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He goes to the nurse’s office because there’s this sudden, uncomfortable ache turning around in his stomach, and he figures class time would be better utilized when the chemical equations don’t look so much like standardized baking formulas. He leaves his books on his desk, expecting to come back, and paws the classroom door open with a considerable amount of laze.

The office bell chimes and it rings through his already pulsing head. It takes a moment of him screwing his eyes shut and breathing before he can continue the walk in. When he rounds the corner he sees all the chairs empty and Mrs. Luwin hunched forward to her computer screen, squinting.

He clears his throat after a few seconds of her not noticing his presence.

“Bloody hell—” She flinches, swivelling in her chair. Her face slackens once she sees him. “Oh, Jon, love. What can I do you for?”

His compromised immune system has a committed relationship with Nurse Luwin’s medicine cabinet, so he’s in here a lot. They’ve become somewhat acquainted with each other. “Afternoon, miss. ‘M just not feeling well.” More often than not—and especially in the winter—he catches a whiff of somebody’s mild cold and transforms it into something lethal for himself. Unfortunately, there was no respite from the weather’s antics. Not even for bastards

Nurse Luwin tutts and gets out of her seat. Jon executes the rehearsed movement of taking his own and lifting his head for her to press a palm to—but this time, as soon as she gets within a foot of him, her face drops and her hand stills midair.

Jon blinks. She scrunches up her nose and looks like she’s trying to compute something in her mind. He suddenly feels sweaty, and for some reason, like he’d done something very naughty.

Nurse Luwin steps back and smiles knowingly. “I think I know what’s the matter, dear.”

Jon perks up. “Great.”

“You’ve stopped taking your suppressants, correct? You’re probably just feeling the early effects of your next heat. Stomach cramps? Brainfog?”

Jon furrows his brows. “I… yeah, but—”

“Hot flashes? You smell like you’re due. Alright—what I can do is call your mother to come pick you up and ring whatever classroom your brother’s in and get him to take your stuff home for you. Does that sound okay?”

“Hold on. I’m not—”

“Is her number still the same? Our system got wiped the other week and they still haven’t put everyone back,” Nurse Luwin says, already pressing the phone between her ear and her shoulder and dialling a number.

Jon stood up, now feeling whatever hot flash she was going on about. “Ma’am, I’m not—I can’t be—” he stammers, then takes a deep breath. “I’m unpresented.”

Admitting that always felt like pointing the finger and laughing at himself. It’s not uncommon for pups to present late, but there’s late and then there’s turning seventeen in October when it’s already June. He tries to seldom mention it whenever possible, but sometimes it’s unavoidable, and he just has to swallow his embarrassment and nod when people ask.

“Oh,” Nurse Luwin says, pausing. She hooks the phone back on its prongs and turns to face him fully. “Oh, my mistake, love. You just smell as though… Nope. I’m sorry. That’s my mistake. Are you still feeling—I mean, would you still like me to call mum?”

Jon feels a shiver leave through his spine, but he ignores it. “Yes, please.”

***

He’s at the car door’s side as soon as Catelyn pulls up in the pickup zone. He slams the door shut after himself and struggles with the seatbelt.

Catelyn makes a congested noise beside him.

Jon looks at her. “What?”

“You sure you’re just not feeling well? You smell…”

“Yes.” Jon rolls his eyes, clicking in his seatbelt. If this becomes a regular thing, he’s going to get really irritated really quickly. “Nurse Luwin keeps calling you my mum, by the way.”

Catelyn starts the car and puts her hands on the wheel, looking not one bit bothered by the fact. “Oh well.”

Jon fights the urge to roll his eyes again. “‘S not right to feed the school misinformation. What if something happens?”

“Something what? I’m one of your legal guardians; it doesn’t matter if we share blood.”

“Whatever,” Jon mutters, sinking into the car seat. He watches streetlights pass through the window.

***

He wakes up the next day feeling extra groggy and all the more dizzy. His bedsheets feel like lava against his sweltering skin. Even so, he doesn’t miss the distant, cooling wetness to them. They’re equally as damp as they are uncomfortable. (He must’ve sweated through the night.) There’s that same ache in his abdomen and an unforgiving sensation like someone’s shoved a pencil through his right eye—and when he stands up, tries to make it down the hallway, he has to lean on the walls for support.

Jesus.

As he’s going down the stairs one by one, he realizes that there’s a different sort of stench in the house this morning. Usually, it smells of nothing in particular, save for whatever Ned’s or Cat’s cooking for breakfast. He wonders if Sansa’s set off a fragrance bomb or something in her room and it’s reached the rest of the house. But it smells strong, sharp, and extremely too lively for it to be coming from an object.

Sansa’s on the couch with her breakfast, and Arya and Bran are on the other end fighting over the television remote. Ned and Cat are both in the kitchen with spatulas and plates, and Robb’s sitting across them at the bench, hunched over a piece of toast. When Jon reaches the bottom, there is a silence unlike the morning chatter he heard from upstairs. 

Everyone seems to stop what they’re doing and look his way. The sudden eyes make his palms go sweaty. They slip on the railing. He takes the final step off the stairs and walks into the space, weirdly nervous. He takes rubbing his eye as a way to soften the harshness of their attention, but it only works for a moment or so before it becomes intentional and performative, and he’s forced to drop his arm again.

Jon looks around, shifting on his feet. “Why’re you all staring at me like that?”

Ned lets the bacon burn. “Jon…”

Jon gives his pitiful expression a confused one and turns to Robb for help. Except—Robb’s shoulders are up to his ears, his muscles are tense, and his eyes are wide, searing right through him. Jon goes to pull out the seat beside him to sit on, and Robb drops his toast, starts inching away, afraid.

“Wh—Robb,” Jon says, unimpressed.

Robb only stares back, slightly shaking his head. A hand slowly comes up to cover the bottom half of his face—and that’s when Jon’s chest really starts to hurt.

When he turns back to Ned, he’s already turning the stove off and putting down the spatula. Catelyn leans against the counter with a small smile. Like Nurse Luwins. Knowing. It makes the strain in his stomach pull even more taut. He makes a noise like a whimper.

Ned’s crossing the kitchen to get to him in a second. “Jon.”

Jon doesn’t know what comes over him, but he has to step away as Ned gets close. It’s that same stench again, the one he thought was Sansa’s perfume or whatever. It’s that sharp, heavy scent of pine and river water. And it’s coming from Ned. But—how?

He looks to Sansa to see if she can smell it too, but all she’s doing is watching from afar, confused. Back to Catelyn and Jon thinks he can smell something from her as well. Though something softer, lighter—a flower of some sort.

Ned places a gentle hand on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon feels his knees go weak. A strange dizziness comes over him and he almost has to lean into the hold to keep himself upright. Robb is by his side suddenly, a welcome contrast to his initial reaction to Jon’s presence. Robb tries to wedge himself between Jon and Ned, desperate. He tries to get close enough to Jon to put a hand on his cheek.

Ned keeps Robb still by his chest. “Easy,” he tells him, and Robb listens, reluctantly but not entirely taking a half-step back. Jon feels his head spin. Robb smells different too. Something citrusy mixed with rosemary.

“What’s—” Jon mumbles. “What’s happening?”

The looks they’re all giving each other. Gods.

Ned squeezes his shoulder and Jon looks up. Ned tilts his head, and his eyebrows pinch inwards. He nods like Jon has any idea what he’s referring to. But when he looks back down at Robb again, and Catelyn, and his own two hands—it hits him.

“No,” he whispers to himself. Then, louder, “No.”

He already feels himself getting wound up, and next to that, he can somehow smell the change in Robb’s emotions. His shift from cautious to worried.

“Listen…”

“Oh, gods.”

“Hey, take it easy—”

“No, no, no, no… This isn’t—I’m unpresented!”

Ned chuckles. “Not anymore. Guess you’re just an extremely late bloomer. Okay, breathe—”

Jon shakes his head against Ned’s steadying hands. He tries to get Jon to do that thing where he copies his breathing, but Jon couldn’t give a fuck about breathing right now. Breathing meant inhaling, and inhaling meant smelling, and smelling meant going through the motions all over again. Meant confronting the fact that he could smell pheremones. Something only the presented could do. Something Robb and Theon bragged to him for as long as he could remember. Jon had to wrap his head around it quick or he was going to implode; a thing reserved only for the presented was coming naturally to him.

