Chapter Text
Hob wouldn't call himself an impulsive man by any stretch. You live for almost seven hundred years, you learn to develop some patience. And, in your own time -- which, for Hob, had perhaps taken longer than most -- you start to learn that sometimes things go your way.
Still, he hadn’t expected Dream.
He hadn’t expected him that very first meeting back in 1389, and all these centuries later Hob was still trying to wrap his head around that beautiful, mysterious, captivating being that he called his friend. That he had the honor of calling his as much as an astronomer can call the night sky theirs , or a philosopher the idea of god. Hob suspected that a thousand years could pass, and he would still only understand Dream about as much as he understood the whole universe. The difference was, at the end of the day, Hob could pull Dream into his arms and kiss him slowly -- and for that, Hob wouldn’t have traded the whole damn world.
No, Hob wouldn’t call himself an impulsive man -- but romantic? Now that was another story.
He’d always had his hopes, but in the end, no amount of optimism could have prepared him for what it was like to truly know Dream. Or, at least know him as well as the man would let himself be known. As well as one could know the endless universe, with all its infinite secrets. Still, things were relatively the same, despite how much had changed. And they had changed -- both Hob and Dream understood that. Something had shifted, but enough had slipped into place that it felt right. It felt so right that they didn’t really notice how different it was .
Dream didn’t come by any more than he had been. Hob saw him a couple of times a month, if he was lucky -- maybe a few more times in his dreams. He always had good dreams, and sometimes his friend joined him. If it wasn’t his actual presence, it was the feeling of him lingering just outside the seams of whatever pleasant thing had visited him that night -- those times in Hob’s life that he looked back on with happiness. He saw Elanor and the children more often than he used to. He dreamt of warm days in the sun and quiet nights. He dreamt of holidays and the softness of embraces. Those were the only kinds of dreams that his friend did not linger in. Hob wouldn’t have minded if he did, but he got the sense that Dream intended those nights to be a gift -- a private moment with the past, with all the things that had filled the spaces between Dream being there and not.
Hob understood that it was an act of love, those dreams. In fact, Hob began to learn the language that Dream spoke as the months wore on -- the different ways that Dream showed that he cared. The most obvious was that he showed up. After six hundred years of getting lucky to see him once a century, the fact that Dream managed to break away from his life and his duties to see Hob every month was a delight that Hob had never known, and he looked forward to their meetings with as much eagerness as before. And this was something that people seemed to catch up on. Despite all of its misunderstandings, humanity really was very intuitive.
Lucy insisted that he was seeing someone even after Hob had insisted that “It’s not like that, Lu,” with a chuckle and a teasing plea for her to give it a rest. And technically, he wasn’t lying. It was different. Dream wasn’t the kind of person you dated, went steady with, took out a few times, and then bought them a shiny ring. He wasn’t sure that his relationship with Dream could be described by words -- not the ones humans had come up with so far, anyway. There was too much about it that was too different, and trying to condense it into something as simple as “going steady” felt the same as trying to put the whole world in a glass jar so you could leave it in your room and use the cities as a nightlight.
The was just a slight hitch in Hob’s attempts to keep their relationship a secret. Dream had stopped appearing in his cat form and had gone straight to just showing up . Which really wasn’t a problem , per se, as much as it was a slight oversight on their part because people were liable to recognize a man more readily than they did a cat -- and Dream, after all, was notoriously hard to overlook. The New Inn had regulars, people that came by for a drink or a bite to eat often enough to recognize their faces out of a crowd. It would have been easy to disguise Dream as one of these if it weren’t for his very intense determination to single out Hob regardless of whatever he was doing.
Eventually, people caught on. In fact, it probably took an embarrassingly short amount of time before Lucy asked him if he was “shagging the dark, mysterious stranger.” Hob had looked at her with abject horror that he was perhaps playing up just a little bit and damningly did not answer. Lucy had raised an eyebrow at his apparent shock and argued that “Oh come on, Robbie, the guy comes in here looking like he wants to lick you up off the counters or something--”
“‘ Or something ,’” Hob had replied in disbelief because there was absolutely no way that she was interpreting that correctly. “Lu, are you sure he doesn’t just have a bad case of IBS? Or, maybe he’s just trying not to sneeze.”
She’d had to visibly stop herself from launching a bottle at his head.
Two months later, Hob introduced her to him.
It was just a quick thing as they were on their way up to Hob’s flat, and Dream hadn’t even spoken, let alone given his name -- just a polite nod before turning around and heading up the stairs like he owned the place. Lucy had been absolutely thrilled.
“He’s even hotter up close.”
“Lu, please--”
“Those eyes , though. Damn, boss, you really scored with this one. I’m impressed.”
“Lucy, I will fire you.”
“No you won't.”
Hob stared back at her.
“No,” he finally said, smirking. “I won’t.”
“Alright then, well. That’s me,” she pointed towards the door.
“Right. Have a good night, love.”
“Mm, you too,” she shrugged her coat on, then turned around to eye him mischievously. “Remember to use protection.”
“Alright that’s it -- you’re fired!” he called to a hastily retreating Lucy. He could hear her laughing all the way down the front path.
Upstairs, Dream greeted him with a hug. He was doing that more often, the hugging. It was like he was slowly allowing himself permission to, and it filled Hob with a burning warmth. He’d learned to recognize the warning signs, namely the uncomfortable look on Dream’s face and the general hovering he did whenever he was seeking physical attention. For a while, Hob had simply asked him if he wanted a hug whenever he got to looking like that. Lately, though, Dream had been doing it all on his own.
