piss.
All of a sudden she says, in this totally ragged voice Patrick has never heard outside of a porno, “Oh god, I need you, I need you to—” and then there’s a slam that makes the entire stall judder around him.
Jesus Christ, he mouths to himself, finishing quickly and zipping up. The stall rocks again as he’s flushing, letting out a metallic wail that makes him worry about the integrity of the place. Only his own deep-seated neuroses about clean hands stop him from simply running out of there without washing them. When he looks at the stall’s reflection in the mirror, High Heel’s feet are not even on the floor anymore. By the time Patrick’s rinsed his hands, she’s started honest to god yowling.
In conclusion, sexrobot hypothesis validated. He’s not entirely sure why that makes him feel so nervous and uncomfortable.
His sisters find it deeply amusing that his best friend is kind of a dick. Whatever, they can be amused all they like. He in turn is amused at their emo hipster boyfriends who write Smiths’ lyrics on their shoes and wear girl pants. He’s also glad that they don’t harbor any crushes on Johnny, like they did for other players during his time with the Knights. He’s not sure what he would do with himself if that was the case, probably have lots of horrifying nightmares about it and all the orgiastic athletic sex he’s sure they would have, because he is incapable of thinking about Johnny and anything else. Even in conjunction with his family. So, so upsetting and wrong.
“What’s wrong with your face?” Johnny says to him first thing when he gets to the locker room for practice the next day.
“What?” he rubs at one cheek and is immediately alarmed when he finds it’s flaming hot to the touch. Either seeing Jonny has just raised his temperature about 40 degrees or every single capillary in his face is flooded with blood, growing into an angry red blush. Either way he’s horrified.
“You’re not sick are you?” Johnny asks, aggrieved. He has this whole thing about hand sanitizer and bacterial-resistance and autoimmune disorders that means he blames the ethanol in Patrick’s Purell every fucking time he gets sick. Which, admittedly is more often than Johnny.
Patrick is not about to suffer another rant about Addison’s. “No, douchewad, I’m not sick.”
Johnny doesn’t look like he’s about to let this go.
Patrick sighs. “I got laid, alright? It set me back a little.” It’s the first, best, and worst excuse he could come up with. Johnny knows he loves morning sex, but he also knows he has a categorical aversion to taking somebody back to his place, so he doesn’t get it very often.
“You...” Johnny seems speechless at first, but then he starts cracking up.
“Why is this funny?” he mutters to himself as he’s shrugging out of his street clothes. Of course Johnny hears him anyway. He’s right fucking there after all. Patrick can smell him, Spearmint gum, leather, and the spicy scent of the Clinical Strength Degree he wears. Johnny may sweat more than anybody else he knows, but smell he does not.
“Eh, just don’t know what that says about your stamina, man,” Johnny says, tongue shoved into the corner of his cheek like he’s really proud of that one.
Patrick just glares at him dead on, before pointing at Johnny and then back at his eyes in the classic ‘I’m watching you’ gesture. “It’s on now,” he says.
He plays his heart out during skate, practically looping circles around Johnny and the rest of the team. Just goes to show he’s a creature of incentives, people can trash him all they fucking want and then they can be pissed off that it keeps making him better.
“Would you stop taking shots already?” Crawford complains, ass on the ice and refusing to get back up.
“Take ‘em until you miss, miss until you make it,” Patrick replies.
“Save it for the game,” Johnny finally tells him, skating to a stop next to Patrick in a flurry of shavings about fifteen minutes before they’re set to wrap up.
Patrick pops his mouthguard off his teeth with his tongue and grins, skating unhurriedly backwards. Johnny rolls his eyes. Of course, Patrick didn’t actually get laid and, chances are, if he had, it would have set him back a bit. But Johnny doesn’t need to know that. Either way, he’s not horrifically blushing in Johnny’s company anymore.
Of course, that lasts as long as it takes him to think about it, but since he’s all red and sweaty anyway, he figures he gets away with it.
The trade talk hasn’t started up a second time, but people are, once again slamming him in the blogosphere. He’s not entirely certain what he needs to do, moonwalk on the ice while standing on his head? His publicist texts him a frowny face. She doesn’t even bother calling him anymore to talk about damage control. What’s there to do? He’s not actually an alcoholic or a sex addict or whatever they’re saying now. He can’t be shipped off to rehab and cured. He already does ten million charity things and not even because he’s trying to offset his bad image. His mama raised him right, so these assholes can suck it. Which, is easier said than done. As Melanie reminds him every time he whines to her about the fact that he’s basically a good dude.
Johnny shows up at his door at 7:30 on the fucking nose even though Patrick wasn’t expecting him. There’s a big bag of takeout under his arm, Thai, the good stuff from Thai Classic, which means that Johnny actually drove out of his fucking way for it.
“Don’t you have, uh...” he tries to come up with a more polite way of referring to what the rest of the team has termed Johnny’s well-documented ‘Tuesday Night Fuck Club’ with this girl he actually met in Boystown at four in the morning after her purse got stolen and he spotted her some money for a cab.
“Eh, wasn’t feeling it tonight,” Johnny replies, pushing past him to head straight to his kitchen.
“I hope you didn’t tell her that,” Patrick replies.
Johnny pauses in the middle of unwrapping a container of drunken noodles to stare at him. “Of course I did, what was I going to do? Lie to her?”
Patrick snorts. Why does he even ask? “Man, if I had some regular action going on, I would be feeling it all the time.”
“And that is why you are you and I am me,” Johnny replies, setting out an exhaustingly large haul of curries, noodles, and tofu options.
