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The hot wind belts him right in the face, rifling through his auburn hair, and Robb contemplates putting the hard top back on the car. For now, however, he just glances at Theon in the passenger seat, who shoots him a toothy grin from behind his sunglasses. A more couth look through the rearview mirror is spared for the two girls in the backseat of Stark‘s convertible Mercedes. He doesn’t care that they’re taking pictures — as long as they don’t get the number plates.
The navy blue body of the car glistens in the light of the sun, which is not quite rolling against the horizon yet but is just about to start setting, as they fly down the highway towards what Robb considers a decent dining option in Santa Monica.
A table finds itself, even though it’s a Friday evening, but Robb has long figured out he has that effect on people now.
The lights are low, and the dark oak furniture looks featherlight. No doubt the pride and joy of some big name designer. Stark is not boresome enough yet to mention it, but with every new candle he sees on the cake he feels closer to the day that he will without a second thought mention the ambience to his equally dull friends. Or whatever they really are — mother says friends are a rare currency at that age.
They met those girls at a club last night, exchanged numbers, and Theon nudged him not to drag it out and invite them out today. Robb can almost bring himself to feel ashamed at the fact that he doesn’t remember the name of Greyjoy‘s date. She looks great, though, in that blood-red dress. Must be a model of some sort, or at least aspiring to be. Wild red hair and big blue eyes. She could be his sister, Robb thinks with a lopsided smile.
The one next to him is Jeyne. Art history student, and so incredibly sweet it makes his head heavy. The way she bats her long eyelashes and always makes a point of listening intently feels genuine. Theon would say Robb is letting himself be fooled. Robb, frankly, doesn’t bother giving a fuck.
He listens to the clinking of Jeyne‘s bracelets as they share a starter that definitely doesn’t taste good enough to justify the steep cost, sitting back from the conversation. Theon leads it, hair pushed back out of his face with black sunglasses. He gestures a lot, laughs with his chest, and orders another round for all without consulting his companions.
Greyjoy gets the orders quite right, though. A nondescript whiskey on the rocks for Robb, something convoluted but strong for himself, and pretty cocktails that match the girls‘ outfits to a T. He reaps a turn of compliments for it, taking them gracefully. Words fall as easily as sunlight on his skin — where Robb would burn, Theon gets to bask.
When there’s nothing left of the entirely unmemorable dish between them, another round of drinks is called upon as the girls vanish into the bathroom. Theon goes on his phone, and Robb takes advantage of that to challenge him to a game of footsie under the table. Lacquer shoes against his moccasins, they throw charged smiles back and forth at each other until they’re interrupted by the waitress, who brings over something that can no longer be justified as quenching a thirst. Makes no matter, it will go on Eddard Stark’s Amex all the same.
The dinner, if it can only be called that, stretches lazily through the hours, not morphing into anything else. Robb joins the conversation, jokes at his own expense, admires minute achievements and finishes Theon‘s sentences. It’s so repetitive that he’s almost happy when everyone gets up to leave.
He watches Theon walk through the parking lot, redhead on his hand, and whistle a song Robb just about recognises. Greyjoy is undoubtedly tipsy, but when is he not? Robb struggles to name a day like that, and, to be entirely fair to Theon, Stark isn’t sober either.
Even so, Robb is not scared to drive in this state. He’s surefooted enough, and whatever cop gets the short stick of pulling them over knows his last name all too well. Plus, the girls live right down the block, and if Stark ever put Theon’s life in danger, the fool would probably thank him.
When they pull up to the small apartment block, Robb gets out first to open the door for his passengers, bar Theon, who can very well get out on his own but still pouts as if he’s owed something. The sun is long gone by that point, not even a flicker of red on the sea surface, and still the warmth lingers. Stark wishes he could shake it off his shoulders, but it keeps weighing him down as he waits for purses to be gathered and heels to hit the pavement.
Robb tries to ignore how Theon snakes a hand around his date’s waist and kisses her, instead making polite conversation with Jeyne. Stark leans against the side of his car, listening about exhibitions, classes and parties he cares unprecedentedly little about. After they walk them to the door, — roommates, it seems, but he missed too much of their chatter to know for sure, — Robb kisses Jeyne’s hand goodbye, feigning chivalry. Theon leaves a sultry joke as a parting gift, Robb doesn’t need to see or hear him to know that. He walks away first, spinning the keys on his finger.
