Work Text:
Jon is being watched. It’s not a feeling he’s wholly unused to, as practice in the yard can draw a bit of attention when he, Robb, and Theon get rowdy, but their audience is usually a handful of stable boys and a jealous Arya. The eyes on him now feel very different.
“Slow today, Snow,” Theon taunts when he gets a hit in, and Jon clenches his jaw to keep himself from groaning in frustration. He doesn’t dignify the taunt with a reply; instead, he makes himself focus, swinging his sword to meet Theon’s, the clash of steel ringing out in the yard.
It’s not loud enough to drown out the guffaw from the direction of those watchful eyes.
“Look at the green little lordlings playing at battle,” a wildling man scoffs, and another man chuckles. They’re not even being particularly loud, but their voices carry on the wind, and Jon clenches his jaw so hard that it hurts for a moment, struggling to keep his focus on Theon’s smug face when he wants to turn and confront the watching wildlings. He risks a quick glance, just enough to see which one had spoken—Tormund Giantsbane, the largest man among them, the one with the shockingly ginger hair and beard, far more orange than the reserved Tully red of Catelyn and the majority of her children.
Tormund speaks on behalf of his supposed King-Beyond-the-Wall, and he speaks loudly, loud enough for Jon to hear it through the stone walls, booming from the room across the hall from his as Tormund discusses plans with his men. Jon hadn’t been present when the wildlings and Watch men arrived, as it is not his place to be amongst the Starks when receiving guests, but they’re being housed in the guest wing of the castle, incredibly close to Jon’s own room. He keeps seeing these men in the halls, dressed in far more fur than necessary in a place like this, with the hot springs below the castle keeping even the walls warm.
The wildlings have been all anyone in Winterfell has spoken of for weeks, though the details of why they’re here have been difficult to nail down. Robb has told Jon what he’s heard from their father, that it’s something to do with a threat North of the Wall, but even Robb isn’t privy to the knowledge of what that threat may be. Whatever it is, Jon thinks it may be enough of a threat that the wildlings want to move South of the Wall.
No matter how well talks go between his lord father, his uncle, and Tormund Giantsbane, Jon doesn’t think there’s a chance in any of the seven hells that anyone would agree to let wildlings cross the Wall. It’s astonishing enough that the Watch allowed this group of five of them to come into Castle Black, let alone Winterfell castle, though Uncle Benjen has assured everyone that the wildlings carry no weapons, and have sworn to uphold peace for as long as they are guests under the Starks’ roof. It’s a Westerosi notion, one that Jon doubts the wildlings truly share. Each one of them looks like they could kill a man easy, weapon or no.
“An even sorrier sight than the crows,” another wildling agrees, and both men laugh harder.
Jon channels his indignation into fighting Theon, moving faster than before, pressing in and making Theon give ground, and it’s over rather quickly when Theon falls on his ass. There’s renewed laughter from their wildling audience, and Jon can’t help but chuckle too, even as he offers Theon a hand and helps him up.
“Should I be quicker next time?” Jon asks, and Theon scoffs, shoving him away.
“Alright, lads,” Ser Rodrik cuts in before Theon can reply, “Theon and Robb now.”
Jon ducks his head and steps aside, putting his training sword back away, and he finally lets himself turn in the direction of those watchful eyes and that taunting voice—but when he looks across the yard, he finds that the wildlings have already left. Their audience has been reduced to a handful of stableboys once more.
When night falls, Jon finds himself in the yard once more, swinging his sword at a straw-filled sack. It doesn’t put up much of a fight, but it’s something to do, a way to let out some of the energy he’d still had left after Ser Rodrick called an end to their practice. He knows that Robb could have gone a few more rounds too, but he ultimately left with Theon, the two of them heading into town, leaving Jon to his own devices.
Jon doesn’t feel the eyes on him this time; he’s sure that his only audience is Ghost, until he’s suddenly startled into dropping his sword at the sound of a loud voice.
“Practicing by moonlight, little lord?” Tormund calls out, amusement in his voice. Jon turns to him with a furrowed brow, arms crossed over his chest.
“What difference does it make?” Jon retorts, immediately on edge when he realizes that the two of them are completely alone apart from Ghost. “Not entertaining enough for you, my lord?”
