Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Why would any sensible creature crave an eternity of this?” you asked me in the tavern. The answers I could give would mean nothing to you. I know you, little brother, and I know my gift is in the present. Death is palpable. Equal. Death cannot happen without life, I am interconnected with the little joys of the living: sunshine on the skin, grass under the bare feet, the flavor of food, the rhythm of music… I am a friendly face at the end of the line, though I haven’t always been that. And I can be the friendly face because I understand what they leave behind.

But dreams… Dreams are wishes and fears, past and future; is it really a dream anymore if it is real and palpable or just a memory? Your head is in the clouds and your mind wanders distant places hidden before us. You witness creation and damnation, you see the unseeable and reach the unreachable. There are no limitations in the Dreaming, but everything down here is confined to rules. And you hate this – because the ones who fly in the Dreaming can only walk on the Earth, the grass stings your feet when you could walk on clouds, and you see people as pathetic because they are always less in person then in their dreams.

You should serve this world, yet you can hardly stand to touch it. This plane has brought only pain to you – with the help of our own family, no less. You turned your back, forgot the lectures of your long life, till only disdain was left. But I see you are unhappy, my dear brother – and I decided to give you a gift. A companion. A fiend, for the times I cannot be there, so you don’t have to do this all by yourself anymore.

I just hope I am right. My dear brother, you are terribly stubborn.

*

The Dream of the Endless knew which day was passing in the glass cage. He knew also that no mortal or Endless will come to his aid. There was nothing his captors wanted he could give, and there was nothing he would’ve given could he give it. There was no mortal there better than the rest, no one worth his time, especially after Jessame’s death. They were no better than passing flicks bringing destruction and chaos to their own world.

They worth no word. No compassion. No empathy.

His disdain and hatred grew and he kept silent and waiting.

*

Only in front of the old, crumbling tavern did he realize how much was really lost.

He lost both vengeance and purpose and there was nothing left. Dreams have no exact purpose, they just are. Sometimes the Dream of the Endless is also just is, up high in his kingdom, in the dreams, nightmares and daydreams of mortals.

The torture and numbness of the last hundred years severed all the ties he had left before, swept all the lessons. There was nothing left, nothing to come back to: no creations, no kingdom, no… compassion.

Rebuilding was tedious but empty.

Vengeance brought no worth back to him – so he fed the birds, letting the past be past, severed connections be severed. Disgust and hatred boil and crystallize.

Then his sister found him.

“It’s good to touch the Earth with your bare feet” she said to him at one point through their wandering. “It’s grounding.”

Grounding. He despised the thought.

Grass, wine and food was beyond him, everything tasted and felt like ash compared what they were like in the Dreaming. Like shadows. Echoes. The world was alike a still frame. Music passed, wonders crumbled, this modern world tried to kill dreams just as John tried with the ruby in the diner. Make things more real, as if it weren’t the dreams which shaped reality.

He wasn’t good with mortals, he also wasn’t particularly fond of them – or was he?

He watched the closed gate and the crumbling building as the past five hundred years emerged from his memory. What started as a game and ended… well. It was he, who broke the promise in the end, the one not coming even if he was obviously kept up.

Though he owed nothing to a mortal.

Just as Hob owed nothing to him. Not really. But they both owed a lot to his big sister.

Hob had been his grounding – he realized there at the gate. – He was the tether, the stable point in the all-changing mortal world. Inexhaustible enthusiasm. An all defeating love of life and wonder. And since his first explanation, Dream really wanted Hob to live, wanted this flame to burn, his the explanations of chimneys, printing, families, kings and lands to continue. He wanted the man to tell him about how different meats and wines taste like, how the sun is warm on the skin and how the cold bites down to the bone.

It was a little bit like experiencing it on his own.

He listened, wondered, felt, forgot just a second that everything had a counter in the Dreaming – and the tales found their ways into his kingdom and brought more color and passion into the dreams for decades after their meetings.

The man lived in his place – and Dream refused even to call him a friend. He regrets that a little.

*

Dream of the Endless didn’t expect the man to be there when he checked out the New Inn (just to be sure) – but there he was.

Waiting for him.

Waiting for a friend. There are no such coincidences and he wonders briefly whether the man is there often and whether the wait has anything to do with him not coming thirty years ago.

The King of Dreams is not lonely and does not need a mortal friend. Mortals are pathetic excuses anyway – except maybe this one. He walks there than stands, the man looks up with a cocked eyebrow – then his whole demeanor brightens, smile spreads. Dream cannot help the answering smug smile and something melts around his heart seeing the pure happiness in Hob’s eyes.

