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Johnny realizes, far too late, fingers of his left hand still tangled with Patrick’s and his right hand sunk into his disheveled curls that he had absolutely no clue what he was getting into.

*

The Chicago-based charity’s slogan is “Helping Hands Raise Awareness” and when Blackhawk’s front office asked Johnny and Patrick if they were willing to be involved in the wake of the cup win, neither of them had a good reason to say no to an organization that was trying to combat teen bullying.

Neither of them read the fine print.

It wasn’t clear until after the paperwork had been signed that they had both just agreed to hold hands, without letting go, from 9 AM to 9 PM, with a television crew following them around Chicago, documenting their journey.

“What?” Johnny asked, pen still stuck on the tail-end of his signature, digging deep into the page. Patrick’s signature, 88 and all, lies scribbled out fresh just above his own name. “Wait, hand holding? I thought this was some charity gala thing…”

He looks over at Patrick, frozen with his cellphone in his hands, a game of bejeweled static upon the screen. He looks equally mortified and shocked.

“You aren’t familiar with the handholding marathons?” one of the smart young lawyer’s from Blackhawk’s legal team asked. She glances back and forth between them. “It’s their niche—hence the ‘helping hands.’ What did you think we were asking you to do?”

Johnny looks down at the contract, where the words HAND HOLDING MARATHON written about seven times in the second paragraph of section 4.1 now seem to leap off the page. “I don’t—” he starts.

She doesn’t let him finish. “Not sure you can handle it? You are of course welcome to withdraw your support.”

Patrick snorts and sinks down in his chair. “Oh, here we go.”

Johnny glares at him and then looks back at the lawyer. He wishes he knew her name now. Twelve hours of holding Patrick’s hand without pause in order to raise awareness and teach people about acceptance. Jesus H, he’d have to teach himself about acceptance first. It’s a go-down-in-flames level terrible idea, especially when the cameras catch the part where he murders Patrick live. He shouldn’t agree. And certainly not because she double-dog dared him. He is far too self-aware for that tactic.

“I can handle it,” he says evenly.

“What about me?” Patrick mutters under his breath.

“What about you?” Johnny mutters back.

Patrick snorts again. “This is going to be wonderful,” he says, but Johnny notes that he doesn’t attempt to renege.

8:27 AM…
They meet at the UC about 30 minutes beforehand so that the cameras can set up and they can mic Johnny and Patrick up. McDonough and Rogowin are both there to watch the proceedings, as are two representatives from the charity. They give a short spiel for the cameras stating what they’re about, how teen suicide rates continue to climb upwards, and how grateful they are that Toews and Kane are willing to make such a high-profile stand against bullying.

Johnny numbly makes some crack about it being barely different from having Patrick riding his coattails on the ice, everybody laughs obligingly and then it’s go-time.

Patrick extends his hand and Johnny reaches out with his left, allowing Patrick to snag it. He waggles his brows at Johnny suggestively.

“I should just be glad his palms don’t sweat,” Patrick says to the cameras and Johnny tugs with their joined hands, pulling Patrick nearly off his feet, in retaliation.

“Careful, little man, you won’t be able to run away if I want to put you in a headlock,” he says.

“Hah,” Patrick says. “What time is it?”

“9:01,” the cameraman obligingly answers.

Johnny shakes his head. 719 minutes to go. This is the last time he tries to be a good citizen.

9:02 AM...

The first item on the agenda is breakfast, and they tuck themselves into the backseat of a car, their hands resting on the seat between them. One of the camera guys, Andrew? Edward? Something like that, keeps a camera pointed at them the whole time. Patrick attempts to send a text message left-handed and makes a noise when he keeps stabbing the wrong buttons.

“Fuck,” he says, blowing out a breath. Johnny sees the string of garbled words he’s typed out and laughs at him. Patrick uses their joined hands to punch Johnny in the thigh, grinding Johnny’s own knuckles down into the muscle. “You definitely got the better end of the deal.”

“Ow, quit it!” Johnny reaches over with his right hand, taking the phone from him. “I’ll type, you dictate.”

“Just a message to my mom – ‘It begins. Have national guard at the ready.’”

Johnny rolls his eyes, but dutifully types out the message. Patrick shakes his head when Johnny attempts to hand the phone back. Instead, he lifts his hips, signaling to tuck the phone into his right front pocket. Johnny takes a deep breath--patience, young padawan--but obligingly stuffs the phone inside. Although with a little more force than necessary.

The car slows to a stop in Wicker Park, letting them out in front of Birchwood Kitchen. Johnny’s never been, but Patrick waves their joined hands and jokes that he came here on a date once and it seems appropriate. The restaurant is a little skeptical of the cameras, but when they hear it’s for charity, they get seated right away at a table outside in the sun.

Because he thinks ahead, like several moves in advance, so many moves he’s pleased with his own genius, he orders a sandwich so he can eat one handed. Patrick lacks his foresight and gets waffles. He realizes very quickly he needs Johnny’s help to cut them up. However, using the knife together proves arduous and the waffle nearly goes flying off the plate on two separate occasions while they attempt to get it down to bite-sized pieces. Soon, Johnny’s laughing so hard tears are pouring out of his eyes and his sides ache. Patrick runs through every expletive that he knows.

“Get it together, asswipe,” he says, clenching Johnny’s fist down on the knife. He finally gets his first bite into his mouth when a hipster girl who Johnny would bet even money doesn’t know them or hockey either asks disdainfully what the cameras are all about.

“We’re doing a documentary to raise awareness about bullying in schools,” Johnny says, helpfully dabbing at the corner of Patrick’s mouth with his napkin where white smear of powdered sugar lingered. Patrick sticks his tongue out at him, but then jerks his head towards his glass of orange juice so that Johnny can hand it to him.

She looks back and forth between them uncertainly.

Johnny shamelessly steals one of the charity volunteer’s lines: “The idea is, if we can reach out to people, let them know they’re not alone, perhaps we’ll realize we don’t have to hurt one another.”

“Word,” Patrick adds, bringing their joined hands up in a miniature salute.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought you might’ve been somebody famous.”

Johnny presses his lips together to keep from cracking up. “Nope, not famous,” he manages with a smile.

Patrick chokes on a piece of his waffle.

“Sorry to disappoint,” Patrick says, voice ragged, after taking a deep swallow of water in easy reach of his left hand to clear his throat.

10:41 am

Johnny has to revise his previous assessment of Patrick’s foresight, because after they settle the bill, he digs a list out of his pocket with scribbled activities written on it. It’s mostly bullshit and impossible (rock climbing? canoeing? handstands?) Johnny is positive he only suggested those to be a complete pain in the ass. But at the top of the list he’s scrawled out ‘river tour, buy tickets.’

“Did you get tickets?” Johnny asks. It’s a good idea. In all of Johnny’s years here, he has yet to do it.

“Hell, yeah, I did, Mrs. Kane didn’t raise no stupid sons.”

Johnny has so many things he could say to that one. Instead he just shakes his head. “Did you make a reservation time in particular?”

Patrick grins.

Of course when they arrive, they rapidly realize he forgot about having the camera crew along with them.

