Seabirds

It's been a rocky, gossip-filled year for the captain of the hockey team based in Chicago, otherwise known as the Blackhawks. Jonathan Toews, twenty-four years old, who is an Olympic gold medalist, Stanley Cup champion, and Conn Smythe recipient, married a local girl barely six months ago, only to have a divorce privately finalized this week. Once the court documents were made public, they exposed a marriage that had been tainted with numerous infidelities, shockingly more on her part rather than his—

With a jolt of pressure, the tip of a finger pushed against the soft, inanimate button on the remote control that was connected with the television, and silence filtered into the living room while a sound of plastic hitting against a hard surface broke it only for a few moments.

Jonathan Toews ran his hands over his tanned face, closing his eyes just long enough to let the reporter's voice echo inside of his mind; it was a delicate reminder of the things that had haunted him over the past half-a-year, and it was like he couldn't even escape it for a mere few seconds, not even in the sanctuary of his own home.

"You need to stop listening to that shit," a voice said, entering the room and seeming loud against the silent background. "It's not doing you any good hearing people gossip about it."

A sigh passed Jon's lips. "It's harder than that, Pat. I have to know what they're saying, so if someone asks me a question during an interview, I'm not going to be surprised as shit about a rumor, and get all... flustered and shit."

Patrick Kane, a friend of Jon's for many years and his teammate on the Blackhawks, sat beside him on his leather couch; instantly, he folded his legs up underneath him and leaned back into the comforting piece of furniture, closing his eyes for a second. "Why does it matter, though?"

Jon's mind reeled with thoughts. It was bad enough that he was divorced, especially from a woman he thought he was going to spend his entire life loving, but it was even worse that it was because she cheated on him. If anything, if absolutely anything was expected, it was that he would be the one that would become unfaithful; most certainly not her.

"For the first time," Jon said, eyes locked on the floor a few feet in front of him, "in my entire life, I wasn't good at something, Pat. I failed at something that every man is supposed to succeed in."

The other man scoffed, wryly laughing as he rolled his eyes and turned to his friend. "Jon, man, you didn't fail. I'm not speaking ill of her, but it's her fault just as much as it might be yours; I mean, come on, dude, she cheated on you for unsubstantiated reasons, and I might not be the most experienced person in the world when it comes to serious relationships, but fuck. Marriage is two people, the road goes both fuckin' ways."

It was hard to believe that Patrick Kane, of all the times in the world he had chosen, was making sense as he spoke about something he generally had zero experience in. Jon let his thoughts settle for a while, thinking about what he had just heard, and finally began to breathe again once he exhaled the stale lung-full he had been holding in. "I guess you're right," he whispered, "but then again—"

"No," Patrick said, "there's no 'but' in this. You know I'm right, and I mean it when I say that, you know, you weren't a bad husband. We all saw the things you did for her, the ways you went beyond expectations on everything and worshiped the ground she walked on."

Jon didn't say anything, still keeping his eyes locked on that same piece of flooring and his breathing slow, deep; he was concentrating. "Three out of five marriages end in divorce nowadays, you know, so it's not uncommon to go through this, especially if you're famous. We all make mistakes."

Patrick stopped talking, letting a comfortable silence fall between the two men; it wasn't often that they got to enjoy the company of one another off the ice, or in any situation that was dealing with work rather than play, and since they had the weekend off, it was only natural that they catch up with each other.

It's possible to see somebody every day, much like their case, but only know bits and pieces of how they are or what's going on with them. Locker-room talk only went so far, sometimes never crossing into truly personal ground; seeing a person every day didn't mean you knew everything there was to know about said soul. It just meant you knew what they looked like, that it was burned into your memory.

"Listen," Patrick said, looking over at Jon, "there's plenty of people out there, which is cliché to say but it's the truth. There's this one psychologist guy, I read one of his books, and you know what he said?" Jon turned to glance at his friend, shaking his head almost uncertainly. "He said that soulmates don't exist, like it's just fiction, something desperate people made up; this guy claimed that if you can have a strong love with one person, there's forty or more other people in the world you can have those same feelings with."

