Chapter Text
Hob looks up, practically feeling the presence of something far greater than he is, a presence that is so achingly familiar—
He really is just as beautiful as Hob remembers him.
Something ethereal, made of alabaster and stone and as pale as clean snow. Hair both artfully and terribly messy, frame slim and lean in his black coat. His eyes are still that icy blue, dark and piercing.
His Stranger, his Friend, has come back. Several years late, but Hob is willing to forgive. Perhaps he shouldn’t be, he doesn’t know, but he is.
He thinks that he’d be willing to forgive just about anything, to apologize and move on just so he would continue to be here, with Hob, in all his dark layers and looking like a little splotch of ink in his pub.
“You’re late.” His voice is warm, holding none of the accusation that perhaps any other person would. But Hob is very old and has never seen much sense in holding grudges. He likes to think himself too wizened for something so childish, or maybe he’s just too love sick to be upset. Maybe it’s just his friend who owns this luxury.
“It seems I owe you an apology,” his friend answers in that smooth, deep timber of his, “I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.”
He slips into the seat in front of him and he is smiling, his mouth pulling into something far softer than Hob has ever seen before. He has missed seeing it, that small curl of his mouth, the slightly inhuman shine to his eyes.
Hob knows that he is smiling as well, his cheeks almost aching with it as something light and floaty settles into his chest.
It’s good to see him—no, it is excellent, indescribable, so wholly rapturous to see his friend again after so long. But Hob would have waited longer, he knows that he would have, if he needed to.
Thankfully, that is not the case, he thinks with a great amount of relief.
Hob looks down, shuffling his papers, feeling uncharacteristically nervous, even if only the slightest bit. He is not afraid of his friend, nor is he discomforted by him, but he is hyper aware of how much he truly does not want to fuck this up. Not after he had so royally screwed himself over after running his mouth last time, sending his friend away before they had even had a proper chance to catch up.
Something that might have taken 133 years for his friend to forgive him over. Hob really doesn’t want to chance having to wait even longer for his company, nor risk having this pleasure rescinded entirely.
But he admitted that they were friends. That has to mean something, Hob knows. His friend does not simply say things because he can. He means it, every word, every sentence pointed and punctuated and purposeful. Hob’s tongue darts out to lick his lips, preparing himself to carry the conversation as he often does, when he speaks first.
“How have you been faring, Hob Gadling?” His friend asks, soft and low. God has Hob missed the sound of that voice. He’ll never grow tired of listening to it.
Hob looks up, a smile still tugging at his lips, and he only allows for surprise to stall him for a brief moment, “Well, I bought a pub.” He waves his hand with a brief laugh, “They were gonna tear down the old one. Tried to save it, but that didn’t really work out, so I decided I might as well just open one of my own. Don’t work here much, but I check in on the employees, fund the place.”
His friend is watching him intently, as he always does, and it feels like a physical weight to have that attention so fully on him. Burning and intimate, insistent, as if Hob was being peeled apart layer by layer under a simple gaze. His friend does not need to say much, he hardly ever does, but Hob does not mind.
“I work at a university now. I teach history, if you can believe it. Think I’m going to rip my hair out one day from all of the inconsistencies, though. It’s infuriating, and I can’t just say anything about it!”
His friend huffs at this, an amused noise that would be a cackle on anyone else.
“Can you imagine how fast I’d be locked up for raving about it all? I think my students already believe me to be some kind of cryptid. Like that lake monster… or Bigfoot.”
His friends hums, “You do have decently sized feet.” He muses and Hob squawks with indignation, kicking out his foot, catching his friend on the ankle in retaliation.
His friend jerks, for just a moment, and Hob immediately pulls away even as the other’s face smooths out quickly. The reaction would have been imperceptible had anyone else been watching, but Hob prides himself on being able to read his friend. He speaks so little that Hob had resorted to studying other aspects of him as he had rambled over food and drink throughout the centuries. He has watched every twitch of his friend’s face and body, and can recognize the minutiae of just about every micro expression.
And Hob has just misstepped somehow. He’s never seen his friend flinch like that before, and he’s quick to attempt to amend the slight. His friend’s face is carefully blank.
“So, you’re joking now, is that it?” He says lightly, offering his friend the luxury of not mentioning the way his entire body had stiffened. He misses that easy smile so dearly already. “You see me again after over a century and you call my feet big?” He chuckles, taking a small sip of his pint as his friend’s blue eyes focus on his throat.