Tormund chuckles as he comes in closer, eyes flicking down to the sword on the ground pointedly before meeting Jon’s. Tormund grins. “I’m no lord. The real entertainment would be seeing how you match up against me. Think you could take me?”
“I’d hold my own,” Jon retorts, sounding much more sure of himself than he actually feels, buoyed by the endless supply of summerwine that Robb had snuck for the two of them and Theon at dinner.
“If your people ever give me back my weapons, we can find out,” Tormund says, chuckling again. “I’ve seen you in passing, you know. You keep your head down like I’m some fancy highborn you aren’t allowed to look in the eye.”
“You’re a guest of Lord Stark,” Jon explains, brow furrowed, a faint blush on his cheeks. “It’s not my place to—”
“To what?” Tormund interrupts, leaning forward, close enough that Jon can smell the ale on his breath. “To speak?”
“Aye,” Jon snaps, too frustrated to be polite. “My voice is not often welcome in this castle.”
“That’s a shame,” Tormund says. “I like your voice.”
Jon just shakes his head, bafflement winning out over frustration, and he rubs a tired hand over his face. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
Tormund simply shrugs, appearing entirely unbothered, and Jon lets out a laugh of his own.
“Jon,” he introduces himself, giving in to the absurdity of the situation and grinning at Tormund. “Jon Snow.”
“Snow,” Tormund echoes with a huff of amusement. “A Northern name.”
Jon raises both brows. “Aye, seeing as we’re in the North.”
“No, boy. You don’t know the true North,” Tormund asserts, laughing again, though there’s a harder edge to it now. He looks much less friendly all of a sudden, his eyes gone dark. “You wouldn’t last a day beyond the Wall. Look at you, in your nice leathers living in your warm castle, keeping a direwolf as a pet. No. You’d freeze your balls off before even making it past the Wall.”
“You don’t know me,” Jon argues heatedly, cheeks hot with indignation. “You have no idea what I can handle.”
Tormund gives him a long, assessing look, and then, to Jon’s surprise, that wide grin is back.
“You’re right, little lord,” Tormund concedes with a chuckle, that momentary intensity gone like it was never there. “But I’d like to know you. You’ve practiced enough for the night. Come have a drink with me.”
Jon hesitates, frozen in surprise. “A drink?”
“A drink,” Tormund reiterates, and then he’s turning away, heading back into the castle, and Jon doesn’t have to follow, but he does anyway. They’re both quiet as they wander through empty halls until they reach the one they share, and Jon almost goes for his own door on instinct, but he’s led to Tormund’s by a hand on the small of his back, bringing a blush to his cheeks.
Tormund’s room seems much the same as Jon’s, spartan but comfortable, a fire already roaring. Jon hesitates a moment as Tormund closes and locks the door behind them, heart suddenly racing. Wildlings are dangerous, what is he doing being alone with one? Ghost at his side brings him some comfort, at least. He’s never truly alone.
“Sit,” Tormund says, clearly amused once more, and Jon only hesitates a moment longer before taking one of the chairs by the fire, though he doesn’t relax into it, instead turning to keep his eyes on Tormund. He watches with baffled amusement as Tormund pours two flagons of ale. After sneaking so much summerwine with dinner, Jon knows he shouldn’t, but he won’t embarrass himself by saying so.
“Why do you want to get to know me?” Jon can’t help but ask as Tormund takes the seat next to him and immediately takes a long drink.
“Thought you figured it out earlier,” Tormund replies with a snort. “No other entertainment down here.”
Jon huffs a laugh, unsure how he could’ve possibly been entertaining enough to warrant an invitation for a drink. “What sort of entertainment do you have North of the Wall?”
“Hunting,” Tormund answers promptly, grinning. “Fighting. Fucking.”
Jon flushes bright red once more. “We have those things here.”
“You and those other boys pricking each other with sticks isn’t what I’d call fighting,” Tormund retorts.
“We hunt our meat same as—”
“Oh, do you now?” Tormund cuts in sharply, brow raised. “You hunt your own meat, boy? You only eat if you’ve killed your own dinner?”
Jon bristles, blush persisting. “I’ve hunted plenty.”
“I’m sure you have,” Tormund replies with another snort. He leans back in his chair, thighs spread wide, taking up an absurd amount of space, giving Jon a scrutinizing look. “Tell me you at least fuck.”
