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The door opens as Robb is turning over for the fifth time, trying to make himself a comfortable cove in the bedding. At the noise, he jerks up, and isn’t surprised to see Theon closing the heavy door of his chamber behind him. There’s a wineskin in one of his hands, which partly accounts for the fact that he hadn’t bothered to knock. And, of course, he’d have known that Robb wasn’t sleeping anyway.
They don’t talk about it. Theon ambles over to the fireplace to add another log and tend it briefly, while Robb makes room for him in the bed. Robb fusses with the blankets, feeling childish but strangely unashamed. Everyone says that he is taller and broader than most boys of three and ten, that he will grow bigger as he matures. This should unman him, take away all that glowing praise, but it doesn’t. He feels… almost defensive, and resigned about it. After all, it started when he was but seven, and such things simply do not signify to a seven year old.
For Theon, it is different. He has moved from the fireplace to the window, and watches a gentle flurry of snow come down around Winterfell. Robb notices that he has a light dusting of it at the top of his head, rapidly melting from the warmth of the room. His shoulders are hard and stiff, and the resentment pours off of his body. For all that Theon loves to remind Robb that he is five years his senior, most of the time he never really remembers, until moments like this one. Theon doesn’t want to want to be here.
“How is Kyra?” Robb asks after another minute watching Theon stand unmoving, attempting a tone of levity. It works. Theon turns to him with half a grin.
“Better now, I suspect.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I always leave her satisfied.”
Robb rolls his eyes and Theon chuckles softly. He comes over to the bed to offer Robb the wineskin. There’s only about a mouthful left, and Robb sips at it slowly as Theon sits and takes off his boots. It’s not the fine imported stuff that’s served at the high table on special occasions, but it’s good, strong and fruity. Every swallow warms him up in increments.
Theon contemplates his shirt for a moment before he pulls that off too, and then — finally — eases into the bed alongside Robb. His heart kicks up into a faster tempo almost casually, if a heart can be said to do anything with nonchalance in the cool dark of midnight.
They aren’t touching yet, but their fingers brush when Robb passes back the wineskin. Theon drains the lees out of it and flings it aside. It makes a little arc, and lands on a far chair.
“It’s about time you started coming with me,” Theon says, not letting silence make a home between them just yet. Robb raises an eyebrow. “When I go into town at night,” Theon explains. “You’re old enough for a woman, aren’t you?”
Theon isn’t looking directly at him, but Robb supposes it’s too much to hope that he can’t see his blush.
“I don’t know. I… well, I suppose so.”
“Hah! You suppose so. It’s just what you need, I think. Stop you from stuttering like a maid like that. You could at least get yourself one of the kitchen girls.”
Robb doesn’t like to think about that. He’s in no hurry to embarrass himself in front of one of the tavern wenches or brothel girls that Theon knows so well. Even less appealing is the thought of approaching one of the servants. It wouldn’t be fair to them; none of the castle girls would feel like they could say no to the lord’s son, as Theon has pointed out so many times before. His older friend would laugh and mock him for a girl if he ever said anything like this aloud, but Robb wants his first time to be a bit more… special.
“What happened to your knuckles?” he asks, changing the subject clumsily. He points, turning to lie on his side. The knuckles of Theon’s right hand, curled against his chest, are bruised and pink, looking like little flowerets on his skin. Theon, whose stare had been boring into Robb, moves his eyes to look up at the ceiling instead, and waves the hand negligently.
“Nothing. A fight. It was over before it started.”
He wants to hear more about this fight, but he knows that if Theon had wanted to tell him, it would have been one of the first things across his lips. In any case, Robb doesn’t want to wait any longer. They both know where this is going.
Carefully, (he always has to be careful) giving him time to pull away, (he always has to give him time to pull away, to change his mind) Robb reaches for Theon’s hand. They don’t talk about it. Theon acts like he doesn’t realise what Robb is doing until the moment is there, upon them, and Robb curls his fingers into Theon’s palm. His flesh is cool, but Robb doesn’t think that that is the font from whence springs the shiver that crawls up his arm.
He tugs the appendage to him, makes a show of inspecting the bruises. Theon scoffs.
“You’re worse than Old Nan. The skin isn’t even broken.”
“I’m just looking,” Robb protests gently; a lie. He isn’t looking. What he’s doing is stalling, prolonging the contact. Theon’s skin warms up against his own, and bit by bit, Robb laces their fingers together, one between each space like a whispered secret, until they are properly holding hands.
Theon sighs, a silent rush of air, and Robb feels as his body relaxes.
When he was little and Theon was new to the castle, it was normal enough. Robb followed him everywhere he went, hung on to his every word, crawled into his bed at night and watched him curl up and refuse to submit to sadness. Watched him fight against the fear. Robb would hold his hand and rub it gently as they fell asleep, feel the tension ease out of him, listen as their breathing slowed down and aligned until every breath of his was one of Theon’s. As if they had fallen into each other’s blood. As if they were connected by the touch of skin.
And it’s not strange, he tells himself. Theon is his friend; Robb loves him no less than he loves Jon, the brother of his blood. It had continued and continued, night after night until Robb could fall asleep without Theon’s hand in his, but he didn’t like to, didn’t want to. And when Theon reached a certain age and started telling him that he couldn’t come into his room anymore, Robb had accepted it. It hadn’t lasted long anyway; now Theon comes to him, mostly.
Robb draws the blanket over his shoulder with his free hand. Theon still isn’t really looking at him, his own free hand running absently through his hair, but Robb feels at ease, and a little sleepier already. Whatever was missing from his bed before, it’s here now.
“Hunting tomorrow?” Theon asks drowsily. They’re close enough that Robb can smell the wine on his breath. There is also the taste of wine in his own mouth to comfort him, and the sight of their joined hands, the feel of Theon’s thumb rubbing the arches of Robb’s knuckles, a reversal of the old caress.
“Mhm,” Robb murmurs in affirmative. “Father says we can try to bring back a few pheasants, after the boar is dealt with.”
A quiet snort. “Does ‘we’ mean ‘me’?”
“Oh, shut it, Greyjoy. Jon and I have been practising our archery; we can help.”
Theon laughs, a softer sound than usual. Everything about him is softer, like this. They don’t talk about it. Robb squeezes his hand briefly, a little reassurance to himself that it is still there. It is the comfortable heat that beckons sleep, the anchor that sinks him into dreams, the friendly weight that tugs curiously at his heart as much as his hand. Robb’s eyelids are heavy, and the last thing he sees before he closes them is Theon.
*
Come morning, Theon’s hand is gone and so is the boy himself, but the warmth is still there.