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1
“You’re in high school?” Ros eyed his uniform, one hand perched on her hip.
Theon wanted to retort, you’re not that much older than me. “I got held back a couple times,” he admitted instead. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about, but he had an inkling that it would earn him some kind of clout with Ros. He was secretly pleased when she gave a throaty chuckle as if to say tell me about it and reached up to reposition the stumpy cigarette that dangled from the corner of her mouth.
She had nice lips, Theon decided. Full, round lips, flushed a ruddy pink. The way she rolled the cigarette between them felt suggestive somehow— but not as suggestive as the rolling curves of her body, barely contained under a ribbed baby pink cami top and black panties. Her bra was uncomfortably visible beneath.
He averted his eyes and scratched the back of his neck, steering his gaze toward the doorway where his buddy had disappeared a couple minutes ago. Well—if asked to label Galen, he would have said “buddy”, but really their relationship went no deeper than Galen being some cousin of a brother of a classmate, or whatever, who sold Theon weed. This was the first time he’d met Ros, though, introduced vaguely with only her name. How do they know each other, anyway?
But it was obvious she lived here, as Galen didn’t seem the type to absolutely drown the place in flowery perfume. Even here in the kitchen, the smell was so strong it should have made Theon queasy. Oddly, he didn’t mind.
“Soooo…” Ros cocked her head to one side, leaning back against the wall and crossing her thick, bare legs. “What’s your favorite class?” She barely finished before doubling over and snorting with laughter. “Sorry— I’m not used to talking to kids.”
“I’m not a kid,” Theon snapped back instinctively. Ros raised her hands in relent, a smirk twitching at her lips.
“Alright, alright.”
“I’m sixteen,” he added. It wasn’t true— he’d be sixteen in a little over four months— but close enough. And I’m not in high school, either, not until fall. Although I should be.
“So you’re legal,” Ros said, still with that half-smirk on her face. Theon nodded, feeling strange and tense, all too aware of how naked she was, and how awkward he must seem.
Galen swept into the room— thank the Drowned God— and flung a plastic baggie at Theon, which he fumbled but managed to catch. “All yours.”
Theon tugged a wad of bills from his pocket, counted beforehand, and thrust it into the older teen’s hand. After barely glancing to make sure that the amount was right, Galen wedged it in his pocket and slung his bag over his shoulder. “I gotta go.”
As he passed them, he raised a brow at Ros as if to ask, you got this? to which she smirked in response. Then in a blink, he was gone.
“Thanks,” Theon said feebly to the closed door. Now that he and Ros were well and truly alone, he felt his heartbeat quicken, and twisted the baggie in his hands just to give them something to do. “I guess I should be going, too.”
“Or you could stay,” Ros suggested, as casually as anything. She bent forward, snuffing out her cigarette on the ashtray that teetered dangerously close to the table’s edge. Theon swallowed thickly, his gaze drifting back to her thighs. Part of him wondered if this was some kind of trick. What kind of— older teenager? Adult woman?— propositions a pubescent for sex? That is what’s happening, right?
Her eyes glittered with intrigue as she waited for his answer. After a moment he nodded, inching toward her with his arms dangling uselessly at his sides. The plastic baggie fell beside his bookbag on the floor. Am I supposed to touch her first?
Her lips were just as soft as they looked, and she wielded them with practiced ease, compensating for his overeager clumsiness. He’d kissed girls before, but she was by far the best at it. Besides, with the others he’d just been doing what he was supposed to do. He wanted Ros. And, for whatever reason, she wanted him.
When he broke away, she laughed at the look on his face— he must appear as flustered as he felt. Placing a palm against his chest, she nudged him away long enough to peel her top off in one smooth motion. With a toss, it joined the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen table. Then she pressed in on him. The ridge of her bra cup slid against one of the buttons of his shirt.
“Why are you doing this?” His voice sounded sluggish and stupid.
