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Everyone knew that coming to The Wall would be dangerous, but Sam hadn't anticipated how much of that danger would come from his own so-called "brothers" in the Night's Watch.
They'd picked on him as soon as he got there, of course, because he was an easy target. He'd kind of expected that, because even a fool could see that Samwell Tarly was no warrior.
But now, infinitely more incomprehensible and hurtful to Sam--they'd hurt his best friend.
Jon had been his savior. He'd protected Sam, stood up for him, tried to help him, and, best of all, he'd started treating him like an actual friend. Sam was surprised and ashamed by how his heart leapt with happiness every time Jon smiled at him, joked with him, walked beside him when he didn't have to.
A few days ago, though, jealousy had gotten the best of two new Night's Watch recruits. Everyone could see that Jon was getting a reputation as the most promising recent addition to the Night's Watch, and it was impossible to miss how even his fellow young soldiers listened to his words above all others.
While Jon was sparring with one of the new recruits, beating him almost effortlessly, the second one took a cheap shot at Jon from behind his back. Jon turned quickly to intercept the sword blow even as it was falling, and he'd ended up driving the weak blow hard into his own shoulder by his motion.
The recruit who'd played the cheap trick was whipped and put in the brig for his actions, but that hadn't changed the fact that Jon was seriously hurt.
Now Jon was resting in his room, with the Maester frequently checking in on him, but Sam could see that he had started getting worse rather than better.
Sam had taken to sitting with him, most of the time. It's not like anyone would miss clumsy old Sam, and since the newer Night's Watch members hadn't been given their specialized assignments yet, he didn't have many pressing tasks to do.
Even if he'd been busy, he had to admit, he would have found a way to be with Jon.
The medicine that the Maester gave Jon to help with the pain made him drowsy, and he spent most of the day asleep or halfway there.
Luckily, Sam had no shortage of books to read, and he had a pile sitting beside him as he sat at Jon's bedside. But somehow, he kept getting distracted.
With Jon lying so still like that, eyes closed, Sam could really see his face, could study every part of it. Sam's eyes kept wandering against his will, and they'd always land on Jon's face.
Sam had always known that Jon was handsome. The first time he'd seen him, in fact, he'd stood in a stupor for a moment. Jon was so exactly like the charming images of knights in his old story books. Handsome face, lustrous hair, a strong body. Every attractive trait. Everything Sam didn't have. Everything Sam shouldn't notice so keenly on another boy.
Sam reached his hand out slowly to touch one of the curls that lay on Jon's forehead. Would it be soft, or rough like a wolf's fur? He'd always been curious.
It was soft, he found out, soft, but springy when he wrapped it around his finger.
Jon stirred at the touch, and Sam flinched and was about to jerk his hand back.
"Sam..." Jon murmured. His eyes stayed closed, like he was still in a dream.
Sam smiled. He hadn't been sure if Jon even realized he was here all this time.
Sam's smile faded as his mind registered the heat of Jon's forehead. He was burning up.
Sam leaned out of his chair and down over Jon's prone body. He laid his own cheek against Jon's forehead, the way his mother always used to do when she was trying to figure out if her children were ill. Jon's head was like fire against Sam's face. His fever was definitely rising.
Sam pushed his chair back from the bed, ready to run to the Maester and tell him that Jon was getting worse.
As Sam glanced down at Jon from the corner of his eye, Jon looked dead for a moment, his breath was so shallow and he was so still. Something like nausea rose up in Sam's throat as he thought about his life here at The Wall with no Jon in it. He wouldn't be able to bear it.
Fear made his heart beat fast, and he needed to see Jon's eyes open, needed to hear his voice.
He leaned down and shook Jon gently, gripping his unwounded shoulder. "Snow. Jon. Jon!" His last word was almost a shout, but Jon didn't stir. He shook him harder, then moved one of his hands to cup Jon's face and turn it toward him. "Jon! Please!"
Finally, finally, Jon's bleary eyes opened. "Sam?" he asked, his voice low and creaky with disuse. He looked like he had no idea where he was for a moment, then the pain in his shoulder seemed to hit him and he winced and squirmed. "Oh, gods..."
"Jon." It came out like a sob. Before he knew what he was doing, Sam was half-kneeling on the bed, and his forehead was pressed tight against Jon's. The angle was awkward, Jon smelled like stale sweat, and the close proximity made him look like he had one enormous eye, but Sam was more content than he'd been in days.
"It hurts, Sam," Jon grumbled, and Sam almost laughed at his petulant tone, like a sleepy child's. Sam's traitorous fingers had found Jon's hair again, and Sam stroked Jon's hair back from his hot forehead, over and over, slow strokes that made Jon lean his head back into Sam's free hand.
"You'll get better," Sam whispered. "I'll go get the Maester and he'll put something on your shoulder to draw out the poison. I know what he can use, I read it in my..."
"Don't go," Jon interrupted. "Stay. 'M sleepy." He tried to lift his arms, but then gasped and dropped them.
Sam winced to see his best friend--the best fighter in the camp, the strong one--so helpless. It was strange, and it hurt.
But still, gods, the weight of Jon's head leaning into Sam's hand was one of the best things he'd ever felt, and the way Jon's half-open eyes tracked up to meet his...
"Sweetheart," Sam whispered. The other boys always called him Jon's sweetheart, his lady love, making the words ugly and mocking, but right now, Sam wanted them to be true. He'd never wanted to be anyone's sweetheart so badly.
"Mmm..." Jon's face tilted, the curve of his cheek falling to press against Sam's hand. He was falling back asleep already, with Sam touching him, almost in Sam's arms.
A rush of love hit Sam, a potent mix of childish adoration and the secret, burning lust he felt when he laid awake at night, every kind of love mixed together, and he leaned down and kissed Jon's half-open lips.
The lips moved a little, pressing against his for just a moment, and then sleep reclaimed Jon and all of the tension went out of his body, his head lolling back again.
Sam cautiously, reluctantly laid Jon back onto the pillows, sliding his hands away slowly, not wanting to let go. As he ran to fetch the Maester and his own three-volume healing book, his head was spinning, like he was drunk, on too much hope and too much fear all at once.
It took three days. It took poultices, and extra medicine, and nights when Sam had literally tried to sleep with one eye open and his hand holding Jon's limp one tight. Three days of Jon barely turning his head toward the kisses Sam laid on his forehead, three days of Jon's hand too weak to clasp Sam's fingers back.
Finally, afer the infinite three days, Jon woke up all the way, clear-eyed, his face shiny with the sweat from his broken fever. He sat up on his own, looked around, and he was Jon Snow again, with his eyes that took in everything around him, his back straight like a soldier's.
Seeing him wake up and look like himself again felt like the sun coming out to Sam, like spring after the longest winter. But as Jon's wide-awake eyes touched Sam's, a new fear crept into his heart. Would the tenderness that had grown between them during his infirmity go away once Jon was strong again? Could the proud, skilled Lord Snow ever want Samwell Tarly's clumsy hands on him when he was in his right mind?
The question was answered as soon as Jon's eyes met his. Jon smiled (the sweet way he had always smiled at Sam, come to think of it), and he stretched his hand out, finally able to move it as he pleased, reaching...for Sam.
"Sweetheart," Jon said.