Jon couldn't stop himself from chuckling, almost snorting when he met eyes with Patrick; he grinned, showing his smile and his white teeth, and finally took a deep breath. "I'm surprised you read books," he laughed. "You're right, though."

"I know I am," Pat said, rolling his eyes as he reached forward and grabbed the remote off the wooden table, flicking his wrist at the same time he pressed the 'on' button. "Now, are we gonna watch this movie or what, bro?"

Jon nodded, grabbing a bottle of water from the table. "Yeah, sorry. It's just still fresh—"

"And with time," the blonde boy said, "it will grow stale and you'll be ready to move on. Until then, that's what I'm here for, and I'm goin' to help you get through this, on and off the ice."

He was surrounded by good people, especially Patrick Kane, and Jon knew that eventually he would feel more like his old self; it might take a while, it wasn't certainly going to happen overnight, but with the helping hands of his teammates and friends from other franchises, he knew he was well on his way to recovery.

---

Jon woke up the following morning with a small ache in his head. His body was submersed underneath an ocean of covers, warmth wrapping its arms around him and leaving a whole feeling to his body. He felt complete, even without the presence of arms around his waist, a wake-up that he had felt for so long, but something he didn't quite miss.

Clearing his throat softly, he turned from his side onto his back, and let his cheek fall onto his pillow as he looked beside him and saw a tuft of blonde, curly hair poking out from underneath the covers.

"Pat," Jon laughed, rolling his eyes. "When did you come in here?"

The smaller man groaned, the hair on his head still the only thing visible to his entire appearance; finally, after a shake on the shoulder from Jon, Patrick pulled his head from the pillow beneath it and he sighed.

"I dunno," he drawled, still half-asleep, "but I got scared staying in your guest-room after watching all those fuckin' scary movies, I tried not to let them get to me but Jon, that room is terrifying with all the furniture gone and there's all those mirrors and sculptures lingering around."

He frowned, pulling the covers from him while he slipped his hand under his shirt enough to scratch a place on his hip that was itching. For the most part, since the separation, Jon hadn't been into replacing things that had been handed to her or dealing with moving things around that he had gotten from the settlement; they had all gone to the guest-room, which was looking more and more like a funhouse every week. Not even Jon enjoyed going in there, let alone sleeping in the bed that was harder than a rock and no where close to being as comforting as the bed in the master room.

"You want breakfast?" Jon asked, turning around to watch as Patrick journeyed back under the covers, his entire head disappearing. "I'll take that as a 'no'."

As he came around the corner, a distinct and very enthusiastic meow came from the couch, and Jon smiled to himself as he made his way over to his loving, adorable pet cat, affectionately deemed Sugar.

"Hey, beautiful," he grinned, picking her up as he felt the vibrations of her purrs against the palm of his hand. Jon sat her up against his shoulder, smoothing his hand down her spine while his bare feet padded against the hardwood flooring, going into the kitchen to make a hearty breakfast for him and Patrick, whether he admitted he wanted some or not.

Sugar crawled on the counter while Jon went to the 'fridge, digging through it as he flipped through all the recipes inside of his head; for the most part, he had been relying on cereal or the breakfasts that came in boxes and were stored in his freezer; dealing with a divorce had kept him from wanting to do a lot of things, and fixing breakfast every morning was definitely one of those.

"I was thinking," he heard, distant but within range. "Maybe I should get a tattoo, what d'ya think?" Patrick walked into the kitchen, sweatpants hanging loosely off his hips and his shirt three times too big for him.

Jon scoffed. "You couldn't handle the pain, Kaner."

"Hush," he laughed, opening the door on the 'fridge to pull out the plastic gallon of milk, digging into the cabinet to retrieve a cup. "Mom said that if you wanted to, you know, you could come to Buffalo with me and visit them for a while. She's into repairing broken things, feels bad for you, you know?"

As he started to make omelets, Jon wondered if Patrick ever realized how many times he said the phrase, "you know," within his sentences. Every time he opened his mouth, it was always lingering in there somewhere, whether it was suck in the middle or the end, sometimes even the beginning.

"Maybe," Jon nodded, "but only if I can take your sisters—"

"Forget it," Patrick said, hidden smile on his face as he took a drink from his cup, back to Jon. "Did you just make a joke about taking a girl out, bro?"