Gods.

It takes three more deep breaths from Ned and an uninvited hand from Robb on his bicep to send him fleeing back up the stairs. He races to his room and slams his door shut, leaning his back against it with vigor.

Downstairs, he hears Ned sigh and say, “I’ll call the school.”

***

When it hits the afternoon, Jon decides he’s spent enough time freaking out in his room. He drags himself downstairs in a hoodie, the strings pulled tight, covering most of his face.

Robb’s sitting at the bench again, this time with his laptop open in front of him. He turns his head once Jon reaches the floor. “Hey,” he softly says. He carefully shuts his laptop screen and turns to face Jon. “How’re you feeling?”

Jon swallows a thick gob of spit. “Like I’m going insane.”

“Yeah,” Robb huffs, smiling. “It’s like that for the first few days. You’ll feel better soon. Hopefully. Are you hungry?”

Jon scans the whole downstairs area. “Where is everyone?”

Robb’s already getting out of his seat and opening the fridge. “Work. School. Just me and you, bro.”

He gets out a container of leftover bacon and two eggs and closes the fridge, then pulls a pan out from under the stove and sets it gently on top, turning the dial and lighting the flame. He rolls his shoulder blades back and forth to get a knot out of his muscles, and cranes his neck from side to side until there’s a satisfying pop.

Jon watches with distinct befuddlement. 

The bacon begins to sizzle in the pan. Robb turns back around. “How much bacon?” he asks nonchalantly.

Jon just blinks, but then he walks forward and joins him in the kitchen. He takes a look at how big the bacon strips are and decides, “Three,” while definitely not leaning against the counter to stop himself from swaying.

Robb nods and shakily peels out two more strips to place in the pan. It’s then that Jon notices he’s still impressively tense, even after all that stretching. It also comes to him that Robb must’ve volunteered to stay home with Jon while everyone else went out for the day. He wonders how exactly they settled on that decision. If Robb was nominated or if he fought to be the one there for Jon.

“You—You can go sit. I’ll bring it to you when it’s done,” Robb tells him.

The scent radiating off him is nervous. Weary. Even without the smell, Jon can tell by the way he’s shuffling back and forth on his feet and the way his eyes keep darting away from the food and over to Jon, checking, calculating. But the scent is just one more thing. One more freaky, strangely reassuring thing.

“What’s the matter with you?” Jon questions.

“What?” Robb looks like he’s been caught.

“What ‘what?’ Why are you acting like that?”

“Acting like what? I don’t understand.”

“You’re—” Jon gestures to his entire frame. “Hello? Is this—Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“What? No!” Robb suddenly looks very guilty. “No, no, no—that’s not it at all, Jon, I promise. It’s nothing, dude, just—don’t worry about it. Go sit.”

Robb places his hands on Jon’s shoulder to steer him away. Jon feels it tenfold for some reason, and strengthens his hold on the counter to prevent from falling. Instead, he leans into it like some sort of desperate pup, and takes one big inhale of Robb up close.

Robb retracts his hands like he’s been burned. “Whoa.” He watches Jon stumble slightly. “I’m sorry. That was me. I shouldn’t have—Jeez, Robb, nice going. What did Dad say?”

Jon feels momentarily hazy, but he blinks back into existence. “Huh?”

“Are you okay? I didn’t know that would happen. I mean, I did, but…”

Jon shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he mutters, embarrassed. He turns away and starts towards the couch, face heating up.

Great. Did being an omega mean doing that every time someone touched him? Whatever smidge of relaxation he felt at thinking he had Robb all to himself for the day fades away, and he’s confronted with the harsh reality that this is his life now, forever and always. No backing out. No hiding from it.

This was definitely going to be as bad as he thought.

***

He smells Ned before he hears the front door open. That was going to take some getting used to. He hears Grey Wind barking and Robb and Ned talking, and then footsteps running up the stairs, and suddenly his door is open.

“Knock,” Jon groans.

“Sorry.” Robb winces—then points behind his shoulder. “Dad’s got something for you.”

He follows Robb downstairs and mentally prepares himself to be assaulted by the strong stench of pine that belongs to Ned. It’s not as bad as before, he finds, but that’s maybe because no one was panicking or presenting for the first time anymore.

Ned beams as soon as he sees Jon; Jon can smell the mood change. “Jon! Here, lad, I’ve got a surprise.”

Jon walks up to the counter as Ned sets down a brown cardboard box wrapped with a red ribbon. He turns it toward Jon and crosses his arms, waiting. Jon reckons if he had a tail, it’d be wagging. Jon takes one last glance at him before reaching for the ribbon and tugging it sideways. It falls away gracefully, and all that’s left is the box. Jon takes the lid and lifts it with agonizing slowness, turning his head away slightly just in case anything jumped out and bit him. But—no. It was a cake. Oh.

Jon opens the lid fully and peers inside, and—writing. Writing that says, It’s an Omega! in purple, messy cursive. There are small pieces of confetti drawn on the edges and a smiley face smack bang in the middle. Surrounding the message are tiny little frosting rattles, and bottles, and pacifiers, and somehow—

Jon squints. “Pawprints.” The attention to detail is actually quite impressive.

He looks up at Ned and Ned is undoubtedly waiting for Jon’s reaction. He has a small smile, one not yet fully formed, and is nodding like he was saying, yeah? is it good? do you like it?

Jon did not.

He cringes but smiles back anyway—just as small, don’t give him too much credit—going, “Wow.”

Ned deflates beside him. “Aye,” he says, patting Jon on the back. “Welcome to the pack.”

Welcome. Jon scoffs. Like he hadn’t been born and raised by them.

Behind him, Robb chuckles. Jon turns around, fierce.

“Something funny?”

“God, no.”

“Good.” Jon turns back to the cake and dips his finger in the icing. He sticks his finger in his mouth and licks it clean. Buttercream. At least he got that right. “Thanks, Ned,” he says, genuine this time.

Ned sighs happily and wraps an arm around him. His scent goes from overbearing to placated. “No problem, pup.”

***

Jon’s sitting in his room when Catelyn knocks.

After his confirmational hum, she turns the handle and comes in. “There you are,” she says. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“About?”

“About your presentation.”

Jon’s eyes widen, but then he just grumbles.

Catelyn huffs. “Now, now…” She sits on the end of his bed. “I just wanted to give you a little friendly advice, coming from an old omega like myself.”

“You’re not that old,” he tries

She just gives him a look. Unimpressed, but also, don’t try to change the subject. “How are you handling it?” she asks.

Jon shifts uncomfortably. What does that mean? “I… don’t know. Nothing’s changed, except for—for the smells. Everything smells.”

“Yeah, that’s the main one.”

“And—there’s these waves of hot and then cold, and then nothing at all?”

“The changes can be frustrating.”

Jon shakes his head, sits up straight in his bed. “But—” He sighs. “I don’t get it. Why now? Why, after all these years? What’s changed?”

Catelyn pretends to think. “There usually is no why,” she hums. “I presented at fourteen, and even then I thought the universe had it out for me.”

Jon chuckles.

Catelyn smiles. “I’m glad I amuse you. I remember being overwhelmed by all these new emotions, all these new instincts. The feeling that everyone suddenly expected something from me.” She goes from looking around his room wistfully to making direct eye contact with him, serious. “I don’t want you to feel that way.”

Jon gulps. “Okay.”

“Some alphas will become protective. Some will suddenly become very interested in your wellbeing—”

Jon thinks about Robb.

“—and some will become complete idiots. Just remember—their instincts are their responsibility. If an alpha decides to be foolish or possessive, you are not the one at fault.”

Jon nods, slow. He ponders his brother. He’s already started acting differently towards Jon. Not bad different—but—Jon hoped he wouldn’t reach those other levels of intensity.

Catelyn seems to note his silence and sighs. “Especially teenage alphas.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Jon admits.

“You should be slightly nervous.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” she says, then smiles again. “You can ask me questions, should they ever decide to grace you with their sudden existence. I’m always here.”

Jon feels the corners of his lips tug up into a genuine smile back. He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind—how he was going to deal with this. Ned and Robb were both alphas, and Sansa was a beta. Arya and Bran were still too young to present, so that left him alone in his Omegan territory. Alone and with Catelyn, he supposed.

“Thank you, Catelyn,” he says.

