#intended

To think, how different life has already become since the Queen’s passing no more than a fortnight ago, a sudden pain in her chest having worsened overnight until the bells in the steeple were announcing her demise for all the kingdom to hear.

With the customary period of grieving scarcely come and gone, her subjects were still mourning the loss of the singular person capable of keeping the King in line, all while the now widowed man was already itching for change.

“Took you long enough.” The King was to be found where he was always sure to be, at the head of the table decorated in a lavish feast, now only to enjoyed by one. He’d at least had the decency to wipe the remaining ale from his lips before addressing his most trusted knight, a few persistent droplets clinging to the scruff around his mouth.

Still clad in his bloodstained armour, for a short hunt did not necessarily equate an unsuccessful hunt, the Knight’s prizes were being dragged into the kitchens as they spoke, leaving blood stained trails in their wake. He stepped purposefully further into the grand room, his every step intentional until he was near enough to his King to detect the subtle sway in the way the older man held his cup.

The man was drunk, as he had been for a very long time now, though not yet appearing belligerently so.

In spite of his heavy armour and chain mail underneath, Ghost moved as silently as his name might suggest as he moved to kneel before his highness, lowering his gaze to the expensively tiled floor beneath him, one he’d come to know with great familiarity after nearly two decades under the man’s service.

“Enough of tha’. Stand up, boy.” The King’s booming voice echoed through the room, commanding his knight to rise. “What’d you bring me back today, hm?”

“Snagged a pair o’ deer up by the creek. Dozen or so hares. Few birds.” Ghost’s low timbre reached the man’s ears at the same time as his cup reached his lips again. He need not know about the boar he and his men had nearly caught before they were summoned back to the castle, what the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Good, good. A more than adequate prize, considering. Very good. You never fail to succeed, do you Ghost?”

“Sir.” Was the only reply he would offer, along with a curt nod, never one to bask in the man’s praise.

“Haven’t called you here to discuss game, however.” The greying man clarified, glancing around to his handful of servants in waiting, stood silently in the shadows of the room, prepared to answer to their King’s beck and call. “Leave us.” He instructed, not needing to repeat himself before every soul was scattering this way and that, all too eager to be out of the man’s sight, though a few were certain to be found with ears pressed up against key holes in hopes of eavesdropping.

“I will keep this short, not interested in formalities these days.” the man began, grunting as he struggled to stand from his seat, swaying slightly in place until he was near enough to the knight to see his reflection in his armour. “Twenty-five years is entirely too long to have kept her sheltered the way her mother did. Ridiculous. As if keeping one hidden away would bring the others back. Senile woman. Should have done this ages ago. Long overdue. Owe every grey hair on me to that wench.”

Ghost allowed to man to ramble on, mumbling between sentences as though he could not decide whether he was speaking to himself or the only other soul in the room. Ghost remained steadfast in his place as he listened to the man go on, eyes silently taking him in. It was hard to believe sometimes, that this was the same man, the supposed King, who had over two decades ago slain each and every member of his family, sparing only the young boy he once was, bringing him back to the kingdom to be raised into the fearsome Knight they now called Ghost, only to repay the debt of having spared him his life. Never once had Ghost looked up to the fat man before him, not during his tainted childhood, and certainly not now as a man twice his size, serving him bravely throughout the years as he always has, though forever carrying a flame of hatred for his heighness.

“Her mother is gone now, gone, rest her soul. I need her gone, as well. Taken care of. No longer my burden, if you understand.” The King continued, finally slowing in his speech to glance up at the Knight for he stood easily over a foot taller than most men in the court.

“Are you askin’ me to kill her, sir?” Ghost inquired, without a hint of emotion in his tone. He was all too aware as to the her they were referring to.

“Worse.” The King clarified before taking another swig of his drink, his teeth coloured a deep red when he opened his mouth again to bear a snarky grin at the younger man. “I’m askin’ you to marry her.”

