Seabirds

It was the second game of the year, and already Jonathan felt like his blood was curdling in his veins. There were thousands of people in the stands, too many to focus on a particular one, but there was always a constant wonder if she was there. He knew where the area her tickets were seated at, but he made it a constant reminder to never glance in that direction.

How she managed to keep season tickets blew his mind. Jonathan couldn’t even begin to think about running into her randomly, let alone watching her play a sport every game. He gnawed at the mouth-guard, sinking his teeth deeper and deeper with each bite; spit gathered in the ridges, and he sucked a deep breath into his lungs and cleared it out. Jon’s palms were sweaty, and he couldn’t center himself enough to calm the sudden storm inside his chest.

Honestly, it was always rough coming out onto the ice for the games. Knowing you were being watched, every single move, and then hearing the opposing side’s fans, too. Chants, chirps, what have you; it all swarmed together to create a perfect storm of panic and nervousness. Patrick had told him on many occasions that he needed to breathe, slowly, and keep his eyes on places below the boards. Ignore the fans, as much as possible, and focus on the game. Jon had played so many games now, he was lost in an ocean of recaps and flashes of fights or brawls, but it never got any easier.

“Hey,” he heard, somewhere to his left, “found a new wife yet?”

Jon’s eyes fluttered shut and he pushed his feet forward, moving around the rounded boards, circling behind the goal and trying to find a good spot to allow himself to gather and collect. The thing about chirping, at least from other teams, was that it never truly meant anything to Jonathan before. It was just… a bunch of words, you know? Stupid, ignorant words meant to incite a madness in Jon that would cause him to lose his composure. Long gone were the days when somebody would insult him and he’d react, screaming and throwing his weight, as if to say he was the bigger person.

Until, that is, he got divorced. Wounds were fresh, still bleeding and steaming from the heat. Jon had felt like he had lost his voice during the summer, like his entire soul had just lost its ability to scream. Never vocal about his feelings, Jon had started to wonder if this was how the rest of his life was going to be. When he wanted to talk, now the most he ever had, his voice was gone. A slash across his throat, spewing out secrets and weakness as it rolled over his shirt, bleeding out directly from his own skin.

“Alright,” Patrick said, bumping his shoulder, “you gotta get out of that head, right now.” Patrick looked at him sternly, narrowing his eyes. “Big game, big moments, big goals, yeah?”

Jon didn’t turn his head toward Patrick, instead just moving his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, skating away from his friend. Pat stayed there, sighing deep, but followed after his captain obediently.

------

The game was going rough, and Jonathan knew she was out there tonight. He could feel it in his soul, in his entire being, and he could barely function. It was so fucking stupid, it was so fucking ignorant that he was allowing this bother him so badly. How could heartbreak be so powerful? Jonathan rubbed his gloves against his chest as he sat on the bench, looking up into the screens to see what the score was. They were barely leading, just enough that it’s dangerous, and Patrick seemed to be trying his hardest to pull the attention away from Jon, at least just for tonight.

His shift was coming up, so he hopped up onto the edge of the boards, and counted down. It felt like every nerve was on fire, even his back slumping from a creeping chronic ache attacking his spine. Jonathan inhaled, hit the ice, and began his play. Somewhere on the ice were his teammates, stuck between other players, and he was focused on getting to the puck. He was itching for a goal, he needed it so badly, and so he drove himself even harder on the ice. This would be fine, if he could just keep going, and he was more than excited to get the puck against his stick.

That is, until he felt a sudden warmth come from his chest. It was… he couldn’t explain it, it was almost like hesitation, but instead of being inside his mind, it was there against his heart. Jonathan stopped, and exactly in that moment the player in-front of him was checked and sent flying down the boards. It was at an angle, a sharp fall, and Jonathan caught only the glinting silver out of the corner of his eye before he felt a cold, sharp nip across his neck. It was instant. It was painful.

It was death.

Jonathan’s hands dropped his stick, and what seemed like hours passed by before he felt his own skin pressed against where the skate had sliced. Hot tears were already streaming down his cheeks, and for the first time in his entire life, Jonathan was truly scared. Jonathan felt warmth, but it was so slippery he couldn’t fit his hands against his skin long enough to apply pressure.

“Jonathan,” Patrick screamed, somewhere near him, Jonathan thought. “Jon, look at me, right now.”

His dark eyes turned, and there he was. A familiar face, somewhere behind the blurry vision. “I--,” but he was cutoff immediately.

