The door to the bathroom opened suddenly – why had she not locked it? – revealing Jon. She was slow to react, the first onset of a panic still threatening, mind buzzing and nausea swimming thickly in her gut, and when she did manage to think it wasn't to pitch the cigarette she smoked, a habit she judiciously hid from nearly everyone.
When drinking or at parties she was less rigid about being seen with a cigarette in hand, where her smoking could be passed off as recreation, not dependence. This distinction was absurdly important to her. Only Margaery knew the extent and duration of this particular vice. She was not wound so tightly as to abstain from her sins, merely to hide them well. The Catholic guilt in her, she supposed.
When Jon observed her, some part of her inner turmoil must have shown on her face – another unnerving concession – because he swallowed hard and shut the door behind him.
"Hey," he said softly.
It wasn't meant to soothe, it was merely how he spoke, low and gravelly. He was always so easily overshadowed in their youth by Robb, who was so animated, so energetic – like her, she thought, though Robb was only ever genuine. It was terribly easy to overlook someone like Jon in the presence of someone like her brother.
Jon was not her brother. After that first night he'd graced their doorstep, just 8 years old, all awkward long limbs and dejected grimaces, the unfortunate cast-off of a nameless father and a dead mother, he had become the gatecrasher to her, the intruder, who took away her father's time and her brother's attention and her sister's love.
Although time had matured her, and she no longer felt any of the uncharitable bitterness she once had towards the boy, it hadn't quite healed the awkward rift between them now, borne of a careful distance orchestrated throughout their adolescence. He wasn't a kid anymore, he was a grown man, and it had been a long time since she was that self-centered little girl. Her remorse for her past childishness sometimes grates at her, and sometimes she thought to tell him so, but the practiced unease between them – which had never been just her own – stilled her words in her throat each time before the imprecise sentiment would vanish, fleeting and forgotten.
They shared an amiable enough relationship – she was Robb's sister and he was Robb's best friend and that was the beginning and the end of it – and perhaps that one time, at Robb's wake and rocked by their shared grief that could have been enough, but Jon was not what she needed in that moment. She needed her brother, she needed Robb. But Robb was dead and he would never again eclipse Jon or anybody else with the buoyancy of his presence, filling up a room. She thought no room would ever feel full to her again and it was a cold and lonely prospect.
Her chest ached and she couldn't answer Jon's greeting, afraid of what she might say just then. She took a drag on her cigarette, careless and for once unconcerned with the meticulous presentation of herself to those around her. It was liberating and soothed her raw edges like nothing else had since the news came, as smoke unfurled thickly into her lungs.
She expected him to comment on it – the smoking. He had never seen her smoke, no one in the family had, and there was reason for that. She expected a lecture or at the very least an admonishing word, some outward token of disapproval, because truthfully that was what she feared the most: disapproval. But it didn't come. His face was placid and blank, almost empty. Though he faced her, had acknowledged her, she wondered if he really even saw her then. The thought took root and terrified her anew. Am I here, she thought, am I really even here?
He leaned heavily against the door looking reluctant to approach, though they were close, not even a full step away from each other in the enclosed space of the guest bath. The way he pressed back against the pine, the full weight of him there, made her think he was pushing the rest of the world out. The thought was comforting to her.
With unfocused eyes, words hollow yet beseeching, he asked, "Got another?"
His voice was slightly choked and she thought that maybe he would cry. Maybe that was why he came there, to be alone, and to cry. She had never seen him cry before, not even in those long, difficult months just after he had come to stay, when the grief for his mother was still fresh and raw. Though she was only 5 at the time, she recalled it with precision.
She couldn't understand something like that then, her young world easy and affable, untouched yet by grief. The intrusion of his pain, of another kind of world, had baffled her, irritated her even. He had mostly kept to himself in those days, not speaking to anyone much, and sometimes would not leave his room for days on end, but she had never heard him cry.
She thought of how she had grasped his hand at the funeral, looking for someone to anchor her to the world, and how he'd held her own so tightly, not letting go even when everyone had filed sluggishly out of the churchyard around them.
She thought she should apologize, she should tell him all those things she had meant to say to him before, tell him Robb loved him most, and that she loved him too, loved him still, even without Robb there to bind them, that they all did, and that wouldn't change.