Hob stepped around the already open door to find Dream waiting for him, his back resting against the counter with his coat draped over his arm.
“Sorry about Lu,” Hob said even though he wasn’t really sorry. Dream raised his eyebrows and shook his head dismissively. Then he seemed to consider something.
“No, uhm… she seems…” he struggled to find a word. Hob smirked at him.
“Thank you,” he said, letting the man off the hook as he leaned in to press a slow kiss to his lips. He felt Dream smile softly against him. He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “She’s convinced that we’re, you know, going at it.”
“‘Going at it?’” Dream raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. Was that not the desired outcome, Hob Gadling.”
“The desired outcome is anything under the sun as long as I get to do it with you, Duck.”
Dream watched him through the stars in his eyes, smiling wryly as Hob went about taking his shoes and coat off, putting his bag filled with students’ homework by the door, ruffling a hand through his hair and commenting, almost to himself, that it was due for a wash.
“Would you cook?” Dream suddenly asked, his voice low.
Hob looked up and considered him.
“Are you hungry?” The idea was exciting -- Dream never really ate much around him (though Hob had found that the man had a bit of a sweet tooth, so he’d started keeping a chocolate stash in the cupboard) and the idea that his friend might be hungry for something was strangely captivating.
“No,” Dream replied, paused. “I enjoy watching you.”
Ah . Hob felt his heart beat a little faster, a swell of fondness rising up in his chest.
“Alright. Sure,” he said, matching Dream’s tone -- smiling softly at him before heading towards the fridge and seeing what he could throw together.
While Hob filled a pot with water and slid it onto the hot burner, Dream hovered over his shoulder attentively. Together they stood and watched the water, waiting for it to boil. Dream’s hands hesitantly came to rest on Hob’s hips, thumbs tucking into the waistband of his pants. Then the weight of Dream’s head was added to the mix as he hooked his chin over Hob’s shoulder.
“I love you,” Hob whispered, the words feeling light on his tongue, like they’d come straight from his chest, straight from the chambers of his beating heart.
Dream turned his chin, angling it towards Hob’s neck. Bubbles began to roil in the pot.
Hob prepared two plates. He’d gotten in the habit of doing that once he realized that Dream coming around more often had become more of a permanent thing. The first several times, Dream had looked confused, if not slightly insulted, and hadn’t touched the food. Now, as they sat down across from one another, he picked experimentally at the stir fry while Hob switched back and forth between eating and talking about his classes.
“How are things going for you, my friend?” he asked. “How’s Lucienne?”
“She is well, thank you,” Dream replied, straightening up almost regally. He always grew pleased whenever Hob asked about the librarian, or Matthew, or his sister -- and Hob liked hearing about them. He’d learned, gradually, that Dream had many siblings. When he’d shown interest in meeting them, however, Dream had seemed reluctant.
“Well I’ve met Death, haven’t I? Can’t get much scarier than that,” he grinned.
“It absolutely can, Hob Gadling,” Dream gravely replied. Hob looked over at him with an open-mouthed smirk.
“Alright,” he caved. “Suppose I’ll just have to take your word for it.”
“Indeed,” Dream said, arching an eyebrow and signaling the end of that conversation, thank you very much.
Gods above, Hob loved him. He was fairly certain that he loved him more than he’d ever loved anything in his centuries of life. Maybe he always had. Lately, though, there was so much love that Hob was drowning in it. It was suffocating him endlessly, and he wouldn’t have cracked a window for anything.
“Are you staying the night?” he asked while they washed the dishes. Dream liked to dry. It was dangerously close to adorable, how much attention to paid to the process of wiping the plates and silverware down with a hand towel, and he looked almost ridiculous doing it -- a being of his power, of his profound mystery and endlessness, drying off a dish with Hob’s floral-pattered kitchen towel. It was enough to drive Hob crazy.
“Yes, if you wish. But I must depart in the morning. Things are quite busy at the moment.”
“Aren’t they always,” Hob agreed. “I’ve taken on another class this semester and I’ll tell you, it’s kicking my arse.”
Dream smirked, and Hob caught it out of the corner of his eye.
“How have you been sleeping?” Dream asked, a hitch to his voice that Hob had come to recognize as Dream doing something out of his comfort zone.
“Very well,” he replied, turning to smile at him. He passed the last fork over, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear.
The sun set outside the window, the curtains catching golden light and holding it there, like a pool of glowing water that faded to indigo ink. Hob settled into his usual evening routine. He was a bit of a night owl, and when there were papers to grade and lecture slides to make on top of his usual work, his evenings were often busy. But it was a business that he found joy in. Sipping at a glass of wine, he settled onto the floor in front of the couch and began flipping through essays, making marks and adding notes as he went. Dream, now more used to existing in the same space as Hob, sat in the windowsill staring blankly out at the street below. He was working, too -- attending to things that Hob couldn’t possibly imagine, all while enough of him remained in the flat, there with Hob.
The hours could slip by seamlessly like this. Whenever Dream was there, the room felt so much fuller, and Hob found himself more relaxed than he’d ever thought possible. There was an indescribable warmth, knowing that, if he should choose to look up, his friend would be within sight, resting casually on the windowsill, a blanket wrapped around his narrow shoulders. After working through a stack of papers, Hob stopped to do just that. He found Dream, bathed in the inky blue of the night and the yellow light from the streetlamps, and he watched him, feeling a smile commandeer his face.