“Okay, I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but did you order the entire menu? Because we might have to get oh, I don’t know, an army to eat all of this.”
“I just wasn’t sure what you would like,” Johnny says, moving on to look through Patrick’s drawers for silverware and napkins. “You always order something different.”
The napkins he scrounges up are actually extras from the last time Johnny brought takeout over to his place.
And then it hits Patrick. “Jesus, did Melanie call you?” That would certainly explain her more relaxed approach to all of his media duff-ups. Just put Jonny on his case, that’ll solve everything. The thought makes him mad, mostly for being predictable, because, true to type, putting Johnny on his case usually does solve everything.
“No...?” Johnny says blankly and then changes the subject. “All of your chopsticks are mismatched, man, how does that keep happening? If you had two of the same ones, you probably wouldn’t have such a hard time eating with them.”
“I know how to use chopsticks!” he replies. He does, but the sticks always cross at the back end and it looks stupid, not like the super dexterous way Johnny can snap up food, like they’re extensions of his fingers. Besides, it’s his house, he’s got forks and they work fine. “Listen, you don’t have to come pick me up out of the gutter or whatever. I’m an adult.”
Johnny coughs exaggeratedly and Patrick narrows his eyes at him.
“Seriously, if I was hurting for company, I would tell you,” he replies. “Which, are you tracking my press?”
Johnny unexpectedly colors and clears his throat. “I have a Google alert for you.”
Patrick bursts out laughing. “Congratulations, you’re actually a stalker. Good job. So, what? You saw a couple bad headlines in Bleacher Report and came running?”
Johnny scowls at him. “Eat your damn food or I really will call an army in here to take it away.”
“Empty threats!” Patrick says with a laugh. “I know all you want is for me to be happy, boo.”
Hours later when Johnny has passed out on his couch after an epic Walking Dead marathon, his iPhone vibrating insistently with texts, Patrick realizes idly that he does feel better for it. Johnny is one of the most critical people he knows when it comes to performance and hockey, and if Johnny has his back, then he can rest assured that those fuckers are absolutely wrong about him.
The phone buzzes again and Patrick can’t help it, the text just pops right up on the screen. What’s he going to do but read it?
I want u to come ovr and fuck me until I’m begging u to stop n then I want u to eat every last drop of ur hot cum out of my dripping pussy.
Whoa. That is...that is visceral. No two ways about it. He’s not entirely certain what he would do if a girl texted him creampie fantasies. But Johnny’s been nailing this chick for months, and he gets all kinds of strange that Patrick and the rest of the guys can only dream about. Maybe he’s all about creampie. Patrick notices then that the name on the text is different from the Tuesday Night Fuck Club girl. Goddamn. There should probably be a Presidential medal for putting so little effort into relationships and getting such high returns. They could probably use Johnny’s masterful sex techniques to solve world hunger or something.
Patrick hooks up. He has girlfriends, mostly in the short term, because with his life, trying to push for longer than six months is hard. He’s on the road so much and there are always puck bunnies around, which would make any girlfriend nervous. He’s not an asshole, but he finds he never actually feels enough for anybody he’s seeing to actually restrain himself, so he finds himself making a lot of ‘I met someone else’ phone calls. The last thing he needs is to wind up on Deadspin again for being a jackass to the ladies.
But of course, Sharpy is right. The sex is a million times better when you’re having it with the same person. They learn all your moves, all your tells, all your ‘no fingers in my ass without asking, thanks’ moments. It’s the reality of any guy who has one nighters that a lady is going to walk away probably not having as much fun as he did.
Nevertheless, it’s a little demoralizing when a girl finally shoves at your shoulders and says, “You know, it’s just not happening tonight.”
Which is how he ends up back at the hotel, knocking on Johnny’s door at 11 PM after a really sweet victory over the Flyers.
“What?” Johnny asks irritably, pulling the door open so fast Patrick nearly falls in.
“Is this a bad time?” Patrick asks with a laugh, trying to look over his shoulder to see if he’s got anybody back there. He’s wearing a shirt and boxer briefs, so it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.
“There’s nobody else here, Kaner,” Johnny says with a sigh. “Fine, come in, I was just Skyping my mother.”
Patrick follows him into the room and sees the laptop sitting open on the desk. “Hi, mom,” he calls.
“Hi, Patrick,” Andree replies and then says something in French to Jonathan.
“Don’t worry about it,” Johnny replies. “Do you mind if I let you go?”
“Not a problem,” she says, “I love you and you too, Patrick.”
They both say goodnight to her and then Patrick asks if everything’s alright. He knows that Johnny’s maternal grandmother is dying by the drop and that it’s been hard for all of them, especially because Johnny’s contract doesn’t allow him a lot of freedom to visit her during the season.
“What’s up?” Johnny asks, studiously shutting down all his programs and then closing the laptop. He rotates the roll-top desk chair around so he can meet Patrick’s eyes.
Patrick feels pretty silly. He’s mad because he can’t give ladies orgasms fast enough and Johnny’s grandma is dying. “Nah, it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it.”
Johnny sighs. “Sharpy texted me about two hours ago saying you’d actually managed to lock down a perfect 10. What exactly are you doing back here?”
Patrick sighs. “You remember what Sharpy said, about getting better at sex the more you have it with the same person?”
“Yes,” Johnny replies, drawing the syllable out, clearly unsure where Patrick is going with this.
“I’m really starting to notice it, man,” he says, flopping down on the spare queen bed, which Johnny uses as a shelf for all his shit now that they’re not sharing. “It’s just...bland.”