Jon stopped what he was doing, looking up from the stove and making a small sound that was close to a 'huh' before turning around and nodding. "Yeah," he breathed, "I think I really did."

Patrick smiled, looking over his shoulder at his best friend. "I'm proud," he laughed. "Before you know it, you'll be taking girls out and having one night stands."

"Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves," Jon chuckled, turning back to his skillet and adding a couple of things into it. "Can you hand me the phone?"

After a few moments of searching, Pat finally returned back into the kitchen with the cordless phone in his grasp, handing if off to Jon while he picked up Sugar and carried her with him into the living room. For a few seconds, Jon messed around with the food, but then remembered that he had a phone-call to make, dialing the digits from his memory, knowing them so well.

"Johnson Law, this is Angela speaking, how can I help you?"

Jon cleared his throat, "this is Jonathan Toews, I'm calling to see if Keelie Johnson is in office—"

"Please hold, Mr. Toews," she said, almost too quickly, before pressed him onto the other line.

He waited a few moments, finishing up breakfast and plating their food into separate plates, and finally heard somebody pick up the line. "Jon, good to hear from you, what's up?"

Patrick walked into the kitchen, having smelled the delicious food, and grabbed the plate with the most on it; Jon smacked his hand but let him tote it off, laughing the entire time. "Hey, Key," Jon laughed, "Patrick and I are just sitting down to grab some breakfast before we head over to the U.C.," Jon clicked his tongue, grabbing a bottle of water from his fridge. "It's over, right?"

"You are completely free of any bounds that might've been around your wrists," Keelie Johnson, Jon's lawyer, cooed into the phone. "Your divorce has been finalized and since she did, in-fact, sign that pre-nup, she doesn't get anything."

Jon sighed, almost feeling bad. "I sorta tricked her into signing that thing."

"And nobody has to know that," she said, "because that's what she contested in court but you saw where that got her. She signed it, that's all that matters, and that's why you're still a millionaire and have a nice apartment. The only thing you lost was the dog."

"Not a big loss," he said, snorting. "Listen, I wanted to thank you for everything, I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't—"

"Jonathan, it's not a problem. Patrick said you needed help, he sounded pretty serious, so I knew to reach out. Believe me, it's been a joy to work with you, despite the circumstances."

Before ending the conversation, he smirked, feeling privy. "How is Sharpie this morning?"

He could hear Keelie snort on the other end of the phone, obviously smiling. "He's already on his way to practice, ass. How about you mind your own business and stop being such a dick? I think you've been around Patrick Kane far too long."

"Not possible," Jon said, grinning. "Listen, I'll see you tonight at his place after the game, we're running sorta late right now, but I feel better after hearing those words come outta your mouth. I was worried."

---

The Blackhawks had a mighty win over St. Louis, making even the fans in the stands tremble with fear when Jonathan or Patrick pulled their swords, their sticks, beyond their range of motion and slapped the puck into the pocket of the net with an almost deafening crack. It was a home game, which is what gave them their edge; there was just something about an ocean of red amongst the crowd that made their hearts seem a little stronger.

Jonathan's hands were patiently tapping against the side of the steering wheel as he navigated his way through the streets of the city of Chicago, weaving into lanes and taking turns while Patrick Kane let his head rest against the window of his door. It was cold, calming to the thumping that was barely fluttering beneath his temple; his eyes were closed, body slack, almost lost in the soft, bitter hum of the car on the road and the sounds of everything within the city.

Toews looked over and smiled at the sight of Kane, shaking his head just enough to chuckle along with it; he thought it was cute, so child-like, which was a quality that kept Patrick such a unique person. You were never bored around him, and Jon liked that.

"Hey," Jon whispered, turning into the area where Patrick Sharp's place was. "We're almost there, buddy."

Patrick cleared his throat and nodded, sitting up and blowing out some air from his lungs, letting his cheeks expand. "I'm beat, man. How long are we gonna stay here?"

"I figured," Jon said, turning into the parking area and stopping the car, "that we'd stay long enough to eat and get a couple of beers, then go back home and sleep." Jonathan sighed after he pulled the keys from within the ignition, running his hands over his face while the key-ring was looped around his thumb. "You gonna stay at my place tonight, or am I dropping you off at your place on the way home?"

