Chapter Text
Arya Stark was slowly but surely losing her grip on reality.
It was bloody torturous, sitting at a rickety table as Jon and Sam talked about some stupid thing only literature students would care about, deeply pretentious and entirely unnecessary.
“But don’t you think the flower symbolizes her emotional journey?” Sam asked, nursing a pint. Arya had suggested shots earlier, but no one had wanted to do them with her.
Jon cocked his head slightly. “Well, I think it’s more than that, you know…” he began, starting a long and overly complex analysis of the fucking flower. Again. Gods, Arya longed to stand up and release the feral scream of frustration building inside her.
And then there was the band. Arya had suspected that any band consisting of Jon’s friends would be painful, especially considering how insistent he had been that she come along to fill the crowd, but still nothing could have prepared her for tonight. Men of the Night’s Watch was, to put it kindly, ear-bleedingly terrible. To put it honestly, Arya suspected the experience was worse than being boiled alive in yellow Gatorade, while being forced to watch episodes of House Hunters on an endless loop. The lyrics were melodramatic, the chord progressions questionable, the musical execution downright bad, and to top it all off, Grenn had fallen off the stage in the middle of the first song. It would have been entertaining if it just weren't so bad.
When Sam chimed in about possible interpretations of the flower for a third time, Arya lost her last bit of patience. “I’m going to get a drink,” she said, standing before she exploded. There were some things that Arya could not sit through, and one of them was hearing someone explain how a flower symbolized a weapon of the bourgeoisie.
She sighed, wandering towards the bar, wallowing in immature self pity, and also hating herself for doing it. She could have been back at her dorm, spending her Saturday night enveloped in a blanket burrito, ridiculously high, and cackling over Monty Python with Shireen. But no. She was here, in a shitty bar that looked like an open crime scene, except not in a fun, murdery sort of way, but more of a depressing statement on human misery sort of way. It was grubby, dimly lit and old, with sticky spots on the floor that Arya had no interest in investigating further. The lamp fixture in the back flickered ominously over an unused pool table, also grubby and sad.
She slid onto a green vinyl stool (strangely damp, of course), and leaned forward on her elbows to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Can I get a beer?” she asked. “I don’t care what kind, long as it gets me drunk.”
The bartender turned to her as he cleaned out a glass, raising his dark eyebrows. He was broad shouldered, muscular and grizzled in the way Arya might expect from this sort of bar, though the small smile that crossed his face seemed open and unintimidating.
“That’s the right attitude for a great night,” he deadpanned, pouring her a pint.
“I personally think it’s the only sane decision to reach while listening to this,” Arya replied darkly.
He handed her the glass, smirking. “Not a fan?”
“Is that even a question?” Arya shot back, gratefully taking a large swig of her drink.
He shrugged. “Believe it or not, they used to be worse.”
Arya made a face of disgust. “Not possible,” she declared. “Did you even hear the one where toilet paper was a metaphor for Pyp’s ex?”
“That’s what that one is about?”
“That’s what they’re all about.”
The bartender snorted. “Suppose you’re right about that.”
Arya shrugged. “I’m right about most things,” she said casually.
Her new acquaintance laughed. “You’ve got wonder what went down with that girl, though.”
“She probably just got sick of his intense sad boi vibes. He looks like one of the idiots from the 1975,” Arya supplied.
Her companion peered out from behind the counter for a closer look at Pyp warbling on stage, this time about his sock sliding down in his shoe. “Wow. That’s exactly what he looks like.”
“I know!” Arya said emphatically.
“He also kinda looks like he crawled out of a coming of age movie where he smokes a lot of weed.”
“Oh definitely. He smokes weed and then meets a girl who’s way more interesting than him, and yet is never developed beyond helping him grow.”
“All to the soundtrack of songs about toilet paper exes and socks, apparently,” he finished. They grinned at each other conspiratorially.
“I’m Gendry, by the way,” he added, shifting uncomfortably as he ran a hand through his hair. “Y’know, just so we get it out of the way before it gets all awkward.”
“Before what gets awkward?”
“I don’t know—talking, I guess?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?”
“Y’know, usually when someone introduces themselves, you introduce yourself back.”
Arya sighed heavily, as if providing her name was a burden too great to bear. “Arya,” she offered, with no further pomp. “Now are you working or not? I want another drink.”
“You’re not done with one.” Gendry pointed to Arya’s pint, still half full.
In response, she took another large gulp, and grimaced. Arya had never been a big fan of beer, and this brand, whatever it was, tasted particularly gross.
Gendry leaned back, smirking as he watched. “Slow down,” he advised, and Arya rolled her eyes.
