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“’S not fair,” Robb slurs and throws the empty pitcher to the soft, mossy ground.
“Huh?” Jon replies, distracted by a lone firefly, following its flight through the darkness. It’s so peaceful out here. Robb’s idea was good, although they will be in much trouble for it if anyone finds them here, hiding in the godswood with a jug of mead. Not that he cares very much - too drunk for it, as it seems.
“That you don’t get to. Sit with us. At. The table.” It takes an audible effort for Robb to enunciate his words clearly.
“Huh,” Jon repeats. “Why?” Robb is right. Drinking helps. He wouldn’t usually be so mellow about the whole thing.
“You know. Aunt Lysa. She’s...”
Jon shrugs and stares up at the sky. “What?”
“Not fair. You know what I mean. That you have to...”
“I don’t care.” It would be a lie if he were sober.
“I do,” Robb says earnestly. “Father should...”
From one moment to the other, Jon’s mood changes. Suddenly he feels very sorry for himself, despite the mead. “He can’t make your lady mother like me. Or her sister.”
“But she should. You’re great.”
“She hates me,” he forces out.
“No. No, she just...” Robb falls silent, scowling. He drank most of the wine and is clearly drunker than Jon.
“It’s not my fault,” Jon hears himself say with the defiance of a little boy. “She can’t blame me.” Someone really should tell Lady Catelyn that.
Robb puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. But. I like you best. You know that, right? You’re my brother. You are awesome.”
Jon leans into the touch, feeling just the tiniest bit guilty. It happens so rarely, being touched like this.
Robb blinks at him. Pulls his hand back. Punches him in the side, hard.
“Ow,” Jon complains, weirdly hurt. “What was that for?”
“You gotta say it back!” Robb demands with a frown.
“What?”
“That you like me best, too.”
“Oh.” Technically, it’s not right. He likes Arya and Bran more. Most of the time. Robb and him, they compete for almost everything. Sword fighting, running, riding; everything’s a struggle. When Robb wins, he crows over it, when he loses, he glowers. Still...
“I like you best,” Jon says.
Robb puts an arm around him and lets his head rest on Jon’s shoulder. “Good.” He hums in Jons hair, fingers of his left hand playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. Jon shivers.
“You’ve got to... promise you will never leave me,” Robb whispers. “Promise. I heard my lady mother talk about sending you away. To Greywater Watch as a squire. But you can’t go. You’re mine.”
Jon heard the rumour, too. He also heard that his lord father told Lady Catelyn no. “I won’t go.”
“Not anywhere. You gotta promise.”
It’s not his promise to make, Jon knows that. “I promise.”
“Good,” Robb whispers again, close to his ear. Jon turns his head to look at him.
Robb kisses him. Just the slightest touch of lips against lips. Jon can taste the mead in his breath.
“You’re mine, Jon. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” Jon replies softly, his heart beating as fast as a drum.
The next kiss is less gentle, and Jon thinks that maybe Robb is not as drunk as he appears to be. It was only a small pitcher after all.
Not that it matters. Jon kisses him back.
One kiss becomes many and then, somehow, Jon finds himself on the ground with Robb on top of him, and Robb’s head is buried in the juncture between his neck and shoulder.
“I’m yours as well,” his brother murmurs, and Jon thinks that yes, maybe Robb is after all.