Suddenly, Robb peeks his head through the cracked door. When he sees Catelyn and Jon only sitting on Jon’s bed, he relaxes and steps inside, holding the door still slightly shut behind himself. “Is everything alright?” he asks.

Catelyn and Jon share a look and start to laugh. Robb stands in the doorway, confused, then Catelyn sighs and stands up. “Yes, dear, everything’s alright.” She passes him, placing a hand on his shoulder, the door frame, and then finally exiting the room.

Robb turns to Jon. “Is everything alright?” he asks again, suspicious.

“Yes.” Jon shakes his head fondly. “She was just—”

“Well, well.” Behind Robb, Theon leans against the wall, grinning. “Welcome to the club.”

Right, Jon remembered. Theon was an omega, too. It was Jon and Catelyn and Theon.

His unfinished sentence forgotten, Jon glares at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you smell incredible,” Theon shoots back. “Seriously. Give it a day and people are gonna be lining—”

“Enough,” Robb cuts in sharply, and oh. Jon’s never smelled that smell from Robb before.

Theon must smell it too because he raises his hands in surrender. But he’s still smirking. He enters Jon’s room and lays himself flat at his feet. Jon pulls his legs closer to his chest.

As if Robb could sense his discomfort, (although, he probably could) he says to Theon, “How’d you get in here?”

“Your dad let me in,” Theon replies easily. He stretches and groans. He catches Jon’s eye and then winces. “Oh, you probably hate this, another omega coming in and scenting your space.”

He had no idea what that meant, but— “Yeah, I kinda do.”

“That’s alright,” Theon assures, “I wear off quick. Always have. It’s Robb you’ve gotta watch out for. He’ll have you smelling like post-lacrosse sweat and rotten mangoes for weeks.”

“Excuse me?” Robb crosses his arms.

“Ah, you know how you get. Always smelling so strong, so fervent…” Theon winks—then pulls an innocent face, a pout. “Messes with our heads, y’know?”

“Alright.” Robb uncrosses and goes to leave.

“You’re a tough alpha to be around. Very overbearing. Very masculine,” he calls out as he goes, grinning in Jon’s direction when he’s met with silence. “They’re all so fragile.”

“Theon, get out.”

***

Catelyn was right. He was already feeling the changes. His brain was laden with a vastness that had a certain melty twinge to it, and there was no limit to how strong a scent could be, he finds, mercilessly, over the gruelling course of a fortnight. Falling asleep is easy most nights. Waking up is harder. There is comfort and warmth with his siblings in the next rooms—and then there is silence in his loneliness.

He thought he was handling it pretty well until Ned announced that it was time for school again.

 “No.”

“Jon, you’ve got to,” Ned pleads.

“Nope.”

“You’ve already missed a week.”

“And I’ll miss another!” Jon bites back, turning away from him and to his breakfast. Bacon and eggs again. Courtesy of Robb. Again. “You can’t make me,” he mumbles.

Ned sighs. “Jon—”

“School is full of people,” Jon interrupts.

“Yes?”

“People smell weird.”

Ned laughs. “People have always smelled weird.”

“No. They smell weird now.”

“You survived before,” Ned points out.

Jon feels the heat rise to his cheeks. It’s as much embarrassment as it is fury. “I wasn’t an omega before.”

He regrets saying it immediately. The room goes quiet even though it’s just them and Robb in the kitchen. He hears the movement of the spatula stilling against the frying pan, and smells the air in Ned’s breath hitch. He hasn’t tried playing the omega card yet but if it proves successful then he might have to start. Times like now would be a good place.

Ned’s expression softens and he goes to do that lecture thing.

Jon tries to beat him to it. “I only mean that—”

“I know what you mean,” Ned says.

Jon wants to argue, no you don’t; how could you? but he’s smart enough to know when to pick his battles, especially with Ned. He usually never wins and he usually ends up feeling more pent up than before. All he wants now is for this conversation to be over.

Ned sighs, resting a hand on the back of Jon’s chair. “I understand the reluctance. New places and new people are always daunting after presenting. I realize I’m no omega, contrary to your belief—” He waits for Jon’s snort. “—but there was a thing or two I had to learn about being an alpha before I was ready for the public as well. I understand.”

Jon wonders how that process goes, if Robb had to endure it. He huffs. “What, how not to fall asleep standing up? How to resist curling into a ball?”

This time, it’s Robb who interjects, hushed. “No, Jon. As in… instincts. Alpha instincts.”

Jon’s brows furrow. “Yeah?”

Robb stays quiet for a moment while glancing at Ned. There’s a pause that Jon can’t quite put his finger on, and a change in their scents. Robb goes back to the frying pan and that makes him reevaluate. Alpha instincts? As if they’re different from omega ones? He always knew there was something slightly more protective and, well, alpha-y to them, but the way they spoke about it seemed different to the movies he’d watched with Sansa. Sansa, who had nothing helpful to say except for complaining about the alpha boys at school treating her like an omega because they couldn’t wrap their puny heads around the fact that girls could be betas, too. That they were all douchebags. That he was lucky to be unpresented and not have to deal with them.

“Oh,” is all Jon says, his brain catching up. He suddenly feels grateful to have Ned and Robb as the primary alphas in his life.

“Yeah,” Robb mutters. He smells of nervousness and humiliation. Like he’s ashamed. Jon doesn’t know what he’d feel ashamed about, so he ignores it. “Anyways—more important things—what about the game next week?”

Shit. Jon hadn’t even considered that. He’d forgotten all about it among the plethora of other things he’d magically forgotten about.

Ned blinks. “The game?”

“Our lacrosse game.”

“Ah…”

“I can’t do it,” Jon’s already saying. He shakes his head and pushes his plate away from himself. “I can’t. Or—won’t. I won’t do it.”

“Come on, Jon!” Robb groans.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Out there on that field? Thirty-something heaving, huffing, sweating alphas? Yeah, no thanks.” Now that he’d gathered what type of demographic teenage alpha boys targeted, the decision was easy.

“You’ve never even been around other alphas before. It might not be that bad.”

“Robb,” Ned warns.

Jon scoffs, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, Robb. Shove me in the deep end, why don’t ya?”

“I’m just saying.” Robb shrugs, looking around aimlessly. “You don’t know if you don’t try. Don’t be such a scaredy pup.”

Jon feels a shot right through his heart. “A—” He looks to Ned, then to Robb, then back to Ned again. “A what?” He doesn’t know if the feeling’s welcome or not. The jab feels homely and fond, but the way Robb’s used it gets him riled up.

“You’ve never heard that? I s’pose you weren’t the social butterfly out of us.”

“The what?”

Robb’s eyes widen. “Jeez! That too? I take it back, you’re more hermit-pup than scared.”

“Stop it,” Jon tells him. “Let’s stay on track. Firstly, no school—”

“You’re going to school, Jon,” Ned cuts in.

“It’s like throwing me to the wolves, you do know that, right?”

Ned shakes his head with a laugh and gets up out of his seat. “Robb will be there to walk you to and from class. Sansa will be somewhere down the hall. You will not be alone and you will not be unprotected.”

Jon cringes at that. “I don’t think I want my brother walking me to my classes.” And I don’t need his protection.

“The schools have protocols in place for that stuff, Dad,” Robb says.

“Yeah, Dad,” Jon mocks. He grins at Ned’s taken aback face; there’s a scent change. Jon gulps. “‘Kay, fine. School. Whatever.”

“And lacrosse.”

“No lacrosse.”

Robb looks at Ned and shrugs.

Ned catches Jon’s wrist as he’s leaving and asks, “Hey—you sure you’ve eaten enough?”

***

School is not school anymore but a whole new world. He’s not sure of how strong he smells, but judging from how Ned and Robb’s behave around him, he can probably guess. In the morning, he dowses himself in Sansa’s perfume and rugs up in three layers. He’s sweating, and that could probably be worse, but he feels safe, guarded, content.

People he’d usually pass in the hallways without a word have now started staring at him as he goes. They have started doing double-takes, nudging their friends, and pointing. Some stumble over their feet and some completely change the direction they’re walking in. All alphas, he presumes.

He pulls his hoodie strings tighter.

And then there’s Tormund.

“Little crow!” Tormund’s voice travels. Always has. It’s useful for when Jon needs to find him in a crowd but not so much when he’s trying to remain invisible.

He turns around and watches Tormund make his way over with a big smile.

