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“Pathetic,” his words ring in her ears, following her as she walks back home, hugging her thin body in an attempt to produce any warmth underneath the pouring rain.
Pathetic. He’s the pathetic one. Sansa could laugh. Pathetic little Joffrey Lannister, not noticing the waves of fake friends surrounding him, how Margaery shit talks about him to everyone, how Willas daydreams about running him over with a car, how professor Clegane can’t wait until he has graduated and moved on to someone else, how…
Sansa turns on her street, the clicking of her high heels being drowned out by the sound of the raindrops hitting the cold hard ground, and she sees him, sitting on the porch, head hanging low as he nurses from a bottle of beer. His dark hair is falling over his face and the sound of the rain is so loud that he can’t possibly have heard her stepping over the old and rotten wood that surrounds their old and rotten house, but still. Jon looks up and sees her, truly sees her, like no one ever did. It’s one of his magical powers, the fact that he can look at someone and instantly understand that they are in trouble, that something is wrong.
“Hey,” he says, not mentioning her flushed cheeks, the mascara running down her face, and his voice is so kind that she can’t help the new rush of tears taking over her. Sansa runs across the porch to him, flinging herself into his arms, and Jon oofs, but circles her lithe body with his strong and warm hands, “What’s wrong?”
Sansa sobs, hiding her face in the curve of his neck, and she whispers something unintelligible. Jon asks her to repeat it and her cheeks burn even hotter as she separates her lips from his neck, whispering to him, “Joffrey broke up with me.”
Jon, God bless him, doesn’t even try to appear completely thrilled by the idea, obviously hiding his feelings very well, licking his lips and saying, “Why? What happened?”
The images burn in her mind. Drunk Sansa, picking a fight with Joffrey in the middle of his sister’s birthday party, and him laughing at her, pulling her aside and calling her pathetic. You’re pathetic, Sansa, his words ring in her ears, We’re done. Go back to your sad little pathetic family.
He doesn’t have a great range of words, but still. His words hurt.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Sansa says and she looks up, she sees Jon’s familiar face. She’s known him all her life, he’d been present in every single thing. Her birthdays, the time she won an award for her science project, when Bran fell, when Robb got drunk and crashed the family’s Audi, when her mother found Gendry Waters, a twenty-three-year-old man, in her sixteen-year-old sister’s bed, when she failed geography. Every time she looks at a happy memory, Jon is there, in the background.
He hated Joffrey the minute he met him, pulling her aside hours later and saying in hushed whispers, “You deserve someone that makes you happy, San, and Joffrey makes you miserable.”
“And who can make me happy, Jon?” she had replied, angry and upset, “You?”
He didn’t answer then and she didn’t expect him to. His silence was enough.
Sansa looks up at Jon’s gentle and gray eyes, his soft pink lips, his kind face and she acts before she can even think, her body being on autopilot, and presses her mouth against his. He kisses her back almost immediately, his teeth catching on her lower lip and Sansa groans, pulling him closer. His hair is silk-like underneath her fingertips and it feels almost fake, no one can be that perfect, and yet here he is.
They kiss for what feels like hours until their mouths are numb and their tongues can’t seem to work anymore. Sansa leans her head against him, holding their foreheads together, and the boy she grew up with is smiling.
She doesn’t tell him that he’s the one who caused her fight with Joffrey, that he saw her sending him text messages, preferring to stare at their WhatsApp conversation instead of mingling around with her boyfriend’s family.
“I know what you two do underneath the covers,” he had said, his handsome face purple with rage, “Half-brother my ass. Admit it, Sansa, you’re fucking him!”
“You’re soaking wet,” Jon says, “Go upstairs, have a hot shower.”
Sansa smiles, “Will you be where when I get down?”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t really need to. Sansa already knows what he wants to say.