“Oh fuck off,” she snapped, purposely chugging the rest to be contrary. Arya had always resented the way everyone assumed she was a lightweight based on her short stature. Annoyingly, she was, but the mixture of pride and intense competitiveness usually won out in these situations. It had gotten her into a lot of trouble last year during her gap year in Braavos.
Unfazed, Gendry laughed. “Right, that was pretty impressive.”
“Do you tell all your customers to slow down on their first beer?” Arya pressed, ignoring his compliment, her jaw set stubbornly.
“Not all my customers are 90 pound girls.”
Arya scowled at him. “I’m not 90 pounds.” Then, “I bet I could drink you under the table.”
“Bet you couldn’t.” He held back a smile.
“Fine.” Arya folded her arms across her chest and leaned forward on the counter. “Let’s do it.”
Gendry chuckled. “Lucky for you,” he said, “I’m in the middle of a shift. It’s generally frowned upon to drink at work.”
Arya raised a single brow. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”
“Trust me,” Gendry said, beginning to mix a drink, “there’s nothing I’d rather do than have a drinking contest with a—“ He paused. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” Arya supplied.
“Well there’s nothing I’d rather do than have a drinking contest with a nineteen year old girl who won’t leave me alone, but unfortunately I need to keep this job to pay the bills.” He slid the drink he’d been making over to Arya.
She examined it. It was green and carbonated, with a tiny paper umbrella and cherry for decoration. “What is this?” she asked, making a face.
“I call it wildfyre. It’ll definitely get you drunk.”
“It looks stupid.”
He shrugged. “Don’t drink it then.”
Hesitantly, Arya took a sip. It was sweet enough for her to stomach the harsh taste of the liquor easily, bubbly and difficult to place, but indisputably good. “Not bad. For a drink with an umbrella.”
Gendry looked at her sternly. “You got something against paper umbrellas?”
Arya rolled her eyes. “They’re tacky.”
“They’re whimsical!”
“For gods sake, we’re not on a tropical island!”
“Consider this,” Gendry proposed, assuming the stance of someone on an infomercial selling high quality knives. “Using a paper umbrella makes you feel like you’re on a tropical island.”
Arya gave him a blank stare. “Why would I want to be on a tropical island.”
“Why would you not?”
“Too hot, there’s bugs, lots of drinks with paper umbrellas,” she said, counting out the reasons on her hand with an affect of flat condescension.
“So you’d rather be here, bothering me and listening to the caterwauling about broken dreams and cell phone chargers?”
Arya bit her lip and remained silent, unwilling to admit defeat. “Still think that tropical islands are overrated,” she grumbled.
They continued like that for a while longer—the back and forth, all the while Arya slowly drained her glass. She wasn’t quite drunk, but tipsy enough to blurt out whatever popped into her mind while they talked. Gendry was funny, dry and quick, though not quite as quick as Arya.
“Are you going to pay for your drinks?” Gendry asked, gesturing to the empty glasses in front of her.
“My brother is,” Arya declared, satisfied with punishing Jon by making him fund her drunkenness. Gendry laughed, and Arya grinned in return.
“Your brother is what?” Jon asked, coming over and sliding onto the stool next to her with perfect timing. Apparently he and Sam had finally managed to resolve the debate about the flower.
“Paying for my drink,” Arya explained cheerfully. She glanced back at Gendry, smiling conspiratorially, but he was suddenly far more focused on cleaning out glasses behind the bar than chatting with Arya. He gave a weak smile in return, and Arya frowned momentarily, before shifting the direction of her gaze when Jon spoke.
“Am I now?” He seemed entirely oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere, or ignoring it on purpose, Arya couldn’t quite tell. Either way, she was somewhat irritated that he had ruined a perfectly good bit of banter.
“It’s what you deserve, for taking me out here.” Arya’s tone came out more sullen than she meant for it to, her earlier annoyance seeping through.
Jon rolled his eyes. “And yet you complain that Sansa is dramatic.” He pulled out his wallet anyway, and left a bill on the table. “The set is almost over, and then we can leave.”
As soon as Jon walked away from the bar to find his friend across the room, Arya turned back to Gendry, narrowing her round grey eyes as she gave him the once-over. He really was very fit, strong without looking too beefy, and probably a foot taller than Arya.
“You would definitely beat Jon in a fight.”
Gendry widened his eyes in confusion. “What? Why would I fight your brother?”
Arya shrugged, supremely smug. “I wouldn’t know. Just thought I’d mention it since you looked so bloody nervous around him.”
Gendry’s mouth opened to say something, but Arya stood up abruptly before he could finish his thought. “See you around, Gendry.”