He was so beautiful like this.
Hob stood, feeling the vertebrae in his back pop as he stretched. The room was so quiet. He hadn’t even noticed.
Dream shifted, following with his eyes as Hob went over to the record player in the corner. It was old -- so old that if a part broke and Hob couldn’t fix it himself, he wouldn’t be able to find the parts needed to replace it on account of them no longer existing. But he’d avoided that so far. He’d gotten quite good at managing to not break down as the world kept on going. Somehow, he was still keeping up. There were nights, though, like tonight that were nostalgic in a way that reminded him of all the homes he’d had before this one. Of all the good places he’d been, even if he hadn’t been able to keep them for as long as he’d wanted to. Even if he hadn’t deserved them.
His eyes found Dream sitting by the window. He wondered if he deserved this , and he knew somewhere deep inside him that he didn’t. He’d never tell Dream that, though, because he had a sneaking suspicion that the other man felt the same way; that he didn’t deserve to be here, with Hob, someplace warm and quiet and filled with humanity. There was so much about humanity that Dream tried to avoid. Maybe it made Hob a presumptuous bastard, but he was pretty sure that there were parts of humanity that Dream loved, too.
He wandered over to him quietly. Dream had slipped his shoes off, his socked feet propped up against one side of the alcove, his back against the other. Hob leaned, taking a moment to search across his profile, trying to follow after him, wherever he’d gone, because he certainly wasn’t here in Hob’s apartment. His face looked especially hollow in the dim, yellow light that bathed the room. He looked especially beautiful, too. Hob told him this.
“Hm?” Dream mumbled, raising his eyebrows as he turned, finally realizing Hob was there -- finally coming back.
Hob looked at him for a moment, smiling fondly until Dream tilted his head, brow narrowing in that way that Hob had come to know as teasing annoyance. It was not much different than his regular annoyance, but Hob had picked out all the small subtleties that allowed for him to feel confident in what he said next.
“Dance with me,” he gestured with a lift of his chin, still grinning like he had nothing in this world to lose except his fear. Dream leaned back an inch, eyebrows raising even further.
“Pardon?”
“Come on, just once,” Hob insisted, smiling even stronger. “It’ll make you feel better, I swear.”
“I feel fine,” he defended like a child insisting that they hadn’t done the thing that their parent already knew they had.
“Dance with me still. It won’t make you feel worse.”
“I do not dance. It is nothing personal.”
“Come on,” Hob gently insisted, reaching out to brush his knuckles along Dream’s cheek like he was sweeping an eyelash away. “Just try it for a minute. If you really hate it that much, you can stop and I’ll never mention it again.”
Dream blinked up at him, scowling. Hob smiled wider and, sure enough, Dream closed his eyes and let out a sigh. When Hob held out his hand, Dream very reluctantly took it. The music was low and filled the space within the flat like molecules strung out through the air. It was a web that Hob led Dream through, one hand shifting against Dream’s, the other sliding down to guide his waist forward. Dream was rigid, eyes watching Hob intently as they stepped around the coffee table, swayed sideways.
“You’re doing splendidly,” Hob smirked. Dream rolled his eyes. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” Dream’s expression turned serious. “Do you actually have to breathe, or is that just something you do so people don’t get creeped out, or whatever.”
“What?”
“Well, I was just--” Hob shook his head, feeling his face burn. Dream wasn’t breathing now, that was for sure. He’d gone still like a man made of cardboard -- like a paper doll that was only moving because Hob was guiding him.
“Sometimes I forget,” Dream admitted, looking at the ground. “When I am here in the waking, I function as you do in most ways. Tell me, Hob, do you have to breathe?”
“Well, yeah,” he grinned. “But I see what you’re saying. Kind of different for lads like us.”
“Indeed,” Dream replied, finally looking up. “You are very different, Hob Gadling. Different from anyone I’ve ever met.” His voice was soft and surprisingly earnest. Hob was definitely blushing now.
“Alright,” he muttered, and it was his turn to suddenly find interest in the carpet. “There’s no need for--”
“There is every need,” Dream insisted, ducking down to catch his eye. “You… I l--” his brows inched together, trying so very hard. Hob was fairly certain that neither of them was breathing. At least, until Dream sighed, closing his eyes for the briefest of moments.
When he opened them again, he seemed sure about something. Adjusting his grip on Hob’s hand, he moved himself closer, their chests brushing.
“I am glad that I am here. With you.”
A slow smile crept across Hob’s face.
“Love you too, Duck,” he murmured. Dream, despite his very nature, exhaled a laugh, a smile curling that beautiful mouth of his and lighting his eyes like the moon.
Hob sighed, sliding his hand around to Dream’s back and pulling him closer, leaning into his cheek and smiling. With closed eyes, they swayed together to the sound of a lazy record, in the dim, peaceful space of Hob’s flat. And together, moving nowhere in particular, they both timed their breathing to the sound of each other’s heartbeat.
Dream would have liked to think that he was not particularly sentimental. His subject would disagree, and his creations would disagree, and a few lovers would certainly disagree. The truth was, Dream might not have been a human, but a crucial part of him was influenced by humanity. One cannot be the collective human unconsciousness without feeling the heartbreak, the passion, the raw human emotions of the dreaming. He mourned. He celebrated. He felt the exhilaration and the losses of those who entered his realm; those he took into his care until they would once again depart for the waking world.