But she said nothing, only took the cigarette from between her teeth with trembling hands – she could see two crisp impressions in the filter, just below the smudged maroon of her lipstick – and held it out to him, like an offering, or a plea. He reached out and took it, bringing it to his lips without hesitation and taking a deep drag. The paper burned. She could hear the faint hiss in the quiet of their sanctuary and she hoped he understood all that she couldn't say.
She hadn't cried since Robb had died. It seemed maybe that it was an ongoing issue – things had started falling apart in such quick succession just before she'd gotten the call – but it wasn't until her brother's death that she'd taken note of it. She couldn't shake the insidious thought that she'd failed him, sitting dry-eyed and stoic at his funeral, as Taps had trumpeted out shrilly and the honor guard had carefully creased the flag. Silent tears had streaked down her father's cheeks and her mother had choked in intermittent breaths beside her as if she had periodically forgotten the necessity of breath, and Sansa had felt nothing but uncomfortable. The guilt came after and the omnipresent fear.
Jon held out the cigarette for her and she took it in numb fingers, mumbling something even she didn't grasp. He looked at her fully then, pain so clear on his features, and she held his gaze with wide, imploring eyes, her face a mask so practiced she didn't need to choose it. He startled, as if from a trance, and then became awkward.
"I'll go. I didn't mean to…" he trailed off and turned away jerkily, reaching for the doorknob.
"Jon," she said clearly. "Don't go. Stay here with me."
He held the knob for a beat, then said, "Ok."
"Will you sit with me?"
He moved to her side and sat down near her on the wide edge of the tub. She offered him the cigarette – nearly burned down to the filter – and he took it without comment, inhaling. She watched him. She had the vague notion that she should observe him, learn the pattern of his grief and make it her own. She didn't know how to grieve like a person should, how to allow herself to indulge her emotions. It seemed to her that was all Jon had ever done. Every idle thought or feeling seemed to pass over his face like a banner. He'd always been a terrible liar and she was much too practiced at it. She couldn't discern her own feelings behind the front anymore.
He saw her staring but she didn't turn away. She reached into her purse, pulled out her pretty compact case, and took out another cigarette. She lit it deftly between her lips and he made no comment. She'd revealed more to him – this was not an impulsive habit. He stubbed out his own smoke on the tub's edge and then tossed it into the toilet. It left a sooty black spot on the polished porcelain.
"That'll leave a mark," she said tonelessly.
Jon made a short, non-committal noise, untroubled by that.
They were at the Lannister's place. Robert had offered the Starks use of the house for the wake, to ease some of the burden from his old friend Ned, and her mother had been in no fit state to object.
Her father and Robert Baratheon had shared a close friendship dating back to law school but she knew that no one in her family liked the Lannisters, the family of Robert's wife Cersei. They had all made a valiant show of geniality over the years for her sake, given her relationship with Joffrey, Cersei's eldest, but Sansa couldn't say she was overly put-out by Jon's flippant display either. That tie had been severed.
"Did you need the bathroom?" she asked. Her question seemed to take him off guard.
"What? Oh… No, I just… just wanted to be alone I guess."
"Oh," she said. "I can go somewhere else-"
"No, no, I didn't mean…"
He always seemed so discomposed around her and she couldn't say she felt no culpability for that. He raked a stiff hand through his tangled curls. His face was unshaven, tie loosed, and he looked so out of place, so painfully uncomfortable in his navy suit.
"I just wanted to get away from the noise downstairs for a bit." He nudged her shoulder with his own and said, "We can be alone together, right?"
She smiled weakly at that and his lips quirked upward too, just a little, before settling back into his customary grimace. They could be alone together. That was what they'd always been when they were together, wasn't it? Alone.
The family had endured all manner of social jockeying and false showings of sympathy throughout the day, yet no one had spared so much as a kind word for Ned's fake son, the one who'd been left behind. Robb did love him most. She wasn't so petty anymore, she was able to admit that without spite. And Robb had been all that was left to Jon.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"For what?"
She smiled at him timidly and she knew there was true pain on her face. She felt it genuinely and saw it reflected back in the black of his eyes. She shrugged, as if what she spoke of was of no importance but of all the platitudes she'd choked on today, this felt anything but. Her heart was hammering and her palms were sweating and she didn't know why.
