Title: Your Eyes Are Like Starlight
Fandom: Hockey RPS
Pairing: Toews/Kane
Rating: PG
Words: 2126
Summary: It snows in Chicago, and all the cliches and fluffy things happen. No really, that is my summary.
When Jon answers the phone, it's kind of hesitant, like he wasn't sure he wanted to pick it up after seeing the call display. "Hey....?"
"It's snowing!" Patrick crows at him, followed by "Come walk with me, bitch, it's beautiful outside. I'm coming over."
He's in a cab less than a block from Jon's condo, and the driver's probably laughing at him, but he doesn't care. Jon hedges at the other end of the line, but Patrick pointedly doesn't let him. "Practice isn't until 1 tomorrow, and I know for a fact that you don't have any interesting plans for tonight, so suck it up and find your mittens. Be there in a minute."
He hangs up on Jon's indignant squawk, cackling to himself, and tips the driver as he crawls out of the cab. "Thanks," he says, and gets halfway to the door before it opens, Jon already shaking his head at him.
"I could have had very important plans," is what he says first, and Patrick grins at him unrepentantly until Jon grins back.
"Maybe, but you would have ditched them for me. I'm more fun," Patrick says.
"You're not dressed for this," is the second thing Jonny says, with a dubious glance at Patrick's lack of hat, gloves, and scarf.
"Eh," Patrick says. "It's not that cold. The snow is barely staying on the ground." He tips his head back and opens his mouth, catching a few of them on his tongue. "My jacket'll be fine, Mom."
"Don't sass me," Jon mutters, and tugs him inside by the wrist. "I'll find you a scarf, at least. Coach’ll kill you if you get a cold from something so dumb.” There's an open tote on Jon's kitchen table, and Jon tosses a scarf, hat, and a pair of gloves at him. "Here, put these on."
"Yes m-" Patrick starts to say, thinks better of it, and shoves the hat over his head. "No scarf, but I'll take the gloves."
Jon looks like he wants to argue, but doesn't, instead taking the scarf for himself and wrapping it around his neck.
His hat matches the one Patrick's head, but whatever, he doesn't care. He puts on gloves, too, and sighs at Patrick. "Alright. Let's go."
When they get outside, Patrick's glad to see the snow hasn't let up at all, falling in thick flakes at a leisurely pace, melting in the streets but lingering in the grass and on the tree branches.
Patrick gives no fucks about anyone watching him and takes off running and sliding along the sidewalk in his shoes, nearly slipping and falling on his ass but he manages to stay upright. When he looks back, Jonny’s laughing at him, hands shoved in his pockets and walking far too carefully to have any fun at all, which will not do.
“Try it,” he dares, taunting Jonny by doing it again, but this time in the opposite direction, back toward Jonny. “You are not allowed to not have fun tonight, I forbid it. Doooooo eeeeeeet,” and now Jon’s laughing even harder and Patrick props his hands on his hips, waiting for him to catch his breath before shoving at him. “Go. Do it now.”
“Fine, fine,” Jon acquiesces, and there’s a hint of a grin tugging at his lips as he takes off. He’s not nearly as skilled at Patrick is, landing ungracefully on his ass with a grunt and skidding a few more feet.
"We'll have to work on that," he says seriously, offering Jonny a hand up, and in return, Jon yanks him to the ground with a thump. "Nice," he mutters, Jon grinning at him.
Eventually they both get to their feet, dusting snow off their clothes. They walk for a block or two, not talking much, just enjoying the weather and the noise and mood. Patrick tips his head back and closes his eyes as he walks, inhaling deep, Jon's shoulder bleeding warmth into his from where they bump into each other.
There's this thing. He's been stupid over Jonny pretty much since they met.
Over the years they’ve been friends, he's gone through stages of denial, depression, anger, excitement, hope, all more than once, but the one stage that never lasts long is denial. He's almost 23; and the conclusion he's reached is this -
He can't not be in love with Jon.
It doesn't work. He's tried, and failed, tried again, and failed again. By now, it's settled deep into his bones, into his life, his mind, his thoughts, his every move. It's a part of him as much as hockey is.
He doesn't always like it, but he's grown used to it. Despite Jon's ability to be a total asshole when he's frustrated, his obsession with being healthy and his lack of knowing when he needs to relax and enjoy himself (well, that's what Patrick is for), Patrick can open his eyes, look over at Jon, and feel that ache in his stomach, the one that whispers, kiss him, do it, to his brain.
The one that he pushes away on a regular basis. It may not be a big deal to him anymore, but to Jon it would be, and Patrick likes things the way they are. Tonight is the strongest urge he's had in a while, so he has to focus hard on ignoring it, being cheeky and playful (that part isn't difficult, he loves snow and acting like a kid) and coaxing Jon into having fun.
Jon nudges him as they walk. "You're quiet."
Patrick just sticks out his tongue to catch snowflakes on it. "Plotting."
“Plotting?”
Patrick scoops up a handful of snow and hits Jon square between his shoulder blades. “Splat.”
He isn't sure when exactly they made it back home. They must not have walked as far as he thought, but maybe they got back fast because they were running from each other and trying not to get hit by more snowballs.
He's currently on his back in Jonny's front yard, snow down the back of his jacket, the front of his jacket, in his shoes, in his hair, in every uncomfortable place he can possibly think of and more, but Jon's got him pinned to the ground, knees on either side of Patrick's hips to prevent him from moving as he crushes a snowball on the top of Patrick's head with his glove.