Dream would have liked to think that he was not particularly sentimental, but there were pieces of him that would never be left untouched by humanity.
He took a day. In the grand scheme of his existence, it was hardly a second in time. Still, after the ordeal with the Corinthian and everything that had happened with Rose Walker, Unity Kincaid, and Desire, Dream felt as if no amount of time was enough, and a day was far too much. His imprisonment had brought forth much conflict, and much that was still requiring his attention, even a year later.
A year on the day.
He stood just outside the garden wall, on the very same hill that Hob had used as a lookout a year prior, though Dream did not know this. He stood and he looked into the garden, once again overgrown and wild, and he thought about Jessamy. That was really why he was here. Not to mourn the time he had lost, though he had, and likely would continue to do so, but rather, to mourn the life of his raven. Of his faithful servant. His friend.
She had given her life to help him. The worst part, when Dream really thought about it, was that she had died thinking she’d failed. She had died knowing that Dream was still trapped. He hoped that wherever his sister had taken Jessamy, she knew that she had served him well. That she knew he was free, and he was alright, and that… he missed her. It wasn’t as foreign of a feeling as Dream would have liked it to be. There were not many that he missed, but those that he did cut deep, grated against his very being until he was all sharp edges and blood.
At least, that was what it felt like.
Some things were teaching him, though, that maybe it wasn’t the case. Matthew and his smug caws when his jokes made Dream smirk. Lucienne and the proud gleam in her eye every time he consulted her, every time he tried to listen better. Rose and Jed Walker and the way that they had been excited to see him again when he’d stopped by to make sure they were well. And… Hob. Dear, wonderful, confusing Hob, who had taught Dream that perhaps he wasn’t all sharp edges when he’d gotten close enough to hug him softly and not get cut.
Hob had taught him so much throughout the centuries.
And it was Hob who he thought of, as he stood outside the Burgess house. What had once belonged to Roderick Burgess and had been passed onto Alex. What would soon dissolve into nothing at the demise of the son who would never know a day of peace even beyond the moment that his body failed, even long after his bones turned to dust. And this house would be forgotten, a building of ruin surrounded by a garden that had been reclaimed by nature. Soon, the vines would cover the brick and stone, and the only ones who would remember it had ever existed would be the books of history and Dream.
And Hob.
Hob, who had come to rescue him. Who had disrupted his life and risked his own safety to find Dream locked away in the basement, alone. Who had saved him, had entered the belly of the house, slipped between its bones, and completed what Jessamy had given her life to begin. It was because of Hob that her death had not been in vain. As he stood beyond the gate of the Burgess house, Dream reached out and tried to sense her, tried to find her somewhere in the universe, wherever she had chosen to settle, and he tried to tell her that he was alright. That he was grateful for what she’d done. That he was grateful for her .
Rain began to fall, and the house was quiet and still. Dream watched and allowed his heart to grow hard because it was better than feeling afraid. It was better than remembering what had happened to him. He knew Hob thought he needed to feel everything, to let it happen to him so he could move past it, but Dream wanted to leave every emotion he’d felt during his imprisonment in the past. Every emotion except, perhaps, when he’d seen Hob for the first time in over a century. That was something worth the pain, he decided.
It was something worth holding on to.
As the rain picked up, the drizzle turning to a steady downpour, Dream turned and left the Burgess house knowing that he would never see it again.
“Mister Gadling!” a tiny bellow filled the almost-empty New Inn. The few straggling customers looked up and gave quick smiles as a very excited Katie and a very apologetic Lucy entered, shouldering off her coat.
“Katie Mae, hit the brakes,” Lu demanded. Katie screeched to a halt. “We do not enter establishments by running and yelling, no matter how excited we are, yeah?”
“Sorry mum,” she begrudgingly supplied, bouncing from one foot to the other. Lucy arched an eyebrow, then let out a short sigh.
“Alright. Off you are, then.”
With a squeal filled to the brim with childhood glee, Katie jumped forward and raced around the bar.
“Well, hello there, little miss,” Hob greeted, shooting Lucy an amused look as he threw a towel over his shoulder. “Keeping your mummy on her toes, are you?”
“She’s got something for you,” Lucy explained, draping her coat onto a barstool. “She’s been waiting all week. I swear she hasn’t slept.”
“Mister Gadling, I remembered how-- when you showed me all those books that you have up in your house,” she sucked in a breath. Grinning, Hob knelt down, leaning an arm on one knee.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, and-- and mum and I went to a market, and look what I found!”
Out of her coat, she pulled a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn and well-loved, with no title in sight. Hob arched an eyebrow, whistling low.
“Would you look at that.” she held it out to him and he took it, making a show of opening it carefully. Ignoring the ‘1968’ date stamped below the name of the publishing company on the inner cover, he tilted it in his hands. “Hmm…"
“What?!” Katie squealed, her hands fluttering as, he knew, she was repressing the urge to grab the book. “What, what!”
Hob glanced up and let a slow smile spread across his face. Leaning forward like they shared a secret, he whispered, “I’d say you found a real relic.”
She stared back at him.
“You remember what that means? 'Relic?'”
He could see her thinking very hard. He smiled wider.
“A thing that’s… survived!” she grabbed his wrists, hopping excitedly.
“Atta girl. A thing that’s survived over a long, long time,” he drew out the word.