He decidedly ignores that.
The flippant mentioning of his friend’s previous absence causes something to tighten in his stomach, though. Something slightly bitter and incredibly heavy. He is not angry, nor does he intend to hold some type of grudge, but he does find that he is human, despite it all. And to be human is to be flawed, and Hob can not help the inkling of upset that makes his skin feel doused with cool water.
When he sat down in the White Horse, 1989, and his friend was not there, Hob was sure that he might just never see him again. Sure, he would wait. He would wait a long time, centuries, to see if he would come back, no matter how slim the chance. But he had thought that was exactly what he would need to do—wait an eternity for someone who will never arrive.
His friend seems to notice his mood immediately, all previous mirth wiped from his porcelain face. Hob hates that he caused that, no matter how accidental.
“I would not have left you waiting had I been able to see you.”
Those words have alarm bells ringing in Hob’s mind, insistently telling him that the statement is very wrong. Not in the sense that his friend is lying, no, but in the sense that there is something inside of Hob that is immediately discomforted.
“What’s that mean?” He asks quietly, casually, his fingers tapping at the base of his glass. He doesn’t want to push, but he wants to know why there’s something dark and bottomless in his friend’s eyes. Something like grief, glassy and wet. He wants to know how to make that look go away.
His friend turns away, cold, glacier eyes focusing on something outside the window. Light plays on the planes of his face, making his skin nearly look like it’s glowing in the gleaming of the sun. It also accentuates the accumulating glossy sheen in his eyes.
“I’m sure you remember my warnings, on how you are not immune to pain nor imprisonment.” He says softly, his voice nearly lost in the chatter of the pub. But Hob is listening intently, perhaps finding his attention on nothing else other than his friend and the rasp of his words.
Hob swallows, something tight in his throat and cold in his chest, “I do. Were—were you hurt?” For some reason, he does not immediately consider captivity. It’s hard to imagine something that could hold his friend, even if Hob doesn’t know what he is, or so much as his name.
He can see the clench of his friend’s jaw, his red mouth pressed together tightly, “I was imprisoned by indolent humans who wished for me to grant them gifts. Things that were not mine to give, especially not to them.” His voice is a low hiss by the end of his sentence, his rage palpable.
Hob breathes in, keeping silent, leaving his friend to continue if he so wishes, or stop right there. He’s willing to wait or to listen, anything he needs.
But there is something within Hob’s gut, angry on his friend’s behalf but also so incredibly sad. He feels cold and upset and as if his friend does not want to hear his sympathy. It’s not pity that he feels, but his friend would most certainly think so.
His eyes trace over the severe line of his friend’s jaw, the tendons in his neck. He hadn’t quite noticed it before now, but there is something gaunt about his body where it used to be simply lean. Now, he looks emaciated, his skin stretched over his bones like a thin tapestry. A canvas bound too tightly and on the verge of tearing. As if he has not eaten in a very, very long time.
He tries to imagine his friend in a cage, locked up for—how long? How long had he been caged and alone?
“Over a century.” He murmurs, as if he had heard Hob’s thoughts, “Stuck in a glass and iron sphere, bare and alone except for the company of awful creatures wearing the face of men. My Jessamy, murdered before me, her blood left on the ground for years to come because they were too afraid to touch the binding circle.”
Hob feels like he can’t breathe. There’s a heavy weight in his chest, his ribs aching and his heart like a drum. His voice is deep and thinly trembling, an underlying tone of rage and pain and fear. The words settle inside of Hob like a physical object.
His friend does not look at him for a long, long moment but then he blinks, a single tear clinging to the bottom of his lashes, stubbornly refusing to fall as if he were willing it to stay. Blue eyes meet Hob’s warm brown gaze, his brows crinkled and a perpetual downward tilt to his mouth. He almost looks confused, as if he has no idea why he had said so much. As if he had forgotten momentarily where they were. No one is paying them any mind, though, except for perhaps the curious barmaid that keeps glancing at them. But Hob is certain that Jennie can’t hear his friend’s low voice over the sounds of lively chatter. Hob feels like they’re in their own little bubble, a pocket of sound that’s just them.