“Consider me a philanthropist,” Ros said sweetly, tucking Theon’s hair behind his ear. “I’ve got a soft spot for fumbling, confused, virginal kids.”
“I’m not a kid,” Theon replied, although this time with far less conviction.
Ros’s eyes stayed fixed on his own, brown eyes framed by creamy skin and soft ginger curls, as her hands moved to the fly of his jeans. “Not anymore.”
2
The next time Theon saw Ros, he really was sixteen. He’d been sitting in class, longing for the bell’s chime to spill him into the sweet release of mid-afternoon, where he and Robb would walk home as usual and complain to each other about miscellaneous inconveniences of the day.
But when he got to their usual spot, it was empty. He cursed when he remembered that today was the first day of football practice, and Robb would be going home with Jon afterwards. Stupid Jon, who was the star player— after Robb, of course. Theon hadn’t gotten on the team at all. Not that I care about football. But it would’ve been nice to be on Robb’s team.
He adjusted his bag on his shoulder and resolved to go on without his best friend— as long as I offer to set the table and feed the dogs, Catelyn won’t mind me killing time alone in Robb’s room — but then he thought of Ros. The way she’d touched him so sweetly, and let him touch her in turn. The memory awakened some kind of aching hunger in his belly, fire lapping at his insides; he wheeled around at once. She’s only a bus ride away.
On the bus, his mind drifted to the shoebox he kept under his rarely-used bed at Uncle Aeron’s, the one stuffed with bills. It wouldn’t be long now before he had enough for a car, and he wouldn’t have to take this damned bus, clutching his bookbag to his chest like a forlorn child. And I could drive Robb, too. I could pick him and Jon up from football practice. I could even pile a bunch of shit in front of Jon’s seat, so his legs would be all cramped up. The thought made him grin.
Since the time with Ros, Theon hadn’t talked to Galen— he’d found a guy at school who would deal him the same thing for half the price— and so was struck with unease when he spotted his car in the dingy little lot. He hesitated, retreating to the garbage bin-lined alleyway adjoining the lot and pondering his next move.
Thankfully for both his fraying patience and his nose, it wasn’t long before Galen emerged from the building, keys jangling as he tossed them from one hand to another, and sunk into his car. After a minute, the engine revved and the vehicle rumbled away in a cloud of exhaust. Theon straightened up and composed himself, realizing too late how silly he’d look to Ros with his school uniform and bookbag, and made his way to the intercom by the door.
Ros’s voice came enveloped in harsh static. “Galen, I swear to the old gods and the new, if you forgot your keys again—”
“Uh, no.” Theon cleared his throat. “I don’t know if you remember me, but, this is Theon—”
“Oh.” She sounded surprised, but not displeased. “Well, come on up.” There was a harsh, metallic buzz, and Theon scrambled for the door handle.
The apartment was exactly as it had been the last time, down to the ashtray at the edge of the kitchen table. Ros looked the same, too, albeit this time with a cardigan partially obscuring her chest. When she shifted slightly, he realized she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. Her legs were bare again, too, soft pale flesh that beckoned to Theon.
“I didn’t expect to see you,” she said neutrally. “Come from school?”
Embarrassed, Theon nodded. He didn’t know what to say, how to ask for the thing they both knew he wanted. Slowly, he let his bookbag slip from his shoulder. Ros had a funny look on her face, some combination of pity and resignation that was anything but erotic. Still, nothing could dissuade him from the call of her body. He crossed to her, fingers itching, not meeting her gaze as he delicately pulled the one side of the cardigan away.
But when his hand moved to cup Ros’s breast, she clicked her tongue. “Free trial’s over, sweet.”
He frowned. “You want me to pay— you—?”
She laughed in his face and tugged the cardigan back over her chest, nudging him away with her other arm. “You heard me.”
He felt his cheeks redden. “How much?” A heartbeat later, he decided he didn’t care.