“Uh, oops?” Patrick says, looking at the crew with a sheepish smile. “No, it’s okay, it’s okay, I got this.”

Without warning, he drags Johnny over to the ticket window to purchase more tickets. He needs help extracting his wallet, and requires both of their hands to sign his stupid PKane 88 signature. Johnny has never felt so put upon in his life. The final product barely comes out more than scribbles. Johnny hopes Patrick’s credit card company doesn’t contest it. That would be shitty for the River Tour people. The crew can’t stop sniggering.

“Who thought it was a good idea that you hold my right hand?” Patrick bitches as he leads Johnny up the gangplank of the boat.

“Whose idea? You just grabbed my hand when they called time,” Johnny replies, squeezing his fingers. “Not my fault you didn’t think about which one you actually wanted to be stuck with all day long.”

Patrick pulls at him threateningly close to the railing, making Johnny trip. “Shit, son, be careful,” he says, tugging Johnny back upright.

Johnny raises his eyebrows in warning. Patrick smirks back.

It’s nice on the river once they get themselves settled. It’s a beautiful day, just a bit of a breeze coming off the water. They sit next to each other by necessity and make it through most of the tour before the guide calls them out. Patrick waves their joined hands again and Johnny tries to sink lower in his seat, but before long they’re swarmed upon by tourists who probably don’t even watch hockey, but might’ve seen the banners of their faces up at O’hare.

“Is this a promo thing?” a guy in a Lakers jersey asks them.

“Something like that,” Patrick replies as Johnny signs for the both of them on the guy’s Wendella tours leaflet, pen in his right, before switching it to his left for their ridiculous joint attempt. “We’re holding hands to stop teen bullying.”

“For how long?” the guy’s wife asks.

Johnny has to tug their joined hands up to look at his watch. “Nearly nine more hours.”

“Wow,” she says and then looks at her kids who are playfully pushing and shoving at each other, getting progressively rowdier as they go. “We might have to try this at home.”

Johnny and Patrick both laugh as the little girl sticks out her tongue at her brother and shouts, “Not doing it!” at the top of her lungs.

“Oh hey, I just got a text,” Patrick interrupts, jutting his hip out.

Johnny sighs and reaches in his pocket to pull out his phone, holding it out to Patrick to read it.

The guy and his wife stare at them, bemused. She says, “You’re pretty durn cute.”

Patrick grins at them, eyes crinkling. “We try.”

12:04 PM…

They kill some time on Michigan avenue, first doing Garrett’s because Patrick decides he wants the Blackhawks tin they’ve started selling.

“Listen, when we first started all they had was Bears and Sox! This is an achievement.”

“The Garrett’s Caramel Corn award,” Johnny replies darkly. “I never could’ve hoped for so great an honor.”

He makes an executive decision as they troop past Nordstrom.

“What the hell?” Patrick asks as Johnny abruptly reverses directions.

“We’re getting you some new ties.”

“My ties are the bomb,” Patrick snaps back, dragging on Johnny’s arm, trying to pull him away from the door.

“Your ties, simply put, are visual blasphemy,” Johnny replies, going for the revolving door and realizing far too late that that means Patrick has to follow him inside the little cubicle.

“Good work,” Patrick says, snorting with laughter, nose pressed to Johnny’s neck so that they fit.

Of course Patrick gravitates straight towards the night sky Topman printed tie and when Johnny pulls it out of his hands, he looks at him, open-mouthed and says, “Really, dude?” and very deliberately picks up a $15 Tie Bar tie printed with Skulls.

“Kaner, you have money, what the hell are you doing?” he says, spinning Patrick away from the display and then holding him at arm’s length so that he can pick out some ties in peace. The two Nordstrom employees watching them in bemused horror start laughing.

There are a bunch of nice Armani ties in easy reach. Patrick rolls his eyes when Johnny holds them up.

“I got this,” Johnny replies and starts draping them over Patrick’s shoulder so that he can see what they look like matched to his eyes. Luckily, Patrick has a soft heathered grey t-shirt on that doesn’t clash terribly with any of Johnny’s choices. A steel grey and powdered blue one stands out.

“Take this,” he says, handing it to the sales girl before Patrick can open his mouth to naysay it. A few moments later, he does the same with a herringbone YSL tie.

Patrick picks up a loud multi-colored Zegna silk tie printed to look like stained glass or something and dangles it in front of Johnny’s face. “How about this one?”

Johnny raises his brows. “If you want to spend 265 dollars on that, be my guest.”

“It does bring out the lavender in your eyes,” the salesgirl says.

Johnny will treasure the horrified look on Patrick’s face for the rest of his days.

12:39 PM…

“Yo, after that torture,” Patrick says and punctuates it by digging his nails into Johnny’s palm, “I get to choose. And, It’s gonna be way better than that.”

“What did you have in mind?” Johnny replies dryly. Patrick made him carry the Nordstroms' bag when they left and he swings it at him.

Patrick skips out of the way. “Hookers and blow makes for a nice start.”

What he actually wants, it turns out, is a billiard hall. Item number Six on his list. He makes Johnny look up the nearest one.

There are a couple of guys playing when they walk inside. They look up, slightly hostile at being interrupted, but when Patrick explains to them what they’re doing, they warm up a little, tickled with the notion of playing with two hockey stars who have to hold hands.

“Let’s make it interesting,” Patrick says and Johnny groans. He’s good at pool, better than Johnny, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t going to be a total disaster trying to play it as a unit, holding hands. Patrick ignores him, reaching for his wallet. He’s learned by now. He put in his left pocket after paying for his ties, and he gets it out without Johnny’s help, deftly managing to extract five twenties from the bill fold.

The two guys look blithely amused rather than totally pissed off at Patrick’s bluster, so Johnny’s calling that a victory. When they see how much Johnny and Patrick are bickering they agree to lower the handicap to 2 out of 5.

“Really human of you,” Johnny says, syrupy sweet. They'll be lucky to win even 1 out of 5. Patrick elbows him in the side. Johnny clears his throat and says to Patrick, “How are we gonna do this?”

He uses his right hand as his backhand when he plays usually and it proves too difficult to balance the cue on their joined hands, so that means Patrick’s in the driver’s seat for this one.

“This is gonna be such a disaster,” Johnny says. Patrick wraps his hand around Johnny’s on the back of the pool cue and bends over the table.

“Shut up and help me break,” he says, forming a closed bridge with his fingers and looping the cue through it.

Johnny sighs and obliges, trying to keep the cue level at the strange angle. It goes better than he expected. They manage to pot both a stripe and a solid.

“Solid,” Johnny says at the same time that Patrick calls, “Stripe.”

“Well, which is it?” one of the guys says, staring at them.

Patrick chalks the cue up and then looks pointedly at Johnny. “Stripe,” he says, “like that boring fucking tie.”

Johnny lets it go. He realized from the first break that even with this less accurate left hand, they’re better at this than they thought. The other two guys realize it too and clearly rethinking that handicap and the 100 dollar bet. He can’t exactly clue Patrick in, so he deliberately messes up just enough throughout the first and the second game, resisting slightly as Patrick’s stroking and then wobbling a little underneath his palm whenever he goes to line up a tricky shot.