Johnny raises his brows and Patrick clears his throat. “So, I’m thinking maybe you could spread the wealth a little.”
“Spread...the wealth?” Johnny replies, incredulously. “Are you asking for my sloppy seconds?”
“What?” Patrick cries. “No, no, no! I do have some shame, you know? I just meant tips, tricks, tools of the trade.”
Johnny slumps down in his chair. “Why are you so stuck on me being the repository of all sexual knowledge?”
“Dude, I know you and I know who you fuck.” Patrick leaves out that he also knows how Johnny fucks after that bathroom incident. Ah, god, and his face is lighting up again like it’s on fire. Johnny’s incredulous brows have yet to come down from his hairline.
“You’re really serious here,” he says finally.
Patrick lies back on the bed with a defeated groan. “No, I just thought I’d embarrass myself for no reason.”
There’s a long silence and then Johnny’s skidding the rolltop chair across the floor to kick Patrick in the shin without getting up. “Okay, okay, I don’t exactly have all of this written down in a lesson plan.”
“You have everything written down as a lesson plan,” Patrick replies grumpily, moving his legs out of the way so that Johnny can’t kick him again.
Johnny ignores him. “I think the thing to remember is that men and women’s bodies are actually way more similar than you’d think. So, with respect to foreplay, you just have to picture how you’d like to be touched. For the most part. Men’s ears are more sensitive, which is why women don’t like it as much when you mess with their ears. Also, you have to remember that a little goes a long way.”
Patrick sits back up and screws up his eyes. “I have no idea what that means.”
Johnny shrugs with a glare. “I don’t know, man, maybe you should just buy a book.”
“I am not buying a book,” Patrick snaps. “Anybody who is writing a book on sex is probably not spending enough time having it to know anything.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s how experts work, Kaner.” Johnny rolls his eyes. “Take my lesson or leave it.”
Patrick sighs. He’s tired. They’re on to Calgary next and really he’d just like to be in his bed, wallowing in his depression about bland empty sex. “Well, thanks, I guess.”
However, as he’s leaving the room he can’t help the parting shot, “I expected more from you,” a statement perfectly designed to wake up whatever crazy part of Johnny’s brain that’s constantly shouting ‘be better’ at the rest of him. Patrick may not be a master of sexology, but he does hold several degrees in decoding Johnny.
Nevertheless, it’s a grievous miscalculation.
A few days later, they’re back in Chicago, and they’re having lunch with Keith and Sharpy at The Signature Room. Thankfully it’s a weekday, so it’s mostly filled with boring businessman and a few sedate tourists who’ve got no clue who they are.
Patrick gets up to check out the view while they’re waiting for their appetizers to come, because watching Chicago stretch out in a million directions, a sea of flat streets with the blue sky soaring above it, never gets old. Johnny comes up behind him, announcing his presence with a gentle ‘hey’ that Patrick acknowledges with a smile.
He skims a hand down the length of Patrick’s bare left arm, fingers only just making contact with his skin before dropping away. The sensation arrows straight up his spine as a shiver that hits his brain and then runs crossways down to his gut.
Before he can even ask ‘what the hell was that?’ Johnny says, “That was a little going a long way.”
Patrick’s mind instantly fills with images of Johnny fucking that girl in the bathroom so hard the stall was in danger of collapse, all the while touching her like this, delicately, just enough to make the nerves sing.
He knows when he returns to the table his face is as red as a tomato.
“Okay, what’s lesson number two?” he demands, showing up at Johnny’s house with Chinese takeout and a bunch of Blu-Rays he knows Johnny keeps meaning to borrow.
“There is no lesson two,” Johnny snaps, but steps back to let him in anyway. Like he’s going to say no to Shanghai Terrace and the wok fried lobster Patrick got just for him.
“Seriously, lesson one was it,” he repeats, taking the takeout off Patrick’s hands. “All that was important was making sure lesson one sunk in and...” he eyes Patrick, “I think it did.”
“What?” Patrick cries, “That is not enough!”
Johnny pauses in the middle of cleaning shit off his breakfast bar so that they can eat at it. “Listen, if you suck at oral, I cannot actually teach it to you, I don’t know a woman alive who would be willing to be the subject for such a demonstration.”
“Hey! I’m not actually bad in bed,” Patrick says. And just for that he takes the last of Johnny’s Long Trail left in the fridge.
“The point,” Johnny replies in a faux patient voice that suggests he’s lost all patience left to him, “just flew right over your head.”
“Well, I dunno man, you seem to have something that’s working for you, and it cannot just be ‘a little goes a long way,’” Patrick replies, complete with air quotes.
Johnny looks up at him from his lobster, which he’s started eating straight out of the takeout container like the undomesticated heathen he is. “You know, maybe you should just ask Sharpy, since he’s the one who put the idea into your head.”
“Oh God,” Patrick says, terrorized by the very idea. Then he’d have to think about the sex that produced Madelyn. “Nope, nope, I really think I’m good.”
Johnny shrugs at him and then narrows his eyes. “Hey, did you just take the very last Long Trail?”
“I think you’ve still got a couple of cans of Molson in there.”
“You mean, the ones that you bought me that have been sitting there for two years?”
Patrick can’t help a snigger. “I brought you Lobster, my generosity has to end somewhere.”
Johnny’s face slowly resolves into a smile, which should’ve made Patrick instantly wary, but instead, he doesn’t realize what’s happening until Johnny’s stroked his thumb across the inside of Patrick’s wrist and then swept the bottle straight out of Patrick’s suddenly slack hand.