When he’s close enough, Tormund’s face drops and he freezes shy of a foot in front of Jon. There’s a flicker of something sharp and interested in his eyes, followed by him physically taking a step back. “Snow,” he greets warily.

“Tormund.”

“You smell different.”

“Yeah,” Jon confirms. “Getting that a lot lately.”

Tormund narrows his eyes and gives Jon’s body a once-over with them, taking in his covered frame. Not his usual attire, he knows. There’s a spike in the air between them, and Jon can see his pupils dilate ever so slightly.

“Omega,” all Tormund says.

“Yep.”

“You… when?”

Jon winces. He probably should’ve told him, being Jon’s best friend and all. “A while now,” he admits guiltily. “Sorry.”

Tormund shakes his head. “No, no—that’s okay, crow. That’s…” He does another scan of Jon, like he’s trying to figure out where the smell’s coming from. “Wow. You’re—wow.”

Jon groans. “Not you too.” He’s already walking away.

Tormund starts to follow close behind. “No! I’m not—I’m just surprised, is all. Took you long enough. Thought you were one of them—how do you call it?”

Coming from the far north meant that Tormund was basically considered a foreigner. Whatever village he’d lived in used a dialect completely diverse to the natives in Winterfell, and that meant they had different names for everything. Including this. English was a slight barrier between them (Jon having to correct his inappropriate use of catchphrases daily with a bashful, red face) and now, clearly, so was this.

“An enigma,” Jon supplies.

“Yes. Toimhsheachan. I thought you’d be a mysterious, brooding little shit for the rest of your miserable life.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it.” Jon rolls his eyes, but even so, it earns Tormund a chuckle. “Well, you’re not the only one.”

In saying that, it makes Jon wonder about the kind of life he’d be on track to live had he not presented. If he’d remain eternally grateful for the isolation, or if he’d one day feel very lonely, very excluded, and want to participate in the world’s subsequent habit of smelling each other’s emotions.

Jon notes Tormund walking a little too close beside him.

He backs away carefully. “Anyway—I’ve got physics, so. See ya.”

“Well, hold on! I’ll walk you.” Tormund grins cheekily. “Plenty of alphas about. You need protecting.”

Jon sighs. “I don’t need—”

Tormund suddenly snatches his books from his arms. “Back home, omegas are considered pure, vestal things. The bringers of life. Even if you are the most hot-headed pup there is, the second you present as an omega, you are granted the privilege of security.”

Jon rolls his eyes again. “Oh, it’s a privilege, is it?” he says sarcastically.

“Snowball, allow this of me.”

Jon could smell a fiery, wood-like scent from Tormund. Overwhelming, but comforting nonetheless. As they walked down the hall, it oscillated between strong and weak. Strong whenever another alpha walked past, and weak when it was anybody else. He hadn’t noticed that from Ned or Robb yet but he’d also not been out in public with them since presenting. If it were an alpha thing, he’d understand. But if it was a Tormund thing—well, he supposed that made sense, too.

By the time they had made it to Jon’s classroom, Jon found he was actually quite relaxed—more so than before. It occurred to him that perhaps having Tormund walk him places wasn’t such a bad idea. Maybe the way they did things far north was the right way.

Jon takes his books back from Tormund and looks up. “Thank you, Tor. Your service is greatly appreciated.”

Tormund nods. “I’ll come collect you when the bell rings.”

“Wait—what?”

“Pure, vestal things, Jon.” And he was gone.

***

“Holy shit, you stink.”

Jon turns his head to find Sam and Edd both leaning forward in their seats, staring wide-eyed and disbelieving.

Jon takes a quick glance at the teacher to make sure she wasn’t looking and responds, “Thanks, guys.”

“Well, I can’t smell you.” Edd shrugs.

“Jon, you’re ripe. What on earth are you doing at school?”

Ripe. Yuck. Jon squirmed in his seat. “I tried to get Dad to let me stay home.”

Sam shook his head in disappointment and went back to his paper and pencil. “Dude. Get some pepper spray.”

Fucking hell, Sam. The most annoying thing ever was for quiet, cowardly Sam to have presented as an alpha. He wouldn’t shut up about it when it first happened, and he wouldn’t shut up about it now, however subtle and indistinct he may be. Even now it was still his most prominent feature. Edd was a beta, so that was ten times more bearable. But now they were Sam, Edd and Jon; Alpha, Beta, Omega. Great.

“Fuck off, Sam,” Jon bites, and turns back around to face the front.

He was also coming to realize that he’d become increasingly more short-tempered these days. With family was a given, but he hoped not with his friends. It’d be a shame if he were to lose them over something so trivial. He also doesn’t know what he would say. Hey, it’s not me, I’m not supposed to be presented, remember?

He has two minutes of peace before someone sits down beside him, tapping him on the shoulder. When he looks over to see who it is, he’s met with Theon’s stupid face.

“Aw, fuck—not you too.”

“Quit your whining,” Theon says. “I’m on your team now. Anyone gives you shit, you let me know.”

“Ser Greyjoy? Think I’m alright, thanks.”

“Fuck you, I’m tryin’ to help. No one takes us seriously—but I’m sure you’ve already noticed that.” Theon then wiggles his eyebrows at Jon. “I see you’ve already got your own personal guard dog.”

Jon tilts his head. “Are you talking about Tormund?”

Theon hums. “He’s a good pick. All the Giantsbanes are alphas—and bloody fit, too. You’ll be in good hands.”

“He’s my friend, Theon.”

“Yeah, best call him that in public from now on.”

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Hey,” Theon suddenly says. He looks around the classroom and lands on the door. There’s a small smirk appearing on his face when he looks back at Jon, and he leans his chin on his hand, smiling, as he asks, “Can you smell that?”

“If you just farted—”

“No, serious. Can you?”

Jon narrows his eyes at him, but he takes a breath in through his nose all the same. He receives something warm and honey-like, combined with something akin to maybe a clementine, but it’s strangely dark and—distressed? Is that right? It’s heightened to the gods, that’s for sure.  And somehow familiar beneath it all. Jon pulls a face at Theon, one like he doesn’t quite understand, and Theon tutts.

“Robb’s stressed,” he reveals, then explains, “Probably has an oral or something. He hates public speaking.”

Jon scoffs at first, but then a second whiff hits him and he can tell, now, without a doubt, that that’s his brother in the next classroom over, freaked out of his mind. Jon lets the smell fill his nostrils for a moment because it calms him down, gives him something to focus on.

“Whoa.”

“Yeah. You couldn’t tell?”

“No. No I… Everything has a smell nowadays. I don’t even think to…”

Theon’s expression seems to soften. “Don’t worry about that too much. It comes naturally, and gradually. As time goes on, you’ll adjust to your pack’s scents, and then you’ll be able to pick them out anywhere.”

Theon goes on to ramble about how helpful that skill is for big packs, and how it’s saved him countless times as the only omega in his, and Jon doesn’t think to ask about Theon’s pack at all, or why he can, for some reason, pick out Jon’s brother’s scent in a school full of alphas.

He just listens.

***

Robb follows closely behind during the walk home, and he doesn’t say a word about his oral presentation or whatever else is happening inside of his head. Jon watches the keychains on Sansa’s backpack flop around in the wind from where she speedwalks past them, headphones in, hands in pockets. Doesn’t want to be bothered. Jon then watches the crease between Robb’s eyebrows oscillate from tense to relaxed, and then back to tense again.

When he gives Robb a nudge (in hindsight, an admitted mistake), Robb jerks back and looks at Jon with the widest eyes. He clutches his backpack straps tighter and his nose twitches. Jon feels the same curl in the stomach that happened when Robb covered his nose that first morning. It was inescapable. It was shame.

Robb then gives him a small, apologetic smile, but doesn’t move back in close.

Jon decides the rest of the trek can be endured in silence.

The front door is unlocked when they reach it, courtesy of Sansa getting there before them. Jon zones out for the moment while he lets Robb discover that for himself and stares at the disheveled gravel that adorns their walkway. He hears the knob turning and checks back in, ready to move. He doesn’t expect Robb walking the complete opposite way in which the door opens, and he certainly doesn’t expect his brother to take a distinct step aside for him to enter—not when he’d normally race past first in favor of slamming the door in Jon’s face.