“Tough,” one of the guys says.

The other guy shares a glance with him and then looks back at Johnny and Patrick. “You could still turn it around in the next three games.”

“Yeah?” Johnny says. “Our dignity can only hope.”

“Stranger things have happened,” the first guy tells them.

“What about putting another hundred on it?” Johnny asks.

The second guy laughs. “It’s your money.”

Patrick stares at him. “Hello, Captain Reckless,” he says under his breath.

“Ah, live a little,” Johnny whispers back. “Not like we aren’t good for it.”

It’s their turn to break again and when Patrick bends over to line up, Johnny carefully says, “Why don’t we try switching this up? Use a v-bridge.”

“What?” Patrick asks, staring up at him, still bent over the table.

Johnny lays his hand on the felt and mimics the v-bridge with his fingers.

“Oh,” Patrick says, readjusting his left hand into the same position, he looks at the pool cue resting on top of his knuckles and then back at Johnny uncertainly. “You sure?”

“Mmmhm,” Johnny says.

“There goes 200 bucks,” Patrick says, lining up to break. The two guys laugh.

This time, Johnny doesn’t jam him up, and the break pockets the 7 and 2 in the left and right corner pockets respectively. Patrick cleans up the table in 5 economical moves.

“8 ball, side-pocket,” Patrick announces triumphantly, just before they sink it together.

The two guys stare at the table blankly. “There goes $200,” the second guy says, parroting Patrick. He and his friend laugh to show there’s no hard feelings.

1:45 PM…

Patrick stops dead in his tracks as they’re making their way to the door.

“Oh, fffff--” he cuts himself off when he sees the cameras dead on them.

“What?”

Patrick leans in, lips accidentally skimming Johnny’s jaw. Johnny flinches but Patrick doesn't notice. “I have to piss. I can’t hold it anymore.”

Johnny looks at him and he looks at the camera. “Yo, what’s the deal on bathroom breaks?”

The director guy, Ron, shrugs. “We won’t follow you in? You gotta keep holding hands though.”

Well, that’s lovely. Johnny narrows his eyes at Patrick. “You are not allowed to take a shit. I am not holding your hand through that.”

Patrick lifts both hands in supplication. “Number 1 only,” he promises, “but Christ, can we hurry up? I’ve been putting it off for ages.”

Johnny lets Patrick lead him to the bathroom. Ron waves at them and then laughs when Johnny gives him the finger.

The toilet is thankfully on the left side of the bathroom, so Johnny doesn’t end up mashed up against a grimy billiard bar wall while Patrick relieves himself. Patrick inelegantly fumbles with his fly.

“Fuckin’ help me out, man,” he says finally.

“I wish they were here to see this,” Johnny tells him, meaning the cameras. “The great Patrick Kane can’t get his pants down.”

Patrick looks like he’s considering dunking Johnny in the toilet bowl, so Johnny finally says, “Alright, alright,” and pushes in close, so that he can help him pop the button and then drag the zipper of his fly down.

“You need me to hold it?” he bitches, eyes determinedly on the ceiling as Patrick’s pulls himself free of his boxers.

Patrick scoffs. “I’m not letting you near my dick.”

The sound of the stream hitting the water echoes in the room and Patrick lets out a contented sigh. Johnny is suddenly conscious of how up in Patrick’s space he is, while he has his dick out in full view. He’s been close to Patrick before. He’s been in Patrick’s arms before, but without several solid layers of hockey pads and the jubilation at scoring a goal between them it’s a little uncomfortable. He’s so close he can feel the heat coming off of Patrick’s skin.

He leans away, unintentionally pulling Patrick off his balance.

“Quit it,” Patrick says.

“Oh, sorry, are you uncomfortable?” Johnny replies snidely.

About to give Johnny shit, Patrick turns to look at him, a thing a man never fucking does in the restroom. They both realize at the same time. Johnny snaps his head back to face forward.

“Uh,” Johnny says.

Patrick clears his throat. He finishes up and tucks himself back in. “Alright, maestro, I need your hand again.”

Johnny sighs and helps him do his pants up.

“You know, while you’re here, you should probably go too.”

Johnny laughs. “I’m good.”

“You really wanna do this again?” Patrick points out.

“Jesus, fine,” Johnny says. They reverse positions so that Johnny can stand in front of the toilet. Patrick winds up behind him, holding Johnny’s arm awkwardly back behind him. At least he manages to get his own pants down without help.

When he says as much, Patrick replies with “Gee, you’re so talented, Johnny.”

“You know it, baby,” Johnny replies.

“Well?” Patrick says after a moment.

“Shut up, you’re ruining my concentration.”

Patrick makes an incredulous noise. “You need to concentrate to piss? Wow, this explains so much.”

He waits another moment, now aware of the pressure in his bladder, but nothing is forthcoming.

He blows out a breath. “I can’t do it with you listening.”

Patrick chuckles. “Princess,” he teases and then maneuvers himself around Johnny, careful to fold his arm up against his back, so he doesn’t wrench it out of its socket and then reaches over to turn the tap on. “There. You happy?”

Johnny doesn’t bother with a response. He’s finally able to go. He just has to not think very hard about how Patrick’s pushed tight behind him, his twisted left-arm sandwiched between them. He’s taking a leak and it feels insanely intimate. He tries to restrain a shudder and fails.

“You okay?” Patrick asks softly, breath drifting over the knob in Johnny’s spine just exposed by his t-shirt.

“Fuck off.”

Johnny finally finishes his business and gets himself put back together again, but now of course they’ve got to navigate the sink and washing their hands together.

“Okay,” Johnny says, lifting their clasped hands. “It’s not like this touched anything, how about we just do my right and your left.”

“Ugh, gross,” Patrick says, but complies after a moment, soaping up their hands for the both of them.

“Just don’t stick your fingers in mouth after, c’mon.”

Patrick stops him before they leave to grab a paper towel out of the dispenser and uses it to open the door.

“You are that dude,” Johnny says wonderingly. “How did I not know you were that dude?”

“Shut up,” Patrick grumbles, tossing the now crumpled paper towel into the wastebasket.

“Ahem,” Ron says. “You ready?”

Johnny can tell he’s judging them for how long it took them in there. He should try having to hold hands with his buddy while he takes a piss. That shit ain’t easy. Johnny glares at him and Ron grins back.

Patrick’s blushing a little Johnny notes. What the hell is that about? He clears his throat and shrugs. “As we’ll ever be.”

2:27 PM…

Johnny feels he deserves cotton candy, so he’s fucking buying himself some cotton candy.

“You’re not afraid of heights are you?” Patrick asks as Johnny pays for his pink spun-sugar confection.

“What? No, I just want some candy.” When he looks over he finds Patrick staring up at the Ferris wheel. He’s gnawing at his lower lip pretty intently.

“Kaner, are you afraid of heights?”

“No! Fuck you,” Patrick shoots back too quickly.