He grins, takes a long swallow, and then sticks his tongue in the neck to thoroughly discourage Patrick from stealing it back.
“I can’t believe...you just...that is not allowed!”
“Don’t feel bad, it works on everybody,” Johnny tells him sagely and then goes back to eating his lobster.
“You’re not telling me you actually think you could seduce me,” Patrick says, crossing his arms.
Johnny shrugs noncommittally. “Eh.”
“No, seriously, bring it,” Patrick says firmly, crossing his arms. He’d like to see Johnny try. He may be able to be everything the ladies want, but Patrick does not want a dude, and he does not want Johnny.
But Johnny ignores him altogether. “Eat your food, Pat.”
Twenty minutes later, Patrick’s given in and popped open one of the remaining cans of Molson and he’s pretty sure the conversation is over. Johnny blows that all to hell when he wipes his mouth off, stows the empty containers in the trash, and comes around the breakfast bar to where Patrick’s just chilling with a plate of golden shrimp, and boxes him in with his arms.
“Whoa, hey, what’s this now,” he says, tensing up to shrug him off, but he doesn’t get very far because Johnny has just licked a line down the vertebrae in his neck, before gently closing his teeth on the last one above the collar of his t-shirt.
“Fucking A, man,” he whispers, hips jerking involuntarily, but Johnny’s already got a hand there to steady him, fingertips spread so that they’re just millimeters from touching the line of his dick. “What the hell are you doing?”
Johnny draws him back so that Patrick’s ass is flush to his hips, and that is a dick. That. Is Johnny’s. Dick. Which should be making him extremely uncomfortable, but all he can think of is that girl in the bathroom’s broken moans, what that must have looked like, Johnny’s cock holding her open as he balanced her against the wall of the stall.
He braces his hands against the counter, ready to push off, because this is going to a place you can’t turn back from very, very fast, but then Johnny says, “Yes, keep ‘em there.”
“What?” he demands, incredulous, and then Johnny’s palming his dick, thumb dragging unerringly over the head of his cock. He’s not sure what he’s expecting next, but it’s still a shock when Johnny wrenches his jeans open and pulls him free of his boxers. And it’s definitely a shock that he hasn’t sac-tapped him and run for the door. Instead, he’s panting, hands white-knuckled on the marble slab of Johnny’s breakfast bar. Johnny’s strong pectorals flex against his shoulder blades as he begins a steady up-down on Patrick’s dick and why, oh why is Johnny's chest a thing that Patrick notices?
“If you were a chick, this is how I’d do it,” Johnny says, voice plunging about an octave deeper than Patrick’s ever heard it.
“You—” Patrick attempts, but he doesn’t get very far, because Johnny is actually nudging his legs closer together, equalizing their height differential so that more of Patrick’s ass is pushed up against Johnny’s erection. This is something he comforts himself with as he continues to let this happen—at least he’s not hard from jerking off another guy.
Which is ridiculous, of course, he knows this, because Johnny’s smell, which is still just a tube of Clinical Strength Degree, which Patrick could find in any Dominic’s and be totally unmoved, is completely doing it for him. That and the way he’s surrounded in the cage Johnny has made out of his body. It’s nearly as good the dirty grind Johnny’s got going with his fist.
“Too much…too much friction,” Patrick huffs out, because he’s cut and the brush of Johnny’s callouses are just too much over the swollen head of his dick. Johnny reaches past him for something and for one terrified moment he thinks he’s going for the fancy olive oils that sit clustered together next to the salt and pepper shakers and the bottle of cooking sherry that Johnny claims he actually knows how to use. But instead he yanks open the drawer at Patrick’s hip and comes up with a bottle of KY.
“Really? In your kitchen island?” he asks and then has to break off to moan desperately when Johnny puts his newly slicked hand back on his dick.
“There’s your second lesson,” Johnny says. “Logistics.”
And then he nips at Patrick’s jawline.
Patrick doesn’t last much longer after that. How could he? Johnny is the House MD of diagnosing orgasms. He fucking holds Patrick as he shatters apart, which is definitely not a thing Patrick would admit he likes and yet Johnny just knew it. He hasn’t come that hard, that fast from a simple handjob since he was maybe fifteen. He stares at his clenched hands, willing himself to unclasp them from the counter and it takes a good second before he can actually get himself to relax his grip.
Johnny runs an almost proprietary palm down his side and then steps away to wash his hands in the sink.
“So, uh,” Patrick starts, trying to control the shake in his legs. He winds up grabbing onto the counter again. “It would only be buddies to repay the favor.”
Johnny dries his hands off on a towel and then runs his eyes over Patrick critically. “I don’t know. Do you think you could do a good job?”
That is just bullshit. He’d have to be blinded by about seventeen more orgasms to ignore that kind of chirping. Really, if Patrick were one of Johnny’s hookups, he’d probably take his magical orgasm and go with only a ‘see ya later, sucka’ thrown over his shoulder. But he’s Johnny’s friend and teammate, so he feels compelled to point out: “You know, that reverse psychology shit only works on you.”
“Of course,” Johnny replies evenly, mouth an expressionless line.
“Oh, would you fucking get over here,” Patrick shouts. Johnny doesn’t move, which means by the time Patrick moves over to him to plant one on him it’s more of a rage makeout than anything else. Which is fine, languorous kissing would totally kick this nonsense up to a whole new level of 'inexplicable things I do with my crazy buddy Jonathan Toews.' Which, oh Christ, Johnny manages to gentle him just by placing a palm at the small of his back and pushing into the always tense muscles that run over his ilium. It’s a good kiss, a really good kiss. Johnny’s lips are eminently kissable. Not that Patrick’s thought about it or anything, but he likes the way their mouths slot together. The push-pull of it. Shit, Johnny really is a rockstar at sex.
