Hawks Are Meant to Fly

The weirdest thing about Patrick Kane, Jonathan Toews has discovered, is that sometimes he’ll vanish, with no explanation, for an entire weekend. The first time it happens, is after Patrick has been in Chicago for a while, and Jonathan doesn’t bother him about it because Patrick is clearly still adjusting. He’s been increasingly on-edge, seeming cranky and upset whenever anything went even the slightest bit awry. He snapped at Jonathan when Jonathan accidentally knocked over his beer and went sullenly silent when Jonathan overruled him on movie choice, and both times he apologized afterwards, but he still seemed off.

Then he disappeared for a weekend without saying a word to either of them. He wasn’t at his apartment, and no one seemed to have heard from him, but on Monday he was back and the tension seemed to have gone out of him. He smiled a lot, joked, even tickled Jonathan to get the remote. Jonathan got him back in the ribs and Patrick let out a hiss, falling back.

“You okay?” Jonathan asked, frowning.

“It’s nothing,” Patrick said. He brandished the purloined remote. “Success!”

“Are you sure?” Jonathan went to pull up Patrick’s shirt, then remembered Patrick was acting strangely. “Er.”

“It’s nothing,” Patrick said again. He pushed himself into a corner of the sofa, curling his feet up beneath himself. “Uh...Comedy or something else...maybe Once Upon A Time?”

So when Patrick disappears for a weekend after they’re knocked out of the playoffs, Jonathan doesn’t think much of it. He knows Patrick will reappear in a few days, more settled and calm and hopefully whatever it is he does – hit up a girlfriend or visit a petting zoo or just goes to sit in the woods for a few days – helps him get past that disappointed look, the way he kept telling Jonathan, “I failed you, I’m so sorry.”

Jonathan is puttering around the kitchen, hungover and nauseated, when there’s a quiet, tentative knock at the front door. He calls, “It’s open!” and opens the fridge to retrieve a carton of orange juice. Behind him, he hears the front door open and close, but nothing more. Jonathan turns and sees Patrick slumped against the wall, head dropped.

“Patrick?” he asks.

Patrick looks up at the sound of his name. “Jonathan,” he says. He stumbles forward, and Jonathan hurries to catch him. He has shaved since the last time Jonathan saw him, his cheek smooth against Jonathan’s neck. He’s breathing hard and shaking, and he clings weakly to Jonathan’s shirt.

“Hey, hey,” Jonathan says, startled. He cups his hand around the back of Patrick’s head. “I’ve got you. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be okay,” Patrick says, but he doesn’t sound okay. He sounds exhausted, and his voice is scratchy, too. Jonathan strokes the back of Patrick’s head and neck, holding him around the waist with the other, and holds him until Patrick lifts his head. His gaze is a little unfocused, but he seems better, so Jonathan leads him to the table to sit while Jonathan gets him a glass of water.

When Patrick reaches for the water, the sleeve of his sweatshirt slips back, revealing a faint bruise underneath his thumb. Jonathan reaches out and catches Patrick’s arm gently, tugging the sweatshirt away to see a circlet of paling bruises around Patrick’s wrist. “What is this?”

“It’s nothing,” Patrick says, pulling away. Jonathan lets him, but doesn’t accept his answer.

“It clearly isn’t,” Jonathan says. “Someone grabbed you around the wrist hard enough to hurt, it looks like.”

Patrick doesn’t answer at first. He drinks the glass of water, gets up, pours himself another one, and comes to sit down next to Jonathan. “Yes,” he says.

“Patrick,” Jonathan says, stomach dropping. “Who did this?”

“No one,” Patrick says, and then he catches Jonathan’s eye. “I – it’s what I wanted. And it was handcuffs.” He turns a little pink at that, looking down again. “Could you, uh. Touch me again?”

Jonathan hesitates, but at Patrick’s look, he carefully reaches out his arm and settles it along Patrick’s shoulders. Patrick sighs and closes his eyes. He presses into Jonathan’s arm, a warm, steady weight. Jonathan cautiously lets his hand rest at the back of Patrick’s head. When Patrick doesn’t protest, he runs his fingers through the short hairs at Patrick’s hairline, back and forth until Patrick’s breathing slows.

