Genuinely miss the s6-s7 Jonsa era when there were like 100 amvs floating around set to Mumford and Sons / SYML songs and we had drabble events with "Season 8 foreshadowing" as a prompt and we all were coming up with absolute batshit theories...... you just had to be there
summary: sansa's world is glossy pink. jon wishes she'd let him nurse his heartbreak in peace. he also wishes she'd let him stay.
“Can I work here for a bit? Robb’s so bloody loud I can’t hear myself.”
A listless shrug. “Sure.”
“Thanks. I’ll be quiet.”
She nods, and says it again, sure, her rs clipped off like dead lobelias to make space for drags. Sometimes he wonders what Sansa dreams about when she’s perched this way- looking out a window with the secrecy of a sniper at a periscope, cigarette dangling from the left corner of her mouth. It’s how Jon finds her every morning on his way downstairs, seeking six o’clock supplies (hard-to-ration things: dental floss, Xeroxes, coffee, mental peace). A ritual viewing to keep balance: Sansa Stark in her too-pink bedroom wearing too-pink lingerie staring at too-pink sunsets, although on retrospection, sunsets here are never quite as brilliant as his idea of them.
Most things aren’t.
Outside, it’s summer. In the canon of atmospheric literature, there is something artificial about the way summer is described. Sunshine and great bursts of leaves. Air that smells of crushed fern. Summer in the foothills isn’t half as proprietary; it arrives in silence and gets into crevices like beach glass and thoughtless exchanges made in the heat of a single moment. The air, in fact, hadn’t smelt like crushed fern when Val had slammed the door upon his face in a hot blaze of tears and told him he had developed a pathological affinity for self-centeredness. It had smelt like the wine they’d drunk before.
That was two months back. Jon Snow lost two months to an error of judgement, though some of it was probably the wine too.
Anyway. Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien.
Thump, thump, thump. Insane acoustics. When Jon is sad, he drinks a lot and rhapsodizes on the lines of Richard Siken. When Robb is sad, he plays Post Malone. From the looks of it, Jon’s roommate must be fucking devastated today, but one can only endure Rockstar so many times before one feels a burgeoning need to pop in half a Percocet and seek refuge in the room of a greater, more tranquil being for the first time in forty days.
Thump.
Or, maybe he’s beating shit up? The Stark kids are a weird lot, Jon has come to realise from his time playing hanger-on: they keep to themselves and operate strictly on an eat-or-be-eaten policy, running on cool crisp cocktails of narcotics and self-hatred. Combinations vary: Arya punches jocks; Bran plays Ted Bundy podcasts during morning yoga sessions. Etcetera.
“What are you writing?”
Nothing to be exact, not since he got distracted from self-pity an odd minute back. More of guilt than anything else, Jon shuts his laptop. “Nada.”
 “You working on that novel?”
“Trying.”
“Feel you.” She taps on a fissure in the cool granite of the sill. “When Harry dumped me, I locked myself into a room and watched Elizabeth Taylor movies for 72 hours. Naked.”
“Sounds terrific.”
“The binging or the nudity?”
“Both. Invite me next time.”
“Alrighty!” this in a sing-song lilt, like playing Harley Quinn. “Bring your best Arbor Red and we’ll watch Gone with the Wind.”
“Don’t forget the other half of the pact.”
Sansa pulls a silly face, and he thinks, Percocet-hazed, funny girl. Conversations should’ve been initiated before, but she wasn’t, well, Val. Embarrassing.
“Here, have a whole drag. Cleanses your mind.” She proffers the cig at him, rolling-paper stained by a very bright, very bubblegum-pink lipgloss. Jon manages to complicatedly maneuver accepting the cigarette without making contact with Sansa’s fingers, a feat he’d thought impossible for any human in hypothetical pick-me-ups.
Not that he minds. Not that he’s-
“Close the laptop darling, if the angst doesn’t come in fifteen minutes it sure wouldn’t materialize in twenty.”
Not used to being told off by anyone in a camisole, Jon does, indeed, close his laptop.  It’s a very becoming camisole, objectively. In fact all of Sansa’s room has the strange congruity of an organized film set, there’s clutter, but it’s organic, prettily messy, an 80’s pinup-girl-dorm with the mandatory young Leo poster behind the door. The one in the floral shirt.
Jon looks at her again. Funny girl, yes, but also quite lovely, objectively, with that shock of red hair falling all over her face and big blue eyes with liquid flourishes at the creases that probably have a cosmetological name Jon doesn’t know. He watches her reapply her lipgloss in the dresser mirror. That particular pink would look atrocious anywhere else but somehow it looks just correct on her mouth. Glossology- proclaims the tube in bright gaudy silver letters. Shade 245: Rosa Suburbia. Christ above.
His phone buzzes. Val, says the ID, with the two blue hearts she’d added the day they’d swapped contacts. Jon hesitates, delaying the imminent. Lingering. Just another five seconds.
Mirror Sansa looks at him and flashes a dazzling smile. He smiles back only to realise she’s checking her makeup. Bit of an idiot move, classic Jon.
Another buzz.
“You better get that, Johnny,” Sansa chimes in her Harley Quinn voice.
Summer is untyped sentences waiting to be born, a room plastered by Vogue cutouts, a bed strewn with nail polish bottles, lacy underthings and empty boxes of dessert crumbs. Summer is ugly pink lipgloss and ridiculously lovely blue eyes and the epiphany that Gone with the Wind is that movie you’ve been planning to watch your whole life but simply never got around to.
“It’s probably dad, checking in. I’ll call him later. Listen, you want to go out on the terrace or something? It’s too smoky in here.”
“Shit, you just asked me on a date to my own rooftop?”
“Wait, what?”
She laughs.
The glow on Jon’s phone screen informs he has three missed calls. They can wait.
Being with Sansa is good. Being with Sansa works a bit like holding a red hot iron tong to an open flesh-wound. It’s overwhelming, and sometimes the bite in her words is hostile, but it heals. It cleans. If it were upto him, he would be cauterized by Sansa Stark every time the Percocet didn’t dissolve.
Outside, the summer too, lingers.
Inside, the room is thick with nicotine and Rosa Suburbia.