He makes a move towards Johnny’s dick and then stops himself. “Okay, I get that you probably have a lot of wild sex in this kitchen, which we are not addressing at this point, even though I eat here with you all the time, but can we maybe take this to a couch or your bed? Or something?”
Johnny laughs at him, eyes dark. “Kaner, you can have whatever you want.”
It gives him some space to breathe and he thinks as they stumble over to Johnny’s bedroom that he’s just going to get Johnny off as efficiently and quickly as possible, much like when he’s tired and horny and he just needs to toss one off in order to sleep.
That doesn’t happen.
Instead he winds up taking care with it, bracing himself above Johnny, kissing him like he’s convincing some virgin to let him get a hand up her skirt. And worse, he even finds the way Johnny lifts his hips to shove down his jeans, teeth embedded in his lower lip hot.
It’s a pretty cock, notable more for its girth rather than length. Patrick supposes that makes sense. Clearly, Johnny was just designed for pleasing women. The thing is, Patrick’s already had his orgasm, or his lesson, however you choose to interpret it, and so he’s got no stake in this race, which is why he has no idea how he’s sporting half a chub, staring at Jonathan Toews get his rocks off while Patrick lazily strokes him, and diving in for a kiss every time he blinks.
He keeps it slow, more out of a desire to see what exactly Johnny will do. Will he demand harder or faster? Will he try to outlast the strength in Patrick’s wrist. But Johnny doesn’t do any of that, he seems perfectly content to take it whatever way Patrick is giving it to him.
“Are you…is this doing it for you?” Patrick finally asks, pausing to drag his index finger across the slit.
Johnny comes with a choked up hiccoughing noise that Patrick swallows. Johnny spills over his hand in jet after jet that never seems to stop coming.
“Been a while for you?” Patrick asks, looking at his coated knuckles. He has never seen this much jizz at one time in his life.
“Saw Ellen yesterday,” Johnny says, referring to Tuesday Night Fuck Club, “but didn’t really have time for much, and you know, I jerked off in the shower this morning, so no, not really.”
Patrick wipes his hand down Johnny’s shirtfront. He hadn’t bothered to take it off of him, because what was he going to do? Imagine Johnny’s pecs were B cups? But now he’s kind of disappointed. God knows what that’s about.
The look that Johnny gives him could kill a gazelle at fifty paces. “Really?” he says, gesturing at the en suite that is right there.
“Really,” Patrick repeats and grins at him before going to get up and do the necessary part of washing the residue of semen off his hand. He stares at his face in the mirror, totally blindsided by the glazed ruddy face looking back at him.
“Yo, did you wanna watch a movie now?” he calls from the bathroom, seeking some kind of normalcy, because only a crazy straight person would want to have gay sex with their best friend, even if he is some kind of fanatical sex devotee.
After a moment, Johnny makes a disgusted noise and then huffs out a grudging ‘ok, fine.’ Which makes sense. If Patrick had access to all the pussy Johnny does, he would not be trying to make this a regular thing either.
The real takeaway from the whole thing is not “a little goes a long way,” or “logistics,” but if you’re making a bet at the races, do not ask Patrick Kane’s advice. Because he is so, so, so, SO wrong about this never happening again.
All independent variables said that after a loss on home ice, Johnny would be exorcising his rage with a lot of sex while Patrick cried into a beer at a quiet cocktail lounge a few blocks from his apartment. In fact, he thinks when Johnny texts him, demanding to come over just a few minutes after he’s made it past his own door, that he’s about to get yelled at for every little thing he did wrong.
Instead, Johnny says, ‘hey,’ softly, when Patrick opens the door. It disarms him completely, which is perhaps how he finds himself backed up against the wall, wrists pinned above his head in a loose grip he could easily break if he wanted to.
“Hey,” is all he manages back before Johnny kisses him.
It’s slow and perfect and before Patrick really understands what’s happening, they’ve abandoned all their clothing in Patrick’s hallway and made their way back to his bedroom, stumbling along because they can’t stop touching and kissing.
He pauses when they get through his door, naked and panting and totally flabbergasted.
The lights off the river and the surrounding skyscrapers limn Johnny’s cheekbones, the cut of his pectorals, and the hard jut of his cock in neon and Patrick has to remind his brain to draw air into his lungs.
“What are we doing?” he breathes.
Johnny smiles and trips Patrick onto the bed, strong thighs bracketing his hips and bringing their dicks into contact. Patrick arches up into it, he can’t help himself.
“Oh, fuck, have you…have you done this before…with a…with a dude?” Patrick asks, fingers digging into Johnny’s waist, meeting only tensed muscle layered over bone. He doesn’t know why he didn’t ask this question earlier, too preoccupied he supposes.
“No,” Johnny says, moving against Patrick in a way that makes his eyes cross.
“God, god, god,” Patrick intones, head thrown back. That is Johnny’s cock sliding against Patrick’s belly, between his abdominals, Johnny’s mouth on the thin skin just below Patrick’s jaw. “You’re…just an innately talented sex virtuoso.”
Johnny makes a sound of annoyance, biting along Patrick’s collarbone in a way that’s supposed to be admonishing, but since Johnny really is too good at this, it just makes Patrick cry out and shiver underneath him.