“Hey, Patrick,” Jonathan says, keeping his voice off. “You want to move to the couch?”

Patrick nods slowly, not opening his eyes. Jonathan coaxes him up and guides him towards the couch with one hand on his back, whispering reassurances when Patrick seems to hesitate. Jonathan sits on the couch and tries to get Patrick to sit beside him. Instead, Patrick kneels at his feet, head bowed and his hands on his thighs. Jonathan freezes, staring at the vulnerable nobs of Patrick’s spine. Slowly, he reaches out and rests his palm on Patrick’s neck. Patrick shivers and seems to loosen beneath his hand.

“Patrick,” says Jonathan quietly. “Are you all right?”

Patrick doesn’t answer. Jonathan frowns, biting his lip thoughtfully. He tries again. “Patrick, tell me if you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, voice honey slow. “Just need to kneel.”

“Okay,” Jonathan says. “But lean up. I’m gonna put a pillow underneath your knees.”

Patrick moves just enough to make room for the pillow. Jonathan hesitates, then turns on the television, keeping the volume low. “I’m just gonna sit here and watch TV. You kneel for as long as you need.”

He channel surfs with his left hand, keeping his right on the back of Patrick’s head, stroking his hair and neck absently. Patrick barely moves, not even so much as a twitch. Jonathan has heard about this sort of thing on television before. He vaguely understands that Patrick must be part of some sort of BDSM group, and he can guess from Patrick’s behavior that he’s a submissive. But he has no idea what it is that Patrick needs. He has no idea what to do other than be a solid presence for Patrick to fall back on.

Patrick starts coming back to himself halfway through the third episode of Family Guy, rolling his neck first and then starting to shift. Jonathan doesn’t pull back his hand until Patrick straightens all the way and pushes up off his heels. He doesn’t look at Jonathan, eyes still downcast. “Thank you,” he says.

“Patrick –”

“I’m gonna eat something,” Patrick says. “I’ll be up at my apartment.”

Jonathan gets to his feet, following him to the door. “Should you be alone?”

“I’ll be fine.” Patrick is pink now. He still won’t meet Jonathan’s gaze. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Jonathan watches him go, not sure what to do and unwilling to press if Patrick doesn’t want to talk about it. His hand feels raw where it had touched Patrick. He rubs at his palm as the door clicks shut, and when he’s alone, he lets out a low breath and mutters, “Oh, boy.”

Most of what Jonathan knows about BDSM is from his sister’s lurid recounting of the plot of Fifty Shades of Grey, and he gets the feeling that isn’t going to be particularly useful for figuring out what Patrick is into. So he does some googling, followed by a quick search for how to wipe his browser history, and comes to the conclusion that Patrick probably attends some exclusive BDSM club and got subdropped. Which, Jonathan can’t understand how that could have happened, but he supposes it’s possible. Maybe Patrick thought he’d had enough aftercare; maybe he’d been with someone new to the scene.

Regardless, Jonathan can’t have it happening again.

When they come back for the new season, Jonathan keeps an eye on Patrick, though not any more than he usually would but just watching for different signs. When he sees Patrick getting keyed up and antsy, when they lose spectacularly to the Blues and Patrick breaks a stick in frustration, Jonathan takes Patrick aside on their way to the parking lot and says, “Don’t go to wherever it is you go to blow off steam.”

“What?” Patrick says.

Jonathan circles his hand around Patrick’s wrist and squeezes. “You know what I mean.”

Patrick’s shoulder slump. “Jonathan,” he says, “you don’t understand, I need it –”

“Come to my place instead,” Jonathan says. “Please, Patrick.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Patrick says.

“You can tell me,” Jonathan says. “But I don’t trust wherever it is you’ve been going, not when you come home like you did last time.”

“That was one time,” Patrick says.

“One time too many.” Jonathan tightens his grip on Patrick’s wrist, then lets go. “I can’t make you, but I’d like you to. I’ll make it good for you, Patrick.”