Delicately, a pale finger wipes the budding tear away. Hob wishes he could have reached over to do it himself.
“I’m sorry.”
“Were you the perpetrator?”
“No.” He breathes, “But I’m sorry that it happened. I’m sorry that I didn’t help you.”
“You had no way of knowing.” He says quietly, leaning further back into his seat, looking like he desperately wishes to leave. Something that Hob decidedly wants to prevent for as long as possible.
Hob shifts forward, nervous and upset and practically shaking with the urge to just reach out and touch.
“I would have helped you if I did. God, I hope you know that.” He laughs wetly, trying to keep his own tears at bay. Somehow, he thinks that would make his friend feel even worse if he started bawling on his behalf. No matter how much he almost kind of wants to.
His friend looks at him, glassy eyes still so deep and fathomless, dark gems so incredibly inhuman. “I believe you, Hob Gadling.” He says quietly, almost as if he is surprised by such a revelation himself.
Hob’s hand twitches on the table, only a few scant inches away from his friend’s fingers. He chews on the inside of his cheek, “I’m glad you do.” He smiles and decides to throw caution to the wind and lets his fingers brush his friend’s pale ones, skimming his knuckles. His skin is incredibly soft, cool to the touch and like silk beneath the calluses on his fingertips. His bones are sharp points, pressing up against his skin.
Hob does it slowly enough that he could pull away if he wanted, but his friend allows the contact, staring at the way Hob’s finger is circling one of his knuckles.
“Morpheus.”
“Hm?” Hob hums, his finger slowing.
“My name. I go by many, but Morpheus is most recognized. Perhaps Dream is the most accurate, though.” His friend is looking at him, his eyes glittering, “The King of Dreams and Nightmares, Prince of stories, shaper of forms. A few of my extensive titles.”
Hob’s breath catches, his mouth stretching into a slow smile, “Dream.” He murmurs, “After all these years, I finally get a name. Multiple, too? Should have figured that, you fancy twat.” He chuckles, and then just because he can, “ Morpheus.” He says, wanting to feel it on his tongue, because he finally knows it.
King of Dreams. His best friend of centuries is the King of Dreams. Hob had always thought there was something royal about him, ethereal, otherworldly. And he had expected aristocracy when they had first met, what with his gleaming ruby and dark, expensive clothing intermixed with the rags and tattered brown worn by other men. But a King, even he had not truly guessed that.
His brain still feels a bit like it’s stuttering, even if he does not yet understand the kind of thing being the King of Dreams and Nightmares entails, he knows that must mean Dream is far more important than an immortal human.
“It is a pleasure, Hob Gadling.” Dream says smoothly, his head tilting up in a way that shows his amusement. It accentuates the long column of his throat, the way his coat parts over his chest.
“Of course.” He responds in kind, his fingers curling over Dream’s fingers and bringing his delicate knuckles to his mouth, “Your Majesty.” He brushes the soft, cool skin of Dream’s hand against his lips for just a moment before lowering it back down to the table. Even still, Hob’s lips tingle for a few moments, watching as Morpheus’s expression twitches. He does not pull his hand out of Hob’s.
“So you do possess manners?”
“I’ve always had manners, you priss.” Hob chuckles, taking a large gulp from his pint as his heart continues to beat wildly in his chest. He already wants his mouth on Dream’s skin once more, to know what his bird-like bones would feel like against his tongue, to discover if he could taste the fluttering of his pulse in his wrist or throat.
Dream raises a dark brow, “I remember you being quite inhospitable to a certain poet in my presence. Truly a rather rude display, I recall.”
Hob immediately scowls, “I really don’t want to think about Will Shakespeare right now. Untalented, mewling sod, he was.” He grumbles as he downs the last few dregs in his glass, and there is a soft rumble from Dream’s chest, a sound of amusement.
“You never were fond of him, were you?”
Hob’s lips press together, “He really was quite awful, I have no idea what you saw in him.”
This makes Dream’s brows raise even higher, “I would almost think you were envious, Hob Gadling.”
Hob huffs, his head ducking for a moment before he looks up, looking into the deep blue pools of Morpheus’s eyes, “Well, we only meet every century and then suddenly you’re wandering off with someone else. Barely a word towards me and then you’re just—” he swallows, hating how he can feel old hurts writhe in his gut, “Leaving me. Ruined my night, you know?”