With a steadying breath, you dared to inch yourself closer yet, ignoring the tumultuous feeling in your stomach as the toes of your shoes dragged any loose hay along the floorboards with you. Your fingers clutched the at the fabric of your skirts, keeping them lifted enough as to not trip and fall too soon. Perhaps the impact would not be as painful as you were imagining, perhaps the fall would be the most frightening part of it all, a mere few seconds of wind rushing past your ears until it was all over, your woes solved for all eternity. Let them think what they might, say what they please, it would be of no matter to you in the end, nothing more than a stain on the cobblestones below when it was all said and done.

“What in the- what do ye think yer doin’ up there m’lady? ‘Ave ye gone mad?” A familiar accent called from the ground, the annoyance in his voice clear as day.

“Is it not evident, Mr MacTavish? That I am in the midst of ending my suffering once and for all.” You declared with your chin held high, refusing to meet his eyes as you attempted again to convince yourself to go through with this, to remember that this would be the lesser of two evils, the solution to a problem you could not otherwise solve.

“Come again?”

“I clearly intend to kill myself, MacTavish.”

“Not if yer intention involves jumping from there, m’lady.” The handsome stable hand clarified from the ground.

“I beg your pardon?” Only now glancing down at the man stood a mere few yards away, hearing his grunt of effort as he threw down the sack of grains he’d been carrying over one shoulder, his piercing azure eyes squinting to decipher your form through the low light of the torch flames.

“S’not high enough, ma’am. You’ll twist yer ankle at best, but yer certainly not going to kill yer self from that height. Sorry to disappoint ye.”

“Oh. Well- are you certain?”

“Positive. I myself jump down from there often, an’ I’m afraid I’m still standin’. Ye did not want to go any higher than that, did ye?” He questioned, stepping slowly closer with every word he spoke.

“Well, I am still a tad afraid of heights, you see.” You admitted, pinching the fabric of your sleeves in worry.

“Aye, I remember well. I’ve rescued enough of yer kites over the years, m’lady.” He agreed all too nonchalantly, not a trace of panic to be found in his voice, only mild irritation at the inconvenience you were creating for him.

“I see- uh- this doesn’t change my intentions! I will- I will find another way.”

“Of course, of course. Did ye want a rope perhaps? Seems like a fine night for a hanging, if ye prefer.”

“Gods no.” You rejected the idea outright, having witnessed one too many public hangings to know that the men’s limbs kicked and thrashed too much for your liking, fighting for life far longer than you’d prefer to experience yourself.

“Agreed. Perhaps we could fill a pail with water and ye could drown yerself. Nah, on second thought, ye deserve something quicker. A beheading might do the trick, though if yer aim was to remain subtle that one might be a touch too-

“Oh, forget it!” You exclaimed, stepping back from the edge of the barn’s second storey, all but huffing as you made your way down the rickety ladder, careful not to trip over your skirts in the process, though uncaring for how dirty or ripped they might become. None of it mattered anymore, carried the same importance as it might have only a moon ago, not when your mother was gone, the only person left in your family who loved you for who you were, the only one who stood up for you against your father.

“Now, don’t suppose ye’d want to tell me what this is all about then?” He asked soon as your two feet were safe on the ground again, reaching across to pull a strand of hay from your hair.

“Do not stand here and treat me as though I were a fool, pretending as though you haven’t heard.” You bit back at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “I would imagine the deaf are the only few who have not heard the news at this point.”

“Ye always have had a way with words, haven’t ye m’lady?”

“John…”

“Apologies. Only tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He answered somewhat sheepishly, at least pretending to appear remorseful for his teasing. “Though I suppose it is a rather improper time to jest.”

“An excellent deduction.” You snapped, though the soft look in his eyes already had your cold exterior melting, unable to keep the facade up around him. “John- what am I to do? This- this all feels like a terrible dream.”

“Nothing is set in stone yet, m’lady. There has been no official announcem-”

“There will be no announcement! No engagement! They will shove me into a wedding dress and stick me at the altar as though I were a child’s doll and that is how the world will find out! You know how my father is, he will see to that this happens as quickly as possible.” You couldn’t help but to whine, unable to grapple with the idea that your worst dreams were coming true, that the day you’d been dreading since you were a little girl was finally coming to fruition.

With nothing to be said, John opened his arms in invitation, not a word needed as you stepped into his embrace and allowed his embrace to be the first comfort you experienced in a long time.