Patrick looks at him for a long, drawn-out moment. His cheeks are still flushed from the room and his anger at losing, but his expression has smoothed out into one of consideration. Jonathan waits, trying not to fidget under his stare, until finally Patrick nods and says, “Fine. We’ll give it a try.”

Jonathan’s new house is a short drive from Patrick’s, and he hasn’t exactly finished setting it up, so he spends the next day trying to make it look more lived-in than it really is. He also reads way too much on different types of bondage and how to treat a sub – some of them more horrifying than others – and exactly how to spank someone. He isn’t sure how far Patrick goes with his other partners, if there’s a sexual component too or if it’s just about the submission for him, so he mostly skims that part. He makes a list, like some sites suggest, about what he’s willing to do. He thinks he can hit Patrick, though he doesn’t know if he could hit him in the face, but he won’t make him bleed; he can probably dirty talk a little, if that’s a thing, but he won’t insult him; he definitely won’t pee or whatever on Patrick, that’s fucked up.

Patrick comes by a little after seven. He’s already eaten, he tells Jonathan when he comes in, and he’s dressed in loose, comfortable clothes. He looks nervous, chewing his lower lip as Jonathan takes him to the living room where he has written his list.

“I don’t know what it is you like or need,” Jonathan says, showing him. “So I, uh, made a list of what I personally am not comfortable with.”

Patrick skims it and nods. “I do a little painplay,” he says, matter-of-fact and businesslike. He seems to be relaxing now, as if seeing the terms in black and white had taken away some of his nerves. “Toys. Sometimes temperature stuff, usually ice. But mostly I like to be submissive.” He lowers his eyes. “It’s good, you know? To be taken out of my head a bit.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan says. “And do you, uh.” He fumbles for how to ask politely, but Patrick beats him to it.

“Yeah, I fuck them sometimes,” Patrick says. “Not often. But sometimes.”

Jonathan has to swallow at that, unaccustomed to the flare of anger at that. Patrick doesn’t owe him anything. “Okay,” he says.

“Is that something you’d be open to?” Patrick asks curiously.

“I don’t know,” Jonathan says honestly, because yeah, he can admit that Patrick is attractive, but it’s one thing to harbor a mild crush for him and another to want to introduce a sexual component to something he’s already unfamiliar with. “Maybe.”

“Okay.” Patrick rubs his face and looks at Jonathan through his fingers. “Safe word?”

“Winnipeg,” Jonathan says. “Yours?”

“Buffalo,” Patrick says.

“Anything in particular you want today?” Jonathan asks.

“Maybe –” Patrick hesitates. “Can you tie me up?”

Jonathan takes a deep breath. “Are you ready?” When Patrick nods, Jonathan softens his voice and says, “On your knees.”

He had placed a cushion next to the couch for this purpose, and Patrick kneels on it, looking up at Jonathan curiously. Jonathan sits down so that they’re facing each other and reaches out to close Patrick’s eyes. “I want you to count backwards from one hundred.”

“Jonathan –”

“Shh,” Jonathan says. “Speak if you want to stop, but if not, I want you to focus on counting.”

Patrick’s mouth closes. Jonathan strokes his hand over Patrick’s hair, down his jaw and neck, over and over until Patrick’s breathing has evened out and the wrinkles between his eyebrows have disappeared. Jonathan tries scratching then, dragging his nails behind Patrick’s ear and along his hairline until Patrick shudders and leans forward, pressing his forehead to Jonathan’s knee.

“Are you done?” Jonathan asks.

Patrick nods, forehead rubbing against Jonathan’s jeans

“I got you,” Jonathan says quietly. “I’m going to tie up your hands now. Nod if that’s okay.”

Patrick nods again. Jonathan gets up and goes digging under the coffee table for the nylon rope he had bought from the hardware store earlier that day after doing way too much research on knots. When he comes back, Patrick has put his wrists behind his back, head bowed. Jonathan rewards him with a squeeze to the back of the neck and lets his hand run down Patrick’s spine.

“Okay,” Jonathan says. His voice is shaking. He clears his throat and gets to work, looping the rope around Patrick’s wrists. He keeps it loose enough that Patrick’s shoulders aren’t straining and the rope isn’t cutting into his skin. Patrick stays still throughout all of it, the only movement the soft twitching of his fingers. Jonathan has a brief urge to kiss Patrick’s shoulder. He steps on that urge with ruthless efficiency.