"For your loss."
It was the closest thing she'd ever given him to an olive branch.
He stared at her and his mouth opened and shut a few times. Discomposed. Eventually, he just took a drag and turned away from her gaze.
"And yours," he said, so quietly.
They slipped into silence, passing the cigarette back and forth between them, their fingers brushing lightly in a way that was not quite accidental. It was a long time before she spoke.
"Joffrey and I are over."
She didn't know what compelled her to say so. It had been almost two months since the incident. Almost two months since she'd finally come to her senses and called off their engagement. No one in her family knew. She couldn't bring herself to talk about it just yet, unprepared to face their questions and more still the promise of their unease were she to give them honest answers. It seemed Joffrey hadn't told his family either. They'd have to come clean eventually – the garish spectacle of their wedding plans could not stay stalled without explanation forever.
Jon looked at her and ordinarily she might have quailed under the weight of his scrutiny but she felt only exhaustion.
"That's… I'm sorry," he said with uncertainty.
"No, it's not… I'm not upset about it. I just wanted to say it out loud I guess."
He nodded but she could see he didn't understand, not really, and how could he?
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.
Jon was a good listener, had always been a good listener. He wouldn't push, wouldn't pry. She could tell him. She could tell him everything and then maybe the hotly furling shame of it would be exorcised. But even the thought of speaking on it had her heart throbbing in an uncomfortable uptick, her body feeling flushed and prickly, and her breath coming quickly in shallow pants. She forced other words out, safer ones, trying to calm herself.
"No," she said, over-loud and adamant, then more calmly, "No, I don't really, not anything that… It's been over for months. Nobody else knows. Don't say anything please."
She looked at him pleadingly. It suddenly seemed to her that she'd made a huge mistake in revealing this – even just the half-formed details she'd divulged. But he looked back at her calmly and told her that he wouldn't.
She reached out and grasped his hand in hers, squeezing so tightly and he squeezed right back. She took a long drag.
"Robb really hated him," she said placidly.
He made a sound that could have been a laugh if it wasn't so desperately sad.
"Yeah, he did."
She smiled more genuinely at that. Jon was honest to a fault. She offered him the cigarette and he took it from her but left it dangling at his side.
"I just wish I had told him, I guess. Robb. That I broke it off."
"He was happy," Jon said, because he seemed to understand that's what she was really saying. "He had Jeyne and his friends and he loved you all and he was happy."
"He had you too, Jon. You made him happy."
He made a small gesture, as if to shake off her words, his chin tucking down to his chest. She grasped it impulsively, firmly, with her free hand, turning his face to hers and meeting his eyes.
"You did."
They stared at each other for a long moment, blue and grey, before she released him.
"I haven't cried. Not at all. I really feel like there's something wrong with me." She smiled without humor as she said it, even laughed a bit, as if it was all just a joke. A cosmic irony that Robb was gone, would always be gone, and she was here. Ha ha.
"Everybody's different. You can't beat yourself up about that, you'll go crazy."
She knew he was speaking from experience. Sam had told her father that since they'd gotten the call, Jon spent his days shut away in his room, ignoring everyone, and drinking more than he should be.
"What about you?" she said. "Do you beat yourself up, Jon Snow?"
He smiled but it was so much like a grimace. His pain was so expressive, so clear, and she wished she could mimic it.
"Oh, I'm a pro at that."
She gave his arm the barest of strokes, to comfort, to soothe. Their hands were still clasped like a vice and she didn't think they'd touched as much in 15 years than they had today.
She wanted to tell him that she was sorry, that it was unfair that he'd lost so much, so many, that she understood, and that she knew she could never hope to understand. She was a tourist in this land of grief. She couldn't even mourn properly.
But she didn't say it. She let it pass, let it hurt, like those times she'd thought to fix things between them but couldn't. It was a practiced ease that kept them separate, even as they talked, even as they grieved, and it was comforting. Strange to be so far from someone sitting so near.
She took the cigarette from his fingers and brought it to her lips, tasting filter. She passed it back to him and he took a drag. It was singed down, gone, like whatever it was they'd shared, but still they passed the smoke between them taking empty pulls and let it burn.