“Don’t say anything,” Patrick said, “you’re okay.” Jon knew this was a lie, because even though his eyes were so blurred from his tears, he could make out the fear that was etched so deeply into Patrick’s face. There were hands grabbing him, but he felt himself moving forward, his knees somehow on the ice now. “Get the medics over here, now,” Patrick was yelling, but Jon just closed his eyes and grabbed onto Kaner’s hand with his own. He squeezed, harder than he ever had.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the red flood that was across the ice before him, and Patrick’s face right there, too. Jonathan smiled, hazy and light, at his best friend. “Pat,” he barely managed, but Patrick shook his head. He pushed his finger against Tazer’s lips, shushing him. “Help.”

“They’re getting you, bud,” Patrick said, watching as dark figures covered Jonathan’s field of vision. “You’re going to be okay, I promise,” he whispered into Jon’s ear, skating beside him as they pushed him off the ice. “Please be okay.”

------

Patrick Kane was walking to his vehicle, planning on going straight to the hospital. His hands were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure he could drive, but he was going to try. It had been the most brutal wound on the ice he had ever witnessed with his own eyes; the blood stained, Pat’s fingers still tinted with a light pink, no matter how hard he scrubbed. Pressing unlock on the key-fob, Patrick threw his things into the backseat, and just as he began to open the driver’s door, he heard a voice come from behind him.

“Patty,” it half-whispered.

Chills shot up Patrick’s spine. Time slowed for the second time that night; he felt every hair stand up, his heart immediately jumping into his own throat. Maybe it was just a fan, maybe it was just a simple fan wanting an autograph. Patrick knew better than that, though.

“Patrick,” she said again, this time with hesitation. “Look at me.”

One of two things could happen, Patrick realized. He could address her, or he could continue getting into his vehicle and move on to the hospital. It would be that simple, just ignore the voice and move on. “I’m sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat, “I have to go.”

The woman stepped forward, her face appearing outside his window. “Patrick Kane,” she said.

“Kara,” Patrick said, rolling down the window. “I’m leaving. I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to listen to you, I don’t even want to hear your fucking voice. I’ve got more important things to do right now, and you are nothing to me at this point.” Patrick tilted his head and looked at her. She hadn’t changed much, still pretty, but much uglier inside.

“Will you tell him I hope he gets better?” Her voice was soft, but Patrick already began shaking his head. “Please, Pat, I need him to know that--”

“No,” Patrick said, starting the engine. “That man, Kara, spends every hour of every day wondering if you’re somewhere in Chicago. Every game he suffers, knowing you have season tickets, and every fucking morning he wakes up from nightmares. All because of you. You caused his heart to literally break, and I’m trying my fucking hardest to help him become a little more…. Healed.” The engine purred to life, and he felt a burst of air hit him in his face. Patrick couldn’t look at her. “Fuck you, Kara. Stay away from Jonathan, and stay away from me.”

Patrick kicked the car into gear and he pulled away, glancing into his side mirrors to watch as she disappeared from his view. A sigh escaped his chest, his eyes struggling not to close as a sudden rush of memories flooded. He had loved her at one point, too. Patrick could remember how easy it was to look at her and feel the warmth of romance in his heart, but those days were long gone. Everyone had anticipated a happily ever after, an ongoing love story that would be written into books.

Not everyone gets those endings, though, at least not the first time. Unfinished stories like Jonathan’s would continue forward, reaching into the upcoming decades with strict lessons learned. Patrick had already learned so much being on the Blackhawks, and being in Jonathan’s life, that he didn’t want to imagine what life had once been like without either of them. It had become so natural to exist here in Chicago. Patrick Kane never wanted to leave.

So he drove, and when he found himself walking down the hallways of the hospital, he ignored the glances from people and employees. Jonathan was somewhere here, and the only thing Patrick wanted was to see him. They had been spending so much time together that he didn’t want to risk not being there tonight, on the night that Jon needed him the most.

Finally, Patrick found himself outside of Jonathan’s door. The nurses had advised him that he was probably sleeping, because it had been a deep cut and too much blood-loss, so weakness had found its way into Jonathan’s body. Hesitation stopped him, just for a moment, but then a hand wrapped around the door’s handle and Patrick found himself surrounded by a room full of medical equipment that was buzzing with activity.

Jonathan was sleeping quietly, his eyes closed and his breath making his chest rise and fall. There were pieces of gauze wrapped around his throat, dotted with red, that hid the wound from Patrick’s curious eyes. Tears threatened to escape from Patrick’s eyes once he noticed that Jon’s once dark skin was pale, rivers forming on his arms where his veins were. IVs were placed into the bends of both arms, tape holding them there, and there were bags of blood and medications hanging on the poles beside the bed.