He’s awfully bored, as bored as he was this morning and as bored as he will be tomorrow night.
It‘s the endless vicious cycle of his life, which started once he graduated middle school and will continue until he’s in the autumn of his years, however late that may be. The golden heir to Stark Enterprises was jaded beyond repair, and sick of the boiling air.
Theon pulls him out of those thoughts with a hand clasping his left shoulder. It doesn’t help them walk straighter, they just end up softly swaying in tune with each other all the way to the car.
The way home is somewhat more pleasant. At the speed they’re going, one could almost fool themselves into thinking the air was starting to cool. Robb, however, is California born and bred, never mind his Nova Scotia father, so he knows that the asphalt will keep radiating off heat for hours on end, more or less until the sun rises again. It never truly ends, and Stark yearns bluntly for closure. Theon flicks through radio channels, picky as ever when it comes to music.
Once he settles on some obscure deep house and revs the volume up, Robb feels allowed, hells, almost expected to floor it. He knows Theon won‘t even blink. The motor growls as they fly out onto the highway, past the turn to where Greyjoy lives. That, also, goes unaddressed.
His family stayed in the tranquility of the Westside, while Robb himself managed to haggle out a flat in a high-rise building downtown. Commuting to college, he said, and what a joke that was. A pretty view and a nice garage is what it was, and a great deal away from the troubles of teenagers and toddlers that filled his childhood home. Robb loved his siblings, but he loved them better when they were apart.
The apartment is like the Arctic compared to the smothering heat outside. Robb always left the air conditioning on, considering the vulgar electricity bill a fair price to pay for not dying. The floor-to-ceiling windows greet him silently, the skyline behind them unchanged. Flickering lights of cars and people and bars and restaurants remain aloof, oblivious to the fact that they’re watched by him. It’s one of the few times he feels truly insignificant.
Theon invites himself in, and helps himself to cold water from the fridge. Discarding even the thought of a glass, he drinks from the neck of the bottle. Robb watches his throat work, simply because there’s nothing else to do in his sluggish mind. There’s nothing else he’d rather be doing.
Except for sleeping. Possibly.
Robb falls back first on his bed, clothes and all, and lets a deep breath exit his chest. He doesn’t want it there anymore, road dust and sand and alcohol evicted for good. Only cold air dodges the purge, and perhaps a little of Theon‘s cologne. He ruffles the fresh sheets with his hands, pressing his head back into the pillow. Robb can hear Theon in the living room, stumbling about and talking to himself, maybe even raiding the liquor cabinet. Robb cannot bring himself to care. Everything around him is soft and easy, it would be criminal to get up and try to sort out his friend. It’s almost too comfortable, to the point where he knows for a fact sleep won’t come to him for another good hour or so.
If Theon loses his footing a bit and trips into Robb’s bed, it’s not alarming. He’s crashing on the couch every other night anyway, what difference does the proximity make? And if Robb steadies him by smoothing out the slacks on his thighs, that’s also nothing to write home about. Accidents happen.
Robb‘s been told countless times that he has a sharp mind. How much of that was baseless flattery he can never know for certain, but now the percentage seems arbitrarily close to a hundred, since it took Robb that long to notice that Theon discarded his shirt somewhere, left only with the chain of dainty gold links around his neck.
He really shouldn’t be throwing them around like that, Robb muses. The lunatic wears silk shirts even in this weather, and Stark is the only living soul allowed to know he owns just two of those. Still, Theon fails to take good care of his things, acting as if he has more to spare. Suppose same goes for his life and health, so at least he’s consistent.
Robb will not school him, because that will only get Greyjoy out of his lap and through the door. No further, no farther, and all in all entirely not what he wants right now.
The rawest emotion Robb’s had all day is the desire to feel Theon shift against him, even if just once. It would certainly make him the happiest man alive. He’s been incredibly close to it for too long anyway, at least that’s what people always said. It tugs at his heart strong enough to make his fingers curl over Theon‘s legs impatiently.
It’s not a hunger, because that’s always sated. In truth, Robb has only ever heard of the feeling. A whim then, a fad, one that he will not stand to be denied.
So he runs his palms up his chest, in leisurely motions of someone who doesn’t really care where this will go. Even if deep down Robb does care a whole lot, he refuses to let it surface. It feels like holding a branding iron with his bare hands, like the entire seventeen hours of sunshine they get these days have come together in this one point in space and time.
Theon smiles at him, and it’s fucking suffocating.