She reached forward, intentionally brushing her fingers against him in such a way that he felt himself stiffen beneath the fabric, and plucked his wallet from the pocket of his jeans. She combed through the bills with a practiced hand, extracting some undisclosed amount, which she tossed onto the counter before returning the wallet to his pocket. The mere sensation of her running her fingers down his arm sent a chill down his spine. Legs weak, he allowed her to take his hand and lead him out of the kitchen and into her room.
The bed smelled of the same perfume that filled the entire apartment. Theon pressed his nose into Ros’s hair to drink it in, twisted his neck to kiss her jaw. His hands were clumsy as he grabbed at her, clammy fingers that skidded across her heavy breasts and down her velvety stomach. There was no way it was pleasurable for her, he knew that, yet he felt a lick of elation when she tossed her head back and laughed, luminously beautiful despite it all.
By the time he’d managed to undress, he was so overeager that he came almost immediately. He stifled the embarrassment in Ros’s soft shoulder, her hair obscuring his face like a ginger curtain. It was safe behind that curtain— no football games, or Robb, or Starks at all— just Ros, and his bare skin against hers.
3
“Pretty little thing like you, you can’t find a girlfriend?” Ros asked. They were lying naked, Theon’s head on the comfortable pillow of her stomach. It rose and fell with her breath in a steady rhythm beneath him. Her fingers stroked through his hair.
“I could if I wanted to,” he retorted, feeling her stomach lurch as she snickered at him silently. Why is she always laughing at me? “And don’t call me pretty.”
“Okay.” There was still laughter in her voice. “Handsome, strapping young man like you, you can’t find a girl to fuck without paying?”
“Of course I could. I do .” He was painfully aware of the whininess seeping into his voice.
“But I’m special enough to pay for.”
Theon sat up abruptly and swung around to face her, pinning the hand that had been in his hair against the mattress. “Do I have to pay you extra to shut up?”
“Feisty, are we?” Ros was unperturbed. She pursed her lips and shrugged. “I’ll shut up, if that’s what you want.”
“Good,” Theon mumbled, releasing her hand and falling back on his heels. He positioned himself over her, wishing that his arousal wasn’t so thoroughly dampened by the inadequacy prickling at his throat. Ros traced a lazy finger over her nipple and watched him for a reaction, her eyebrows raised expectantly.
But even when Theon stroked himself, his body didn’t respond; he was spent already. He clambered off of Ros and slunk away to the side of the bed, trying to play things cool even as the heat of shame rose in his cheeks. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m supposed to be good at this. It had been nearly two years since they’d first slept together, and Theon hadn’t bothered to keep track of how many times they’d done it since. He stayed later and later, too, now that Galen had moved out. Watching shadows shift across the uneven ceiling as the sun set, and letting Ros’s perfume envelop him.
It was only a moment before her chin brushed against his bare shoulder, one arm looping around his chest and pulling gently. He allowed himself to sink backwards into her lap, somehow still unaroused even with his head against her thighs, the billowing curves of her breasts bordering his vision like two luminous moons.
A strand of ginger hair tickled Theon’s nose. He blew it away, watching it bounce back and forth. Ginger, but not quite auburn. Thoughts of Robb wormed their way into his mind, unbidden and unwanted; he scowled.
Ros’s hand resumed stroking his hair, thumb looping around his ear and caressing the stud in his earlobe. When she spoke, her voice sounded like it was a thousand miles away. “What’s wrong, sweet?”
“You’re special because… you’re… not real. ” It sounded stupid the moment it came out of his mouth, but this time there was no laughter. He didn’t elaborate. What else could he say, really? The way you touch my hair reminds me of my dead mother ? I fuck girls from school, but it always feels like I leave my body while I’m doing it ? I wish your hair was a darker shade of red ?
“You’d be surprised to know that I hear that a lot.”
She was right. He was surprised. “What else do people tell you?”
“Oh, all sorts of things. How much they hate their wives. How much they miss their wives.” She chuckled.
“And you remind them of their wives?”