Jon eyes him. Or rather—eyes the top of his head, since Robb refuses to look up and face the embarrassment of his instincts. His instincts. Because that’s what this had to be. There was no other reason. Nothing else that could possess Robb to hold the door open for him, not in any universe.

With a huff, Jon walks in. He hears Robb grumble behind him and turn the lock—and then he’s pulling Jon back flush into his chest and pawing at his coat.

“Hey—” Jon writhes. “What are you—?”

Robb slides the coat off his shoulders effortlessly, hanging it up by its designated Jon prong on the rack, where his beanie and scarf also reside.

Jon turns around. “The hell?” he says with apparent brattiness to his tone.

“Keep doing that. It’ll make my life so much easier,” Robb says as he walks past, shoulder-checking Jon. It’s not as hard as he usually does when he’s mad—and he has to be mad to shoulder-check him—and some silly part of Jon’s brain comes to the esteemed conclusion that the excuse for physical contact was entirely possible. “Won’t wanna fuckin’ spoon-feed you all the time.”

“No one’s fucking asking you to,” Jon bites back, whatever the fuck Robb was referring to.

He hears a slight snarl come from Robb before he disappears up the stairs, a sharp, bitter scent following.

The fuck? Jon thinks to himself.

“It’s an alpha thing,” a voice pipes.

Jon jumps with a moderate yelp. Arya giggles from the living room, her freakishly small body, especially for a middle schooler, sprawled over the top edge of the sofa. Jon shakes his head and walks over, abandoning his backpack by the rack. He’ll do homework later.

“Little minx.” He musses her hair then tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Arya looks up the ceiling like she’s pretending to think about her answer. Then she takes a deep breath in and begins. “He’s mad because he’s stressed because he wants to be around you all the time now because he’s an alpha, but he knows he can’t because life doesn’t wait up for stuff like that and he still has school and lacrosse to worry about,” she says with a straight face, a hair in her mouth. “And you probably smell like cupcakes and chocolate when you’re happy, and rain and broccoli when you’re brooding. And it’s probably distracting. And we know no omegas except for Mum and Theon, and Mum’s older, so it cancels out. And Theon’s annoying… which also cancels out.”

Jon blinks. But then he scoffs at her and crosses his arms. “What do you know?” he sasses.

Arya wiggles her eyebrows knowingly. Jon hates when she knows things. “Dad does it with Mum sometimes.”

Jon doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he heads up to his room, and he thinks. He grew up feeling out of place and weirdly independent, and presenting now was just hitting every insecurity he had. He was used to banter and he was used to arguments. What he wasn’t used to were the second glances Robb did every morning, the omnipresence of a hand on his back as they walked through the halls, the looks he’d given people when Jon hadn’t even seen his brother look that way at a fly.

He grapples with the sense of defeat that comes with accepting that things will be different now. The image he built for himself—that quiet, stubborn, controlled thing—it was no more. He was no more.

***

“Rule number one,” Theon says, dropping onto Jon’s bed uninvited. “Own it.”

Jon puts down his book and groans. “Get out.”

“No, seriously,” Theon continues, gesturing lazily. “Confidence. That’s the trick. People think I’m an alpha half the time.”

“That’s because you act like an idiot.”

“Ow.” Theon frowns, and Jon actually feels guilty for a moment. “I’m try’na help ya here.”

“And who said I want your help?” Jon chucks a pillow at him.

Which Theon catches, piffing it back at its sender. “You might not want it, but you most definitely need it. Everyone knows omegas are useless when it comes to asking for help. ‘S why I’m giving it to you free of charge.”

Jon squints. “Free of charge? Okay, now I’m suspicious,” he decides. “And—for your information, I’m normal with asking for help. Not a fuckin’ drip.”

“Right. You normal with the English language, too?” Theon smirks. He readjusts himself so he’s lying on his belly and resting his chin on his hands. “And I’m not saying you are. But, you know, you of all people. Well. You have a history.”

“A history,” Jon echoes.

“That time your wardrobe doors wouldn’t open and you screamed at Ned to stay away because you ‘knew what was wrong with it’ and you were also the ‘only person who could knock it back into place’?” Theon reminded. “And then the next time I saw you, you had two broken fingers?”

Jon felt a shrill of phantom pain rush through his hand. “Don’t recall.”

“‘Course you don’t,” Theon hums. “How about the time Bran lost his volleyball in the treehouse and you offered to climb up and retrieve it? Only to realize you were about… what, five feet too short to even reach the first branch? Stayed out there all evening, jumping like an idiot?”

“Nope.”

Theon rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Irrelevant. You’re going red, by the way. Anyway! What—no, don’t start pouting, you look like a walrus. Gross. Okay, listen. Rule number one—”

***

Ygritte catches him by the collar as he tries ducking behind a corner to avoid her.

She’s grinning like a predator with its prey. “Snow! Thought I smelt ya.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Tormund told me you presented. Just didn’t specify what exactly…” She flicks him on the forehead and crosses her arms, stepping back and taking her fill of him. His new self. Jon hates it every time someone does it. He’d thought he’d gotten through everyone there possibly was, but he didn’t account for Ygritte. Fucking Ygritte. “I should’ve known.”

He tries to stay away from her best he can. Their breakup wasn’t messy, but it could’ve gone a lot smoother. She insisted on remaining friends, but Jon isn’t that kind of guy, he thinks. It would hurt too much. To be constantly trying to make things right when in reality it should all just be left alone.

Being best friends with Tormund proved this feat significantly difficult, him and Ygritte being siblings and all.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Ygritte was also an omega. Her heats got bad. Like—real bad. Her feisty, natural-born dominance with him on the other end of it caused problems. He could never satiate her pain, no matter how he tried. Maybe it was because he wasn’t presented yet, or maybe it was because—

“Hey, you playing this weekend? Home game, yeah?” Ygritte asks.

Shit. He’d forgotten all about lacrosse. He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah… ah… prolly not.”

“What? You’re the best of ‘em, you have to.”

He chuckles nervously, hoping she can’t smell him well enough to catch the change in his emotions. When her face starts to contort into something akin to confusion, he comes up with the most pathetic excuse he can and throws it at her, careless. (Since when were you in the chess club? she asks).

His heel burns, how fast he spins on it.

Sorry, Ygritte.

***

Benjen comes down to visit, like Jon’s gotten engaged or having a fucking baby or something, and they all go out for lunch. All as in him, Ned, Benjen, and Robb. The dynamic trio, Jon would call them, if Robb would have the decency to butt out.

“Dine in or take away today?” the hostess asks as Jon approaches the entrance.

Jon gives her a warm smile and opens his mouth, goes to say, dine in—but not before Ned beats him to it.

“Dine in.”

Jon gives him a look.

“Alright. How many will that be?”

“Just fo—”

“Four people, please.”

Jon pouts, though he’d deny it later. “Ned. I can—”

“I’ve got it,” Ned shushes him.

The hostess grabs a stack of menus and beckons them to follow her. She takes them down past the big tables and over to the window booths. Ned’s hands rest on Jon’s shoulders the whole way there, guiding him like he’s a pup, like he can’t walk straight. They have a nice, secluded corner off to the side-ish and the view of the fountain in the middle of the street. The hostess places the menus down and gestures for them to sit. And then she leaves.

Jon immediately shrugs Ned’s hands off of him. “I am capable of walking.”

Jon goes to sit at the end of the booth, because easy access to the bathroom if need be, but as he sits, Robb slides in close and shoves him—all the way, right to the window—with Benjen and Ned across from them.

Jon frowns. “Hey…”

“Hm?”

“Toilet.”

Robb looks around. “I’ll need to go too.”

“But you just pushed me.”

He was feeling awfully sensitive lately—about the stupidest of things.

Robb laughs. “Dude, you were already sliding down.”

“Fuck I was,” Jon scoffs.

“Oi,” Ned warned.

Jon only glares at Ned and then at Robb. He hears Benjen chuckle from the other side of the table. Jon can smell that shift in Ned’s scent. He is weary, now. And with Robb—challenging.

“Chill.” Robb waves him off. “I’ll let you out if you need to go.”

Jon watches him pluck a menu for himself and not pay him any more mind. Jon murmurs under his breath, “‘S not the point…” and secretly hopes he hears it.

The menu isn’t as fancy as the restaurant’s interior, the same old plethora of salads and pastas and sandwiches. Jon wasn’t particularly hungry before this so agreeing to come out was an indubitably reluctant choice. He thought it would be nice, if nothing else, to spend time with Benjen and hear about how things were going with wherever he works now. And maybe a little bit to get away from Robb’s overbearing closeness for a while. But that was only until he found out Robb was tagging along too.