Jon breaks eye contact, staring down at the ale in his hand, then lifts it to drink heavily, downing half of it at once, but even focusing on that isn’t enough to ignore the way Tormund laughs.
“We—people in Winterfell fuck,” Jon stammers, still refusing to look at Tormund, face redder than ever. “There’s a brothel in town. Robb and Theon are there tonight.”
“And you’re not with them,” Tormund points out, that perpetual amusement obvious in his voice. “Don’t like fucking, little lord?”
“I—”
“No,” Tormund interrupts, startling Jon enough to look at him again, only to find that Tormund is grinning ear-to-ear, having clearly come to the correct conclusion. “I don’t believe a pretty thing like you is still a virgin.”
“I’m not,” Jon denies immediately, but it’s far too late to lie; Tormund knew the truth the second Jon looked away from him, and now Tormund shakes his head as he laughs.
“Do the whores turn you away because you’re prettier than they are?” Tormund teases, and Jon hides his blushing face in his cup, draining the rest of his ale. He’s not going to explain to Tormund why he doesn’t fuck whores, much as the mocking rankles. He gets enough of this from Theon and Robb, though Robb’s teasing is more good-natured; he doesn’t have to take this from some wildling man who thinks his embarrassment is entertaining.
Jon stands abruptly, but he only makes it two steps before a big hand wraps around his arm, halting him in his tracks. Even though Jon is now standing and Tormund remains seated, he’s still taller than Jon, making Jon look up at him with red cheeks and a defiant set to his brow.
“Stay and drink with me, boy,” Tormund insists, squeezing Jon’s arm in his grasp, still grinning. “I won’t question your maidenhood anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” Jon counters, and Tormund laughs again, and this time, Jon can’t help but laugh too. It’s all so absurd, but he finds himself sitting, staying, letting Tormund refill his cup, somehow managing to get comfortable while Tormund launches into a ridiculous story about fucking a bear. Jon doesn’t believe a word of it, but he laughs along, getting caught up in just listening to Tormund, and he loses track of the passing of time, unsure how long it’s been and how much he’s drunk.
There reaches a point where he can’t stop yawning, though, and he realizes he hasn’t processed a word of Tormund’s current story, some tall tale about giants and… something else that Jon can’t recall. He’s sunk low in his chair, comfortable and warm from the fire, eyes still fixed on Tormund, even when he’s scarcely processing a word the man is saying. Tormund is a strange man, it’s true, but Jon is quickly finding out that he’s just a man. He drinks and he laughs and he tells stories, and—and he hunts and fights and fucks. All things Northern men do too.
“I can’t bear the thought of fathering a bastard,” Jon suddenly admits, cutting Tormund off mid-sentence, and he blushes anew, running a tired hand over his face. “I can’t risk getting a woman pregnant. I won’t do to someone what my father did to my mother.”
Tormund exhales heavily, shaking his head. “You Southerners and your bloodlines. Among the free folk, it doesn’t matter what name you’re given when you’re born. Any man can make something of himself.”
“Free folk,” Jon echoes, and Gods, he must be drunk, because he finds himself grinning now. “Is that what you call yourselves? I like it better than wildlings.”
“You could stand to be a little more free,” Tormund goads, stretching a long leg out to bump his foot against Jon’s, and Jon’s eyes stay fixed there for a long moment, in awe of just how big that foot is. “There are ways to fuck without that sort of risk, little lord. Don’t even have to fuck a woman at all.”
It takes Jon a second to realize what Tormund is saying, and his eyes go wide when he does. Surely Tormund doesn’t mean—? But Tormund is giving him a very strange look, and Jon somehow knows he meant it. He can’t imagine that all the wildlings are that free, but Tormund speaks for their king, doesn’t he? He represents their people. And he’s moving a large hand down between his legs to cup himself through his pants.
“My lord—” Jon starts to protest, cheeks redder than ever. He darts nervous eyes to Ghost, but the direwolf is sound asleep in front of the fire, offering Jon no reassurance.
“Still not a lord,” Tormund interrupts with a low chuckle, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Jon. He hasn’t moved his hand away. “Don’t be frightened, boy.”
