in a mess of fading lines [rhaegar & jon, flashback march 1991]
Jon is persistent. Sidekick — as if friendship alone isn’t enough; as if he has yet to prove himself somehow much more worthy. Braver. Rhaegar shakes his head and tries to laugh it off.
"Not my sidekick, Jon," he says gently with a faint smile. “But you are eighteen. What I’m doing… I’m protecting you. You’re like a younger brother to me. You and Arthur; even…" Even Jaime Lannister? He frowns then, and hesitates. Rhaegar shrugs and mutters, “I guess, even Jaime." Discouraging a publicly broadcasted debate had been out of his own good intention. And it’s not fair that Jon should carry whatever price (death threats, humiliation) came with supporting the Targaryens.
Rhaegar loosens his tie and unbuttons the cufflinks of his shirt. “I can be pompous," he grins, rolling up his sleeves. On the other hand, he’s not quite sure if he can shout, or yell. “They’re going to ask you about Tory policies; why it’s better than Labour." He pauses and looks at Jon sidelong. “Why my father should win. You think you can handle that?"
Jon bristles at the reminder of his age. Why did being eighteen mean the he was less than; why did it reduce what he felt, and how strongly he felt it? Being eighteen doesn't mean he can't fight. He has more nervous energy than all three of his friends put together, but because he's the baby of the group they never see him as an advantage.
"I'm not your little brother," he says, cocking an eyebrow. "I'm your friend." And you don't even look twice at your real little brother, he almost snaps, but bites his tongue. He's getting angry; he'd expected resistance to his idea, but he hadn't expected it to be so patronizing. Does he really have to convince Rhaegar that he's an adult?
His eyes dip to the exposed hollow of Rhaegar's throat when he loosens his tie, and then quickly dart to the countertop. Don't finish that thought, he scolds himself, but images dart behind his eyes anyway. He hopes he's not blushing. "Yes. Of course I can-- Yeah, of course I can handle that," Jon says impatiently. "You don't think I've been with you long enough to defend myself? Half my family-- all of my family at home, they're always berating me..."
Those men? Those are the men you're following? Giving money to? His father never listened to Jon's aunts; talking to him about things he didn't want to hear was just throwing words into a bottomless hole. Instead they turned on Jon, interrogated him, guilted him. I know, he wanted to shout every time. I know what they are but you don't understand, he's different...
"Sorry." Jon clears his throat. "Just-- go on, like you're him. Press me."