“What shall we do, John? How do you imagine we stop this from happening?” You spoke into his chemise, the smell of wood and dirt and sweat emanating off of him a familiar and safe aroma during such a tumultuous time.

“Ach, I dinna ken, m’lady.” He replied, leaning his cheek against the top of your head as his hands soothed up and down your back.

“There must be something that can be done. We simply have to think. Perhaps we could-”

“M’lady.” John interrupted apologetically, the look on his face when he pulled back was a pained one, a regretful expression you did not often see from the bold, confident man you’d come to know over the years. “M’afraid there’s nothing to be done this time, other than grin and bear it.”

“You’re speaking as though this is certain to happen!” You gasped, pulling back from his embrace, upset by the way he was unwilling to fight for you and your freedom as you were.

“And yer speaking as though ye have a say in any of it.” He countered. “What exactly do ye predict will happen to ye if you refuse your father, hm? What do ye think he’ll do to ye? Send ye away something far away if we’re lucky. Say he did so and jus’ throw ye down in the dungeons instead?”

You stared down at the ground as you toed a clump of dirt, the truth in his words not anything new to you, though hearing it from him didn’t lessen the sting or soften the impact.

“Now I pray every mornin’ and every night that yer mam’s soul rests in peace, Gods bless her. But she isn’t here anymore, m’lady. She can’t protect ye from this any longer. M’afraid I can’t protect ye from this, either. Oh, please no- do not cry, m’lady. Cannot bear to see ye cry.”

John quickly stepped forward and closed the gap between you both again, pulling you back into him as your tears threatened to spill over, the frustration and anger and sadness and helplessness and fear catching up to you all at once as you struggled to come to terms with the fact that this would be your new reality, whether you liked it or not.

For better or worse, as they say.

The stars had shifted outside, the darkness growing deeper as he hours changed and sand fell through the glass. John had calmed you down some, as he always seemed to be able to do, and had you both now sitting semi-comfortably together in the corner of the barn, seated on bales of hay and safe from any prying eyes. This had always been your little corner, a spot solely for the two of you, ever since John had begun working in the stables and caught your eye.

“John,” you whispered to him, though there was no one near, the words you were about to speak feeling too sacred to be said too loud. “I am frightened.”

“Aye, I dinna blame ye.” He replied, tightening his hold around your shoulders as you leaned further into his touch. “Cannot imagine being in your shoes.”

“He will kill me.”

“Nah, yer father will not lay a finger on ye m’lady. Not if you do as he wishes.”

“No, not him.” You clarified, shaking your head as you pictured a pair of dark eyes peering through the small slits of a Knights helm. “The Ghost.”

“Oh. Him.” Was the only reply John could manage, staring off into the distance with you as you both appeared to imagine the man in question. “I dinna believe he’ll hurt you, m’lady.”

“You know as well as I do the things he has done. He is cold, ruthless. Not a single one of his enemies has survived him.”

“Well, you will have to ensure you do not become his enemy in that case.” He tried to tease, though the smile never quite reached his eyes as he said it.

“John.” You spoke again, turning to meet his gaze as you took a steadying breath, not failing to notice the way his eyes dropped to your bosom for a fleeting second as your chest rose and fell. “I want you to take me.”

“M’lady, they would kill us both if we tried to run anyw-”

“No, no.” You interrupted him, correcting his misunderstanding. “Not take me as in flee. I- I want you to take me, John. To bed.”

“Oh. Oh.” John replied, his cheeks reddening to a deep crimson as he scratched the back of his neck, eyes scanning your face. “M’lady, you know I could not.”

“I will not have that monster be the first person to touch me, John. I want it to be you, after all.”

“Bonnie,” the pet name he used for you on rare occasions slipping out as you cupped his cheek with a warm hand, trying to convey the severity of your words to him. “Ye do not know how I long for ye. How much I wish I could be the one to feel ye, to show ye what pleasure can be found in another’s touch.”

Whether by gravity or coincidence, you knew you were both inching closer to one another, hot breaths beginning to fan across the other’s cheeks with every word said between you.

“Then please John, take me. Have me. I am yours.”

He plucked your hand from his cheek with both of his, bringing your palm up to his chapped lips for a kiss as he shut his eyes, as though he were in pain doing so.

