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You were the one that proposed. It wasn’t even a proposal really. You just mentioned it and he laughed and said something about taxes. You didn’t think he meant it until he got you the ring. You still have it, actually. You tossed it into one of your desk drawers hoping you’d forget about it but you didn’t and now its presence stabs at you like a needle every time you try to get work done. You aren’t really a romantic, but when he gave you the ring, you thought that was it. You thought you’d have a wedding and live your happily ever after, safe and secure in love. But you kept asking when you’d get married and he’d always say eventually and even when you had your half of the paperwork filled out, you were too much of a coward to put it down in front of him.
Eventually, you stopped asking. He didn’t even notice when you took off the ring.
You say I love you and it tastes like I don’t know if I love you or if I want to be you or maybe they’re the same thing maybe that’s what love means but if that’s true why does it hurt so much. You say I love you and it tastes like I don’t know when I started fearing you and I don’t know how to stop and I don’t know if there was ever a time when I wasn’t afraid. You say I love you and it tastes like the poison you slipped into his whiskey three days ago when you were too much of a fucking idiot to calculate dosages correctly and he slumped over his desk but didn’t die. You regretted it afterwards. You always do. You love bright and burning things then hate yourself for letting yourself get burned.
You almost wish you’d been the one to kill him. Till death do us part and all that, and it would have meant so much more if your marriage was finally consummated with his body in the ground. Instead, you are an almost-widower to a man hated by everyone you know. Do they even know the two of you were engaged? Do they even know why you’re mourning?
Maybe that’s why you take his heart. To have and to hold, but he was always too clever to have and too sharp to hold, and you were his but he was never yours. Now you have his heart. You finally have his fucking heart, and it’s worthless for the having. You hold everything you’ve ever wanted in the palm of your hand, and you could crush it. All that love, and for what? All that devotion, and for what? You wanted power, and you thought he would give it to you. Now you have nothing. Not even paperwork to commemorate what once was love.
You are what you eat, and you loved him like Icarus loved the sun, jealousy and longing and agony intertwined, and more than anyone else, this is your right. The first bite is sickening. The second bite is soothing. The third bite tastes of nothing at all. This is what is left of him. This is what little remains. It’s yours now. That beating heart with power in every smile and wrath in every demand is yours. It will always be a part of you. He will always be a part of you. That was true from the moment he met you. He clawed his way through everything that you are and made himself at home within the confines of your skull. There will always be a little voice inside your head that sounds just like him.
The first time you saw him, you saw power. You saw control. You saw someone who could ensure you would never hurt again, and you threw yourself at his feet. You saw someone who could destroy you with a word and you thought that if he valued you, you’d never be his enemy. You saw someone who was everything you’ve ever wanted to be, and you thought that if you lingered in his shadow long enough, some of the effortless charisma and power that radiated from him like the sun would be absorbed into your skin, into your lungs, into your heart. You saw someone great and terrible and you fell in love.
For the longest time, you thought he loved you back. And maybe he did, maybe the constant bickering was his way of showing affection, maybe he was ever so slightly softer towards you than he was to anyone else, but like in everything else, he loved like a hammer hitting bone. Ruination. Damaged beyond repair, splintered and fragmented like old church windows. Shards of color on the floor, and every attempt to piece things back together just makes things worse. Maybe there is no fixing things. Maybe there is no fixing you. Maybe all that remains of you is what he made of you. Maybe all that remains of you is what he didn’t take with him.
Life proves him right. You’re nothing without him. Everything you build turns to dust beneath your hands. New loves, new nations, new people, all gone. You never had anything that wasn’t his. And he’s dead, but maybe you’re dead too because he is everything that you are, and it’s only fitting that he haunts you now because he’s always haunted you, even while alive. He makes you an offer. He makes you an offer, and maybe you miss him because you don’t hesitate. He makes you an offer, and you fall in line like the vice president you always were.
He wins, and you lose, and you… Well, you’d do anything for him. And maybe it wasn’t the best way, but it was the way you chose, and once you picked the path you had to stick with it to the end. It was only hard the first time. Even the most difficult things become tedious after a while. But you don’t have to be a genius to tell this isn’t working. Pain is pain is pain, and you can get used to anything given enough time. And sure, it’s a power trip to see the most powerful person on the server cower, but there is nothing to be gained from this.
So you make him an offer, quietly. Sam tends to look away while you work, so you have time. He knows that if he gives up the book, you’ll kill him. It’s his only value, after all. So you will. You don’t particularly want anyone back from the dead (you say, lying through your teeth, but it’s believable because you absolutely despise the only person you want back), so you’ll kill him right here and now. He will not survive to see tomorrow. You’ll go a little too far, and he’ll bleed out beneath your weapons, and he won’t come back. You’ll walk out of this prison exactly as you have every single day for the past few months, and you won’t come back. But if he gives you the book, you’ll go somewhere far away, and you’ll bring him back.
He asks how he can trust you, and you smile. He can’t. It’s as simple as that. But he will die today. It’s just a question of whether he will come back. He’s quiet. You are lying through your teeth, and he knows that. But he also knows that you could kill him. You make the decision easier on him by putting your sword to his throat. When he stays silent, you start pressing down.
He caves.
It takes a little while to talk Sam around. You tell him that this is a good thing. You tell him that Dream will never hurt anyone ever again. You tell him that the only people who are dead right now are the ones that deserved it. You tell him that with Dream gone, no one will ever have to die again. You tell him that he can go home. You tell him that he should have killed Dream a long time ago.
He’s not settled, not entirely, but he lets you walk away unscathed. It’s time to make good on your bets. It is time to stop playing widower to a dead man. It is time to bring back the sun. You never really stopped loving him. You don’t know how to stop loving him. Even when you hated him, you still loved him. Even when you celebrated his death, there was a small part of you that was numb and cold. (There was a much larger part of you that was absolutely furious that you hadn’t been the one to kill him. He owed you that much.)
It’s simple, really. The process. The decision is harder. You could break your promise. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it’s not like he was the paragon of honesty. You want power, and you will not find it in his shadow. But you don’t have to be in his shadow anymore. You have a country. You have people who will follow you. You have very few enemies left. You are in control. But he’s always been an tidal wave, and you the helpless swimmer caught up in his wake.
Worst case, you could always kill him again. It would only be fitting. It would only be right. He was your life, and you will give him life, and you will take it away should he displease you. You made the decision a long time ago. Everything else is just rationalizing your choice. Everything else is just making sure you don’t seem like a lovesick puppy crawling back to the hand that feeds and the boot that kicks. You are more than what you were, and you’ll keep it that way.
The ritual is simple. Easy. Just some words and some violence against an old ghost. It’s almost cathartic. You had words planned for when you saw him again, passionate things about how you weren’t going to be his vice president again, how you weren’t going to just obey him again. Instead, the first thing out of your mouth is Let’s get married.
He says yes.