He tries to laugh, like it’s funny, but—well. It’s not, he knows it isn’t, because he had been feeling a bit empty for a few days afterwards, wondering if there was anything he could have said for Dream’s attention to return to him. To make him want to stay a little longer, talk for just a bit more. It was immensely disappointing, to have his friend so easily leave him after only a few short moments of conversation.
Perhaps Hob did hold grudges, but Will Shakespeare should be an exception. God, he had hated that kid for quite some time after that evening.
Dream’s thumb brushes over his knuckle and Hob comes back to himself, looking at the slightly open expression on his face.
“And yet it is you who I am with now, yes?”
“Yeah.” He breathes, “That is true, huh.” And after decades of wondering if that would ever be true again, it is a relief to hear it. He smiles and there is a soft tilt to Dream’s mouth.
Take that Shakespeare.
_______
The sun has long since set and Jennie is wiping down the counters, still curiously glancing at him and Dream from across the room. She really is quite nice, but she is a bit of a gossip and has always had an interest in Hob’s going abouts. He seems lonely she has said, like he’s always waiting for someone. She’s probably right.
Hob has been talking for a few hours, his work laying untouched in front of him. He finds that he doesn’t mind. He’s waited far too long to spend time with his friend to be upset at his unproductivity. He deserves this by now, he thinks.
But the moon has taken its place in the sky, and Hob is quite certain that Dream will have to leave soon. And then Hob will have to wait another century to see that perfect face again, that mop of dark hair. He swallows, and the thought of standing nearly makes him nauseous.
He doesn’t want to leave, and the feeling makes him feel slightly pathetic.
His hand is still in Dream’s, and his marble skin has since grown warm beneath Hob’s fingers and palm. Hob wonders if he could rub warmth into his entire being, until that skin heats and flushes everywhere.
“You have to go soon, don’t you?” Hob chews at his bottom lip, feeling anxious. He really doesn’t want to part just yet, certainly not for as long as a century.
He watches as Dream’s head tilts, much like a curious bird, “Perhaps I could hold your company for longer, if you so wished.”
“We could go back to my place?” He says tentatively, watching as Jennie continues to wipe down tables, preparing to close for the night.
Dream raises a brow and Hob huffs, “It’s likely not as fancy as whatever castle I’m sure you live in, but I believe you will survive for a night.”
Dream’s lips twitch as he rises, his fingers still curled over his, “I suppose that I will, Hob Gadling.”
_______
Contrary to Hob’s words, Dream truly does seem to be so much more than the cluttered little flat that Hob owns.
It’s nice, of course, clean and spacious with large windows that overlook the neighboring buildings. It’s covered in hundreds of little knick-knacks, material possessions that Hob has acquired over his very long life. But with the regal set of Dream’s shoulders and the ethereal alabaster of his skin, it seems entirely inadequate in his presence.
Hob isn’t one to grow embarrassed over such things, though, King of dreams in his entryway or not.
“You can take off your shoes, if you want.” He urges when Dream just sort of hovers there, looking a bit awkward, and then a bit too pretty and a bit too stubborn to truly be awkward. Hob doesn’t think a creature akin to a god is used to making such casual house calls.
He smiles at the thought and trails off towards the kitchen, leaving Dream to study the entryway and living room. He should make food, probably. Dream hadn’t eaten anything while they were at the pub, and Hob regrets that he had been too distracted to suggest that he order something. He doesn’t know when his friend has last eaten either, and he almost does not want to know.
He hums, chewing at his bottom lip, “Hey, what do you want to eat?” He calls, turning on his foot, and he immediately stumbles, letting out an undignified squeak at the sight of Morpheus standing on the linoleum of his kitchen tiles, clad in black socks. It’s the most informal he has ever seen the man (being?), and he still has his coat on.
Dream looks amused, a gentle curl to his red mouth as his head tilts back slightly.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” Hob says, but he’s holding in a smile, “That’s what I get for trying to be a good host?”
Dream hums, his expression quickly smoothing over, “I do not require food.”
“Yeah, but you still like it, though? Technically, I don’t need to eat either, not to live, but I still crave it. Makes me feel better.” He opens his fridge, perusing over his options. His kitchen is often well-stocked, left over urges from years spent hungry and wanting. He has the money now, accumulated over the centuries, to live comfortably.