“I’m not frightened,” Jon replies with immediate indignation, and Tormund just laughs. And then—then—Jon just watches, frozen in shock, as Tormund’s hand starts to move, holding Jon’s gaze until Jon drops his eyes to stare into the man’s lap as he takes his cock out of his pants. It’s huge, long and thick too, very red, and unmistakably hard.
Jon doesn’t know what’s happening, but he finds himself unable to move, unable to look away, even as Tormund wraps a large hand around his cock and starts to stroke.
“You’ve got other options,” Tormund says, voice low. “This is one of them.”
“I…,” Jon trails off, eyes fixed on the sight of Tormund tugging back his foreskin to reveal the dripping head of his cock. Jon swallows thickly. “South of the Wall, we… men don’t do these things together.”
Tormund chuckles, thighs shifting a little farther apart, giving Jon an even better view, and Jon still can’t bring himself to look away. He knows that’s what he should be doing, that he should be outraged, that he should be leaving—and yet, he finds himself rooted to the spot, heart racing, mouth dry.
“Oh, I assure you they do,” Tormund replies, and Jon thinks he must be grinning, but he doesn’t look up to check. “Men do these things together everywhere.”
“What exactly do they do?” Jon asks quietly. He’s got some notion of what can happen between two men, but he’s only ever heard it spoken of as a joke, the actions of two shameful men playing at husband and wife. It’s unnatural.
“A great many things,” Tormund answers, and then he groans, squeezing the base of his cock as a fat drip runs down from the red tip. “I can show you, little lord. Come here.”
Jon should be leaving, but he finds himself standing, as if in a daze, utterly entranced by the sight before him. As he steps closer, he finally glances up at Tormund’s face, and the man looks hungry, dark eyes meeting Jon’s. Tormund holds his gaze for a moment, then looks pointedly at the floor between his feet.
Jon, blushing harder than ever, falls to his knees.
Tormund’s cock is even more intimidating up close. Jon hasn’t exactly seen many cocks, but he knows enough to know that Tormund’s is unusually large, though Tormund himself is unusually large in general. It’s thicker than Jon’s wrist. It might be longer than his forearm. It’s so red, jutting out from a mess of orange curls, and there’s a big vein that looks like it’s throbbing. Tormund’s balls are large too, hanging thick and heavy, and… and Jon wants…
“Touch it, boy,” Tormund instructs, and Jon gives in to his curiosity, leaning in to mouth at Tormund’s balls, and they both groan. Tormund is so hot between his legs, smelling strongly of musk, and Jon’s eyes slip shut as he takes as much of one heavy ball into his mouth as he can and starts to suck. Gods, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he knows he shouldn’t be doing it.
Jon’s never been so hard in his life.
“There you go, little lord,” Tormund praises, letting out a breathless chuckle, and then there’s a large hand sinking into Jon’s hair, cradling the back of his head. “Thought you’d use your hands first, but you’re braver than I thought.”
Jon’s only ever kissed a girl once, and now here he is, on his knees for a wildling man. If anyone found out about this, he’d be more than just humiliated—he’d be punished, and he doesn’t even know how severely. Do they hang men for this? Do they castrate them? Do they offer them the black? He’s thought often of going to the Wall of his own volition, but if he was sent there, all the other brothers of the Watch would surely find out what he was caught for, and he’d never be truly welcome amongst them.
Gods, Jon can’t bear the thought of how his lord father would react if he found out. He’d be disappointed, more than just disappointed; he’d be ashamed, he’d be furious. Jon brings enough shame to house Stark as it is, and if he was caught for this? Perhaps that’d be the final straw and his father would capitulate to his wife’s wishes and disown Jon entirely, before sending him off to be castrated or hanged or to take the black. Jon wouldn’t even blame him if he did.
Somehow, the shame and fear isn’t enough to make Jon stop.
Jon pulls back, lips slick with his own spit, and looks up at Tormund, nervously licking his lips. “You can’t tell anyone. That we—that I…”
“Aye,” Tormund agrees, a little gentler now, his hand slipping down from the back of Jon’s head to his neck, and he squeezes gently. A shaky breath escapes Jon’s lips. “I won’t tell a soul.”