“Sometimes.” Her teeth gleamed as she grinned. “But better.”
“You’re not better.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think them.
Ros took it in stride, her voice honeyed with laughter. “Sorry I can’t live up to your wife, sweet.”
Her fingertips ran over his brow, soft and light as feathers. She had long nails, always impeccably manicured, but they never grazed him. By contrast, Robb had an awful habit of chewing on his nails, and the beds were usually cracked and bloody. Would they be scratchy and unpleasant, if he were to stroke Theon’s forehead?
“He has red hair, too.”
“Oh, the wife is a he.” Ros’s tone was inscrutable. Through the fog, Theon wondered why he was telling her this at all, this awful secret that he’d already committed to take to his grave.
“He doesn’t look like you. Other than that.”
“Most men don’t,” she quipped, prodding one breast with a fingertip so that it jiggled. Theon laughed, despite himself.
They lapsed into silence. Theon relished the feeling of her hands on his skin, the there -ness of her body against his. He wanted it to last forever.
But it never did. Before long, his time would be up, and he’d emerge from the comfort of her dingy apartment as unloved as ever.
Lately, the sting of the night air had grown colder, the contrast between Ros’s touch and overwhelming loneliness sharper. Since Theon had foolishly tried to kiss Robb, he couldn’t even think about his best friend without self-loathing crashing in on him. Every time their eyes met, or their arms brushed, a sick feeling rose in his gut, horror that beat at his chest and strangled his throat. Touch used to be casual. It meant nothing. We wrestled, we hugged, we’d even hold hands once in a blue moon. I pissed it all away. Why he still lets me sleep in his room, I don’t know. He shouldn’t.
“I haven’t told him,” he mumbled.
“Told him what,” Ros prompted, patiently.
“My dad’s probably going to be released next month. And that means I’ll be going back to Pyke.”
“That’s good.” She sounded a little bored, not that he could blame her. Theon had probably repeated all of the legal jargon he’d learned from Yara to her at one time or another, not that he understood much of it.
“I’m going to miss him.” A severe understatement, considering that most of Theon’s thoughts concerning the matter were more along the lines of I’ll die without him. He swallowed back tears and managed a weak smirk. “Can I take you with me?”
“No way,” Ros laughed. “No payday is big enough to get me to the Iron Islands. I want to go down South. Get a tan. Drink cocktails on the beach.”
“The Iron Islands have beaches,” Theon argued. “They’re fucking islands!”
“The wrong kind of beaches.” She rolled her eyes.
Reaching up, he tugged Ros’s hand away from his forehead, laced his fingers through hers, stared at their entwined hands. Still, he felt nothing.
4
No, Bran isn’t going to die. From the moment Theon managed to wring those words out of the nurse, he’d fought to get out of the hospital as quickly as he could, personal wellbeing and concerned doctors be damned. I have to leave now, now, now, now, that was the only thought in his head as he stumbled through the hallways, ratty sneakers squeaking on the linoleum floor. The night air hit him like a wall of ice, leaving him winded and gasping as he crumpled onto the curb of the parking lot. Everything felt fuzzy and a little bit askew, the world pulsating unpleasantly around him like some misplaced organ. His fingers twitched for a cigarette, but they were tucked away in his glove compartment.
When he managed to stand, he found himself desperately scanning the lot for his car, any fleeting glimpse of the familiar scraped-up white paint and duct-taped handles. Now, now, now. It could have been a second or an hour before he realized that there was no way the car had survived the crash. Surely now it was just a hunk of smashed metal, blood and gore and Theon’s worldly possessions all twisted up inside. Cigarettes included. Feebly, he stared down at his hands—a little scraped but otherwise unharmed— and the bandage the nurse had wrapped around his forearm, seemingly more for show than anything else. The car didn’t survive. Why did I survive?