Lucy, watching from the other side of the bar, rolled her eyes with a very unwilling grin.
“And now I found it,” Kaite continued.
“You did. You’ve got a good eye,” he said. “Tell you what, love, why don’t you,” he pointed at her chest, “Keep this,” and held up the book. “I’ve got lots of old books--”
“And they look just like this one,” she interrupted.
“That they do,” he nodded. “And you see, I started my collection a long time ago. That’s why I’ve got so many--” Well, it was sort of true.
Katie had shown a great interest in his books, so, with a hesitant eye, he’d let her look at a few of his (child-appropriate) original copies. She’d been surprisingly gentle, and he could already sense her love for history, even if she couldn’t quite yet grasp the vastness of it. And really, he certainly didn’t need a book from 1968. But to someone as young as her, the 60s were a time she couldn’t even imagine.
“You keep this book,” he said, tilting it at her. “It can be the start of your own collection.”
Her eyes grew wide as saucers, and then she very carefully took the book back into her tiny hands.
“You remember how I told you to look after old books, right?”
“Yes,” she whispered, smoothing a finger down the spine.
“Right then. I’d say our relic is in good hands.”
There was a soft ding as the door swung open. Hob gave Katie, who had torn her eyes away from her new treasure for just long enough to gaze up at him with wonder, a quick wink before standing.
“Hi there,” Lucy said a moment before he managed to turn around, and the change in her tone told him who it was. Tilting his head back with a sly grin, he turned, and sure enough.
“Hello, Lucy,” Dream politely greeted, even giving her a nod. Hob was pretty sure Dream didn’t mind the woman. At the very least, he was making an attempt to be friendly because he knew that Hob liked Lucy very much. It was sweet.
“How are you doing? Haven’t seen you about in a while…”
“He’s a sneaky fellow,” Hob said, sparing Dream the effort of having to try and make small talk. “Sometimes I don’t even know he’s around before he steps out of a dark corner.”
It was all said with a smile, and Lucy looked between the two men with growing amazement. Right on, Robbie -- Well done.
Katie, with her book cradled to her chest, peeked very slowly around the corner.
“Oh, perfect timing. Lu?” he raised an eyebrow and pointed downward to where Katie was hidden behind the counter. Catching on, Lucy nodded.
“‘Course. Hey Katie Cat, why don’t you come on out here? Mister Gadling’s got someone he’d like you to meet.”
Katie turned around and glanced hesitantly at Hob. He gave her a reassuring smile as he held out his hand.
“It’s a very good friend of mine,” he whispered. “I think you’ll really like him…” then, leaning sideways and dropping his voice even lower -- another secret -- “He’s got a unicorn.”
Hob wiggled his eyebrows, and then Katie was letting go of his head and darting around the counter. When she saw Dream she stopped, ducking back shyly before inching her way out. Dream glanced at Hob, who gave him a wink, and then looked back at Katie.
“Hello,” she whispered.
“Hello,” Dream replied. His face was expressionless, but Hob could tell that he was curious. And he was trying to be gentle. His usual sharp edges and looming presence was softened to something quieter, more fitting for a child. Hob glanced at Lucy, wondering if she’d noticed the same thing he had, but she was smiling at Katie like nothing had happened.
“Uh, I was just telling Katie here about your… unicorn,” Hob said with a brief moment of panic that Dream would be cross. Maybe he did have a unicorn and Hob had just spilled his secret.
“Actually,” Dream said, still looking at Katie. “He is a hippogriff.”
“A… hippo?” the girl asked. She’d taken another step closer, her curiosity overriding her apprehension. Lucy shared a look with Hob, who shrugged.
“Hippogriff,” Dream slowly repeated. “A creature that is like a horse, but with wings and feathers.”
“Woah,” Katie whispered, grinning up at him. “Like a pegasus.”
“Yes,” Dream said, smirking. “A bit like a pegasus.”
“Woah. Cool!” she squealed. “Does he live in a stable?”
“He guards the gate to my home.”
“Like a gag, a gurgle-- mom, what’s it called again?”
“A gargoyle,” Lucy replied. Hob choked back a snort.
“A gar-goil,” Katie very pointedly repeated.
“I suppose it is quite similar, yes. He and the other gatekeepers allow guests to enter and direct them to my castle.”
“You have a castle?!” she yelled, no longer even remotely concerned by this dark, brooding, slightly dangerous-looking stranger.
“Alright, Kates, that’s enough.”
“But--”
“Uh-uh, come on, lovey. Mister Gadling would like to entertain his friend and we’ve kept them long enough. Let’s go get dinner, yeah?”
At the promise of food, Katie begrudgingly took her mother’s hand and let herself be led toward the door.
“Say goodbye.”
“Bye Mister Gadling,” she called.
“Be seeing you, kiddo. Take care of that book, yeah?” She nodded vehemently and Hob sent her a smile.
Then she turned and gave a little wave to Dream, who lifted a hand in reply. They watched the door close in silence.
“Thank you for that,” Hob murmured. Dream turned around and, oddly enough, looked surprised.
“For what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Indulging her, I suppose.”
“It was no great service on my part. If anyone besides myself is the heart of the dreaming, it is children.”
“Right,” Hob softly replied, narrowing his eyes at his friend. “Well, I can assure you that she’ll be asking me about you every time she sees me, now. She’s a curious lass,” he smirked.