Speaking of closeness.

There’s a firm solidity keeping Jon from being able to properly decide what to order. He feels particularly squished, and when he looks down to see what the problem is, he’s not in the slightest bit surprised to see that Robb has them literally joined at the hip, their thighs pressed together.

“Um.”

Robb’s still scanning the menu, so he doesn’t notice. Jon takes it upon himself to jab him in the ribs.

Robb cries out. “Ow! What the fuck?”

“Hello?”

“What?”

“You are touching me.”

“No I’m… Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jon, grow up.”

“Oi.”

Robb looks sheepishly to Ned and mouths, sorry.

The next ten minutes pass in adequate silence. The soft tunes of juke music fill the vacancy appropriately. A waitress approaches their table, shoving a loose napkin into her apron.

She picks her head up with a smile. “Good afternoon! Can I get drinks started for you lot?”

“I think we’re ready to order everything, actually,” Ned says.

“Oh, wonderful!” She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a notepad and pen. “When you’re ready.”

As Ned and Benjen start to relay their orders, Robb leans in close and whispers, “Do you wanna share a bowl of chips?”

Jon very pointedly leans back. “What? No. Fuck off.”

“Calamari?”

“Robb.”

“There’s dipping sauce. Not like we’ll be eating it dry.”

“I don’t wanna share food with you, you’re bein’ a dickhead.”

“Okay, princess.”

“Don’t,” Jon warns.

It must strike a nerve or be one hell of a warning, because Robb’s eyes soften and his lips press into a firm, understanding line. There is no jest back, and all he does is scratch his nose. And that, for some reason, calms Jon down a fuck ton.

The waitress turns to them. “And you boys?”

“I’ll have the chicken sandwich, thanks,” Jon says.

“Alright…” She scribbles it down. “And you?”

“Chicken sandwich, too, please. And could I ask for a share bowl of chips in the middle?”

Benjen makes a supportive ‘ooo’ sound while Jon turns, very slowly, to glare at Robb. Robb, who pretends not to notice at all.

***

On the couch with her feet up, glasses on, and Candy Crush in hand, Catelyn absentmindedly calls out, “How was it?” when the front door opens and closes.

Robb is a lightning bolt up the staircase. “Goodcan’ttalkTheon’sonthegameloveyou!”

Catelyn sighs. “Ned?”

“Yeah, was alright. Good food. Nice staff.”

“Lovely,” she hums.

Jon plops down on the sofa beside her, dragging his hands down his face.

She looks over her glasses that are tipped onto the tip of her nose. “Love?”

“Yeah, ‘m good.”

“They too alpha-y today?”

Jon huffs. “Ned stared at everyone who walked past our table, Benjen tried forcefeeding me, and Robb was basically sat in my lap the whole time. How’d you know?”

She shrugs. “Was an experiment of sorts.”

Jon half-laughs, but then he pauses. He eyes her screen of jelly beans, lollipops, and cupcakes. “What?” he finally says.

GAME OVER. “Bugger,” Catelyn curses. She turns to Jon fully. “Lunch. They planned it. It was so they could see how they’d react to you being out in public with… quote-un-quote… ‘outsiders’.” 

She then mumbles a low, stupid if you ask me, but Jon’s too busy staring at the black screen of the television. “Are you kidding me?”

“No, love,” Cat laughs. “Poor Ned’s never fathered an omega before. Doesn’t know left from right with all of this.” She smiles. “I mean, neither have I, but I’ve got my own experience to pull from, at least. Thought using you as live bait was a bit cruel.”

She goes back to her phone.

Jon bites his lip. “You don’t count Theon?”

She looks back up for a second. “Do you consider him another one of your brothers?” That seems like maybe she’s asking simply out of curiosity.

Jon initially prepares himself to say no, but then he suddenly feels ashamed to, like he’s downplaying Theon’s role in their family. His spot in their pack. A warm, tingly buzz swirls around his chest as he thinks that. Pack. Pack. Theon was right. You do get used to it. “Yeah.” He was only Robb’s best mate, but they did all grow up together. He spent as much time with the Starks as he did the Greyjoys, maybe even more. That earned him some credit. Besides—Jon knew the horrors of feeling like you don’t belong.

Catelyn just hums again. “That’s nice, love.”

Jon sighs. Not getting a proper answer out of you, then.

***

There’s more bodily changes, more getting itchy and getting tired, falling asleep messily, badly, waking up far from rejuvenated. One day, he grabs his coat and realizes it smells entirely of Robb. Unmistakably Robb. His scent hits Jon like a tidal wave. Makes him stumble over his own feet, how strong it is. Somehow, the scent infiltrated his beanie and gloves, too—so when Jon rugs himself up, there’s no escape, not with his hands constantly rising to wipe his nose, not with his beanie always falling over his eyes. He is completely and utterly swallowed by the remnant of his brother.

It’s assaultive at first, but then it’s nice. Jon doesn’t strain himself by trying to figure out how Robb’s scent had gotten into his clothing in the first place when his coat and beanie and gloves were all the way on the other side of the rack. He wants to say something, annoyed, but soon finds, halfway through the walk to school, that it actually soothes him. Brings him some unspecific sense of safety.

Lacrosse is back on the table, and Jon decides that he should at least give it a try. Robb—for some reason—has now changed his stance on the whole endeavor, and is now imploring Jon not to show up for practice. To sit the game out entirely, in fact. Jon’s reluctance turns into spite. He packs his uniform and stick faster than Robb does and waits by the front door with a challenging grin.

Robb hovers the whole walk through the school hallways. He hovers and asks, how are you feeling? are you still feeling okay? do you need anything? To which Jon, irritated, replies, the same as five minutes ago, you asked me that already, leave it, along with the occasional, you’re hovering, and, i swear to god, robb.

Eventually, Robb just outright says, “You don’t have to do this.”

U there yet?

Bobs still trying to convince me attending practice for teh sport ive played for over 5 years is somehw a bad idea

Jon hits send to Ygritte and pockets his phone “Here we go,” he sighs, hiking his lacrosse bag higher over his shoulder.

“I’m just saying—you presented less than a month ago, and maybe throwing yourself into a contact sport isn’t a brilliant recovery plan.”

“Don’t need to recover from anything, I’m still me.”

“Yeah, I know that. But there’s going to be, like, thirty alphas out there today.”

“Like there always is.”

“Yeah, but it’s different now.”

“Different how?”

Robb swallows air and looks forward as they walk, avoiding Jon’s accusatory eyes. He bites his lip, which is a classic Robb move. Jon knows. He’s been doing it since he was a kid. It was nails when he was really nervous, and lips when he was in distress.

Robb glances at Jon once, then twice, and then shakes his head.

“You’re—” he starts, hesitating. “You’re an omega, Jon.”

Jon feels his blood boil. “There it is.” He walks ahead.

“Jon—”

He flips around and walks backwards. “I’m still a midfielder, Robb. I’m still part of the team.”

“You couldn’t’ve taken another week?”

“What?”

“Another few days?”

“Robb!”

They reach the door to the field.

“Fine,” Robb says, and grabs the handle. “Fine, but if you get overwhelmed, you tell me.”

“I won’t,” Jon says.

“Won’t get overwhelmed or won’t tell me?”

Jon thinks for a moment. “Both.”

Robb just smirks. “I’ll just have to see for myself, then.”

As they enter the field together, all eyes land on Jon. Robb jogs over and greets everyone, shaking hands and patting backs. Jon doesn’t jog. He doesn’t try for handshakes and whatnot, either. He watches their eyes scan him, and their noses twitch. It must be difficult for everyone. He’s been told he smells sweet.

Everyone gets in their gear. Coach yells, “Midfielders! Attackers! Pair up!” and off they go.

Jon gets in line with Pyp, who he usually trains with during warmups. Jon squares up across from him, prepared to interfere with any dodging Pyp is about to execute. But Pyp just lazily skips from side to side, gently bumping Jon in the shoulder.

Jon laughs. “What was that?” Pyp must be off his game.

“Uh.”

“C’mon, try again.”

Jon stands back and gives Pyp some space again. He squares up for a second time and watches as Pyp runs towards him, a little faster this time. But as soon as he comes into contact with Jon, his muscles deflate, and he freezes, unsure.