Patrick walked over to the side of the bed, looming high over Jonathan, and he placed a warm hand against his best friend’s cold arm. Eyes bounced behind translucent lids, a soft grin forming on Tazer’s face. It took some of the ice out of Pat’s mind, just enough to allow him to sit down and pull himself closer to the bed. “Hey,” he whispered. Patrick wasn’t sure if Jon could even hear him for the time being, but he didn’t care. He needed to let him know that he was there, and always would be.

Beeps entered into his eardrums, telling anyone who would listen what the heart was doing. Patrick closed his eyes, taking a deep breath inward to attempt to calm himself. There were so many emotions trapped inside his chest, and he found himself feeling extremely odd. It was like he couldn’t pinpoint what he was feeling, whether it was from fear or worry, Patrick wasn’t sure. Digging his teeth into his bottom lip, he tried to focus deeply on his heart, trying to match Jonathan’s.

His heart ached; it was like someone had attempted to use a steel blade to cut it out, the feelings shooting into the brain like a gunshot, and Patrick felt his stomach begin to churn like a washer. Whatever the fuck was going on, he couldn’t begin to explain it, not even to himself. Thoughts were banging off the frames of his brain, traveling from one corner to the next, and then diving down into his throat and jolting into his heart.

Jonathan had almost died tonight. That had to be what was bothering him, how easy it could be to lose your life to a sport that you love with all your heart, but Patrick began to shake his head. He knew better, so much better than that. They all knew this game was a dangerous one, and it was a contract they all signed going into this. Patrick felt bile rising into his throat, a searing pain that he couldn’t stop.

And Kara, how she had acted so concerned, as if she hadn’t already slashed Jonathan’s throat earlier this year. A preexisting condition that had been sustained in the battle of love, he had long ago lost his voice. Patrick felt that warmth wash over him followed by tingles, and suddenly it was like he had been hit by a semi-truck going ninety on the interstate.

Inside his mind, bright colors blasted through him, and Patrick felt his mouth run entirely too dry. Pins and needles attacked every nerve as he broke out into a cold sweat, legs bouncing up and down. Patrick remembered the last time he had ever felt this way, and it was a day that he had suppressed deep into the darkness of his memories. Holding onto Jonathan’s arm, Patrick’s face contorted into a sob as he recalled seeing Kara standing beside Jonathan at the altar. It had been deep inside him this entire time, swallowed by his own pride and costumed by his desire to keep his best friend in his life.

Patrick felt the fires of hell scorching his soul, burning deep into the bottom edges of his heart. He could feel them, hellfire sure as anything, burning down the borders of his soul. He felt everything begin to make sense, as if the camera was just focusing on what was within its frame. Jealousy. It was jealousy that he felt.

“Hey,” Jonathan whispered, pulling Patrick from the depths of his own mind. “How long you been here, bud?”

A sob was caught inside his throat, the blonde boy just looking at the darker haired man, and all he could do was smile. Relief washed over him, turning his body that had been burning itself alive into an icy fortress. “Not long,” he laughed, wiping his eyes.

Jon smiled back, struggling to swallow down what Patrick assumed was a collection of saliva that had been in his mouth too long. He sniffed, nose slightly runny, and Tazer’s eyes fluttered shut again. Sleep was creeping back already, the body of the man too weak despite the mind wanting to stay awake. Patrick watched as he drifted back into a deep sleep, the monitors still beeping on time with every beat of his heart.

“Fuck,” Patrick sighed, still gripping onto Jon’s arm. “Fuck.”

He leaned back into his chair, breathing out a breath that had been held in way too long, and Patrick shook his head. The heat began to rise again, starting in his knees and working its way back up into his chest, and then his head. Patrick Kane couldn’t escape it, not anymore. Something he’d been hiding for months, something that he had never dreamed would happen, had finally surfaced its face into his mind.

It was as blatant as anything, he could see it clearly now as he looked at Jon’s battered body and bloodied neck. He couldn’t hide it from himself anymore, couldn’t suppress the feelings deep into a brain that hadn’t figured it out yet. Everything had finally came above the sea of emotion, and Kaner knew that the following days, months, and years would be the hardest of his entire life.

See, these are the thoughts that follow when you figure out, after all these years, your feelings had evolved into something more. These are the feelings that Patrick Kane felt when he finally realized he was in love with Jonathan Toews.