“Yes,” Dream replied. “I can tell.” Then, after a moment, “Perhaps she will dream of hippogriffs tonight…” And Hob swore he was smiling in his own quiet way.
Gods, he was in love. He kept on realizing that, even after everything. Then again, it had been like that for almost seven hundred damn years, and Hob didn’t expect things to start changing anytime soon. Or ever. He hoped they never changed. He wanted to keep falling in love with Dream every time he stopped by, every time he sat at his kitchen table or laid by his side, every time Hob fell asleep. He wanted to always love him in countless, never-ending ways.
“Shall we go upstairs?” Hob whispered, still watching him, still reveling in all the little things that had built themselves over the hundreds of years into something so beautiful.
Dream said nothing, and he nodded, and he smiled that peculiar smile that made his eyes go all starry.
When they were tucked away inside the familiar flat, Hob stood behind Dream and offered to take his coat. He’d never done that before. Dream turned his cheek, watching him out of the corner of his eye as Hob reached an arm around him and gently lifted the thick, black coat from his narrow shoulders. Sweeping it away, he waited a moment, breathing in the closeness between them, before turning and draping it over the counter. Dream was watching him when he turned back.
“So,” he started, somewhat nervously. “What do you fancy tonight? I’ve got some wine. Or, uh…” Dream was getting closer. Somehow. “Uh… I could show you… a new book that I…”
Standing in front of him, Dream leaned forward and touched the tip of his nose against Hob’s. Then, painfully, agonizingly, world-endingly slow, he tilted his head and brushed their lips together. Hob let out a sigh; deep and full, coming straight from the bottom of his chest. It was a sigh of relief, and perhaps one of uncontained happiness. And love. It was one of love, too.
Lifting his hand, he let it climb Dream’s side, his back, his shoulder, until he could rest his fingers in Dream’s hair, cradle the back of his neck, feel him move closer without even having to ask him to. When Dream kissed him, the whole galaxy poured into the room. The moon caught on the curtains in the windows and the milky way draped itself over the couch. Hob was certain he could have wrapped himself up in it like a blanket if he wasn’t already surrounded entirely by Dream.
He got so much larger like this. Sometimes he grew so big that, for a fleeting moment, he was all there was, and Hob had to wonder if they were really still awake, or if Dream had taken them somewhere that belonged as much to him as Hob did. But then, as would often happen, the kiss would slow, and the universe would draw back, and like a stage set behind a brief curtain, all the pieces would fall back into place. And when the curtain rose once again and Hob opened his eyes, one never would have been able to guess that all of space had just dropped to the earth long enough for star residue to cover the rugs and the tabletops in a thin glittery sheen.
One never would have guessed that Hob had just realized his reason for living.
“Tell me something.”
Dream’s head was on his bare chest. Hob was playing with the short strands of hair behind his ear -- raking them up before smoothing them down against his neck.
“Like what?” he asked. Dream shifted, twisting the lower half of his body onto its side, sliding a foot in between Hob’s calves. “Christ, you’re cold,” Hob whispered, a breathy laugh, and then he was rubbing his legs together to warm them both up.
“Tell me… what are you feeling?” Dream asked, his voice low. Hob lifted a hand and brushed it across Dream’s forehead, confirming his suspicions that the little wrinkle between his eyebrows had made an appearance. Which meant that he was trying to work through something that was bothering him.
“I’m feeling happy,” Hob said, readjusting to lift one arm over his head and rest it against the pillow. His fingers traced down Dream’s neck.
“Mm,” Dream hummed in acknowledgment.
“Alright now, Duck. Your turn.”
“Mm,” he hummed again, this time with a noticeable increase in displeasure.
“It can be anything. Anything at all. Doesn’t even have to mean much.”
There was silence. Then--
“Warm,” Dream said. “I am feeling… warm.”
Hob traced a line down to his pale, bony shoulder. Outside the window of Hob’s bedroom, the moon was climbing higher into the night sky.
“Hob,” Dream said, and right away Hob could tell. His fingers curled around Dream’s shoulder, involuntarily tugging him closer as he traced lines along his skin.
“Yes, love.”
Silence.
“What is it? Are you alright?”
Despite the obvious worry in Hob’s voice, it was several moments before Dream replied.
“I need you to know something.”
Hob’s hand stilled. Dream did not move from his chest.
“I am going on a journey. There is something I must do -- amends I must make to… someone I once loved,” he shifted, tilting his chin up to glance at Hob.
“Alright,” Hob breathed, nodding as encouragingly as he could, considering he didn’t really know what was going on.
“Perhaps I will return soon, perhaps not. I may be gone for a long time…”
Something inside Hob’s chest, somewhere beneath where Dream was resting his head, sunk. It sunk straight through the floor, and Dream must have felt it because he reached a hand up and laid it on Hob’s stomach. Hob took a deep breath.
“It’s just, the idea of what someone like you considers a long time…”
“Yes.”
“But… you’ll definitely come back, right? Eventually…” Hob was trying very hard not to think about what his life would be like if his friend wasn’t in it anymore.
Dream sat up. And Hob thought, Shit , so he propped himself up on his arms, blinking at Dream, who was staring out at the darkness beyond the window.
“You must know that I would never leave you of my own intention,” he turned, and his eyes were dark, the stars blinking behind them winking softly. “You must know that I would never willingly miss our meeting.”
“Of course I know that, but… but it’s not just our meetings every hundred years now, is it?” Hob insisted. “It’s… more than that.”