They get off like that, rubbing against each other in Patrick’s bed without urgency. Johnny comes first, groaning in Patrick’s ear in a way that makes Patrick want to wrap himself around him and never let go. He doesn’t get a chance. Johnny’s already pulled away, moving to sit back on his heels. He looks down at Patrick, his still-swollen cock and rubs a hand over his face.
Patrick’s just about to tell him that this behavior is hardly sporting when Johnny tugs Patrick bodily down the bed and onto his lap. Johnny’s cock slides along his cheeks, making Patrick vaguely uncomfortable, but then Johnny’s got a hand on him, drawing him off hard and fast, in a way that has him trying to twist in on himself. He tries to get his elbows under him, anything to make this position feel less femininized, but Johnny puts a hand at the center of his chest and presses, keeping Patrick’s shoulder blades flat on the bed.
Of course, that’s exactly when he cries out and comes all over Johnny’s stomach and chest.
When he comes back to himself, he realizes Johnny’s rubbing reassuring circles in the center of his chest, nails just tracing over the skin. He goes to knock the hand away, but somehow their fingers become tangled and he doesn’t let go, when, all of a sudden, he realizes a second thing.
“You’re hard!” he says. He feels Johnny, hot and erect against his ass, and has to look down at his body at Johnny’s come painting his stomach. That happened. It totally did. Johnny cannot still be hard. The laws of like, fluid dynamics and shit say that it is not possible. “It’s been barely two minutes. How?”
Johnny extricates himself from Patrick, getting to his feet, cock bobbing as he moves. “I don’t really have a refractory period.” He stretches and yawns like he’s just risen from a very nice nap.
Johnny shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just take care of it myself.”
Patrick is really fucking tired of hearing that. It’s how they ended up in this mess to begin with.
Which is how Patrick Kane ends up having marathon sex until 3:52 AM on the nose. Not because it takes Johnny that long to go soft, but because for every orgasm he gets out of Johnny, Johnny insists on coaxing another one out of him. Just being buddies, you know.
Two weeks go by and they’re still doing this, not every day or anything. Johnny still has his hookups and they have to do other things outside of practice and games, like sleep and eat. Patrick feels like he should probably call it quits, because no amount of ‘no homo’ will make this any less gay and Patrick started this whole thing to get better with the ladies. Which he realizes now was incredibly wrongheaded, but the sex is amazing, and if he’s sucked a little dick, it’s only because Johnny sucked his.
“This is fucked up,” Patrick moans, lying back against Johnny’s chest in his Jacuzzi tub, soaking after a hard game. He’s got his head tucked back on Johnny’s shoulder and they’re not even doing anything fun. “Whatever, at least anal’s never going to happen.”
Johnny doesn’t say anything, just turns the tap on the bath back on with his foot as Patrick settles himself more firmly against him, but Patrick feels compelled to add: “Not even your sexual acumen could make me want that.”
Famous last words.
“I bet I can make you like it,” Johnny says in the middle of dirty-talking him on a perfectly respectable Saturday where they could’ve been going to the movies, or hanging out at the Lake or finding things to barbecue that are still within their diet plans, and instead, they’re once again having sex. They couldn’t even be bothered to get their clothes off or go to the bedroom after a game of Modern Warfare turned heated right where they were lying on the floor.
“What?” Patrick asks, arm thrown over his eyes, because if he watches Johnny while all that filth is spilling out of his mouth he will come way, way too quickly.
“I bet you’d like it if I fucked you,” Johnny says, thumbing the head of his dick. “If I opened you up real nice and slow, took my time with it, until you were leaking and straining for it. I’d make you come first, maybe twice, until you were boneless and pliant.”
“That is not hot,” Patrick says, voice strained, fighting not to thrust up into Johnny’s grip, elbow jostling the video game controller.
“Oh?” Johnny says with a laugh.
“Besides, what would you know about it?” Patrick asks, ignoring the way his voice goes suspiciously high at the end of the sentence just from the way Johnny is scratching his nails over Patrick’s denim-clad thigh.
Johnny’s hand slows on Patrick’s dick. “Uh…I’ve done anal with women?”
“Yeah, me too, dicksmack,” Patrick says. “Enough to know that’s not fun for anybody.”
But of course now he’s picturing Johnny backdooring some chick and of course it’s hot. Because everything Johnny does is hot, even throwing tantrums on the bench. When did that happen? God, how did that happen?
He hits his head on the floor with a loud thunk. Johnny eyes are dark and intense on his and when Patrick looks like he’s going to hit his head against the floor again, he yanks a cushion right off his couch and shoves it under his head.
Jesus, even the solicitousness is hot.
“It’s not as easy,” Johnny tells him. “You have to work at it.”
“Not as easy…” Patrick repeats dumbly. What is Johnny even talking about? Couch cushions? Patrick Kane himself? Oh, right anal.
Why is he even surprised anymore? Johnny could probably coax jizz out of a hockey stick. He comes, completely by surprise, when Johnny yanks his jeans a bit further down and dips his head to bite at his hip.
“I’m quite serious,” Johnny explains after he’s wiped his hands off, climbing astride Patrick’s lap and working his fly down so that Patrick can work him free of underwear and return the favor. It’s perfect, because Patrick can just lay here blissed out, head still resting on his couch cushion, jacking Johnny off to completion without worrying about passing out in the middle.
“You’re allowed to be as serious as you like,” Patrick says, hand tight around the base of Johnny’s dick. He reaches up and pulls Johnny’s head down for a sloppy kiss, which is just about all he’s capable of at the moment.
“Still not going to happen,” he whispers when their lips part, because it’s important that Johnny understand this, and then captures Johnny’s mouth again to swallow all of his groans. At least Patrick can be assured of one thing about all this gayness: Johnny is just as into it as he is.
