theon

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The company is his, though, he tries to tell himself. Like he’s said back in the conference room, he’s been preparing himself for it his entire life, he’s more than qualified for it, and it’s his right. Maybe he won’t assume the same position as his father did, now that he has Scotland to look after, but he’s adult enough. A corporation, a nation. It’s the same thing, just different scale. He just has to get the hang of it, that’s all there is to it.

Robb swallows loudly, his throat dry. There’s an odd sort of energy running through him, like adrenaline but ten times more intense. He feels itchy, with clumsy limbs, skin tight over his tense muscles. When he looks up at Theon, and Theon looks back at him still with that hint of a wry smile, something snaps inside of Robb and heat licks at his body.

He needs to get rid of it.

He needs to discharge.

"Come here," he tells (he orders) Theon, voice low and purposeful.

(Not that he particularly relishes the prospect of lying to Robb. But what else could he say?)

His boyfriend’s fallen silent again and Theon glances over at him, hoping that the day’s events haven’t taken too much of a toll on him.

And oh. There’s a heat in Robb’s eyes that Theon certainly hadn’t been expecting.

If his command or tone had left any room for doubt as to Robb's intentions, the pointed unbuckling of his belt certainly clears that up. Theon feels a strange fluttering of excitement in his chest.

Theon stumbles back, practically feminine in his recoil, his shoulders hitched up, spine knotted wire, batting at the poker like a 50s housewife with a spider on the countertop. Ramsay flinches back, careful not to let the burning nib flick back against his leg. When looks back up, Greyjoy’s turned away to hide his shame and gather up his belongings. 

It’s odd - the juxtaposition. The television still bubbles away in the background, eulogising Ned Stark on and on, ad infinitum. Something comes up against his mouth, some new taunt. He’ll wind out the torture like a spinerette. Come on, Theon, he’ll say. We’re mates. It’s a joke. You liked it. Who else do you have in this city? Only then the psycho comes in, like a snake’s hiss and a bite all in one word and he feels that smile slide right off. 

"What did you call me?"

His voice is soft, all the energy pushed down into his wrists, his hands. He grabs Greyjoy by the arm, just above the elbow, and swings the poker out and round like a rope. It stops in his palm, pointing out like a rapier over his shoulder line and towards Theon’s face. Ramsay can feel the heat off it now - a real, mad heat, glowing bright red - not that aura of fear and embarrassment that Greyjoy puts out, or that he imagines he does.

There’s a quiet moment. The newsreader is saying The great man will be sorely missed.

When suddenly there’s a very real heat radiating against his cheek and he’s caught staring down at the glowing tip of the poker that Ramsay had been toying with almost since Theon had entered his flat.

All the breath leaves him at once, as good as if he’s been punched in the gut. There’d been a hint of fear creeping up on him as soon as Ramsay had begun to touch him with that bloody thing, but now – now it’s full blown terror that grips him. He dares to glance away from the poker long enough to meet Ramsay’s eyes, and there’s no doubt about it: this is no bluff. Psycho had been putting it mildly. The other man was insane.

He can’t even find it in him to breathe, too terrified that something as simple as drawing in a breath may cause Ramsay to snap. Still, those pale eyes are regarding him furiously, clearly demanding an answer and Theon forces himself to suck in a shaky breath in order to answer.

They avoid talking about it, for a while. Outside the office, on the car ride home, inside Winterfell after Catelyn leaves them alone to go to bed. They have been mostly silent, even though Robb feels like he could say a thousand words.

He’ll have to get used to them, the words. Prime Ministers usually have to talk a lot. Speeches and interviews and all that political business.

He silently wonders what Alys will do when she finds out. Scream? Jump in joy? It is a good opportunity for her career; surely when she applied to be PR to the Stark family she had been aiming high, but there was big corporation high and then there was leader of a country high. Robb’s head spins a little and he tells Theon to follow him to bed.

Tomorrow will be a big day.

He’s tugging at the collar of his shirt to get it off when it finally dawns on him that maybe they should talk about it.

"Well," he says, and sits down on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the shirt. It honestly feels like some sort of sick joke he’s trying to pull on Theon, but Theon is not smiling. Neither is Robb. "I give it two days. This is bound to cause riots."

It hadn’t been all that long ago that he thought the most dramatic thing his future held was moving to New York to be with Robb. That was supposed to be their chance to be together at last, their happily ever after.

Now – martial law, Scottish independence, Ned’s death, Ramsay (no, he can’t think about that, not now, not -), and now –

Now this.