He tries to recall Dream eating over their few meetings, and he comes up mostly blank. He had nibbled delicately at breads and cakes once or twice, he thinks. Very royal-like, he imagines, but he had never entirely tucked into a meal in Hob’s presence no matter how much he had urged his friend to try his favorite dishes.
He pulls out ingredients from his cabinets, placing them on the counter as he thinks. He looks over his shoulder to see Morpheus standing unnaturally still, hands folded behind his back. He’s looking at the box of pasta in Hob’s hand like it might just bite him if he moves too abruptly.
“Hey, you okay?” He asks softly, placing the box on the counter behind him. Dream does not even look as if he’s breathing, his chest still and unmoving.
He blinks, and that is the only part of his body that moves, “It is not necessary that I eat, but you are welcome to cook for yourself if it pleases you.”
His voice is measured, a sort of finality that’s asking Hob to not say anything else about it. Hob looks at the hollow of Dream’s cheeks, his thin legs and the coat that swallows up his frame, and he does not need to pretend as if he doesn’t understand what that means.
Over a century in captivity.
There’s something that boils inside of him, a bit like anger, a bit like grief. He hopes that the people who did this are dead, hopes they even suffered before they had kicked it. Hob isn’t a vicious person, or he tries not to be, but he would never be able to forgive this.
“Yeah.” He breathes, trying to shake away more unpleasant thoughts, “Well, you can sit at the table if you want. I won’t be too long.” He gestures to the small square table in the corner of the kitchen, pressed up against the island and surrounded by three tall stools.
He turns to the stove and pulls out what he needs, unable to hear Dream’s movement but hoping that he isn’t just standing there and staring at him. He hums a bit to himself as he cooks, giving Dream enough time to pull whatever fringes of himself that have frayed off back together again. He has a feeling that he’s fairly sensitive about that, people seeing him at his most vulnerable.
In fact, Hob would say that he likely despises it.
There is a soft murr from behind him and he turns to see his cat trail into the kitchen, her tail curling around the leg of the stool Dream is perched on. Dream looks down at her with something almost glittering in his eyes.
“Oh, that’s Harry.” He smiles, watching as she backs up, steadying herself before she jumps up into Dream’s lap, immediately kneading at his legs.
Something about Dream’s demeanor begins to rapidly relax, “She is yours?”
“Yeah, had her for a couple years now. Complete softy, she is, despite her rough exterior.”
She’s a rather large cat, one of her ears is nearly halved and there’s a jagged scar slashed across her face, bisecting one of her eyes. Her fur is long and black, nearly blending in with Dream’s clothes.
Hob had rescued her a few years ago after finding her trapped in a box down by the dumpsters outside his apartment. She had nearly clawed his face off that first day, but she had mellowed out when she realized he wasn’t going to hurt her. Just needed a bit of time and care, really.
She has always reminded him of a certain someone else, clad in black and just as prickly as her.
But even over the years, she has never warmed to a stranger so quickly before.
There’s something amused on Dream’s face, as if he realizes this as well.
“I am considered the King of Cats to many.” He says, as if that’s a proper explanation, as if that is just something that people simply are. Maybe to a being such as Dream it is entirely normal, but not to immortal Hob Gadling, who is still firmly human and very ignorant to supernatural beings outside of himself.
Though he is feeling a little smug for always finding Dream rather similar to cats, and that thought is apparently entirely founded.
“Really?” He says, hoping that his friend will actually take it as an opener to explain some more. Hob is infinitely curious, and perhaps still a bit miffed over just now finding out what kind of being his friend really is. He spent centuries without even knowing his name. He deserves a bit more than that by this point, he thinks.
Even if the part of him that used to be a peasant balks a bit at the idea of his long-term friend being so much more than human. Even if he doesn't entirely understand what he is just yet, he can assume enough to know he’s far removed from humanity. There’s practically a god in his kitchen.
Dream hums, a pale hand running down the length of Harry’s body, a purring rumble building in her throat in appreciation. “I have many forms. That which you see is simply what I want you to see, and oftentimes what human’s wish to see. I am the anthropomorphic personification of human unconsciousness, their dreams and hopes and nightmares. I could be a cat if I so wished, and I often appear as such in the dreams of felines.”
Hob blinks, “You can even be in the dreams of animals?” He says, although there are several things he could comment on, each something that has equal likeliness to fry his poor human brain.