“Thank you,” Jon murmurs, and then he’s wrapping a hand around Tormund’s cock, and it’s so big that his fingers don’t touch. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he guides Tormund’s cock to his mouth, and he presses a soft, chaste kiss to the tip. The entire world feels frozen and silent around him as he does it again, eyes falling shut as he darts his tongue out to dip into the slit, tasting Tormund’s seed, and it makes Jon moan.
Jon knows how this is done—in theory. He’s heard Theon go on and on about it, about how good it feels to stick your cock down a woman’s throat and fuck her pretty mouth, but those crass praises provide very little insight now, when he finds himself in the position of the woman. Does Tormund want to fuck his mouth? Does he think it’s pretty? Does he want to stick his cock down Jon’s throat? Would it fit?
Jon does the best he can, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed in concentration as he takes the head of Tormund’s cock into his mouth, as much as he can—and it’s not much. His lips are stretched wide around just the tip, and he can’t take more or he knows he’ll gag, and he doesn’t want to risk gagging after drinking so much. It’s shameful enough that he’s on his knees, sucking a man’s cock, but it would be doubly shameful to do such a bad job that he throws up on said cock.
“That’s it, little lord,” Tormund encourages, groaning when Jon starts to suck. His hand on the back of Jon’s neck squeezes again, though not exerting any pressure or holding him in place; the touch feels strangely calming. Though he keeps his eyes closed, Jon feels his furrowed brow relaxing as he begins to get used to the stretch of his lips and the sensation of having his mouth so full. It’s a strange feeling and a strange taste, but it feels good to lick at what he can reach, it feels good to suck so eagerly that spit is already running down his chin.
It’s so much, so big, and still only just the tip of Tormund’s large cock. The things people say that two men do together—those unnatural, shameful things… Jon doesn’t understand how they’re physically possible. How could something like this go inside him? The thought of anything at all going inside him sounds wrong, but specifically a man’s cock, and one this big, is enough to have Jon clenching nervously, hardly able to even imagine the sheer physical discomfort. He’d be torn in two.
“Bet you can make me finish just like this,” Tormund says, voice low and throaty, and Jon’s cock throbs in his pants. “You’ve got a pretty little mouth on you, boy.”
Jon moans around his mouthful, licking at the dripping tip and not even minding the taste. He sucks, wet and messy and eager, the sound of it shamefully loud in the otherwise quiet room, only accompanied by Tormund’s heavy breathing, Ghost’s soft snores, and the gentle crackle of the fire in the hearth. If anyone walked by Tormund’s door, would they hear? Would they possibly know what that wet sound means? Would someone check Jon’s room to see that he’s not there? Would they put together the pieces of what’s happening in this room?
Jon has no answers to any of his own questions, but still, the fear is not enough to make him stop. He wants to make Tormund finish, even though the thought of that is terrifying as well. Tormund’s balls are so big and heavy, Jon knows they must be full, knows Tormund must make a far greater mess than Jon does when he spends, and there’s no way that could all fit in Jon’s mouth. But he hardly has any time to worry about it before it’s suddenly happening, Tormund groaning loudly as he spills into Jon’s mouth, hot spurts of his spend coating the back of Jon’s throat, and it’s all Jon can do to swallow and swallow, suppressing the urge to gag, even though it keeps going.
It’s a long moment before Tormund’s hand on Jon’s neck guides him into pulling back, the wet head of his cock slipping free, and Jon starts to cough, covering his mouth with a hand as he doubles over, and for a second he again fears that he may throw up. Tormund’s large fingers gently card through Jon’s hair as Jon takes deep, ragged breaths, until he’s sure he can breathe again. Slowly, he blinks open dark, wet eyes to look up at Tormund, who’s staring down at him hungrily, as if he didn’t just finish in Jon’s mouth.
“Not bad for your first time sucking cock,” Tormund praises, letting out a chuckle. He reaches his other hand down to run his thumb over Jon’s damp chin, wiping away spit and seed, and Jon is too far gone to even blush.
“Strong taste,” Jon mumbles, voice scratchy, and Tormund laughs.
“Aye, but you’ll get used to it,” Tormund replies, and then his fingers are tightening in Jon’s hair, enough to make Jon gasp. Tormund’s smile is wicked. “Tell me, little lord, did getting me off get you hard?”
“No,” Jon lies quickly, his blush coming right back, and Tormund just laughs again, a sound much too loud for the things occurring in this room.