No one had barely said a word to one another the whole journey back to Winterfell. Theon had spent the entire car ride mentally willing someone to speak, but no – both Starks had kept their gazes firmly trained out the window, Catelyn’s silence unmistakably solemn, whilst Robb’s expression was completely unreadable, even to Theon.

Feeling like a spare part was becoming all too familiar to Theon these days.

It’s not until they’re alone that Robb finally pipes up, and Theon practically slumps over with relief. He even manages to crack a meagre smile.

“At school? How corny. Sounds like a bloody terrible movie. Let’s never be as cheesy as that.”

God, but Robb makes it so easy to forget. Or at least, to stop the memory from consuming him: he’s not sure it’s actually possible to forget what happened. But this – being here, beside Robb, sharing each laugh and each smile, each kiss – this takes precedence.

And Theon needs it so desperately. So, so desperately. He can’t begin to imagine what he might have done, had he come home to find Robb not so eager to see him. Had been met with the same cold shoulder he’d encountered only the night before.

It’s a luck he really doesn’t deserve.

Robb yawns then, and Theon nudges him with his knee teasingly.

“Sounds like you’ve had a long day too. C’mon, under the covers with you.”

The other man makes a disgruntled, sleepy sound as Theon disentangles himself from him. He hesitates, as he swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Fuck.

If he strips completely, Robb was bound to notice. And Theon can’t think of a single fucking excuse for the life of him.

He’s on the verge of panic when he recalls he’d the good sense to wear a t-shirt under his jumper, and he has to bite back a sigh of relief. That much, at least, should hide the bruising – at least the worst of it. He pulls off his jumper so, undoing his belt and kicking off his jeans along with his socks. Robb throws him a puzzled look when Theon pulls the sheets back – his confusion is warranted, the most clothes Theon ever really wears to bed is his boxers.

"You think so? I think it’s pretty clear you want someone when you shove your tongue down their throat and grind them against a table." He bites his lip. "Though, to be fair to myself, I was having a hard time coming to terms with that. It could have been normal, for all I knew! I’m sure Jon Umber says goodbye to everyone the same way."

If it hadn’t been for what had happened only a few hours, Theon’s very aware of the fact he’d be in an incredibly awkward position now – trying to explain a boner to a boyfriend who he’d only just argued with over bloody sex.

Still, it doesn’t keep the smile from his face.

“Maybe he did in the past. I’m not so sure about now. Reckon we’ve both fallen victim to the Stark charm – maybe we should start a support group or something. Personally vindicated by the Stark family has a ring to it, don’t you think?”

He turns over, never breaking contact with Robb, but just so that they’re lying face to face now, chests pressed against one another, sharing each and every breath. He feels kind of dizzy from it all – after everything that’s happened tonight, it’ still –

It’s all so much.

God, but he’d meant it. When he’d asked to stay here, he’d meant it with every fibre in his being. All he wanted was for time to freeze, let them stay just like this, happy and content and wrapped in one another and –

Safe.

The thought of sleeping here, in his childhood bed with his boyfriend, makes Robb feel almost dizzy with want. Not that kind of want, but something different, something softer. This is their place, the room that saw them grow up. Quite literally, he thinks, when he catches sight of the height chart still adorning the wall.

"Of course," he says gently. His father’s funeral is still a pulse in the back of his mind, beating without stop, but tonight he’s not going to let it take over. He won’t. "Just sleeping, though? I thought you said we should live here. Already regretting your own requests, Greyjoy?" He bumps their noses together and finally lets his head fall against Theon’s shoulder as he shifts so that most of his weight is resting on the bed instead of on top of Theon, and his thumb traces circles under Theon’s shirt.

“Well. We’ve got to start somewhere. The living here part will involve sleeping too, y’know.”

Robb shifts, lets the bed take the brunt of his weight and leaving below Theon’s neck exposed. He turns his own head, burying his face in Robb’s hair, allowing his lips to press against his scalp. He sighs, his own breath warming his skin, still half-frozen from wandering the streets of Scotland. Robb, at least, is doing a decent job of warming him up.

He wishes he could change his clothes. But he’s fairly sure there’s nothing wearable in this room that would come remotely close to fitting him.

“Like you said, he murmurs, slipping the hand trapped beneath Robb’s body under his boyfriend’s own shirt so as to skirt over his spine. “We’re together now, at least. Even if it took us long enough.” He chews his lip, thoughtfully. “I wonder what would have happened if you’d stayed. You never know. It might not have worked. You might have changed your mind. Maybe we…” He turns his head, thoughtfully regarding the ceiling. “Maybe we needed that time to figure out what was really important. What we wanted.”

Theon doesn’t add that he wouldn’t have needed it.