“It was just a suggestion that they gave, we don’t have to do it,” Johnny points out. Johnny had kind of liked the idea. The wind off the water was nice in the midday heat, the skyline is always gorgeous. He likes Navy Pier. It’s better at night, but hell, if this was on offer now, it was better than the suggestion they go play laser tag. How that would’ve gone down, Johnny doesn’t want to think about.

“Fuck off,” Patrick replies.

Patrick determinedly drags him over to the line, and Johnny struggles along behind him, trying to wolf down his cotton candy as fast as possible. They get pulled out to get on the ferris wheel before the line is through, because, after only a few moments, people recognize them and starts causing a commotion. Now that they’re waiting for the empty car to get level with their little group, Patrick, who was clearly hoping for some more time to work himself up to it, has gone a little pale.

“Okay, so we’re clearly not doing the Skydeck next,” he says, gently leading Patrick forward. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Patrick’s hands have gone clammy and Johnny gives him a reassuring squeeze. He doesn’t acknowledge it, but Johnny sees his shoulders relax. They have an awkward moment trying to climb onto the moving car, Patrick falling into Johnny as the camera crew clambers on behind them.

“Whoa,” Johnny says, bracing Patrick up, free arm slung around his waist. A billion things jump into focus, the way their mouths are uncomfortably close, the bright, vibrant blue of Patrick’s eyes, how Johnny can feel his heart beat where they’re pressed chest to chest. “Got you,” he says lamely.

“Yeah,” Patrick says with a soft dry laugh, before flinging himself down on the bench. He stays well away from the sides of the car, as much as he can get away with while still keeping space between him and Johnny. The camera crew, the three that fit on the car besides them, look back at them, amused.

Johnny raises a single eyebrow. They seem to find this even more hilarious.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s stroking the back of Patrick’s hand, thumb rubbing in slow circles, until they’ve cleared the apex and Patrick starts to come back to himself, all smiles and bravado rushing to the fore, the closer they get towards the ground.

3:41 PM…

Johnny really, really wants to do Shedd, but the crew explains there’s no way they’ll be able to get in there with the cameras, and then they’re a bit at a loss. What next? If they can’t do Shedd, that means they can’t do Adler, or the Museum of Science and Industry either.

They had a late lunch of hot dogs on the pier, so eating is out, they already did one boat excursion, so another one seems redundant. Patrick vetoes bowling, and then clearly wishes he hadn’t, when the crew produces a set of rollerblades and suggests they go for a skate down the lake front.

“Holding hands?” he asks incredulously, voice climbing in pitch and volume. “Holding hands!”

“I am so unhappy with all of my life choices,” Johnny says, staring at the two pairs of skates, hoping beyond hope they’ll disappear. They do not disappear. So he skates for a living. Just because he has to hold Patrick Kane’s hand on a strip of concrete at the edge of a lake on rollerblades doesn’t mean he’s risking injury and/or death.

Patrick says, unnecessarily, “This is a terrible idea.”

As it turns out, the hardest part isn’t skating around, dodging the cyclists and joggers on the uneven pavement, or the fact that they won’t be able to let go if they need to. It’s tying up the damn laces on the rollerblades.

They have to go one by one until all four skates are on. Johnny never even thought about how much a pair of laces got switched back and forth between his two hands until he couldn’t do it anymore.

“We deserve a medal,” Patrick says, when they’re done, slumping back on the steps. “That was brutal.”

The knots look pretty ridiculous, but they’ll hold. Getting up proves to be another issue. Johnny has to haul himself using the railing on the stairs, all the while making sure the wheels don’t slide right out from under him. Patrick sniggers when it takes him a few tries. Johnny glares at him and then yanks him to his feet so fast, the skates nearly go out from under him.

“Yeah? Who’s laughing now?”

“Alright, alright, you are the master,” Patrick says, clutching at Johnny’s forearm with his left hand.

Once they’re out on a smooth stretch of pavement though, it’s alright. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to do this, if they weren’t used to skating next to each other already, but once they get going it gets pretty easy. They are taking too much space though. They keep having to shove together, every time a cyclist calls “ON YOUR LEFT”

Finally, exasperated, Patrick skates a few strides forward, and spins backwards to face Johnny. He grabs Johnny’s other hand, skating them along in reverse the same way he’d tow a girlfriend around.

“I kind of hate you right now,” Johnny tells him.

Patrick grins. “I’ll bet, babe.”

“Careful, there’s a crack in the pavement ahead,” Johnny says, dropping Patrick’s left hand to grab his hip and direct him around it.

“I feel like a figure skater,” Patrick complains, but his eyes are strangely intent upon Johnny’s. He doesn’t even check over his shoulder, just trusts Johnny to navigate him around it.

Johnny drops his other hand. “Whose fault is that?”

4:15 PM…

Afterwards, skates wrestled off, they pass out for a little while on a stretch of grass in the sun. Johnny’s just on the edge of sleep when Patrick shifts his hand in Johnny’s grip to lace their fingers together.

Johnny blinks his eyes open, wondering what Patrick’s thinking, but Patrick’s got his arm thrown over his face to block out the sun and he can’t see his expression.

4:49 PM...

They get on the Red Line at Roosevelt, Johnny tugging Patrick through the turnstile. He hasn’t ridden the L in years, not since before the first Stanley cup. The beginning rush hour commuters with their headphones on and their iPads out barely acknowledge them, not even with the camera crew stumbling over people to get into position.

“This is wild,” Patrick says, looking around at all the people who don’t even seem to see them. For the last couple of days, everywhere they go, they’ve been mobbed.

Patrick snags a pole to hang on to, tugging Johnny to a stop. When the train starts moving, Johnny’s forced to place his right hand above Patrick’s for balance. Patrick grins at him.

“Just can’t ever keep your feet under you,” Patrick tsk tsks. Johnny doesn’t have a lot of options here. He could kick Patrick, or headbutt him--that’s starting to sound like an increasingly good option. He settles for rolling his eyes and looking somewhere else when Patrick laughs.

At the first stop an old lady laden with shopping bags passes them. Just as Patrick is nodding a polite hello at her, she reaches out and pinches Johnny’s butt, making him jerk and nearly let go of Patrick’s hand.

“What the ffff--” he says, only cutting himself off at the last moment, because the last thing he needs is ‘Blackhawks Captain Caught Swearing At the Elderly.’ as a headline.

Patrick digs his fingernails into the back of Johnny’s hand.

“Such a cute couple,” she cackles, before creaking out of the car.

“Be honest,” Patrick says, cracking up, “How many times has that happened to you?”

Johnny really, really wants to headbutt him.

5:15 PM…

They have a dinner reservation, but that’s not for a while, so Patrick pulls them into a used book store.

“Are you looking for something in specific?” Johnny asks. Patrick hasn’t historically read much fiction, his famous foray into Twilight aside, but he recently finished Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl after his sister had talked about it.

“Did you know Practical Magic was a book first?” Patrick says over his shoulder, towing Johnny along behind him.

“Uh...no,” Johnny says. Johnny’s not even sure he knows what Practical Magic is. He’s guessing a movie.

“Yeah, Alice Hoffman. Jess says it’s really different than the movie, but I’m still kinda interested.”