“You’re not a very good liar,” Tormund declares, and then he’s leaning forward, and Jon doesn’t understand what he’s about to do until he does it—big hands grasp him under his armpits and haul him up like he weighs nothing, and then he’s being settled in Tormund’s lap. Jon’s thighs spread so wide to straddle Tormund’s that his muscles protest with it, but Jon can’t even squirm, held utterly still in Tormund’s grasp. He’s being held against a firm chest, with firm thighs below his, and his entire world is spinning.
Jon looks up at Tormund’s smug face and feels very, very small.
“Even prettier up close,” Tormund murmurs, and though he begins to move his hands, Jon stays exactly where he’s been put. With one hand on Jon’s back, Tormund guides Jon into moving closer, ‘til they’re pressed together, and it’s sheer instinct to push his face to Tormund’s chest, hiding his hot cheeks in the soft fur that Tormund is still wearing. “There’s a good lad.”
Tormund’s other hand finds its way between Jon’s legs, and Jon startles at the press of a large palm to his clothed cock, and he tries to jerk back—but Tormund holds him in place once more. Jon knows he should say something, should protest, but he can’t find the words for it, and then Tormund is moving his hand, rubbing Jon’s cock, and all Jon can do is roll his hips into the touch and hope the fur beneath his head muffles the breathy moans he can’t hold in.
It feels good, feels better than anything Jon’s ever done on his own, and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, but it isn’t more wrong than what Jon just did, what Jon can still taste in his mouth. He shouldn’t be doing any of this, but he’s already in the thick of it, and it feels good, and it hardly even takes a minute of firm pressure on his cock before Jon is gasping again as his cock jerks and he spills in his pants, the pleasure of it completely whiting out his brain for a moment.
“Feels good, doesn’t it, boy?” Tormund is saying softly—as softly as a man like him can manage. He pulls his hand away from Jon’s crotch, and then Jon is startled again when that hand slips into his hair once more and tugs his head away from Tormund’s chest. They lock eyes, and Jon is suddenly aware that his eyes aren’t just wet; he’s ashamed to realize that he’s actually been crying.
Tormund still looks hungry.
Again, Tormund moves Jon in his grip as easily as a bard with a puppet on a string, and again, Jon doesn’t realize what’s happening until it happens, until their lips meet and coarse facial hair scrapes against his own hairless face. Jon may not be very experienced, but he’s at least done this once before, and he kisses Tormund eagerly, their mouths moving hungrily against each other, a mess of tongues and teeth. Surely Tormund can taste his own seed in Jon’s mouth, but he seems not to mind, kissing Jon like he truly means to devour him, and it’s so good that Jon forgets for a moment that they’re not supposed to be doing this.
But then Jon shifts, and he’s abruptly reminded of the sticky mess in his pants, and he suddenly jerks back from the kiss like he’s been burned. Tormund lets him go this time, and Jon hurriedly scrambles out of the man’s lap, so quickly that he almost lands on his ass, but he catches himself at the last moment. Speechless, he just stares at Tormund for a moment, breathing hard and sweaty under his clothes, like he’s just finished practicing in the yard.
“Said you weren’t frightened,” Tormund taunts, raising his brows pointedly, still sitting there with his thighs spread and spent cock out, utterly shameless.
“I’m not,” Jon lies again, heart and mind racing, horrified with himself, more frightened than he’s ever been in his life. With his foot, he nudges his sleeping direwolf, and Ghost blinks open red eyes, then rises to stand by his side. Jon rests a hand on Ghost’s head and feels a little braver for it, though not much. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but no words come to him as he squirms under Tormund’s dark-eyed gaze, idly wondering how blue eyes can even look so dark.
“Go on, boy,” Tormund goads. “Run back to your own bed and hide under the covers.”
Jon swallows thickly, defiantly holding Tormund’s stare for as long as he can, until he can’t take it anymore, and then he’s moving as quickly as he can, rushing out into the hallway and across to his own room with Ghost by his side, hardly daring to breathe until his back is pressed to his own locked door. He has a passing fear that Tormund might follow him, might bang on his door, might make it obvious to everyone in this wing of the castle what just occurred between them, but the only sound he hears from the hall is that of Tormund’s door closing once more.
Jon sinks down to the floor, touching a hand to his lips in wonder.