Jon pulls a face. “Are you good?”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’m… yeah. Sorry.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what? I’m not…” Then he really meets Jon’s squinting eyes. He sighs. “I don’t know how hard I’m supposed to go.”

“What?”

Bashful, Pyp looks around the field at the other guys violently crashing into each other, and then looks back to Jon and coughs. “You’re an omega now,” he says, hushed.

Jon straightens. Right. The grip on his stick tightens. “Hit me,” he tells Pyp.

Pyp looks mortified. “Jon—”

“Hit me.”

Pyp’s shaking his head and stepping back. “Are you kidding? Robb’s gonna kill me!” He points across the field at Robb’s partner, who is aggressively shoving at a still and uninterested Robb watching them. “See?”

“Don’t worry about him, just hit me.”

Pyp just drops his stick. “Dude—sorry, but no fucking way. There’s alphas, and then there’s older brother alphas—and then there’s Robb,” he explains, like that means anything to Jon. “Fuck that, man.”

“It’s practice. He doesn’t get a say,” Jon tries with desperation to be treated normally again.

Pyp starts to laugh. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter if we were practicing for the goddamn war. I touch you, I’m dead.”

Jon huffs, dropping his stick too. “Fucking hell.”

***

It rains that weekend. Sansa and Arya pile into Jon’s room and lie on the bed, staring at the stars stuck to his ceiling, mostly dim and peeling off. The crickets sound from outside his bedroom window, and there’s something peacefully dull about the whole scheme. 

“What’s it like being an omega?” Arya asks.

Ned and Catelyn thought Sansa was going to be an omega before she turned out to be a beta, and Arya reckons she’s going to be an alpha, all strong and confident like her biggest brother.

Jon ponders the question. Tries to answer it in his head as straightforwardly as possible before answering it aloud. Even after all this time, his own brain has yet to catch up with the fact. He sometimes wakes up forgetting it ever happened at all; his body was just making a cruel mistake, and sickness and vertigo and insomnia were just the unexplainable outliers.

“I don’t know,” he responds, which elicits a look from the both of them. He chuckles. “Right. Well, it’s…”

He thinks about scents. About family. Society. He thinks about Theon and what he said to Jon. For his whole life, he knew nothing but the outside of people, and one day he woke up and he just—knew things. How Robb felt, just by looking at him, by merely being near him. What Ned and Tormund were thinking just by their smell. Suddenly, family wasn’t family but a pack. Society wasn’t just people, it was categories. He wasn’t simply Jon, but an omega named Jon.

He takes a deep breath. “Before, it felt like I was standing in a room,” he says, “and now it feels like somebody took away all the walls. Everything gets in.”

He blinks at the rain trickling down his window.

“Sometimes people walk into a room and I know they’re upset before they even say anything. And then suddenly I’m upset too, but I don’t know why.”

“That sounds awful,” Arya mumbles.

“It’s complicated,” Jon corrects, not unkindly. “It’s kind of like when somebody’s behind you and you can just… feel them there. Not doing anything, or saying anything, really. Just—they’re there.”

Jon knows it probably sounds stupid to them. To Sansa, who has no comeuppance when it comes to scents, and to Arya who isn’t even presented yet. He knows it probably sounds improbable, but, truly, that’s how he feels. That’s how much has changed, how ridiculous it’s all been.

“And sometimes I feel homesick.” Jon’s voice cracks. “And I don’t know why. And things feel like they’re missing. When I’m alone or when I’m away—or—”

Sansa sits up, already looking at him. She brings a hand out and brushes it over his cheek, effectively wiping away the stray tear that had threatened to roll down his face without his precedent.

Jon makes a strained sound.

Arya sits up too. “I don’t get it.”

Jon just smiles. “Yeah. Me neither. I used to be normal, didn’t I, pup?”

“You’re still you,” Sansa intervenes. “Don’t say stuff like that, it hasn’t even been a full two months yet. You’re still new to all of it. You think Mum or Theon had an easy go of it?”

Jon shrugs weakly. They lay back down.

Jon feels a crick in his neck from where his head is leaning half against the pillow and half against Sansa’s forearm. He feels Arya get comfortable again on his side. He wraps an arm around her, to which she happily hums.

“It’s okay, Jon.”

When he turns his head, Sansa’s smiling at him. Her eyes are sympathetic and understanding. She nods.

Strangely, Jon feels like crying.

***

“Jon, shoot!”

Jon falls flat on his face, skidding across the field with his stick poking into his side and the ball rolling a marginal distance away from him. The attackers surrounding him groan, some kicking disappointedly at his defeated frame. Jon hears a mixture of come on, man’s and seriously?’s before he finally scrounges the courage to lift himself up.

The attackers—or the alphas, Jon’s been mentally regarding them as—don’t so much as extend a hand or move to his aid. They just walk off, scowling. Jon thinks if he were a dog his ears would be well flattened in shame by now.

Robb’s the one who runs over.

“Yo.” He pulls Jon up by his shoulders. “That was shit hilarious.”

“Was it? Thanks,” Jon snides. “Fuckin’ hell.”

“What happened? You had the ball.”

“I know, I know, I just—” Jon dusts the grass off his uniform, shoves his stick straight again. “I don’t know, I just fumbled.”

Robb laughs. “Fumbled? You ate shit. Hot, steamy shit.”

“I think it’s—” He doesn’t really want to say it. He’s been ignoring the possibility for days now, but the more he tries to convince himself, the more it seems to prove him wrong, time and time again. But it’s pathetic to admit that that’s what’s wrong. It’s childish to feel imposed on by it. He doesn’t want that to be the reason why he can’t play properly anymore. “I think it’s the attackers,” he caves, cheeks heating up.

Robb’s eyebrows sew inwards. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, like… it’s the attackers. It’s—I can’t play like I used to. They’re not—” He sighs. “I’m not the same.”

A lightbulb goes off in Robb’s head. “Are you—” He looks around to see if anybody’s eavesdropping. “Really? What are they doing? Are they playing dirty? Do you need me to—”

“No, Robb. Jesus,” Jon says. “I’m just telling you… to tell you, y’know? I don’t need you as my knight in shining just yet.”

“But if they’re shoving pheremones at you—”

“Just leave it, Robb. Please,” Jon begs, which he very seldom does. “I just wanna go home, okay? I’m gonna get changed.”

He starts to walk away before Robb can say anything else. To the locker room he goes, and there his passion for lacrosse will stay. No more sport for Snow.

Just another thing that presenting had taken from him.

***

Jon sits impossibly close to Robb at lunch, almost falling asleep on his shoulder. He seeks out their usual table. Wherever Sansa’s fiery hair has been deposited that day, and sits himself down and tucks in close. Weak to the goddamn touch. It’s worse that Robb can deepen the feeling simply by putting an arm around him or ruffling his hair or holding the back of his neck. Because he does. Every goddamn time.

Most of the time people know not to say anything. They know not to bother the Starks because they’re that close-knit type of family that sit together at lunch and stuff like that. But for all that peace and tranquility, Sansa likes to ruin it by commenting on Jon’s bearing. Saying something akin but not limited to, god, he’s exhausted, or even at times, look at him, like a sloth, he is. To which Robb swats away her nearing hand and tells her to shut her trap and leave him alone.

And most of the time Jon’s awake, so he hears Robb’s true feelings about him benching himself from lacrosse. No, it’s good, I think. Yeah. I wasn’t going to say anything but I think that’s what he needs. Yeah. Yeah, exactly. I mean, to put it plainly—he’s a liability. Can’t count on ‘im. I’m not saying that to be mean, it’s true! Look, I’d rather him on the bench than out there, in pain, overwhelmed, with none of us realizing. Isn’t that what’s best? What? Oh. Yeah, I know. I would realize. I always do, you know that.

***

Then Jon finds that he falls asleep faster and inherently better when he’s around everyone else. He starts napping in the living room whenever he can; it’s bad for his back and he wakes up uncomfortable but—he’s at least mentally rejuvinated.