Of course, he doesn’t plan for the brutal win against the Red Wings. At the end of it Hossa’s reinjured his groin, Saad’s got a chipped tooth and a beautiful fat lip, and Hammer’s slipped a disc and gotten a lumbar sprain. Patrick’s not entirely certain how any of them are still upright. Through it all, Johnny fucking carried them. He played an amazing game with two goals and two assists, and he blocked Datsyuk’s desperate late-game slapshot with his thigh.
Patrick feels like he deserves something special and after they’ve both had a single celebratory beer with all of the guys who were actually able to walk under their own steam at the end of that bloodbath, he puts his hand on Johnny’s shoulder and says, “Time to go.”
Johnny doesn’t protest.
Patrick insists that they go to Johnny’s place, because if his deflowering absolutely sucks, the last thing he wants is to hate his magnificent and incredibly expensive Aireloom king mattress.
He hasn’t been planning this. His thoughts on the matter had still been firmly at ‘no way in hell’ up until the moment in the locker room he caught Johnny’s eye and saw the complete and utter jubilation in them, even as Johnny gingerly extracted himself from his pads. He’d known then that tonight was the night.
As a consequence of this sudden epiphany, he hasn’t been preparing himself at all. But he’s managed this before, a few times, with girls. It was pretty awful, actually, but he trusts Johnny to have stuff and he’s the best lay Patrick has ever had, so it’s not like he won’t listen if Patrick calls a halt. Nevertheless, he’s still nervous.
“Why are you acting like a fucking tweaker?” Johnny demands as soon as they’re through his door. He’s still walking a little delicately, there’s already a ginormous blue bruise on his thigh, but the hands he puts on Patrick’s shoulders are firm. “You good?”
“I want you to do it,” Patrick announces, hands coming up to grip Johnny’s wrists.
“Do…what?” Johnny asks blankly, thumbs absently pushing into the tense muscle on either side of Patrick’s neck.
Patrick colors. “You’re gonna make me say it?”
“Huh?” Johnny blinks at him. “Oh….Oh! That.”
“Yeah,” Patrick replies, holding his gaze.
“Pat, this isn’t—” he starts, but Patrick cuts him off with a harsh kiss, shoving him back and following him with his body until they meet the wall.
“I’m not kidding around here,” he says, voice low, reaching to palm Johnny’s swelling dick through his jeans.
“You…” Johnny tries to start again, but Patrick kisses him a second time, stopping up his complaints.
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
Johnny shakes his head, like he’s trying to get the world to stop spinning after a particularly vicious hit. “Bed,” he whispers, before tugging Patrick in by his belt loops for a third kiss that quickly turns desperate and filthy.
True to form, Johnny does make him come twice before he even goes anywhere near his ass and this effort takes nearly an hour. The first time, he sucks Patrick off, ruthless and efficient and the second time he kisses up and down Patrick’s body, sweeping his hands over Patrick’s skin in those gliding barely-there fingertips-on-skin touches that initially sucked Patrick in so many weeks ago until he’s hard again and straining for it. Then he jerks Patrick off on his side, spooned up behind him on the bed until Patrick’s crying out his name in a near constant litany.
Johnny’s cock has been hard and insistent at his back for what feels like an eternity.
“How do you not have blue balls?” Patrick grits out, exhausted by the strength of his orgasm.
“Well…” Johnny says, almost sheepishly and Patrick can’t help the tired laugh that escapes him.
“Of course,” he says. “You don’t have that problem.”
Johnny chuckles against the back of his neck. “No, not that, I guess I can just ignore it?” he says as reaches past him for the condoms and the lube he set next to Patrick earlier.
Patrick goes to move and Johnny stops him. “It’ll be good like this,” he says, dropping an open-mouthed kiss on Patrick’s shoulder and pushing Patrick’s outside thigh up toward his chest with a hand at the back of his knee.
He gets the lube warmed up in his hands and then just teases around Patrick’s opening with the tip of his index finger for a too long moment.
Patrick’s not hard. Not because he minds the way the finger feels, just barely dipping inside him. He did come twice and his equipment is normal, unlike Johnny’s mutant junk, so it’s unlikely this’ll happen again any time soon. At least, Patrick hopes that’s not why Johnny is dicking around back there, because Johnny may be an awesome lover, but he’s going to have to adjust his expectations if he expects Patrick to survive this encounter.
“Can you just…do it?”
Johnny doesn’t say anything, but Patrick can hear him rolling his eyes. He pushes the finger inside and it’s fine. Nothing to write home about, totally boring. He takes it without complaint. But he feels the second, oh does he feel the second. And Christ, freak that he is, he likes it. His softened cock tries desperately to get back in the game and he can’t stop fucking gasping like he’s just been forced to run a hundred liners.
Johnny scrapes his teeth over his jugular and says, voice warm, “Just like that, Pat.”
At three he’s honest-to-god whimpering and oh yes, his dick has definitely gotten with the program. The stretch hurts, but it’s a good hurt. A fucking amazing hurt.
“What’s wrong with me?” he asks, mostly facetious.
“Nothing, you’re fucking perfect like this,” Johnny says like it’s a straight question. “It’s taking everything I have not to just shoot all over your back.”
“Oh god,” Patrick says, voice thready and high. “You’ve got to do it now.”
Johnny sucks in a breath. “Okay, okay, just…hang on.”
Like Patrick is going anywhere.
