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“Little crow…” Tormund calls him for the fourth time. And this time around, he finally got a response. He can feel Jon’s hum vibrating on the skin between his neck and shoulder.
“You’re drunk, my wild thing,” he says, gently moving Jon’s head so his face is no longer buried. Tormund himself had been drinking, though nowhere as much as Jon. That, plus his high tolerance for alcohol, he’s basically as right as rain. He adds when their eyes meet, “One may say too drunk to do this.”
Jon pouts. “Am I?” he asks, resting his chin on Tormund’s shoulder. His brown eyes glistens under the lamp light.
“Aye.”
“But I want to do this,” he moans, not ceasing to be stubborn even when he can’t stand on his own two feet. It makes Tormund laugh, his chest feels tight with the affection that he bears for this man in his arms.
“Alright then. Just tell me when you’re ready,” Tormund succumbing easily.
It takes another minute before Jon declares that he is ready. Tormund circles an arm around Jon’s back and raises his body from the front-row bench they were sitting on, leading him slowly to the front of the heart tree, the center of an Old Gods’ temple, where an old, kind-faced clergywoman is waiting for them.
“I don't think you got a clock for your bride on you,” she says teasingly.
“No, but I got my leather jacket,” Tormund replies with a grin. He then looks down at Jon, who’s currently staring up at him like he hung the moon. “Would it be acceptable for you, my lady?” he questions, and Jon beams.
“I look hot when I’m wearing your leather jacket.”
“You always look hot, Jon,” Tormund corrects him. “But aye, Mother, he does look scalding hot when he wears it,” he informs the clergywoman, who just laughs at their antics.
“Well then, lad, let’s get you married.”
A few minutes later Jon has Tormund’s leather jacket draped over his shoulders, and they stand facing the clergywoman as she wraps a ribbon around their joined hand.
“O’ Gods,” she starts, “bear witness for these two souls that come to you in hopes to become one. Grants them this prayer of theirs, from this day to eternity to come.”
Look at your lover, dears, and say the words,” she tells them. And, though there is nothing truly changed between this moment and five seconds ago, seeing Jon in front of him now knocks his breath out of him.
Tormund loves him so much.
“Hey,” Tormund says, his left hand that’s not bound by the ribbon lifts to cup Jon’s cheek, its thumb stroking the skin lovingly. “Do you remember the words, Jon?” he teases.
Jon makes a face. “Of course I do. I’ve been waiting forever to say it with you.”
I want to say it the day I met you, Tormund thinks. But instead, he says, “Well, it would be rude to make you wait another minute, wouldn’t it?” and Jon, his sweet, sweet Jon, nods in earnest.
“Hear o’ Gods, and bear witness. This is our oath, and our prayer,” they declare in unison, “I am his,” Tormund starts.
“...and he is mine.”
“From this day,”
“...to the eternity to come,” Jon ends, and then jumps to bless him with a kiss. Jon’s mouth tastes of cheap sweet wine that Tormund hates with a passion, and he’s also not sure that Jon got transfer-proof lipstick in this shade he is wearing, but oh, Tormund would not ever reject his husband. And certainly not a minute after their wedding vow.
“We’re married,” his little crow whispers to his face, giddy.
“Aye, Jon, we are,” he echoes, tucking Jon’s curls behind his ear, then kissing his forehead and every other inch of his face.
“Tor…”
Tormund kisses his left cheek. “Yes, Jon?” he answers before landing his lips on the tip of Jon’s nose.
“Tor…”
Tormund draws his face away. “Yes, Jon, what is it?”
“I—” Jon opens his mouth, but before the words come, he bends and the vomit spurts out first.
—
Ten minutes later, Jon is lying down asleep on one of the temple’s benches, using Tormund’s leather jacket as a blanket. Tormund would have to carry him to their car, and as it happens they are in a temple, Tormund murmurs a thanks to the Gods for their size difference.
“So… did he do that often?” the clergywoman, who Tormund learned is named Morna, asks as he mops the floor. She sits beside Jon’s head on the bench, looking rather amused.
“This is the…” Tormund stops to think it over. “... the third time in five years of our marriage. Do you think that is considered often?”
Morna laughs. Ignoring Tormund’s rhetorical question, she instead asks, “Did you ever try to deny him?”
“No. Of course not,” Tormund replies, without missing a beat. “He asks me to marry him, how could I say no? That is just absurd, and cruel.”
“Even though you are already married and he’s drunk?”
“Yes,” Tormund answers, in all seriousness. His eyes then fell on Jon, his gaze softening at the sight. “Besides, you saw how happy it made him. Nothing pleased me as much as seeing him happy. He’s my oath, Mother, my prayer.”