It’s after school, once everyone has dropped their bags at the door and ran up to their rooms, where Jon just sits on the couch and remains there until it hits around four and everyone starts piling up downstairs again. Starts taking up space in the kitchen and living room and sitting too close and hogging the remote and making noise. It’s when he can finally stop pretending to watch TV and just lie down, shut his eyes. Sansa will still be arguing with Bran, Arya will still be trying to reach the top shelf, and Robb will still be around, somewhere, his special voice never too far. And then Ned and Cat will get home at some point and everyone will yell, Dad! and Mum! and then they’ll quiet down once they notice Jon trying to sleep. They’ll run their fingers through his curls and keep making noise, but this time it will be quieter.

It’s also the same for the duration of time between doing homework at the dining table and dinner being made where Jon will bring his books down and sit with them, but slowly start to sink further and further down his seat until his cheek hits the table and he wraps his arms around himself. Whatever conversations being had becoming a soft, placid lullaby to his tired, tired ears.

Movie nights are the worst, because it’s dark and it’s quiet and everyone’s already huddled beside one other in blankets, warm popcorn strong to his nose. They usually don’t let him pick the movie, so most of the time he doesn’t care for what he’s watching, just wants to be included. And that makes it all the more easier to fall asleep.

But stealing naps here and there isn’t enough; Robb can apparently smell the distress on him.

He approaches Jon one day. Asks, “What’s the matter?”

To which Jon replies, “What?”

“You not sleeping well?”

Robb isn’t one for subtlety.

Jon’s eyes slightly widen. “How did—”

“I know what to do. Come on.”

***

“Right.” Theon assesses the room, what he’s got to work with. Robb had invited him over to teach Jon how to make a nest. That caught him off guard. He said it wasn’t something he should be involved in, that it was strictly an omegan rite of passage. Theon just rolled his eyes as he left. “He’s just scared he’ll overstep a boundary. Alphas can help make nests as good as any omega.”

After having the concept vaguely explained to him (albeit tediously) Jon decides his nest can contain some of Robb’s clothes, that that’s how he could help. (When confronted with the proposal, Robb had blushed, but agreed frantically, already sprinting back to his room to retrieve the better half of his wardrobe.)

***

Jon’s first to lie down in his nest, and it’s pretty good.

“It’s pretty good,” Theon says.

Jon feels his head spin. “Yeah.” He didn’t quite understand the whole nest thing at first but now he definitely did. Being swallowed whole by comfort was at the core of his needs, even if he didn’t realize it. Surrounding him were the blankets and pillows and clothing items he loved most, and pathetically, he felt like crying again.

Theon watches him with his hands on his hips, smiling. It was a strange look on Theon. He didn’t do it much—not that sincerely.

Jon didn’t know exactly how to kindly tell him to fuck off. “Could you…” He wanted to be alone. For the first time since he presented, he wanted to be alone. There was no shame or embarrassment or loneliness in his body. Just relaxation—and clarity. He wanted to be alone with that. “Um.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Theon understood. “I got you. I’ll, um… I’ll be downstairs.”

“Ta.”

It wasn’t half an hour later when Robb came knocking. He cracks the door open upon receiving no response, then deflates Jon’s sleeping frame.

He steps forward and sits down on the edge of the bed for a moment, minding the carefully curated nest. He gently brushes Jon’s hair out of his face, and when he gets up to leave again, Jon’s hand shoots out and grabs him by the wrist.

He doesn’t look up but he does squirm and make tiny little whimpery noises like he was just waking. “Stay,” he mumbles, fuzzy. He tugs on Robb’s wrist again. “Stay.”

Robb lets himself be dragged into the nest with Jon. It’s nothing new; they slept together all the time as kids. He finds his familiar spot, his chin above Jon’s head, and pulls him close by his waist. Jon slips in like a missing puzzle piece, his face in the crook of Robb’s neck and his leg swung over to be tangled with. And then, he starts to cry.

“Whoa, hey…” Robb fishes his face out.

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know.” Wipes his tears with his sleeve. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.”

Jon sniffles. “‘S not.”

“Are you upset?”

“No, I’m… I’m happy. I’m comfortable. But I’m—I feel…” His voice wobbles. “Sad. And angry. But I’m happy right now. But I’m just sad all of the time.”

Robb just smiles fondly at him.

“What?” Jon asks.

“Adorable,” all Robb says. “You’ve got the emotional range of a kicked wolf pup right now.”

“No, that’s—!” Jon sits up suddenly, shucking Robb’s limbs off him. “I hate that! I don’t wanna be that! I’m just—I hate myself. God, Robb, I’m this stupid, pathetic thing now, and people don’t even know what to say to me! I can’t fucking function like this, not with everything putting me on edge all the time! And I hate that the only thing that makes me feel better is you guys. Like—that’s not fair. I can’t be—this can’t go on forever, right? Fuck. Why do I feel like this? Why do I—”

“Jon.”

Robb places his hands on either side of Jon’s face, and it should feel infantilizing, but it doesn’t, not when Robb does it. When Robb does it, it feels grounding. He forces Jon to look him in the eye and waits for him to stop hiccuping and sniffling. Robb bites his lip momentarily, but it stops as soon as he notices Jon catching on. He sighs.

“Jon, you’ve spent your entire life acting like you don’t need anybody,” Robb says, shrugging. “I think maybe your body’s just making up for lost time.”

Jon blinks. Then starts shaking his head. “I don’t—”

Robb suddenly pulls him close again. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. He can’t.

“I feel it, you know. Not like you do, but I feel things, too,” Robb explains. “Ever since you presented—I don’t know. It’s not the same with other omegas. Maybe Theon, but Theon knows how to handle himself so no, not really. But it’s like—I’m almost responsible for you, in a way.”

Jon goes to open his mouth to object, but Robb just covers his mouth with his hand and continues.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear—but I feel the need to be around you, constantly, and closely. I feel I need to check on you, and help you, and talk to you more than I already do.” He’s taken to biting his lip again. He takes a deep breath. “I feel the shift, Jon.”

There’s nothing more to say on the matter.

Later—when Robb falls asleep but still exudes a particularly pungent smell—Theon will reenter the room looking visibly tense, and Jon will ask him, are you okay? Theon will quietly chuckle and respond, i should be asking you that, while gesturely vaguely to Robb’s limbs latched around him like a wild octopus. Jon will smile. I’m fine. Thank you. And then Theon will wink, say, omegas gotta stick together, and mimic Robb’s content snoring.

***

“Are you scared for your first heat?” Sansa asks.

Jon stops buttering his toast and looks up. “Huh?”

“Your first heat. You’re an omega; you have heats.”

A terrible sense of dread washes over Jon. “Um.”

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” Sansa laughs. Then her face stills. “Or do you—you know what heat is, right?”

“Duh,” Jon scoffs, although his face must sell him out because Sansa only raises an unconvinced eyebrow. “Mostly.”

“Yeah, ‘mostly’ is not gonna cut it.”

“I have a general idea of it.”

“You’re gonna need more than that if you’re to live it.”

“It’s fine,” Jon says, going back to his buttering. “It’s whatever. I can handle it.”

Sansa smiles. “You know, you say that a lot.”

He knows exactly what she’s trying to say. Jon drops the butterknife. “Sans—why are you bringin’ this up now?”

“I’m just looking out for you!” She raises her arms in surrender. “Just curious to see how much you’ve prepared. Robb didn’t prepare for his first rut and ended up biting him in the ass.”

“What?”

“Do you not remember?” Sansa watches him blink and sighs. “Jeez, Jon. That week where he was locked in his room? Mum was leaving food outside his door? He was in rut and he hadn’t prepared.”

Jon vaguely recalled. He had a huge test that week and Robb had hogged the bathroom every morning. Jon was late to shower and therefore late to class, and therefore he had marks deducted from his score. He was mad at Robb for days after. “That was years ago.”

Sansa just snorts. “Yeah. That’s when it’s supposed to happen,” she informs. “You’re the outlier, Jon, remember?”

That’s right. He was the late bloomer. Put him side by side with Robb’s rate of growth and he’d already experienced a hundred heats. It shouldn’t be a new thing. But it is.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jon drops the knife in the sink and takes a bite of his toast. “Whatever. ‘S not gonna happen for a while now, anyway. Don’t need to worry just yet.”

Sansa only shrugs.

***

Jon wakes up feeling groggy, hot, and altogether delirious. For a second he thinks he’s randomly woken up with a fever, and he should wet a cold flannel and lay it over his eyes. On the way to the bathroom he feels an uncomfortable curl in his lower stomach, and then he remembers what Sansa said the day before.

He groans.

Fuck.