Chapter Text
"This is a nice place, I'm thinking about it for my wedding."
“What wedding? It's nice for a funeral, maybe."
"Hm. There's an open bar, isn't there? I think there is."
"Asha, even if there is—”
"I know but, shit. This whole thing is very dull. I need a drink. I'm getting a drink."
Theon shrugs and slumps further down in his seat, playing with the cufflink of his right sleeve. The vaulted ceiling of the hall rises high above him and he watches as Asha gets up, shaking her hair and making a beeline for the bar in the far left corner.
With his sister gone, Theon finds himself lacking an ally. He and Asha aren't even that close, but when it comes to these pseudo-family appearances they stick to each other for lack of anyone better. His father is sitting gruff with the gaping wound of Asha’s absence between them, refusing to schmooze or cut into the steak on the plate in front of him.
Theon decides he's pissed off enough to light a cigarette in public. He's supposed to be reformed and all that, the latest Greyjoy success story, the unfortunate victim of an understandable breakdown so long as he doesn’t step a toe out of line from now on. But it's not like there's press in here, and he wouldn't be the only one anyway. He can see Oberyn Martell across the room, laughing uproariously and flicking ash off the end of his own cigarette.
He gets a few looks when his lighter sparks to life in his hand, but he doesn't pay them any mind. His father's face is stony and he refuses to look in Theon's direction. Instead, he stands up, buttons his suit jacket together at the waist, and makes a show of walking towards another table without looking back. He’s probably going to bore someone to death with a bill proposal.
There's a quartet playing classical music and the low din of polite political chatter, how are your kids and oh it’s so good to see you. Theon bites at his thumbnail, brings his cigarette back up this lips, and tries to ignore the one vaguely interesting thing that's happening tonight.
Instead of looking straight ahead he turns to the right and watches Roose Bolton, who has an uncomfortable look on his face as some squeaky young staffer shuffles papers over his shoulder. Theon thinks they seated his father and Bolton at the same table as a joke. It’s possible they wanted to see if any punches get thrown. Theon would put money on Bolton if asked, mostly because he'd enjoy seeing his father get his nose broken.
Still, he's not exactly a fan of Bolton, either. He's a hardass and his tendency to use people to climb the ranks is the stuff of infamy. And then there's his son. His son is—
Roose Bolton's son is staring at him with fuck-me eyes across the table, so Theon leans over, puts his cigarette out in one of the chocolate profiteroles, and stands up, mimicking his father's own departure.
He's halfway down the hall towards the elevators when he hears someone following him. It's that clack-clack sound that the heels of expensive dress shoes make against quartz hotel flooring.
Theon presses the up button three times more than is necessary and then takes a step back, standing next to Ramsay Bolton who's keeping an eye on the lit-up numbers above the elevator that are moving down as the elevator nears them.
He chooses to say nothing, instead sneaking a glance at Ramsay's suit and tie. He's wearing a Ralph Lauren charcoal slim-fit suit with a vest and a nondescript blue-grey tie. It's a nice suit, but on the cheaper end of the Ralph Lauren label, which is surprising for the son of a well-established businessman with ties to politics. Theon, himself, is wearing an Ermenigildo Zegna sharkskin suit that's a mohair and wool blend in deep blue. The mohair makes the color have a sheen that's usually impossible to get when wool is used. It looks like jumping into the ocean feels or at least that’s what Theon thinks.
Compared to him, Ramsay may as well have gotten his suit at a bargain bin sale for the homeless.
Theon snorts as the elevator doors open and he steps inside. Ramsay follows him wordlessly, which he finds funny. Theon wonders if the cheap, unfitted suit is Ramsay's punishment for being illegitimate. Probably.
He presses the button for the twelfth floor.
"Where are you going?" he asks with a fake smile, hand poised to press another button even though he already knows the answer.
“The same floor," Ramsay says, predictably. His eyes are wide and, honestly, Theon falters when he smiles. Not because it's beautiful or disarming, but because there's a sharpness to it and for a second Theon wonders if he's going to cut himself and start to bleed all over the floor of the elevator.
It's a funny little thought and he smiles to himself as he smooths one hand over the front of his suit jacket. He wonders if Asha has come back to the table yet and if she's pissed off. He doesn't think so though. She's probably by the bar, throwing back shots to hide how disgusted she is by some guy who's trying to make moves on her. Theon can relate.
"Almost there," he says, stupidly, when he sees that they're at the tenth floor. He only does it because the feeling of Ramsay's eyes on him is unnerving. All Ramsay does is blink at him in response, his smile never faltering.
Theon coughs as the doors slide open again with a ding. He's done this before, of course, but something about Ramsay strikes him as very different from anyone else he's ever done this with before. And Theon's heard stories around the hill that Ramsay Bolton is fucking insane, obviously, but people say that about anyone who so much as pops a pill (they’ve said it about him), so he figures there can't be much weight to it.
He steps onto the plush carpet of the hallway and turns to look over his shoulder. “Your room,” he says, “or mine?”
Ramsay’s face is covered in shadows cast by the accented lighting overhead and his smile has not faltered.
He doesn’t say anything, only inclines his head slightly to the left and then starts walking that way. Theon hesitates for a moment, and then follows him before he can turn a corner and disappear. Ramsay never looks back to make sure he’s following, and Theon swallows his own spit, trying to make some noise in the silence. He suddenly feels that they are the only two people on this entire floor, which is definitely impossible but—it doesn’t change the fact that there’s no noise aside from their footfalls and the thoughts in his own head.