Johnny nods like he understands. They check out the romance section there, but the only Hoffman book is Here On Earth, Patrick reads the back and then discards it. “Nope, don’t think so.”

There’s a lurid pink romance novel next to it with a stacked lady arching into a Fabio-type. Patrick meets Johnny’s eyes and then pulls it off the shelf. He cracks it open to somewhere in the middle of the book, holding the pages spread. Johnny can’t see the text.

Patrick’s eyes skim back and forth, reading. Johnny sighs, bored. Looking at the other titles--Fevered Dreams, His Forever, Her Charming Rogue, A Night With Lady Lorimer, Last Chance Harbor, Happiest with You. Some of the authors have 30 or 40 titles to their name. He wonders how they can possibly churning them out that fast--unless they’re all in their 90s or something. That’s a horrifying thought.

Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat.

“What?” Johnny asks.

“This shit is surprisingly hot,” Patrick tells him.

Johnny shoots him a withering look. “C’mon now.”

Patrick nods vigorously. “No, I’m serious.” He flips a few pages back and starts reading, “ ‘He tugged her back into his lap, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. Spread out over his thighs, wanton and open, his hardened manhood slid over the soft hot center--’”

Johnny snorts.

Patrick elbows him, not hard, because he has to wrench Johnny’s arm to manage it, but enough to show Johnny he means business. “Just hang on, man.” He finds his place again. “He parted her folds with two blunt fingers, scissoring them wide, thick knuckles bumping against her delicate walls. It had been barely hours, but his fingers were so large, even as her body accepted them she felt the stretch. He thumbed that heady sharp place, the stiffened bud of sensation, making her shudder helplessly in his arms.’“

Patrick has a good reading voice, slow and even, steady over the words. The book is still pretty freakin’ goofy--stiffened bud of sensation? delicate walls? He’s not sure what’s got Patrick so excited.

Patrick reads on, “‘When he flexed his hips, positioning the head of his thick member at her entrance, tugging her thighs wider with his free hand, she didn’t yet know what he meant to do. Soon he was snapping his hips up, impaling her on him, fingers still buried deep inside, cock sliding alongside them. She choked and threw her head back onto his shoulder, body arched at an impossible angle, hips tipped forward, trying to get more, more of him inside.’”

The whole time he’s reading, he’s stroking along one of the bones in Johnny’s hand. It’s just the edge of his nail, lightly, seemingly totally unconscious. Johnny swallows, throat suddenly dry. He must tighten his grip on Patrick’s hand, because Patrick meets his eyes as he reads out the next bit,‘ “ That’s it,” he said, voice soft and she huffed on harsh breaths, “Just like that.”’

Johnny pictures it, sprawling a girl out on his lap, reverse cowgirl, taking her like that, with the hand he was using to finger her open still holding her spread wide for his cock. Okay, yeah, that is pretty hot.

“‘She was pinned on his manhood, stuffed full with it and his fingers. He hadn’t even moved yet. She couldn’t stop her trembling--’” Patrick breaks off all of a sudden and looks over Johnny’s shoulder. “That’s not going on camera right?” he asks.

Johnny turns his head to see the entire camera crew arrayed behind them, looking just as intent upon Patrick’s reading as Johnny was. He forgot they were even here. He forgot that they were just doing more of this stupid gimmick. He knows his face must be flaming up in a horrible blush--how does one just forget that they’re being tailed everywhere by an entire camera crew?

Ginny clears her throat. “Well, we’ve gotta keep it family friendly…” she trails off.

“Right, right,” Ron says, looking very thoughtful. “Have to keep in mind what we’re here for.”

Patrick doesn’t get the Alice Hoffman book, but he does end up buying the pink romance novel.

“It’s only $.99,” he explains at the register, “almost nothing.”

7:35 PM…

The dinner reservation is a no-go. The only table they have calls for them to sit across from each other, there’s not a single easy to eat single-handed dish on the menu, not even a soup. The camera crew, despite the advanced permission they got, is disturbing all of the other patrons.

They end up packing it in and going for pizza at Lou Malnati’s, despite the wait (which surely speeds along faster for them than anybody else, but it’s still pretty damn slow), because it was close by and Patrick suggested it. The crush of other people waiting for their tables provides a certain sort of privacy, and the cameras, for once, seem to be preventing a lot of people from approaching.

Johnny doesn’t know what it is, that fucking romance novel maybe, or even just skating along on rollerblades, or that whole thing on the ferris wheel, but Johnny is so freakin’ aware of Patrick next to him--the light brush of his arm against Johnny’s when he moves, his hand, still loosely tangled with his. Fuck, he is one good thought away from a truly mortifying hard-on. So fucking embarrassing. He can only pray that Patrick doesn’t notice.

They eat too much, probably drink a little too much beer--it’s been a long day. The buzz goes straight to his head. Everything Patrick says makes him break down into slightly hysterical laughter. Johnny would be the first to admit it’s been hilarious and mostly fun, certainly not the epic disaster he thought, but it's still been rough, having to be so mentally on all day for the cameras, having to navigate every simple task with Patrick attached at the hip. More draining than a conditioning stint.

By the time they pay the check, Patrick’s yawning into his other hand, eyes dull and glassy.

Johnny looks at him and then over to the camera crew. “I don’t know if you guys had anymore adventures planned…” he says uncertainly.

“It’s your show,” Ron tells him.

“Right,” Johnny says, epically, pathetically grateful. “Okay, well, let’s go back to my apartment. You can watch Patrick and me attempt to play video games.”

8:42 PM…

They’re in the home-stretch, and hell. Johnny’s given in. He’s so disastrously turned on his skin feels like it’s on fire, and he’s starting to feel like one simple distracted cursory brush over his dick would get him over the edge.

He’s not even really sure what it is. Trying to share a game controller had wound up with one-handed wrestling on the couch. It was a disaster of a plan that mostly involved shoving each other and ended with Johnny pinned beneath Patrick who wouldn’t stop tickling him.

“Fuck you,” Johnny shouts over and over, when he has enough breath. His sides and face ache from the unremitting, inexorable laughter. And still the horrible anticipation of each new assault on his sides can’t take away from the fact that he's halfway hard in his pants. He hopes, twisting, trying to think of a way to work himself free, that Patrick can’t feel it. “Help me out!” he cries to the camera crew.

“Can’t interfere,” Ron replies, cheerfully.

“Demons! All of you,” Johnny cries as Patrick got him in the delicate hollow of his armpit. “Fuck, fuck, Patrick, stopppppp, I’m gonna piss.”

“Admit it, I’m the Assassin’s Creed champ!” Patrick shouts, moving to his belly.

Johnny wheezes desperately. Finally, reaching down for resources he didn’t know he had, he heaves Patrick off of him. Promptly forgetting that he and Patrick are still attached at the hand. They fall off the couch in an ungainly heap, Johnny knocking the wind out of Patrick’s lungs when he lands hard on top of him.

Patrick gasps, a desperate sounding choke as he tries to get air back.

“That’s what you get!” Johnny says, remorseless, but he raises himself up off Patrick to give him space to breathe. His hips shift against Patrick’s and the stars align, and the next thing he knows he’s rubbing his accidental erection straight on Patrick’s belly.