Now, now, now. He was walking, stumbling a little, not fully aware of his own movements. He could feel his body, the solid pavement beneath his feet and the air on his face, but at the same time he was numb to the world. He only realized where his legs had been carrying him when he found his finger slamming into a button on the intercom outside Ros’s apartment. The fingertip had blood caked into its grooves. Theon sucked at it desperately, needing the blood to be gone— now, now. He pushed the button again, and then again, receiving no answer. Or maybe he just didn’t hear one.
Then: “Theon?” Ros was looking at him like she’d seen a ghost. It hadn’t been that long since they’d last met, had it? A year, maybe?
He pushed his way past her, stumbling up the filthy stairs and into the apartment, and nearly tripped over the threshold. Faint and warm against his back, Ros’s hands steered him through perfumed rooms and parked him on her bed, before she stepped back to survey him with that bewildered look still on her face.
“Stop laughing at me,” Theon slurred, even though she was doing nothing of the sort.
“You’ve got blood all over you.”
He stared down at himself, only now becoming aware of the dark red patches on his otherwise intact t-shirt. His jeans were stained, too. None of it is my blood, is it?
“What happened?” Ros asked, her eyes wide. “Did you… kill someone?”
His heart lurched so violently he feared he would puke it up. “No!” It was a struggle just to find the words, simple as they might be. “A car— car—” Accident? “A car crash.”
“Gods,” she breathed. “Are you okay?”
It seemed like a ridiculous question. Of course I’m okay. I shouldn’t be, but I am. The blood was sinking through the fabric, onto his skin, searing into him like acid, oceans of shame and guilt and disgust pouring out in turn. Now. “I need—” his fingers fumbled for the hem of his t-shirt, panic building to the point that he began pulling at the fabric wildly. “I need to get it off, please, now—”
Ros took the hem with steady hands, and Theon’s arms fell limp to his sides. He allowed her to undress him like a doll, down to his underwear. He shed that, too, kicking the vile garment away from him and curling up in Ros’s bed as tightly as he could. Then he pressed his nose into the sheet, drank in its perfume-sweet musk. Anything to obscure the metallic scent of blood.
He woke suddenly, the side of his body that had been pressed against Ros’s bed hot and cramped. It was just as dark as before, Ros a silhouette leaning against the doorway. Smoke coiled from her cigarette. Upon seeing him stir, she lowered it and turned toward him. “Hey.”
He sat up slowly, only becoming aware of his nakedness as he positioned his feet on the floor. Vague memories of the crash swam through his mind, the sight of his unblemished skin making them ever more surreal. Did that happen?
“Hey,” Ros repeated, stepping toward the bed. No longer blocked by her body, light from the room beyond hit his face. He winced. “You’ve been asleep for… like, twenty hours.”
“Fuck,” Theon breathed, rubbing at his face. His nails clawed into his cheeks, a welcome sensation. A reminder that any of this was real.
“I saw what happened in the news. Looked pretty nasty.” She put her hands on her hips. Theon had to tilt his head back to look up at her.
“You did?” It was like his brain was on a delay. Then, he remembered, and gasped, “The two boys who were in the car, are they alright? Did it say?”
“Just said they were injured but in stable condition.” Ros studied his face. “Full speed off a bridge? You really made a mess, didn’t you?”
Theon snatched the cigarette from her grasp with trembling fingers. He took a deep drag and exhaled, watching the cloud curl away from him, before he spoke again. “I have to… call…” Robb was already on his lips before he bit it back. No, you can’t call him. You can’t ever speak to him again. The decision was fully resolved in his mind, like it had been made while he’d slept. Not a question but a fact, a cold, hard lump locked in place beside his heart. He would not try to dislodge it.
“I have to call my sister,” he finished. The faster I can be on a boat to Pyke, the better.
“Dress yourself first.” Ros, already halfway out the door, gestured toward a chair which bore his discarded clothes. The sight of them made Theon’s stomach turn.
“I… I can’t wear those.”
“Well, I haven’t got any mens’ clothes just laying around.”