“I am capable of traversing the dreams of any living creature capable of doing so.” He says simply, his trimmed, black nails scratching Harry under her chin.
Hob likely enjoys the sight far too much, seeing his centuries long friend lovingly pet his cat while sitting in his kitchen. It’s almost domestic, and far more than Hob had ever expected getting out of Dream. He’s unfairly pretty in the artificial lights of his apartment, perched on the edge of his stool like a particularly flighty bird. Pretty almost sounds too delicate for a being as old as time, but it fits, Hob thinks.
He turns back to his food with a slight startle, having almost forgotten about it. He occupies himself with that instead, humming to himself in the ensuing silence. He can still hear Harry purring, low and guttural and as loud as a motor. He doesn’t turn back around until he has two bowls in his hands, placing a bowl of pasta and garlic bread in front of Dream and the other on the empty side of the table.
He wanders back to his cabinets as Dream stares down at his bowl like the food inside of it might jump out at him, and Hob gracefully ignores the distaste on his face. “I have some old wine if that suits you. A few centuries old, I think.” He says lightly, pulling the bottle out of one of his coolers.
He fills a glass for Dream, his friend’s lips pursed as he watches with a sort of interest he poorly hides.
“Hm, thank you.” He says quietly, his long fingers wrapping elegantly over the glass. It makes Hob notice that he is no longer wearing his coat, and instead a long sleeved sweater. It’s thin, and Hob can see the points of his elbows and ribs, the way his body curves over a stomach that nearly looks concave.
Hob swallows as he takes a seat, his mind wandering to what his friend had told him. He wants to know more, he wants to be able to help in some way, but he is certainly not counting on Dream being forthcoming about the details. He doesn’t really want to ask either, not when his friend can easily disappear the moment Hob says something he doesn’t want to hear.
He sighs under his breath and shovels pasta into his mouth, watching as Dream sips at his wine with an air of regality. If he did not know he was a King, he would expect as much by now. His eyes widen imperceptibly as the wine reaches his lips, a pleased expression crossing his features.
Hob smiles, “Good?” He asks, feeling a bit proud of himself.
Dream only hums, draining the glass quickly, Harry pawing at his free hand for more attention from where she’s still laying in his lap. He indulges her, scratching her belly and getting teeth in his thumb as thanks.
But then Dream turns to his food and his mouth twists slightly, an expression of discomfort that quickly smooths over but stays long enough for Hob to notice.
“I promise I’m not that bad of a cook.” He huffs a laugh, taking a bite of garlic bread dipped in pasta sauce.
“I do not doubt it.” Dream says after a moment of silence, “But I have found myself having—difficulties—when eating. It does not feel nor taste the same as I remember it.”
Hob swallows, allowing himself to consider the words. “You could start with something you like, if you wanted. I have other things I could make.” He offers, watching as Dream continues to fork at his food rather than eat it.
Hob was a field medic for some time, he’s seen starvation, he’s seen soldiers and civilians struggle through eating food again. He’s struggled through starvation himself, but even at his worst he had found some kind of food. He had gone hungry, but not eating a single thing for over a century? He can’t imagine the physical and mental turmoil that has on someone.
Dream is not human, but that does not seem to mean he is immune to pain nor is he emotionless. A century in captivity. Every time Hob imagines it, bile nearly rises to his throat, his stomach hot and twisting. He wants to ask, to understand, but there is also a part of him that doesn’t know if he could bear to hear it.
But he would, for him, if it offered peace or understanding or Hob could just be something to sit there and hear everything that Dream needed to say—or scream or cry, whatever he needed.
“Do not trouble yourself.” Dream says quietly, and reluctantly brings a forkful of pasta noodles to his mouth. He doesn’t react much outwardly, but as he continues to eat, Hob assumes he must like it enough to permit himself to consume it.
He releases a quiet breath, a small sigh of relief as he sips at his own wine. He can’t help but look up at Dream every few moments, studying his features as they eat quietly. He truly does look inhuman, ethereal, so out of place in Hob’s home but also like he belongs right here and nowhere else. Maybe that’s just Hob’s wishful thinking.