Patrick, still struggling to breathe, face red, lips parted around quick pained swallows of air, feels it. Something solidifies in his gaze, staring back at Johnny with intent. There’s no mistaking what that is, poking just to the right of his iliac crest, sliding along that perfect groove. Johnny freezes above him, straddling his waist.

“You guys okay?” Ron asks.

Patrick nods quickly, tilting his head back to meet Ron’s eyes. His breaths are still shallow, but his color has started to return to normal. Johnny doesn’t know why he can’t make himself move, or do something, anything to break the moment.

Patrick gazes up at him and then he very deliberately raises his hips, an answering hardness brushing Johnny’s ass. “Fucking get off me,” he chokes out, at the same time, voice ragged. But the look on his face doesn’t match the tone.

Johnny scrambles to his knees trying to get control of himself. He can’t go far, they still have at least fifteen minutes left to do this, and by god he’s not giving up after 11 hours and change. Desperately hoping nobody’s aimed the camera at his midsection, or Patrick’s for that matter, he tries to maneuver himself to put a little space between them. Johnny shouldn’t drop his eyes to Patrick’s fly, but he can’t help himself, almost like he has to reassure himself that it’s there. It’s not horrifically noticeable under the denim, but Johnny can definitely see the flare of his cockhead raised against the placket of his pants.

He sucks in a breath.

Patrick levers himself into a sitting position, very carefully keeping his eyes trained over Johnny’s shoulder. “You’re heavy, Jesus,” he says.

“You can only blame yourself,” Johnny says, keeping his voice even.

“Shaddup,” Patrick replies. They’re crunched together disjointedly with Johnny’s arm extended all the way, and Patrick facing the wrong way to be truly comfortable. They have to climb to their feet to get themselves sorted out into a more natural position.

“Ten minutes!” Ron calls.

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, turning his head to give Johnny a significant look, a puckish smile lighting his face. Johnny distrusts that smile.

9:17 PM…

It took FOREVER to get the crew to leave after their twelve hours were finally up and they could let go of each other at last. Johnny shook his hand out gratefully, watched them turn off the cameras, and then started shooing them towards the door. Patrick watched, sprawled out on his couch, in amused silence.

Which brings them to now.

As soon as he walks back into his living room, the urge to put his hand back in Patrick’s is strong, magnetic almost. Weird and annoying as it was, at a certain point it started to feel commonplace. Patrick’s hasn’t moved from his position on the couch. He lies there, one palm flat on his chest, the other resting, open and relaxed on his thigh, watching Johnny walk towards him.

There’s only a few inches of space by Patrick’s hip and the edge of the couch, but Johnny perches there, pushing Patrick to move over and give him room.

“What’s up?” Patrick asks, placid.

Sometimes you look at Patrick Kane and he’s just another dude, one Johnny has known for half his life. And others, you look at Patrick Kane and you see the criminally long lashes, the soft curving red lips, the broad shoulders heavy with muscle, and the slim hips. Johnny drops his eyes to Patrick’s groin and is gratified to note the semi Patrick’s sporting.

Color rushes to Patrick's cheeks, and he shifts under Johnny's scrutiny. Johnny draws two fingers from the artery in Patrick’s inside elbow on his left arm, following the blue line of the vein to where it runs into his palm. Patrick makes a small noise in the back of his throat when Johnny’s fingertips brush over the hollow alongside Patrick's lifeline, drawing it inexorably over the hockey-roughened skin, to trace over his middle finger from base to tip.

Patrick’s hips shift again and he sinks his teeth into his lower lip.

“What are you doing, Johnny?” he asks softly.

Johnny honestly doesn’t know.

Patrick sits up, the same hand Johnny was just stroking going to the back of his neck. “Last chance to say no,” he says, voice rough. Even as he says it, he pulls Johnny toward him.

Johnny laughs, weakly and turns his head to meet Patrick’s mouth with his own. It starts out a soft, slow tentative kiss, lips brushing together with the barest wet hint of tongue, but they held hands for hours, inadvertently dialing themselves up to a eleven. Before long it’s a dirty smear of mouths and shared breaths. At some point, Patrick finds Johnny’s left hand with his right, and twists their fingers back together again.

“You have a bed,” Patrick points out, breathily, forehead pressed to Johnny’s.

“Do I?” Johnny replies dryly, as he nuzzles along Patrick’s cheekbone and slides his lips back over Patrick’s again.

It takes them a while. Johnny can’t bring himself to stop kissing him and Patrick won’t let go of his hand. Between those two things, it’s not the smoothest trajectory to his bedroom.

When they get there, it’s a little awkward suddenly. Distance imposed between them that wasn’t supposed to be there. Patrick lost his shirt somewhere, Johnny had enjoyed stripping it up over his shoulders, but by contrast, Johnny himself is still fully dressed. Patrick eyes darken when Johnny tugs off his shirt. Before he’s even let go of the fabric, Patrick’s stepped in close, shoving him to sit back on his bed. Johnny swallows hard, as Patrick steps between his legs and reaches up to flick his nipples with his thumbs. It's so surreal, Patrick touching him like this--his clever fingers, the ones Johnny's been thinking about all day, sliding over his skin. Johnny shudders, and then a second time, hard, when Patrick drags his hands down over Johnny’s ribs to the flexing muscles in his belly. Patrick’s not pale, but his fingers show up much lighter against Johnny’s tan skin. He likes the image.

The touch is simple. Johnny has no idea why he’s breathing so fast or why gooseflesh is rising up on his torso from the light pressure running further south. Patrick hesitates at Johnny’s waistband, clever fingers dipping just inside to skim fragile skin, while he makes eye contact with Johnny for one long moment. The moment stretches, Johnny eyelids flutter. The pause is as palpable as a touch. Finally, Patrick tugs his fly apart, shoving down his boxer briefs. He pushes down on the elastic band, revealing Johnny’s dick, the whole hard hot length of it. The sight of Patrick's hands hovering over his dick makes him bite viciously at his lower lip to restrain an embarrassing choked noise.

“C’mere,” Johnny says, ragged and sharp, drawing him in closer, forcing Patrick to bend to meet his mouth. They kiss roughly as Johnny shoves at Patrick’s jeans, dragging them down off his hips, and wrapping his fist around Patrick’s dick. Patrick groans into his mouth and then closes his own hand around Johnny’s fingers. They both breathe out at the same time and stop to look at their combined hands wrapped around Patrick’s thickened shaft.

“Show me how you want it,” Johnny says, squeezing lightly, looking up to watch Patrick’s face.

Patrick blinks like he can barely keep his eyes open. “Fuck, okay," he breathes and starts to pull himself off like that, fingers laced with Johnny’s. Before long, he's tightening his hold around Johnny’s hand, closing his grip tighter. Johnny watches fascinated, as the flushed head of his cock slides through their combined grip, wet at the tip, hot fluid making his palm sticky. Patrick’s got his eyes shut tight, tongue caught between his teeth, blind to Johnny’s perusal. Johnny leans in, licking a stripe over Patrick’s nipple and then taking the stiffened peak between his teeth.