Arya spun on her heel and walked off to find her brother, feeling particularly badass.
“I’m ready to leave,” she informed Jon, coming up from behind.
“Polite people wait for conversations to end,” Jon said, pretending to be annoyed.
Sam waved them away. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he promised.
While he and Jon exchanged their goodbyes, Arya glanced towards the bar counter. Gendry was still there, although he appeared to be catching up on the work he’d been neglecting while talking to Arya, wiping the wood down with a rag.
“Ready?” Jon asked, pulling Arya’s focus back to him. Arya inclined her head in agreement, and the pair began making their way outside.
The night air felt brisk but comfortable as she and Jon exited the building. Winter in Oldtown was mild, at least in Arya’s mind. Arya was used to the freezing cold of the North, where snow drifts could be 20 feet high, and your eyelashes frosted over if you spent too long outside. Jon was much the same, a northerner through and through, with the dark hair and long face to prove it. Despite the chill, he was happy to walk his sister back to her dorm in just the ratty jean jacket he always wore. Normally, Arya would have flat out refused to be babied in such a way, but as she so often did, Arya made an exception for Jon. Even with their five year age gap and the technical fact that Jon was her half-brother, Arya had always been closest to him of all their siblings. Jon looked more like Arya than her other four siblings combined, and whenever Arya had felt as she didn’t belong with her tall, outgoing, redheaded siblings, she had always found comfort in Jon, as had he.
Still, even as her favorite brother, Arya couldn’t help but complain about being escorted like a child.
“You don’t have to walk me,” Arya remarked. “I’ve been here for months now. Just as long as you, in fact. And I’m a faster runner, so if either of us is getting murdered, it’s you.”
Jon knew it was true. Arya and Jon had both arrived in the fall to study at Oldtown University, Jon to start his masters program in literature, and Arya to pursue her undergrad in archaeology and run cross country.
“That’s exactly why I came. To act as an easy target for murderers while you run away.”
“If you didn’t come along, I’d still be fast enough to run away, and you wouldn’t get killed in the process,” Arya pointed out. “Really, you’re resigning me to a life of survivor’s guilt when I make it and you don’t.”
“I suppose I must just be doing it for my ego, then,” Jon joked.
“It’s really quite rude of you,” Arya replied. “First dragging me out to listen to that, and then leaving me brotherless and despairing.”
“They used to be worse.” His words mirrored Gendry’s perfectly, and Arya imagined the look on Jon’s face was similar to that of a PTSD survivor having a flashback.
“That’s what Gendry said too.” Arya realized the implication of her statement too late.
“Gendry? That bartender?” She nodded reluctantly.
“You were talking to him for a fair amount of time,” Jon noted, raising his brows while he looked at his younger sister.
“Just chatting, not that it’s any of your business,” Arya said, giving Jon a pointed glance. There was nothing quite as irritating as her siblings grilling Arya about her love life. Sansa was usually the worst perpetrator, but occasionally it rubbed off on Jon.
“Robb told me to give you a whole speech if this sort of thing happened.”
Arya groaned. “Why on earth would you listen to anything Robb says? He thought Stuart Little was a real person.”
“Obviously, I’m not going to,” Jon said indignantly. “But you have to pretend I did, if he asks.”
“Maybe I’ll just shave off his ugly little mustache and tell him to stop trying to meddle in my life.”
Jon let out a laugh. “I’d pay to see that.”
“Wouldn’t we all,” Arya said wistfully.
Jon moved back to the original subject tactlessly. “Your new friend seemed nice, at least.”
“I guess,” Arya admitted. “Annoying, but nice.”
Jon grinned. “Wonder why he was talking to you, then.”
Arya opened her mouth indignantly. “Hey!” she said, pushing her elbow into him. “I am a very friendly person.”
“Aye, a very friendly person who shoves her favorite brother,” Jon laughed. Before Arya could think of a fitting response, Jon continued. “And look! We’ve made it back without either of us getting murdered.” He proudly gestured to the brick building Arya lived in.
Arya rolled her eyes. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“G’night,” Jon said, pulling her into a hug before she could squirm away. “I’m sorry the music was so bad.”
“You should be,” Arya replied, although she wrapped her arms around him in return. Jon had always been a very huggy person, and Arya decidedly not, but she usually managed to make an exception for her favorite brother. His arms were familiar and warm, and when Arya leaned into his chest, he smelled like home—pine needles and cozy kitchens and old books.
“Don’t get murdered on the way home,” Arya murmured into his shoulder.
“Duly noted.”
And with that, they pulled away, Arya to enter her dorm building, and Jon to walk to his flat.