“Yes,” Dream whispered, glancing at his lap. “It is more than that. And that is why I need you to know that, while I intend to return, if I do not, it would never be because I have failed to care for you.”
In that moment, Hob felt something that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Not like this, anyway, and never with someone like his friend. He laughed weakly.
“Isn’t this something. Two immortals suddenly struck by the same damn fear that’s essential to mortality.”
Dream grimaced. Hob got the idea that he’d meant for it to be a smile.
“Is it selfish that I don’t want you to go?” he murmured, staring at his hands. Then suddenly there were fingers under his chin, tilting his face up.
“Perhaps,” Dream replied. “But I certainly think no less of you for it. How could I, when it reflects my own desires?”
Hob stared deeply into Dream’s eyes, and the rest of the world was somewhere else. He didn’t think about it.
“But… you have to go,” he said. Not a question, because he already knew. He could see it.
“Yes,” Dream whispered.
Hob nodded, and then he closed his eyes. He heard the ruffle of sheets a moment before he felt Dream’s lips against his own. He reached out and gently held Dream’s face.
“This life,” he murmured. “Is such a thing of beauty.”
When he opened his eyes, Dream was watching him. His friend shifted, propped himself up to trace a finger across Hob’s forehead, curving down towards his temple, feather-light, like it was coming from somewhere that was far away but had settled close just for a moment. For this moment.
“Yes,” Dream replied. “That it is.”
Hob was doing calculations. They were a constant inevitable in his life, and he’d gotten quite good at them.
He guessed he had about thirty more years with the New Inn before he had to move on. He likely only had ten before people started getting suspicious. It wasn’t often that he got a full night of sleep these days, so it was possible that his newly acquired wrinkles would help him pass as older than he physically appeared -- though he was afraid he wouldn’t quite be able to pass as a man of sixty. He’d have to change his hair or something; dress more like an old man; though, if you asked the opinion of his students, they already thought his style was distinctly old-fashioned. Little did they know how old it actually was.
In his six-hundred-some years of life, moving on had never gotten easier. Probably because it felt too close to leaving something behind. With each century, Hob left pieces of himself scattered behind in wake of the lives he’d lived, the different versions of himself that he’d been. Every century, Hob was getting smaller and smaller, those pieces of himself spreading out over continents and across decades -- living clutched in the memories of hundreds of people who had died while Hob kept on refusing to. You’d think he would have gotten good at it by now, all that leaving. He hadn’t.
Every person, every lover, every place took a little piece of him when he disappeared. And yet, there was no part of him that could seriously consider becoming a hermit and saying goodbye to it all. Sure, he’d had his fair share of the occasional reclusive mood -- a decade here and there where he’d convinced himself that this time he would stay alone forever, that it was just too painful to keep on loving people when it was inevitable that you’d watch them die. But the truth was, as painful as parting ways often was, living a solitary life was far more unbearable. At least, for Hob it was.
Thirty years. Well, it was hardly any time at all, was it?
Hob might not have cherished every year of his extended life, but he would try very hard to cherish the next thirty. Besides, it was more than enough time to orchestrate the passing on of the New Inn to one Robert Jr. in the event of his own untimely passing during a summer cruise -- or… something like that. The hardest thing would be saying goodbye to all the people he’d met along the way. It always was. Places, they could be returned to. People, though.
Hob could come back to the New Inn, but it would fail to be the same place without the regulars in their chairs and Lucy waiting behind the counter. And him being himself , not his estranged son. In a way, it made Hob remember just how long thirty years could be. For a lot of their regulars, thirty years could very well mean death. For Lucy, it would put her close to retirement. For little Katie, well… her life would be well on its way in thirty years. For Katie, thirty years used up quite a lot of the time she got in this life.
Sometimes it was hard for Hob to not feel selfish. Even more often, it was hard for him to stop himself from trying to convince everyone he’d ever loved to just not die like him. But he knew that his case was different. He knew now that he’d earned some favor with Death, and that he’d gotten very lucky she’d been feeling a tad less compliant with the rules of her job on the night that Dream had taken an interest in him.
Dream, who he hadn’t seen in four months.
The morning after he’d told him that he’d be going away for a little while, Hob had sat and watched him get up -- watched him as he went about getting dressed as if he was nothing but a beautiful, mortal, priceless human. As if was simply off to catch a lift to his office, work a nine-to-five, and then be home in time for supper. As if, one day -- in those few, fleeting thirty years -- Hob and Dream would begin to grow old together. And then, watching Dream from the bed -- watching the way he messed at his hair after pulling his T-shirt on, or the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrated -- Hob realized that maybe, in a strange sort of way, they had grown old together. Maybe, if they both got lucky, they’d still be able to. Perhaps they wouldn’t grow old, exactly, but maybe they’d grow further.
Dream had left him with a hug. He’d cupped the back of his head in a way that demanded Hob pay attention, and then he’d looked very meaningfully into his eyes -- and Hob had gotten the idea that Dream was saying a whole lot. One day Hob intended to learn the language of Dream’s heart -- or whatever beautiful thing was there inside his chest, held between his ribs. Hob would learn it, and he would know it well. When Dream pulled Hob closer, he felt his own heart mix with all the stars that made up his friend. His stranger. His beloved.