[He makes little show of being impressed, being sceptical or surprised. Roose has never been one for eye-narrowing or brow-furrowing. He’s seeing the metal tempered in the fire, honed into a blade. He’s aware of the sparks and the heat, but not so much he won’t strike again. Stronger steel is forged under pressure. Stronger steel breaks in the cold.]

I understand the need for gestures of trust and cooperation. [His voice drawls slightly. He lifts a hand to motion towards the silent Wyman, sitting stiffly at his side.]

Seriously. He’d give fucking anything for it. It was bad enough that Roose was – was – his father, looked so terrifyingly like him – but now the eyes of every single person in the room were trained pointedly on him. He knows what they think of him – an outsider, a thief, the kind of monster who stole from little girls. Theon tries his best not to look at Wyman Manderly – he thinks the guilt might cripple him if he does. She gave me her ticket, he thinks desperately, wringing his hands on his lap, unable to meet anyone’s eye. I swear to God, I never – she helped me, she was braver than me, was able to stay where I couldn’t.

Try telling that to anyone in the room, however: that Wylla had willingly parted with her ticket because she wanted to stay in a warzone.

Jesus. He must have been mad, agreeing to come here like this. Maybe he should take Bolton’s advice, and leave.

He’s half-moving to rise from his chair, when Robb intervenes. Theon can’t help the wide-eyed look of awe that he turns to look at him, inconspicuous as it may be. He has to bite his lip and anchor onto the pain to keep from smiling. It’s not only the gratitude filling him up enough to make his lips twitch upwards, it’s overwhelming pride. He’d told Robb he’d be able to rise to the challenge of leadership – it’s something else seeing him do exactly that, and so effortlessly as well.

It gives him just enough bravery to clear his throat, turn in his seat so as to face Bolton. He tries not to flinch away from those pale eyes.

For a moment, they just stay like that: Robb running his fingers slowly through Theon’s hair, Theon looking up at him with a look that sends warm shivers of pleasure down Robb’s spine, makes his knees feel a bit weak. Good thing he’s lying down. He traces with his index finger Theon’s profile: from his temple, to his cheekbone, down to his jaw. Suddenly, he can’t stop looking at his lips. When his eyes finally meet Theon’s again, Robb could swear he could come apart with the love he sees reflected there.

"Now and always," he finally replies, and leans down to press their lips together. It’s just that at first, the simple press of his mouth against Theon’s, so very chaste and soft, and he sighs against it contently. He pulls back for a moment, grins wickedly, and kisses him again, gently pushing his lips apart with the tip of his tongue. He runs it over his teeth, gently seeks Theon’s, but the moment Theon makes to return the kiss, Robb withdraws his tongue and waits for Theon to follow.

He does. They make little wet obscene noises as they kiss, Robb’s fingers tightening in his hair as he tries to pull Theon up so he can kiss him a bit deeper, a bit harder, a bit better. It may be a heavy kiss, but it’s all slow swipes of tongue and pleased hums, lips fitting against each other like a puzzle. He touches Theon’s face with his hand, tenderly, and breaks apart with a gasp just to look him in the eye.

If he could get what he wanted sometimes, could he not get his wish that they stay here forever? Happy, wrapped up in one another and most of all, safe. Surely he could be granted that.

Robb’s kissing him in a way Theon didn’t think he ever would again and – it’s everything. He was so sure that he’d pushed Robb too far away to ever recover the night before, that he’d ruined everything again with his typical foolish selfishness. And maybe he had ruined everything, with what had happened only a few hours ago, but – at least right now, he can allow himself to forget about that.

Well. As much as he could.

(It’s like that kind of buzzing of a light bulb when you enter a room, lingering at the back of your mind, never quite allowing you to relax. Keeps you that bit on edge, refuses to let you ignore its presence. But this carries a darker presence, one that makes his throat seize up in a mix of sickness and terror whenever he remembers.)

His kisses turn more purposeful now, mouth pressing harder against Theon’s lips, tongue curling with his own. Theon tangles his own hand in Robb’s curls, allowing his boyfriend to take the reins, more than willing to surrender to him completely. Christ, but the last thing he’d expected when he’d returned to Winterfell that night was this.

He pulls away – just for a moment, just enough to be heard – eyes still closed as he bumps his nose against Robb.

"Fuck the rest of the world," he says. "Let’s do what you say. Stay here, just the two of us. I mean, I will need food but nothing a quick trip to the kitchen can’t fix. Some alcohol for you and we’re set."