He thinks of saying hey, wait but, before he can, Ramsay stops in front of a door and reaches inside his suit jacket, the material creasing as he pulls his room card out from a pocket on the inside. The card slides in and the green light shines and Ramsay holds the door open for Theon, a sort of paradoxically gentleman like thing to do in this situation.
The room is dark, which Theon tells himself isn’t odd though he can’t help but feel unsettled in the darkness, nor can he help the loud thudding of his heart as the door slips shut behind him.
“Do you do this often?” he asks as Ramsay clicks on the light of a lamp, which only just lightly tinges one side of the room with a golden glow.
“Often?” Ramsay repeats, stepping back into the shadows. The room is large enough that he can do that, but it’s not as large as Theon’s own, which has separate living and sleeping areas with a French door between them and two sixty inch flat screen televisions. Ramsay’s room only has the one. One television, one bed, one step forward.
“I’ve heard—“
“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of things,” Ramsay interrupts, suddenly talkative as he turns one hand up and starts to twist at something near his wrist. The strangeness of the motion makes Theon want to move backwards until he realizes that Ramsay is only undoing a cufflink. He wonders if they’re anything like his own, which are pure silver and engraved with set-in black pearl around the edges. He imagines they’re probably not, but it doesn’t give him as much satisfaction as it might have back in the elevator. “I’ve heard a lot about you, as well.”
“From your father?” Theon asks.
“Well, yes. But I think we both know better than to put much stock into what our fathers say about people they’re already predisposed to dislike, wouldn’t you agree?”
Theon thinks of all the times his father has cursed the Stark family and thrown glasses and plates in anger because of them. “I suppose.”
“Come here,” Ramsay says, having just finished taking off his other cufflink. It sounds like a command and Theon doesn’t like commands from anyone, but it’s late and his head aches and this is what he came up here for, after all. He steps forward, two steps now, into the golden light. “Come here,” Ramsay says again, with emphasis this time.
Theon steps into the darkness.
“Better,” Ramsay says, sounding pleased. “Now, what I’ve heard about you is that you’ll fuck anyone who looks at you just the right way.”
“Oh.” Theon breathes out a small laugh. Like he’s never heard that before. “Yes, well, it’s easy to do when enough people are looking at you. I guess you wouldn’t understand.”
He might have expected Ramsay to get angry at that comment some other time, but here—he’s suddenly not sure he could make him mad if he tried. There’s just that inscrutable smile twisting his lips upwards and his hand, suddenly, moving up and cupping Theon’s jaw, the movement of his thumb across Theon’s cheekbone, the drone of uncertainty in Theon’s ears like a buzzing insect that won’t go away. He’s starting to think he fucked up.
“No,” Ramsay says, “I suppose I wouldn’t.”
And then his touch on Theon’s face is gripping, moving down to his throat, pressing hard against his skin. And then he’s pushing Theon backwards and Theon is stumbling, the backs of his legs hitting the bed in a few sloppy backwards steps. And then he’s being pushed onto his back, lay down as Ramsay crawls on top of him.
The bedspread is soft as silk against his hands and he wants to raise them up and push Ramsay away but—no he doesn’t, no, not really.
Ramsay’s eyes are like twin moons, celestial beings, wide and unceasing, shining with borrowed light. His hands are on Theon’s throat and Theon can’t breathe and he’s choking, but it’s blissful in a way. He thinks that they’ll find him like this, spread eagle on a hotel bed and they’ll say, “Fuck, that’s a nice suit.” He closes his eyes. The pressure ceases and then changes. He can breathe again and he feels Ramsay pulling at his suit jacket and then—snap.
The button at his waist pops off and Theon’s eyes snap open to meet Ramsay’s. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ramsay hasn’t blinked once this entire time.
“Those buttons are,” his voice sounds hoarse and he clears his throat, “they’re sculpted onyx, one-of-a-kind.”
“You care a lot for the way you look, don’t you?”
Theon grits his teeth at that and decides that fine, alright, he didn’t come here to just lie here motionless. He cranes his neck up and presses his lips to Ramsay’s and suddenly he’s being consumed. Ramsay kisses him messily, hungrily, like he’s a plate of food and Ramsay hasn’t eaten in weeks. It’s okay because Theon’s starving too. He allows Ramsay to lick into his mouth and returns the action in kind, their teeth clacking together and Ramsay being the one to pull away. Theon refuses to let him, he bites down on Ramsay’s bottom lip and gets a hiss of pain in return, gets Ramsay’s eyes flashing silver at him. He gets the taste of blood.
Then there’s the soft buzz of his phone coming from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.
“Better get that,” Ramsay says, not moving, a drop of blood on his chin, his eyes wild.
“I—“
“You wouldn’t want to be rude,” Ramsay decides for him, rolling to the side and sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaves Theon laying there, breathing hard, and unsure of if he wants to see who’s calling and find out if it can be an excuse to leave or if he wants to see where this will go. The vibrating of his phone is incessant and he decides that, if nothing else, he might as well see who it is.
His phone says Robb and he answers it without a moment’s hesitation once he sees that.
“Hey,” he says, sitting up and looking around the floor for his missing button.
“Theon?” Robb’s voice is heavy with tears, broken and terrifying to hear. Shit. “Theon, I need you.”
Theon stands up and considers going into the bathroom to escape Ramsay’s eyes and ears, but that would probably just make things even more suspicious. “What is it?” he asks, softly.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, fuck, it’s my dad, it’s—he’s—Theon—he’s dead.”
The button is in Theon’s line of sight but all he can do is stare at where it landed, just underneath the dresser next to the bed. It’s dark as night and there will never be another one like it.