Jon's grin is a mile wide, eyes laughing, hat mostly off and hanging ridiculously to one side. His cheeks are red from the cold, skin glistening from Patrick's own snowball to the face. Patrick thinks, goddamn it, rather helplessly, and says, "Jon," and Jon looks at him with so much affection in his eyes that it almost hurts, and he rolls off Patrick and into the grass.
"Let's make snow angels," Patrick says to the sky, and his jeans are going to get soaked and uncomfortable but he doesn't care one bit.
"Go for it," Jon says, amused, propped on his elbow and watches as Patrick does just that. "Aw, people are going to think I have kids now."
"Fuck you," Patrick says without heat, carefully getting to his feet, trying not to screw up his masterpiece. "I should add a halo. My snow angels are the best."
He's standing there, gazing down at Jonny, sprawled in the snow and looking far too good for Patrick's well-being, and Patrick is snowy and wet from head to toe and more than anything he doesn't want to go inside. He doesn't want this night to end, ever. Yeah, that probably makes him sound like a girl, but light nights like this don't happen as often anymore, and he misses them.
"We should probably go get changed," Jon says after a moment, quiet, and Patrick's heart twists in his chest. "There's a place down the street with great hot chocolate, though," he adds, hurriedly, like maybe, maybe he doesn't want this evening to be over, either.
Patrick's not sure he dares to hope.
But he nods, smiles, says, "Yum," and watches Jon grin and get to his feet, stepping around the snow angel on the ground.
Jon lets them back in the house, both of them stripping off their wet jackets and hats and shirts. Patrick knows there's a pair of his jeans somewhere from sometime, and Jon grabs those and a spare shirt for him. Once they're both done getting changed, they grab different jackets and head back out the door again.
It's still snowing, and Patrick breathes it all in, like he can absorb everything into his bones. He wishes he could. He loves this weather.
Time slips by in a sleepy, comfortable haze, the hot chocolate they get is indeed fantastic, and when they step outside, Jonny frowns down at his hands.
“What?”
"Forgot my gloves," Jon shrugs, curling his hands into fists, drops them to his sides.
"I've got mine," Patrick offers, but Jon shakes his head.
"I'll be fine."
Patrick gives him an amused nudge. "Jon."
"I'm not taking your gloves."
"Technically, they’re your gloves, and you're a dumbass, I don't know why I put up with you," Patrick tells him. He takes his off, shoves them in his pockets, and lingers half a step behind Jon before swallowing. His fingers are cool, but he wraps them around Jon's anyway, not very smoothly, not properly, like a child whose hands are too small to wrap around their dad's hand all the way so it's more like two fingers, and it feels wrong, but not in a bad way, just kind of silly, and Patrick has more important things to worry about because Jon stops, looks down and then over, expression unreadable.
He looks like he wants to say something, but Patrick can't, he can't look at Jon, not right now. His heart is pounding and he can feel Jon's skin underneath his fingertips and this is just, this is new and terrifying and he can't look at Jon when Jon inevitably asks him what the hell he's doing.
So Patrick just rolls one shoulder and keeps not looking at him, and somehow they keep walking, and Jon twists his hand, rearranging their fingers so they can slot together properly.
It’s quiet for the entire walk home.
Patrick can’t breathe.
They make their way up the sidewalk to Jon's condo, and there's a moment of even more terror that bolts through Patrick because the door is locked, but Jon fishes the key out of his pocket with his free hand and doesn't let go.
He doesn't let go.
The door closes behind them and they're standing in the doorway, breathing, and Patrick still can't look at Jon.
Jon raises their hands and says, "You going to talk to me?"
“Do I have to?” Is the first thing Patrick thinks to say, and Jon squeezes his hand, once.
“It’s probably best, yeah.”
Patrick really doesn’t want to, though. Feelings are stupid and screw everything up. It’s better if he doesn’t explain them to Jon.
“Pat.”
“Fine, you asshole,” Patrick bites out. “Feelings. I have feelings, oh my god.” He tries to take his hand back but Jon has none of it, gripping tighter and refusing to budge. “Let go.”
“Why?” Jon asks mildly. “What kind of feelings?”
“You are a total asshole.” Patrick’s ears are burning, now, his skin is hot all over and he doesn’t want to have this conversation, ever. “This isn’t funny, Jon.”
“I never said it was.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Jon steps right in close. “I’m saying you should talk to me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” Jon gazes at him intently. “Because you’re so sure you think you know exactly what’s going on in my head that you can’t tell me what’s going on? I can’t see that going very well for you. Is it working?”
“Been working for the past three years,” Patrick mumbles, eyes slipping shut.
A pair of lips press softly into the spot between his index finger and thumb. “And now?”
That’s when Patrick looks up, startled at the contact, straight into Jon’s dark eyes, and gets kissed until he can’t breathe properly. Slow, deep, and so very incredibly thorough, it leaves his knees trembling and his fingertips pressing into the back of Jon’s hand, Jon lets him go after a long few minutes, never moving too far away as he waits for Patrick to react.
Patrick breathes out shakily. “Fuck.”
Jon says, “Do you want to stay for a while?” A little bit off, a little bit strange sounding, but an invitation nonetheless. “Do you want to come in?”
Patrick hesitates.
“I want you to stay. Please say yes.”
So he says, “Yes.”
Jon’s smile is dazzling.