But he also just burns with curiosity as he watches him, wondering what had changed, what had made Dream come back to him. What made him admit that they’re friends, what made him follow Hob to his flat and sit and eat with him. Hob may still be reeling a bit, a mix of confusion and giddy elation flooding him over the fact that his friend is truly here.
His friend who is undoubtedly different from how Hob remembers him, but still the same in all the ways that matter.
“You have questions.” His friend murmurs into the quiet, just under half of his bowl finished off. Harry had trotted off only a few minutes before, now lounging on the windowsill over Dream’s shoulder.
Hob nearly startles, laughing breathily, “Well, you can’t fault me, can you? You’re not particularly forthcoming about much. There’s only so many gaps I can fill for myself.” He says it lightly, not intending for the words to be any sort of barb, but Dream tenses as if someone had slapped him.
And before Hob can attempt to backtrack, Dream is speaking first.
“You’re right. Perhaps you deserve more than what I have offered you.”
The admittance makes Hob freeze for a moment, his fingers twitching over his glass as his lips part in surprise.
Hob tries to smile, shifting in his seat with nerves, “Don’t worry about it too much, I think I’ve learned to be patient by now. Sometimes it’s fun to wonder, really.” He assures, one of his hands waving through the air to lighten the words.
“Though, if you’re truly offering…” His smile turns a bit more teasing as he leans forward, watching as tension bleeds out of Dream’s thin shoulders.
“I suppose I could allow a few inquiries.” He says primly, a small curl to the corner of his mouth that belies his amusement.
Hob hums, rubbing at his chin dramatically, as if in deep thought. There are several questions that jump to mind first. What is it that you do exactly? How old are you, really? Why did you make me immortal? Are you okay? Each question is as burning as the last, clawing insistently at his brain to truly know, to receive a proper answer. But what he settles on—
“What’s your favorite color?”
Dream blinks, a look on his face that is little more than a slight twitch, but would approximate to complete bafflement were he anyone else. “That is your first question, Hob, truly?”
Hob laughs, trying not to notice the warmth that spreads inside of him at the way Dream says his name, “Sure, why not? I can have my guesses but it’s easier to just ask, I think.”
Dream sits in silence for just a few more moments before he answers, “I have not put much thought into it, but I suppose—blue. The color of a deep night sky.”
“Always been fond of blue myself. Though, maybe something a bit closer to an ocean color.” He says, looking into blue eyes the color of the waves at night. Dream raises a prim brow, eyelashes a delicate curve on his pale cheeks.
“And as for my next question,” he pauses to think for a moment, tapping his finger on the table, “was it you—who gave me immortality? Forgive me if I’m wrong, but that doesn’t seem like it has much to do with being a Dream Lord.”
Dream hums, “Quite. It wasn’t me who granted you that gift, but my sister.”
“Sister?”
“Death. Thanatos, the Grim Reaper, though she often dislikes that moniker.”
“Ah.” Hob breathes, unable to hide his shock as he leans back slightly. “Death is your sibling. I really don’t think I should be surprised, but I am.”
Dream seems vaguely amused at his befuddlement, “She wished for me to tell you that she says hello. She is quite fond of you.”
“Death is fond of me? I’m flattered, I suppose.” He laughs, but his brows quickly furrow, “But why would she make me immortal? Not that I’m not grateful, but I can’t imagine that she’s supposed to just do that to random mortals.”
Dream shifts slightly in his seat, likely the closest that he will ever allow himself to fidgeting, “It was a wager, of sorts. We heard you boasting of never dying and I believed that if you were truly granted immortality, you would not last the century. My sister endeavored to prove me wrong and allowed you to live for as long as you wished to.”
Hob’s lips part, a strange feeling spreading in his chest. It’s cold and constricting and he quickly tries to ignore it. “So, I was just a game for you two? An experiment?” He doesn’t know how to feel about that. He smiles and he feels like there’s too much teeth in it.
He had never put too much thought into it, all things considered. He didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, after all. But something about Dream’s answer stings, and he’s not entirely sure why.
He sees Dream blink, the unfairly elegant fluttering of his lashes against his cheeks. “Perhaps at first.” He admits, his eyes darting away from Hob’s stare, “But I hope you know that you are far more than that, now.”
Hob swallows, feeling a bit stunned into silence. Dream is not done.
“You’ve taught me many things over the centuries, lessons that others have spent several millennia trying to instill. I’ve come to value your company, even if I had not allowed myself to admit it before.”