Kaner cleared his throat again, his sinuses getting the best of him this time of year, and shook his head. "I'll stay at your place tonight, I'm too used to the company now."

"You could get a chick," Jon laughed, closing his door. "Pat, you don't go out much anymore."

"Who has time?" He looked at Jon over the top of the car, resting his hands against the roof; Patrick licked his chapped, red lips and shrugged, once again clearing his throat. "Girls leave in the morning, you don't. I know I can have someone to watch Sports Center with in the morning, or to talk about random shit with during breakfast. I like the company of my best friend more than some hookup."

Jonathan smiled and walked away from his car, pressing the button on his key to lock the doors, and waited for Patrick to come up beside him before they went into the house. Patrick Sharp always had nice, comforting dinners after the game; from where he stood, Jon could see that they were some of the only players who chose to celebrate with him on that particular night.

"Hey, boys," Sharpie laughed, giving them both quick, manly hugs before allowing them to walk into the home he had created with his girlfriend. "What'll it be for you?"

"Food," Patrick said, before briskly heading straight to the kitchen, where his nose was telling him all the delicious smells were coming from.

Toews just smiled, shrugging a little. "I don't want much, I just came for him, I could tell his was hungry and he doesn't make dinner unless his mom is around."

"Kaner can't even make popcorn, Toe-ez," Sharp laughed, "let alone make an actual dinner. He'd burn down the whole city before even getting an egg to boil."

Jonathan laughed a hearty laugh before ducking into the kitchen, saying greetings to a few of the guys on the team, before spying the bottles of beer and some lasagna, one of his personal favorites. "Hey," he laughed, watching as Brent Seabrook scooped a mountain-sized piece onto a plate. "Good game, buddy."

"Same to you, my friend," Brent smiled, patting Jon on the back before pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. "Hey, if you need anything, ever, you know you can call me, right?"

This shit again, Jon thought, nodding almost as if it was an instinct now. People felt pity for him, bad that he was divorced and living by himself again, and they were genuinely concerned about him, he knew this, but it got so irritating after a while.

Jon just wanted to go outside, throw his hands up into the air and scream, as loud as he could, I'm fucking okay, I'll make it without her, Jesus Christ!

He wanted it to hurt, he wanted to feel his vocal chords burn deep in his throat and he wanted nothing more than to feel his head become lighter and lighter each second that he pushed air from within his lungs out into the sky. Jonathan wanted to feel the ache of his sore, raw throat, and how his voice would quiver for days afterward; as long as he hurt, he was alive.

He waited until after Brent was gone to let his arms go limp and hit the bar beneath him; Jon was tired, he hadn't realized how worn-out he really was until his heart started hurting again and his emotions went from zero-to-sixty within a few moments. Jon could see his reflection in the beer bottle beneath him, and God, he looked bad; dark circles and red, chapped lips.

"You okay?" Patrick Kane asked, slipping beside him and leaning against the counter, taking a long drawl from his beer. "We can leave now, if you'd like. I had a few bites, I'd be willing to fix you something when we got to your place."

"Yeah," Jon nodded, licking at his burning, throbbing lips. "I need to get out of here, it seems like the only place I'm safe is in my bedroom."

Kane frowned, nodding before following Jon out of the kitchen and saying his goodbyes. He hated seeing Jon like this, especially after they played a hell of a game and had every reason in the world to celebrate. He, too, licked at his swollen lips, not even realizing how much they had both been doing it lately; it wasn't making anything better, only adding to the sensations.

It was like they were both guilty of contributing to their physical pain. If they could only just stop prodding their chapped lips, adding excessive moisture and drying them out more, it might heal. Patrick could say the same thing about Jon, however. If he could only stop licking the open sore inside his heart, he might have a chance to heal.

Someday, Patrick wasn't sure when, there would be another person in Jonathan's life that would take away the scars that were left behind from all the things that had happened to him; someday, and he hoped that it was soon, his best friend would smile again like he used to when he was married.

Someday, Jon, Patrick thought, leaning his head against the window of his door again, closing his eyes at the sound of the engine coming to life beneath Jon's fingertips.