“M’lady, ye know well as I do that we could never. The risks far outweigh anything else, I fear. Ye cannot imagine how it pains me to say so, for I do want ye. I need ye.” He registered, tightening his hold on your hand as he pressed it against his chemise where you could feel his heart beating beneath. “But I’ve always known that I can never have ye.”

Though his answer was expected, the disappointment was still poignant, an ache settling deep in the cavities of your heart as you nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“I can-” he added, reaching a single finger up under your chin to tilt your eyes back up to his. “Give ye this, however.”

That was the night John MacTavish gave you what you’d always dreamt he would, your very first kiss, tucked safely together in the back of that barn without a soul around to judge you, to sell you out, to report back to your father and ruin you.

If only life could have ended there, with his lips on yours, his arms around you and yours around him, hearts pressed together as they beat as one.

But alas, fate had other plans in store. And though you had never feared goblins or ghouls as a young girl, had never worried about the shadows under your bed or shapes in your wardrobe, you found yourself now with a growing fear of ghosts. Or at least, the Ghost.

But Dustin. Dustin. Steve can still sense him. He’s still there, here in the Upside Down, here with Steve, here, unsafe, in sharp pieces and upset. And even though Steve can’t seem to catch the gasping breaths that heave out of his chest, even though the screaming cells in his brain and the ache in his heart beg him to be anywhere else, to get as far away as he can, Steve could never actually leave him. So he doesn’t, in the end, march, or run, or go, he stays right where he is, lurks within audible distance. Of course he does. Presses himself back against the wall, defeated, as the phantoms come to lurk.

I’m done. 

The cracking, angry sounds that he’s tried to swallow down for so long had finally left his lips. He can’t entirely believe it. The reverberations of them still ringing in his ear. The unreality of having allowed them to burst free after all this time, dizzying in his awareness. In all the moments he’d thought the construction over the last eighteen months, even after the worst knives Dustin had managed to pierce into him, had lodged into the underbelly of Steve in the way only Dustin could, because only Dustin knows what hurts, even then, Steve had known the words weren’t true. I’m done. He knows they’re not true now either. But he’s tired. He’s goddamn tired. 

From across the room, Eddie’s eyes are on him, sad and wide. 

“Go away,” He hisses. And because he’s on a roll. “I’m done with you, too.” 

But, already, though he tries to hold onto it between his fingers, the anguished fury is dying inside of him at a whirlwind speed. The anger seeps out through all his cracks, its numb flames extinguishing back to only ashes, forming into the bleak freeze of despair. One molecule of ice drops into the lava and crystallizes across the entire expanse. Anguished fury leaves behind only anguish.

“I didn’t mean it.” He mutters to the emptiness of the room, his body thumping against the wall again, harder than he intended, but he can’t seem to control his motions. And then he’s sliding down against it, formless, to the ground, the weight of his body suddenly unable to overcome the crush of wretched gravity that comes from being heartsore. Eighteen months of grief imploding, exploding, all around him. His muscles give way with no warning, limbs falling to a heap. And again, louder, yelling into nothing. “I didn’t mean it.”

There’s a hideous sound in the air that comes after. Some terrible, inconsolable fragment. And he’s swung his head around to see if Dustin had followed him before he realizes it’s come tearing out of his own throat instead. 

He thinks his hands are shaking. 

A slightly feverish laugh rolls out of him next. Everything he’s pressed back and back for the last year and a half, assailing the better parts of his senses all at once. And nothing, none of it seems real. It all spins together. The last time Dustin smiled at him and meant it, Eddie lurking nearby, Dustin curled over a prone body in the dust, howling, as Steve’s blood turns to ice, Dustin in Steve’s arms, flailing and scratching, and begging to turn around, begging for them to bring Eddie back with them as Hawkins turns into nothing one rift at a time, Dustin glaring and glaring and glaring, Dustin bloody too many times to count, Dustin broken. Dustin’s rage, Dustin’s hate, Dustin’s fist against his jaw. 

There’s a scrape on his cheek that throbs. 

And Dustin put it there. 

Sluggish blood trails down it. 

And Dustin put it there. 