Patrick curses, hand speeding up, tendons flexing in his wrist. It's starting to get to him, Johnny thinks. He's close to the edge that it's hard to balance and starting to slumping forward to brace himself on Johnny’s shoulder with his free hand. Johnny takes that moment to tug him close, palming the generous swell of Patrick's ass. The vulnerable skin where it meets his thigh is smooth and soft. He pushes back into the muscle, feeling it clench against the press of his fingers, and then, leans back in to slide his lips wet and sloppy over Patrick’s other nipple. He likes teasing Patrick this way. Playing him like a video game controller, pushing all the right buttons. Patrick groans as he tongues at the over-sensitized peak over and over. He doesn’t stop until the noises that Patrick’s making are unlike anything he’s ever heard out of his mouth before--desperate and frustrated--each one making the unanswered tension in Johnny’s middle squeeze tighter. He can wait. He knows this, even if it’s a somewhat fraught thing, being so amped up for so long. He wants Patrick to come and then he wants to feed his dick into Patrick’s mouth and watch him suck for hours.

“I can’t--” Patrick bites out, muscles clenching in his abdomen with every pull on his dick. Johnny hums and licks a line over the cephalic vein running from his deltoid into his bicep, raised and swollen from the exertion of his wrist. “It’s not--” Patrick tries again.

His cheeks are flushed scarlet, lips bitten red and swollen, shining with spit. Johnny rubs a dry finger experimentally over Patrick’s hole, and Patrick cries out, hunching in like Johnny socked him in the gut. Johnny brings the first two fingers of his right hand up to his mouth, getting them good and wet, while Patrick watches him, hazy and drunk with pleasure. Johnny holds his gaze as he slides those fingers back around, slickening his rim up with his saliva. Patrick’s hole is already a little open, that’s how close he is. The tip of Johnny’s finger dips easily inside.

“Johnny,” Patrick manages, “I need--”

And he doesn’t have to finish that sentence, because Johnny already knows. He presses both his fingers inside, a careful slide, stopping at the second knuckle. He pulls them back out, just as slow, before forcing them back in.

Patrick cries out and comes all over Johnny’s chest and belly, shaking like a leaf, caught between the fingers Johnny has him impaled on and their shared grip on his dick. He falls forward over Johnny, making Johnny take all of his weight. His jeans were left forgotten, fabric caught above his knees and now his belt presses uncomfortably into Johnny’s belly. It’s kind of a disaster. Johnny himself is barely pulled free of his pants, still fattened up--too close to the edge already just from that display.

Patrick huffs out several tense breaths and then groans, cracking his neck. He straightens up gingerly and then seems to catch sight of Johnny again, sitting before him, jeans straining tight on his thighs from the awkward angle, hard on jutting up.

“Ah, fuck, Johnny, can I blow you?” Patrick asks, running his eyes over him.

Johnny snorts. “Anybody ever answered no to that question?”

Patrick shrugs nonchalantly, finally kicking his pants the rest of the way off. “I’ve never asked.”

Johnny pauses, caught by this statement. Patrick grins when he sees that expression and then pushes him flat on the bed. He fists Johnny once, pulling his foreskin back. Very deliberately he captures Johnny's gaze and then sets his mouth to the glistening pink head of his dick, pressing along the vein on the underside of the shaft. He can’t take Johnny’s cock too deep, but he’s a dude, and he knows what makes this hot, so he struggles, forcing those red lips further and further down. Johnny has to bite his wrist to keep from saying something horrifically embarrassing. Who knew that it would be like this?

Because Johnny's a gentleman, he keeps his hips flat to the bed, but Patrick holds him down anyway, pressing hard into his hip bones to keep him where he wants him. Johnny finds himself wanting to fight against that hold, and as Patrick sucks hard, tongue flattened against the glans, he flexes upward. Patrick meets his eyes. He knows exactly what Johnny’s doing, so he pushes down harder.

Johnny moans, being made to just lie there and take it, fingers twisted in the sheets, and imagines Patrick doing the same thing, but this time the wet heat of his mouth replaced by the hot clutch of body, using Johnny, giving him only exactly as much as he wants to.

“Talk to me, man,” Patrick says, pulling off, thumbing at his obscene lower lip.

So Johnny tells him about it. He tells him about how listening to Patrick read that fucking romance novel, he had imagined spreading Patrick open just like that over his lap, fucking him, and scraping his teeth over Patrick’s shoulder blades. He tells him about how he thought about spooning up behind Patrick in that dirty restroom, giving him the reach around, right in front of the mirror so he could watch all of Patrick’s facial expressions, and see just how filthy they looked together.

Patrick chokes on his dick then, hands tightening further still on Johnny’s hips.

Johnny wants to tell him about the countless other times that he’d jerked off and found Patrick’s face looming up behind his eyelids and how he’d had to think so hard, so hopelessly and futilely hard to picture somebody, anybody else there. How it had only ever sometimes worked. He comes with it on the tip of his tongue.

Patrick takes it all, swallowing every last drop, sucking even as Johnny softens in his mouth. It seems like he can’t get enough. The sounds he makes, the wet slurps, make it that much more intense. Finally, Johnny has to push on his shoulder, the sensation on his spent dick too sharp, too insistent after all that.

Patrick groans and struggles up the bed beside him, lying flat on his back. Johnny looks at the clock, it’s only just 10 PM. The night is barely beginning. Ordinarily they'd just be hitting the bars right now. They wind up passing out on top of Johnny’s sheets anyway.

*

The weeks after are...well. Awkward isn’t the word. Johnny accepts that there was something different about that day, something that lead them to hook up in Johnny’s condo after hours of holding hands. Forced hand holding is unlikely to commence a second time, so he accepts that that was probably a one time thing. Any part of him that wishes otherwise is carefully quashed. It's a frequently utilized skill. He and Patrick are fine. It’s summer. They don’t have see that much of each other. They’re both in and out of the city, between cup days and promos and charity events. They see each other at team barbecues and going out for drinks with the boys. Everything is totally fine. They laugh. Patrick gives him shit. Johnny dead arms him. Rinse, repeat. But nothing is the same. Johnny knows what Patrick tastes like. He knows the way he trembles when he's just about to lose it. And he can vividly picture the look on Patrick's face as he took his dick further into his mouth, struggling to suck even more down.

Life continues. It occurs to Johnny, truly, however he feels about Patrick, they're coworkers before anything else. Of course Patrick's going to be a freakin' professional. But then there’s the convention. Patrick dances all up on him, grinning the whole while. Ridiculous oblique references are made on the panels to their handholding challenge--some brief footage is shown of the moments just before the challenge started, Johnny giving Patrick the stink eye, Patrick's long-suffering expression, and then slow-mo of Patrick reaching out for Johnny’s hand while ‘O Fortuna’ plays.

The guys think it’s hilarious--Sharpy laughs himself sick, tears pouring out of his eyes, and Seabs has to thump him hard on the back to get him to calm down. Throughout the rest of the panels, he keeps making quips about the surprising lack of headlines about the mass damage they must've incurred on Chicago in forced proximity of each other. Clearly there's a conspiracy afoot. Johnny’s only weak comeback is that he’s surprised there haven’t been any headlines for him murdering Sharpy either. Patrick takes the whole thing better than he does, almost serene. Which Johnny supposes makes sense if none of it even mattered to him. It was what it was. Johnny's doing his damned best not to make it awkward.