He turns his head to kiss the palm of Theon’s hand. Then he takes it with his own so that he can bring his knuckles to his lips. He presses a gentle kiss to each one of them, remembers those very same knuckles breaking his nose and almost laughs. They have certainly come a very long way from that fight at the bar more than a year ago. He pulls Theon’s hand away, just he can intertwine their fingers, thumb stroking Theon’s. He wants every existent part of his body in contact with his boyfriend’s, wants to melt into him. He nuzzles his neck, making a soft pleased sound and squeezing his fingers.

"I wasn’t kidding, you know. What I said that day at the office. I will marry you, at some point. We have time." He presses an open-mouthed kiss against his pulse point. "You don’t have to say anything now, I don’t want to ruin this. But… just letting you know."

I’ve put you in danger, he wants to tell him, unable to do anything but watch as Robb rains kisses across his knuckles. I might have put your whole family at risk. God, you’d hate me if only you knew what I’ve done.

Instead, he says nothing, just tightens his hold on Robb, sighing contently as the other man buries his face in Theon’s neck. He gazes over Robb’s shoulder, settling on the shelves on the other side of the room. Nothing’s changed since the last time they were in here, just after Eddie’s death – of course it wouldn’t have, no one comes in here except for Catelyn to ensure the room doesn’t gather too much dust – but the photos stand out to him, just as they always had. The two of them with their arms slung around one another the day they received their A-Levels results, Robb’s grin ridiculously wide whilst Theon regards him fondly at his side. The photo is surrounded by others, all of Robb’s family, and it had always made Theon ridiculously glad that Robb thought him important enough to hang his image by their side.

God, how could he have managed to endanger all this?

His gaze is promptly ripped away, and he pushes Robb away, just enough to look at him properly. There’s nothing but sincerity reflected back at him in those big blue eyes, and Christ, there really is a lump beginning to form in his throat.

Sometimes Theon thinks his love had consumed him utterly, but then he manages to fall harder ten times over.

Robb reclaims control of the situation, swiftly enough, rolling them over so that he’s lying on top.

I’m glad you’re with me.

Just as he’d told Theon, at only fourteen years of age, clutching his hand tightly in the darkness.

Theon wishes he could tell him the truth. That he shouldn’t be glad at all.

Instead, his treacherous hands slide up Robb’s back, following his spine, until they find his neck, one resting there whilst the other settles on his bicep.

"You just try that. Seriously, try to let me go. I’ll kick your ass, Greyjoy.”

He’s somewhat amused that Theon feels the need to clarify that he doesn’t want sex, and there’s a smile playing on his lips the whole time as he kicks his shoes off, lies down on the bed next to Theon. No matter how small their children were, the Starks have always had gigantic beds in every bedroom of the house, and he’s grateful for that. Not that it really matters, though - they’re so close to one other that Robb supposes they would fit in an individual bed effortlessly. He slots a leg between Theon’s, throws an arm over his waist and slides closer so that they’re practically glued to each other.

He wants so badly to feel content. To just lose himself here, wrapped in Robb’s arms – the only place he’s ever felt happiness.

But he can’t forget. No matter how much he tries.

Still, it doesn’t stop him from making the attempt. He lays his palm flat against Robb’s chest, feels the steady beat of his heart that belongs completely to him. Sometimes it’s so hard to believe that this is real. After so many years of loving Robb from afar, he still finds himself in a state of disbelief that for once, he’d gotten what he wanted. Who he wanted.

His eyes open, meeting Robb’s impossibly blue gaze. He moves his hand, slips it around to cradle the small of his back, tugging him closer still. Their legs are tangled together and they’re sharing every breath and Theon feels like he’s never loved him more.

I’d do anything for you, he thinks, brushing one of Robb’s auburn curls behind his ear. I will do anything for you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Not ever.

“Yeah, well,” he chuckles, “it’s not really fair on the rest of the world, is it? Keeping you all to myself like this.” He smiles against Robb’s mouth, feels the scratch of his stubble. “They’ll have to learn to deal though. I’m not letting you go, not ever.”

He sighs then, lays his hand to Robb’s cheek.

"It’s okay," he murmurs, "it’s okay. We’re okay. I love you. We’re okay." Disentangling himself from Theon is an actual physical effort so he doesn’t even try it: he merely pushes against him gently, makes him walk backwards towards the bed. "C’mere." The moment Theon is sitting on the mattress, Robb straddles his lap and clutches him close. He presses soft kisses to his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his lip, his hand resting just over his heart.

He’d pretty sure that Robb’s arms are doing more to ease the current pain of his injuries more than any painkiller possibly could.

He follows Robb’s guide willingly, sitting back down on the bed and Jesus, Robb doesn’t even give him a second before he’s crawling on his lap, raining kisses on his face with more tenderness than Theon merits.