Johnny snaps the first condom he tries to put on and Patrick laughs, glad at least that Johnny is not always completely fucking perfect in the sack. It was starting to get a little disconcerting. And then Johnny’s drawing Patrick back against him and pushing inside and Patrick moans exactly like the star in a porno, only it’s completely unfeigned. He just couldn’t stop himself.
“Oh, fuck,” Johnny says against the back of Patrick’s neck, breath humid and hot. He keeps his hips carefully still, waiting for Patrick to give him the go-ahead.
“It’s do or die,” Patrick says, only half-kidding.
Johnny tightens his hand on his hip and then he’s pulling out, letting Patrick feel every inch of him, before finally thrusting back in, shoving up against Patrick’s prostate on the first try.
“You asshole,” Patrick says, shivering all over, “how did you even do that?”
Johnny laughs, but it’s not effortless, and Patrick feels him trembling at his back. “Spatial reasoning?”
“You…suck…” Patrick manages. He is never asking Johnny a question again. Johnny hits his prostate again and drives all such thoughts from his head. It takes more willpower than he knew he had to keep from shouting.
“This is going to be over quick,” Johnny says, sounding mournful and apologetic.
Patrick can’t get enough air into his lungs and so it takes him a few tries to say, “For you, maybe.” God, when he looks at the clock it gives him vertigo. Johnny’s broken him. He’s never going to be able to have sex with anybody else again.
And then because Johnny is determined to always give the very best orgasms, even though he’s in danger of shorting Patrick’s brain, he wraps his still slick fingers around Patrick’s dick. His technique is not as masterful as it usually is, which Patrick supposes can be allowed, since he’s not sure his nerve-endings can take any more dopaminergic overload.
He comes at the same time as Johnny—Johnny slamming home on one last hard thrust at the same time that Patrick throws his head back, barely missing Johnny’s nose, and loses it, all over Johnny’s hand. Patrick clenches down involuntarily on Johnny in a way that makes Johnny sob and jerk against him, like he’s been sucker-punched.
Mutual orgasm has never happened to him in his entire life. Not even when he and a partner were purposefully working for it, let alone spontaneously, without any form of forewarning.
Johnny doesn’t move for a long time. Usually, after sex, he’s perfectly normal. Able to walk and talk and turn backflips or whatever it is he does, but this time, he’s still against him, chest sealed to Patrick’s back by sweat. It comes to Patrick belatedly that even their breathing has synced up.
When Johnny finally pulls free and goes to the bathroom, Patrick has started to feel it. They played a rough game today and then had sex for nearly two whole hours. He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to move again. He experimentally raises his arm to catch Johnny’s attention, but it drops, boneless, back to the bed.
Johnny comes back with a wet towel, wiping Patrick down delicately between his cheeks and up over his thighs and belly. He hisses when the towel traces over his junk.
Johnny drops a kiss to his forehead. “Sorry, sorry.”
Time passes and Patrick drifts in and out of consciousness. At some point, Johnny comes back to bed with a bottle of G1 Gatorade, even though he knows Patrick prefers G2.
“Just drink it,” he says when Patrick protests.
Patrick’s been enjoying watching him walk around naked, especially now that he knows Johnny constantly forgets to close the blinds. He wonders what antics the neighbors have seen now that he knows exactly what Johnny is capable of.
“The way you look…” Johnny says suddenly and fails to elaborate, shaking his head like he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Patrick blinks at him from where he’s propped up on all of Johnny’s pillows, holding the Gatorade like it’s a baby bottle.
Patrick smiles, knowing his teeth are probably stained blue. “This gets you going, huh?”
“Must have lost my mind,” he says, so obviously aping Patrick’s constant complaint the last couple of weeks that Patrick can’t help but laugh. They are such a shitshow.
Johnny’s phone vibrates on his nightstand, even though it’s well past suitable hours for a phone-call. And then it hits Patrick—it’s Tuesday. Tuesday as in Tuesday Night Fuck Club. Johnny casually dismisses the call and sets the phone back on his dresser.
Patrick can’t believe Johnny is here, having sex with him rather than Tuesday Night Fuck Club.
“You know, I know you’re capable of being nice, because you’re nice to me, when it counts,” Patrick says, finishing off the bottle and handing it back to Johnny. “So if you ever want a human relationship, you should consider not hanging up on people or being a douche over popcorn.”
Johnny takes the empty bottle from him absently, staring at him with a strange expression on his face.
“What?” Patrick asks.
Johnny laughs self-deprecatingly and drops his eyes. “I haven’t been with anybody else since we started up. And I—I wasn’t planning on doing it any time soon either.”
Patrick gapes at him. “What? But—But there’s always somebody new with you.”
Johnny shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes. “They were all boring. You’re not.”
“You’re such a jackass,” Patrick says on reflex and then colors up when he realizes what exactly that means. Before he knows it, he’s grinning like a madman. “Are you saying you want to be with me?”
Johnny finally meets his eyes. “Did you ever consider that the reason you think the sex is so good is not because I’m some ‘wunderkind’ or whatever, but because it’s us?”
Patrick shrugs, but can’t stop smiling. “I never look a gift orgasm in the mouth.”
Johnny snorts and ducks in to kiss him. “Say yes, Patrick,” he says, pulling back only when Patrick is breathless.
Patrick rolls over him, loving the way Johnny just settles Patrick more firmly against him. “Only if there’s morning sex.”
Johnny puts his hands behind his head and makes a face. “I shall consider it. You know what you’re like.”
And here's the third lesson: Johnny’s still a raging asshole to the people he dates, making fun of their stamina and all, but that’s cool, because Patrick apparently likes it.