And then, the first week of August, the front office announces they have the final cut of the documentary. Because they’re evil and don't believe that Johnny has already suffered enough just by having to go through the damn experience, they make it a BHTV special, and organize the entire team, plus their wives and girlfriends, together to watch Johnny and Patrick’s shame. He's a little horrified, actually. If he's lucky, they cut out the bit with the romance novel. He desperately hopes the camera-crew never noticed the accidental hard-ons at the very least. Patrick doesn't seem half as bothered as he is, and he sends out a team-wide email saying 'cool!' when the staff announces they've set up a room at the IceHouse with tables and a huge projector. Sharpy replies about bringing his popcorn, and then another email comes saying refreshments will be provided. Indeed, tonight, Johnny will dine in hell. So he's being a little melodramatic. This whole thing has just kinda sucked that's all.

He arrives and the guys are already giving him shit, so he puts up with it for a little bit and then wanders very deliberately off by himself. As soon as Patrick arrives, he walks over to the table Johnny's claimed as his own. Johnny watches him, surprised. It’s the first time they’ve really been together, in the same space, just the two of them, since that day.

“Hey,” Patrick says as he sits down.

Johnny nods in reply. He chose this spot because it’s close to the table where all the beer is set up. He’s already downed one Corona, but it’s shitty light beer, and clearly not going to get him anywhere near the level of drunk he needs to be to survive this. He’s further surprised when Patrick gets up and returns with two more bottles, knocking the caps off at the edge of the table.

“Show off,” Johnny says, but gladly accepts it. “Thanks.”

Patrick rolls his eyes.

“Alright, everybody, if you could quiet down,” Stan says, getting up and going to the front of the room. “We’re gonna get started.”

“Can’t wait!” Shawzy calls.

Stan laughs and then shushes him. “First of all, let me just say how amazing it is that Jonathan and Patrick agreed to do this for Helping Hands. It wasn’t easy. For my part, I’m not sure there’s a person alive I could do this with, not even my wife, and they did it for half of a day, on camera, for a great cause. I am very impressed, and on behalf of the entire Blackhawks family would just like to say, thank you so much for being good sports.”

Everybody claps and cheers. Johnny wants to hide his face.

“So,” Stan says, “without further ado, I present to you, ‘July 7th: Toews and Kane hold hands for twelve hours.’”

The lights go down and the projector queues up. The screen flickers to life with Johnny and Patrick explaining in front of the UC why they agreed to do this and what the charity is for. It cuts to Ron calling ‘Time!’ and Patrick grabbing Johnny’s hand, catching Johnny's wince and exaggerated grimace of suffering. From there it goes through all of the greatest hits of the day. Patrick's sad attempts at cutting his food; Johnny writing all of Patrick’s texts out for him; the two of them navigating the boat for the river tour; Patrick shaking his head at the camera as Johnny drapes ties over his shoulder at Nordstrom; Johnny’s poorly hidden mischievous expression as he hustles those guys at pool, and then cleaning up the table together while everybody watches flabbergasted; the horrifying realization that they had to go to the bathroom still holding hands--on and on, until finally Ron called time again at the end of the night.

The team is dying from all the klutzy mistakes and awkwardness, Johnny’s bitchfaces, and Patrick’s beleaguered moaning. Even Stan is having trouble containing himself.

Johnny watches himself drop Patrick’s hand on screen and cheer. “Oh god, I can’t believe we did that,” the Johnny onscreen says.

Onscreen Patrick fist-pumps the air and says, “I need a 40 of the good stuff.”

Onscreen Johnny blows out a breath and spreads his hands, full of judgement.

The camera zooms in on his unimpressed face, before going black, about to jump to another scene. Sharpy makes them pause it and then rewinds over Johnny’s face about four times.

The team finally convinces him to let it run in real time. Their postmortem interviews come next and they each talk separately about what it was like and what they learned from it. Johnny had been on autopilot when they did them. He'd been by himself, still a little shell-shocked. The Helping Hands people speak, explaining the impact of what Johnny and Patrick did, how they hope to change the future of teen bullying. It cuts back to Johnny, his interviewer asks if he would ever do something like that again.

“Hell no,” onscreen Johnny says with a horrified face, shaking his head. “Hellllll no.”

They ask Patrick the same question and he lets out a long whistle, but then laughs. “Man, I think that was enough for one lifetime.”

A montage starts up after that to some happy pop-song with more highlights from the day. Johnny’s surprised, he’s not sure what other stupid moments there are for them to show, but it becomes clear after a few shots that this is definitely not the same type of footage.

The camera shows them sharing a strangely loaded glance on the river tour in the middle of trying to sign gear for fans. Johnny doesn't even remember looking at him like that.

And then the way Johnny visibly adjusts his stride to better match Patrick’s as they walk down Michigan Ave.

And next Johnny knocking Patrick’s shoulder in reassurance when it’s clear he’s afraid of the ferris wheel. It captures the small smile that Patrick aims at him in return.

It shows them napping in the sun, and the look on Patrick’s face when he first spins on his roller-blades and grabs Johnny’s other hand. It shows them goofily dancing to some music playing at Navy Pier, and Patrick feeding Johnny slices of pizza and ordering him more beer, while they snort with laughter. It shows them sprawled comfortably together on Johnny’s couch, losing at video games. It shows Johnny accidentally walking Patrick into a shelf in the bookstore, and then reaching out to rub his injured shoulder and Patrick leaning into the touch. It shows Johnny’s pleased face when he finally finds the perfect unhideous tie. It shows the way Patrick accepts some of Jonny's weight on the L to make sure he doesn't lose his balance, the way he tucks his chin on Jonny's shoulder when Jonny's in his way and he's trying to read the L map. It shows them at Buckingham Fountain, spray dampening their clothes, Jonny turning into Patrick to shield his face from the water. And through it all, fingers laced. It looks natural. Even through every shared bathroom trip, every itch that needed to be scratched, every bite of food that had to be assisted.

It. Is. A Revelation.

He looks over at Patrick, finally, desperate to see what he’s thinking, and finds Patrick already staring back at him.

“So in love!” Shawzy catcalls at something else in the montage. Johnny doesn’t even turn his head to see what it is.

Patrick cocks his head and it hits Johnny. God they’re so fucking dumb. So, so, so fucking dumb. He can’t believe he let Patrick walk out of his apartment the next morning after what they did. He can’t believe he never realized sooner. He can’t believe he’s been letting Patrick Kane waltz through his life for the last six years, and he could’ve had this. He could’ve had everything.

The movie runs to a close, everybody claps and whoops again, and the lights get turned back up. Johnny doesn't notice any of that. Not Sharpy's stupid hollered comments or the way the guys immediately start recounting their favorite moments. He knows now. He knows everything. He holds Patrick’s gaze, unable to stop the smile hinting at the corners of his mouth.

Slowly, Patrick smiles back.

*