Hob feels a bit like he can’t breathe. He thinks maybe he would pass out right then had he been a normal mortal. He smiles, wide and genuine and he thinks himself a bit ridiculous as elation grows in him like the steady rising of waves, “I’ll do you a favor and reduce my smugness to a minimum over being right.”
Dream glares, but it’s nearly soft, his mouth pressed tight over a smile he won’t allow to spread.
Hob laughs, “I don’t think I need to tell you how much I’ve missed your company, though. I bought an entire pub just to have the chance of seeing you. Bit obvious, really.”
There are other things very obvious about how Hob feels about Dream that he hopes his friend has not noticed, though. Like how he would very much like to bend him over the nearest surface and have his wicked way with him. Among many, many other things. Hob has had a very long time to allow his mind to wander.
But Dream blinks like it really wasn’t that obvious at all and he is only realizing it now. “You—bought a pub, just to see me?”
Hob can’t stop the flush that creeps up his throat at the words being said in Dream’s voice. It makes him realize how truly love stricken it sounds. And while Dream was not the sole reason he wished for the White Horse to stay open, he was undeniably a large factor. The pub was a constant in his long centuries, much in the same way his stranger was.
Something he could count on coming back to every century, a place where he could take either the victories or broken pieces of himself and hold them out to be examined by pretty blue eyes.
“Well, that’s not the only reason.” He says, though it sounds like a weak defense, “But, well, I suppose I did. I didn’t know how else to find you.”
Hob isn’t sure if Dream is even breathing, his chest unmoving as he stares at Hob as if he was trying to discern a meaning out of something he found nonsensical. Hob resists the urge to shift under his gaze, always finding himself both nervous and warm under his attention.
“How long would you have waited?” Dream says into the silence, his voice not much louder than a whisper but just as impactful as if he had shouted it.
Hob hums, “Well, I guess I would have waited for as long as I needed to. Forever, maybe?” He smiles, and Hob has always been genuine, perhaps even more so in the presence of his friend when he knew that the truth always seemed to cut through the shadows of ambiguity that always shrouded him. And even now, Dream looks the most stricken and dumbfounded when Hob is most direct.
Hob thinks that maybe his friend just needs someone to say they care about him, plain and simple. No smoke and mirrors, nor layers upon layers of ingenuity and lies and misdirection.
It’s what made Hob call him lonely back 1889, what made him refuse to back away. Perhaps he should not test the patience of an incredibly old, incredibly powerful being, but Hob knows that Dream would not hurt him. For all of his grandstanding, Hob never feels in danger within his presence.
“You know not the importance of the things you say.”
“Don’t I?” Hob challenges, and he’s still smiling in the face of Dream’s severe expression.
Dream sucks in a short breath, though Hob is nearly certain that it is not necessary. Hob can see the set of Dream’s shoulders, the parting of his lips, like he’s preparing to say something, but they’re interrupted by Harry hissing loudly, her paws beating against glass.
Hob startles, peering over Dream’s shoulder to see a bird at the window, feathers ruffled as Harry snarls at them.
Dream’s eyes follow his gaze, “Ah. It seems that I must take my leave.”
Hob blinks, feeling the slightest bit of disappointment, “Are they yours?” His head inclines towards the bird that nearly looks to be arguing with Hob’s cat, somehow managing to look irritated at her aggression.
There is a slight curve to Dream’s lips, as if in exasperated fondness, “In a manner of speaking. Perhaps the two of you can meet sometime.”
Dream pulls his coat out of thin air, pushing his arms through and pulling it around himself. It looks a bit like he’s donning armor once more, his walls sliding back in place. Hob feels like he’s running out of time for something, and he finds himself standing up as well.
“Maybe we could see each other again sometime before the next century.” Hob suddenly blurts, slightly panicked at the thought of his friend leaving just yet. There’s just so much to talk about, far more to share than what could be said in one afternoon.
“The cycle is already broken, you know.” He reasons, watching as his friend turns towards him.
Dream stares at him for a moment, face soft and mouth looking particularly plush. “Perhaps, Hob Gadling.”
And then he is leaving in a swirl of sand, leaving Hob standing in his kitchen, looking flushed and ridiculous. There is still a thin layer of sand on his tiles in Morpheus’s wake.
He’s so fucked.