“I’m going to leave you like this for ten minutes,” Jonathan says. “Do you need more?”

Patrick shakes his head.

“We’ll figure out what you can handle later,” Jonathan says. “I know you’ve done this before, but I don’t know your limits yet and I’m going to learn them for myself.” He strokes Patrick’s hair gently. “You’re doing so good. Just ten minutes.”

He sits down on the couch and guides Patrick’s head to rest against his knee. Patrick breathes out heavily and closes his eyes. Jonathan turns the TV on, keeping it low, and keeps a careful eye on the DVD player’s clock.

The time seems to pass slowly, Jonathan zoning out to the sound of Ina Garten talking about kale and balsamic vinegar. He strokes his fingers through Patrick’s hair, slow and steady, and imagines he can feel Patrick’s breath against his thigh, even though he’s wearing jeans. Patrick hardly even twitches the entire time, even though it’s probably hurting his back and his knees. When the ten minutes are up, Jonathan rests his hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes gently.

“Hey, babe,” he says, only realizing the endearment when Patrick moves as though he’s startled.

“Time’s up. How do you feel?”

“Good,” Patrick says after a minute. He lifts his head and rolls his neck. “Mm, good.”

“Okay, I’m going to untie you now,” Jonathan says, sliding off the sofa to kneel next to him. “Stay still.”

Patrick does as he’s told, hardly moving as Jonathan works the knots apart. When the last of the rope has slithered to the floor, Jonathan circles around to pull Patrick onto the couch with him. Patrick comes easily, settling against Jonathan’s chest and letting Jonathan rub his forearms where the rope left red marks. Jonathan tells Patrick he did good, keeping his voice low, and can’t help pressing a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. Patrick sighs happily and nestles his head against Jonathan’s neck.

Jonathan isn’t sure how long they sit there – Ina Garten is making a beet salad now, but he has to admit he hasn’t been paying a load of attention – before Patrick shifts and straightens up. He’s blushing again, cheeks turning dark pink, and Jonathan impulsively reaches up to cup his jaw, rubbing his thumb along the stubble. Patrick looks down, almost as though he’s embarrassed, which is new, and he turns his cheek into Jonathan’s hand.

“How are you feeling?” Jonathan asks quietly, running his hand down Patrick’s neck and squeezing his shoulder.

“Better,” Patrick says, voice just as soft. “Thank you.”

“I could kill whoever did that to you,” Jonathan says, even though he knows Patrick knows that. And Patrick does smile, cheek moving underneath Jonathan’s thumb.

“I know,” Patrick says. “That’s unnecessary, but I appreciate the thought.” He slides off the couch and stretches, his back cracking audibly. “I’m going to go home.”

Jonathan instinctively follows Patrick to the door, though he’s never done that in the past, and ends up standing awkwardly in the doorway as Patrick is putting his shoes back on. Patrick sees him standing there and smiles, touching his arm.

“Thanks,” he says again. He tilts his face up and kisses Jonathan on the mouth, chaste and light. He waves and slips out the door. Jonathan touches his mouth and stares after him. His hands are shaking; he rubs them against his jeans and tries to steady his breathing. When he closes his eyes, he sees the red imprints on Patrick’s arms, bright as brands, and he finds himself wondering if there’ll be a mark in the morning; if Patrick is touching them and thinking of him.

Notes

Trying out present tense storytelling. I hope it works and that you like it.
And I know...more Kazer! But I couldn't help myself. I had a kit kat, fell asleep and had a dream where Kessel fell in love with Kaner and kidnapped him and held him hostage...yeah...pretty messed up, but that's Kazer for ya! :D
I hope this won't get too off-putting, but I'm not going to be light with this at all. Luckily it won't be TOO bad though. Just some hardcore sexual scenes and "rape".
I was partly inspired by other Kazer stories, but mainly it comes from a dream I had.
I have weird, messed up dreams man. Sorry. But not sorry.


Next up: More Kazer and then Kessel! :)