He raises his fingers to it slow.

Dustin put it there. 

Traces the outline. 

Dustin put it there.

A weird hollow ache rises at the touch, but bizarrely, he tastes some numb kind of relief on his tongue, mixed in with everything else.

What Dustin really thinks. What Dustin really feels. He’s known all along.

Do you wish it were me instead?

And, this time, he’d asked, “How come I’m the one still standing here?” And in the echo of it, as it scratched out of his throat, tore through deeply studded tears, and the long-wearing grief, he can hear clearly what Dustin, so deep in his own pain, couldn’t. 

I wish it were me instead.

Maybe if he were finally brave enough to say it, Dustin would understand he’s not alone. 

Because he does, and that’s the truth. If this is what it means, that he’s the one still standing here, and Eddie is gone, Dustin, like this, torn up like this, wretched like this, then he does. 

Above everything, the vision of Dustin crashing himself against the cliffs, dashing his body without a second thought; into the walls, into the floor, into Steve, crushes through him without mercy.

The hot bloom of bruising skin on Dustin’s body sears against his own like a phantom limb. Dustin, a part of him, cut off, aching. 

Hurting himself.

And that fucking terrifies him, scares him more than anything. Dustin isn’t supposed to do that. Steve is supposed to protect him from hurting at all. But he couldn’t save him from this pain. He couldn’t keep him whole this time. 

Eddie left them. Eddie had messed up. But Steve, Steve has failed. 

Failed because he isn’t enough. Because he hasn’t been kind, or smart, or brave. Because he isn’t Eddie. He’s tried, he’s fucking tried, but he hasn’t managed it, has always known he wasn’t enough for anyone, not really. And Dustin…

God, the sobs are whirling out of him now, bubbling up from his chest. Dustin, so fucking lost, and Steve misses him. And he wants to hug him so badly. But all he can do these days is pin him in place so he doesn’t fucking smash his own head into a wall. And how did they get here, anyway? Because Steve had gotten it wrong. Because Steve had left them alone. Even though he’d said. He’d left them alone. Because Eddie… But, really, because Steve. It makes Steve want to tear his chest open with his own fingers, scratch till there’s nothing left. Vecna? The world? What does any of it fucking matter when Dustin is crumbling in front of him, and Steve can’t keep him whole?

Don’t leave me. He wants to beg, but Dustin has already left him, just like everyone else. 

And in the end, it had been Steve who’d said, I’m done, which he’d sworn to himself never to say, which he’s swallowed down so many times before. But here, in the Upside Down, with Eddie’s ghost loud in their ears, all around them, who Steve knows Dustin wants more than anything else, more than Steve, and Steve can even agree that’s fair because it’d all been on him in the end, but it still hurts to hear in that ugly tone, on that dagger tongue, and Dustin, so vicious, Dustin hurting himself, and the anger and the pain had become conflaguration. And he’d said it. And he doesn’t know if he can take it back. 

He’s been so terrified of the lines that Dustin could cross, the ones they wouldn’t be able to come back from, and here he’s stepped right into the tripwire all by himself. 

God. He just wants to hold him.

Eighteen months of a hollowness in his chest and emptiness in his arms. Maybe, if he could just hold him. 

But he can’t. 

Can’t hold him.

Can only wrap his trembling arms around the shell of a body that used to be his best friend and pray, pray that he’s always there to at least do that, be fucking grateful for it. To be able to at least be there to keep Dustin from shattering himself beyond repair. 

It would be nice, he thinks, to follow the racing of his heart into motion, to become a blur of adrenaline and emptiness, to fade into dust. 

It would be nice because right now, everything hurts. And Steve isn’t totally sure it will ever stop. But if this is his punishment for daring to live when the people whom he was supposed to protect are dead, are dying, are breaking to nothing all around him. Then he accepts it. 

Around him, the walls shake, and his body is flung across the room. For a moment, it’s hard for him to tell it’s not just the total collapse of his brainspace. But there’s eerie blue light everywhere, and the ground shudders and groans, everything tilting strangely off axis. He’s on his feet, running, before his brain has even caught up.

“Henderson?!” He’s yelling, scrambling up the stairs, rounding corner after corner.