That had been three months and twenty-six days ago. Hob had dreamed of good things, and he hoped that meant his friend was alright. He had considered trying to reach out to him, and then he’d had to remind himself that Dream was used to going a full century in between their meetings. He would reach out when he was ready. Hob did not allow himself to consider what might happen if Dream missed their next meeting. At the very least, he knew that he would see his friend then. But, if he didn’t…
“You must know that I would never willingly miss our meeting.”
It was, admittedly, a source of anxiety for Hob. He wished Dream would let him help. He wasn’t naive -- he knew that there very likely wasn’t much he could do -- but there was so little that Dream actually told him, and it left a whole lot of room for worry. But Hob had spent over a hundred years wondering if his friend was okay, wondering where he was, and Hob had managed to keep on living. He’d managed to function in spite of the worry, and he would do it again.
“Her trinket collection takes up a whole shelf now,” Lucy was saying. Hob turned around, setting aside the glass he’d been drying, and smirked. “I need you to tell her that pinecones are not historical artifacts.”
“And who says they’re not? Why, in a hundred years, who’s to say that Katie won’t be in possession of the very last pinecone in existence? It’d be historical then.”
“Well, considering Katie won’t be alive in a hundred years to enjoy the benefits of having this theoretical ‘last pinecone in existence,’ I’d prefer to have my shelf space back.”
Hop wavered for just a moment. And then he smiled, though somewhat sadly.
“She’s a kid, Lu. Kids find little knick-knacks all the time. You’re just feeling it worse than all the other parents ‘cause you’ve got a little collector on your hands.”
“I know,” Lucy smirked reluctantly. “And it’s all your fault, too.”
“All my fault.”
“I said it, didn’t I?”
“She’s got your genes, love.”
“Yeah, but you put all those big ideas in her head. You know, she’s doing her history report on Atlantis. Half the kids in her class don’t even know what that is .”
“The perks of befriending a history professor.”
“I think she might actually ask you to come in for that parent’s day, where the kids are all supposed to show off what their parents do for a job.”
“No, nonsense,” Hob insisted. “I’m sure she’ll ask you.”
“You’re too humble Robbie. It’s disgusting.” Her phone dinged and she passed over the last glass to pull it from her pocket.
“Oh shit. That’s her.”
“I’ll finish up.”
“You sure?”
Hob raised his eyebrows.
“Okay. Okay… how do I look? Not like I’ve been serving up beers for the past six hours?”
“You look lovely, and you’ll be fine,” he assured. “Just, it’s a date so, you know… remember to have fun.”
Lucy groaned, messed at her hair, and then bumped Hob with her shoulder before making her way to the door.
“You’re the best.”
“Obviously.”
“Your head grows any bigger it’ll roll off your shoulders.”
“Remember to use protection,” he called. She flung open the front door.
“You’re so not funny, it’s actually kind of embarrassing.”
“You wish!”
She gave a final wave and the door slammed shut, and suddenly Hob was somewhere a few hundred years in the past. He always seemed to time travel when he was alone, or when it was dark out like it was now, or when it was quiet. The New Inn transformed into some ancient beast when all its modern customers left for the night. When it was closed, it woke up slowly and turned back into a place that felt like a home that Hob had once known, long ago.
The dishes got put away. The counters got wiped off. Stray trash got tossed, and then Hob remembered that he needed to put the bins out, so he found his jacket and tucked a loose strand of hair back into the hair tie at the base of his neck. The night sky hovered above the New Inn like the glass of a snow globe. Hob half expected little grains of fake snow to begin swirling through the air. He half expected the world to shift as someone shook it. The stars were bright, winking and dimming and blinking back into brightness like beating hearts. Hob took a deep breath and thought, Smells like rain .
It took him about thirty seconds. Half a minute to realize there was something in the darkness. He was halfway back to the door when he did, and there he was, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, hair as messy as it always was, face just as passive and unreadable as it had always been. There he was, watching Hob take out the trash without so much as a greeting.
“Still set on giving me a heart attack, I see,” Hob said.
“Hello Hob,” Dream replied. Then, “If you are quite determined about it, then yes. I shall give you as many heart attacks as you wish.”
“You like giving me the run-around. Admit it.”
There in the darkness, a faint smirk. A tiny, shit-eating grin that Dream reserved for those moments in which he was especially pleased. His eyes were sparkling like their own miniature skies, far outshining the one above Hob’s head. He wasn’t even thinking of it anymore as he stepped closer.
“Perhaps,” Dream said. Hob stopped in front of him, the toes of their shoes almost touching. He stopped and he smiled a lazy smile at his friend.
“Hello you,” he murmured, tilting his chin up. The skin around Dream’s eyes softened, crinkled, turned to quiet crow’s feet.
Leaning closer, Dream hesitated for just a moment before reaching a careful hand towards Hob’s face, resting the pads of his fingers experimentally against the man’s cheek. Hob’s eyes, though not filled with stars, shone almost as bright as Dream’s. They were wide and earnest and so filled with the most natural kind of love that Dream felt he could have stayed there for the rest of his existence and uncovered all the secrets inside the different shades of warm brown that made up Hob. His eyes, his hair -- a bit shorter than the last time Dream had seen him -- his familiar coat that smelled entirely of him. Dream could have stayed there for the rest of his existence and be filled over and over again with all the light inside Hob -- never wanting, never lonely. He traced a line down to his jaw.
“Hello my darling Hob,” he replied.
And sure, maybe Hob wouldn’t call himself an impulsive man, but romantic? Now, that really was a different story…