The tears really do well up at his words. Fuck, but Robb was so wrong. Theon didn’t deserve a damn thing and it’s tempting to tell him that. He didn’t know what had happened, didn’t realise how much danger Theon had put him in, didn’t –

I don’t deserve you, he thinks, swallowing the lump that’s beginning to form in his throat             . It won’t do if he actually does cry – Robb would only inquire as to why, and Theon couldn’t tell him, doesn’t even know what kind of excuse he could make up. His shaking hands come up to hold Robb’s head, fingers resting on either side of his face, bumping their foreheads together

Robb opens the door to the conference room just in time to hear, I’m tempted to begin without him.

He wonders what his father would have said to that, if those words had been directed at him, and Robb finds himself muttering, “Next time, maybe, Karstark.” It’s so unlike anything his father would have said, that Robb could almost laugh. The pressing silence that follows that reply is so sharp that Robb clears his throat somewhat awkwardly instead. “Good morning, everyone. Theon Greyjoy will be joining us today.”

Before he can say anything else, Catelyn and Theon have taken the two remaining chairs.

For a moment, Robb considers spending the whole meeting just standing there on the spot. He eyes his father’s place and feels sick as he realises what he has to do; as he walks towards it, as he pulls the chair back and sits down and looks at every face in front of him. Maybe there really is something ghostly about rainy days. He could swear his father’s ghost is still sitting on that chair.

His hand, under the table, trembles at the sight of Roose Bolton.

Theon’s always hated wearing a tie, but he’s pretty sure he’s never felt quite so suffocated by one before. He’d spent the whole car journey there tugging on it, trying to loosen it enough that he could breathe, but maintain some semblance of an acceptable appearance. Once he’d caught Catelyn frowning disapprovingly at him in the mirror, however, he decided that just enduring the damn thing was probably his best option.

Still, from the moment he sets foot in the Stark boardroom, he finds himself deeply regretting that he hadn’t just ripped the bloody thing off and screw what the rest of them thought. It feels like it’s fucking choking him and his nerves are frayed enough as it is, without adding asphyxiation to his list of problems.

He can feel the board member’s contemptuous gazes weighing heavy on him, and in turn, he keeps Theon keeps his own eyes firmly glued to the floor. His palms are sweating badly and he wonders for the thousandth time why he’d agreed to this. Everyone in this room bar Robb and possibly his mother despised him. They probably thought Robb was mad to bring him here, and Theon’s sort of inclined to agree. How the hell could he even help with the oil issue? His family had disowned him – he’s utterly powerless in that respect.

Catelyn slips into the chair beside the head of the table’s, and the only remaining seat is opposite here, so Theon reluctantly takes it. It’s nice to be at Robb’s side, but he’s pretty sure the rest of the board may begrudge him his place.

He’s acutely aware of Roose Bolton’s presence. He struggles not to look at him, wipes the palm of his hands on his suit pants, willing them to stop fucking shaking.

It’s the eyes, Theon thinks, swallowing thickly. They’ve the same eyes. I should have realised – I’m such a fucking fool.

Which is strange, really: he can’t remember the last time he’d shed a tear. Certainly not for his father’s death – nor his brothers’. Had he cried during either of Robb and his splits? He can’t quite remember, but suspects not. Theon never really cries, but all of a sudden, the tears keep threatening to fall. He’d almost wept when he realised Robb had lead him to his childhood room, just the sight of that stupid height chart, his bed, the floor where he’d spent so many nights curled up on his camp bed at Robb’s side. It was ridiculous how much meaning could be attached to just one room, and none moreso for Theon than this one.

His shoulders visibly sag with relief, all the breath rushes out of him in a sigh. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding it. It feels like he has been since he escaped Ramsay’s flat.

“I’m – “ and his voice is shaking nearly as much as his hands are, “no, I’m the one who should be apologising, not you. I’m – I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking, I should’ve known – of course you wouldn’t – you wouldn’t want that. I’m such a fucking idiot, I always fuck up like this I know. I just – I hate seeing you hurting so much and – I don’t know –“  He’s babbling and he knows it, and none of the words are good enough, can possibly convey a fraction of the emotion and regret that he feels.

So he finds himself practically falling forwards, arms seeking out Robb’s neck instinctively. The movement hurts his side, still sore from Ramsay, but he doesn’t even fucking care.

All he cares about is right here.

This is what was important.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he mumbles into Robb’s neck, “shouldn’t have-“

Shouldn’t have done any of this. Should never have walked into that bar, should have never accepted that drink from the man he thought was Reic. Should never have gone to his flat. Should never –

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