“I don’t care. I’ll wear whatever you don’t need.” He did care, if he was being honest, but somehow wearing Ros’s clothes seemed less humiliating than putting on the bloodstained t-shirt. That shirt was Robb’s. He gave it to me because he outgrew it.
That was how he ended up on Ros’s dingy couch in a ragged sweatshirt with DANCE written across the front in peeling iron-on letters and worn leggings that were, thank the Drowned God, very loose on him. He plucked at the stretchy fabric as he waited for Yara to pick up. Somehow, both his flip phone and his wallet had escaped the crash as unscathed as the rest of him.
“What.” Yara’s voice was flat.
“I need to come home.”
There was some kind of noise in the background, the humming of machinery and clanging of metal on metal. “Why? Make it quick.”
“Long story.”
“That’s not quick.”
“Yes, it is,” Theon snapped. “I’m not telling you the story, am I?” He slumped forward, clawing his fingers through his hair. “I need to come home. That’s all there is to it.”
“I’m going to have to convince Dad.”
“So convince him.”
Yara sighed. There was a brief pause, punctuated by more noises. “Fuck you, Theon.”
“What?” He squeaked, offended.
“D’you know how rough things are with me and Dad? I’m sticking my neck out for you here.”
But you’ll do it, is what you’re saying.
“And you have to get here yourself,” she added.
Fine. “Thanks, Yara.”
“Fuck you, Theon,” she said again, and hung up.
He tossed the phone onto the couch next to him and picked up his wallet, thumbing through the wad of cash within. Guess I’ll have to clear out my bank account anyway. I’m not coming back to the North.
With one fluid motion, manicured nails swiped the wallet from his grip. He blinked up at Ros, who was already shuffling through the bills.
“Normal rate,” she said.
“Normal rate? For— for what?”
“You’ve been in my apartment almost an entire day.”
“We didn’t even have sex!”
She wedged a roll of bills into her bra, then plucked a few more from the wallet for good measure. “And this is for the clothes.”
“You said you were getting rid of these clothes,” Theon protested.
“I’m not a charity, sweet.” Ros barely glanced at him as she dropped the wallet in his lap. “If I’m going to get to King’s Landing, I’ve got to have some liquid.”
“Fuck your trip to King’s Landing.” Theon could feel himself getting heated. His head was beginning to throb. He stood up, relishing the fact that he loomed over Ros, although it didn’t appear to bother her in the slightest. “I was in a car—” Accident? “—crash, okay? I fucking needed someone to fall back on!”
“And I was that person,” Ros replied matter-of-factly. “You can even have a cup of instant ramen before you go, if you like.”
“Sure, so you can charge me for it,” Theon spat. He felt ashamed and stupid, standing here wearing Ros’s ugly discarded clothes, in her grubby perfumed apartment, having thought that any of this was more than just another transaction. How many times did we lay on that bed, with her stroking my hair? Not even having sex, just laying there. She listened to me talk about things I didn’t tell anyone else.
And I paid her for that, too.
To his horror, tears were burning at the corners of his eyes. He turned his face away from Ros under the pretense of picking up his phone before wiping them away. Urgency was beginning to return to his body, the same blind panic that had driven him from the hospital. I have to get out of this city, before the Starks find me. Now, now, now.
He rolled his old clothes into a bundle to take with him, although they scalded his fingertips. The moment he saw the trash bins down by the parking lot, he would shove them inside as hard as he possibly could. Maybe they’d end up crushed and tattered, like they should be. Whatever god had cursed him to emerge from the wreck not only alive but undamaged— old, new, drowned, or otherwise— he hated it more than anything.
Ros watched him as he crossed to the door, an unlit cigarette in her mouth. Her hands toyed with the lighter. “Bye, Theon Greyjoy.” She nearly sounded like she meant it.
“Bye, Ros.” He didn’t know her last name.
When he turned to close the door, the room was so dark that her hair almost looked auburn.