“You are late.”

You were waiting for me.

“I owe you an apology.” I should touch Earth with my bare feet. Find my footing. Find you maybe – forgive the others maybe only because of you. “One doesn’t suppose to keep one’s friend waiting.”

The man’s smile gets even wider. Warmer. Sincerer. Beaming with joy and relief. The Dream of the Endless sits and they watch each other looking for the smallest of changes brought by the years. Two immortals: an endless and a gift. The smiles stay, neither of them can help it. It’s gentle, caring, fond. There is joy in it. Something is changing between them.

“I thought I offended you” Hob says eventually. Honestly.

“You did. But you were right.” Dream watches him.

“And I was afraid I won’t meet you again.” There is a shadow behind these words.

“Yet you are still here.”

“A man can only hope.”

Dream smiles again. When there is nothing else left, there is hope. When there is a nova, destruction and the end of everything, there is hope. Their affair was such a little thing compared to what came after. And yet so important on its own right.

“I will come if I can help it. I promise you… my friend.” In the end, immortality is lonely for the both of us. Now he sees it, though he cared little about loneliness before. “So tell me, what did you do, while I was away?”

And Hob starts explaining again, enthusiastically like no time had passed: cars, mobiles, the internet, humanity reaching the Moon and many others. His eyes sparkle, he talks fast, waves his hand about as he explains, gestures widely. Through his long imprisonment, Dream’s only companions were anger, hatred and grief. He came out with a colder heart, more distant mind and poisonous vengeance; now he sees the brighter parts of the world.

The wonders, hopes, and dreams which filtered through from the Dreaming. When Hob is the one describing life, he believes him its worth the struggle, that life is wonder which gives much more than it takes away.

Dream can’t help the fond, soft smile as he listens to the man silently. Hob’s cheeks gain a little more color as he talks and Dream catches the second Hob’s gaze flickers downward then the man doesn’t places his hand onto his on the table. The almost-gesture brings backs memories from thousands of years ago. Touches which in the end brought only pain, anger and betrayal. Hatred wakes in him again with the memories. Hatred that has nothing to do with Hob. Hell is too fresh on his mind.

The man stops speaking then and when Dream looks up at him, Hob stares. There is a moment between them, unuttered questions and silence, as if the whole plain got a little more quiet around them. Then Hob clears his throat.

“I hoped to… have a chance to make things right between us. Thought you hated me when you hadn’t showed up so I… hoped, I guess, that you will come eventually. Except you haven’t been that angry, have you?” he ask gently. “Will you tell me what happened to you?”

Dream considers, watching their hands on the table.

“I met my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“We are seven. Brothers and sisters.”

“Ah.”

“She gave me advice. Made me realize… I went about things the wrong way.”

“So you are here because of her?”

“No. I would have come. I would not have come so soon.”

“Soon?” But Hob smiles fondly. “Then I should really thank her.”

The Dream of the Endless smiles too, but this smile is small and private. Hob’s smile falters just a little seeing it and he swallows, ears just a touch red.

“Five hundred years and you never tried to figure out who I am” Dream wonders.

Hob shrugs. “I’m waiting for you to tell me. When you trust me enough.”

Because dreams are flickering things. Proud. Stubborn. Royal. Dream trust almost no one. Doesn’t trust them to be untouchable by Desire or Despair. Doesn’t trust them to stay with him, as dreams are ever-changing, they go out when they are reached and die one day if they aren’t. He doesn’t trust the people in his life to stay there and they would bring all his secrets with them to the wrong hands.

Happened once, could happen again.

His affairs never end well and leave only scars he carries for eternity.

“But you won’t even tell me if you were safe at least.” Hob carries on and Dream watches him. The man is sad. Concerned. “If there is something I can help you with…”

“No. There is nothing.” Dream stands because something is working its way through him and he can’t keep sitting. “I see you in a hundred years then…” and he starts to leave. Escape.

“Here!” Hob rises also talking to his back. “Here. I bought the Inn. I will keep it up, or leave you a message if I can’t. I just wish to…” He catches himself and swallows the end of the sentence.

Then the Dream of the Endless halts. Perception changes, as if time slowed and they became shrouded from other eyes. Hob feels the shift as well, he looks around.

“You just wish what?”

Hob straightens himself but whenever he opens his mouth no words come. Dream watches him: searching, caring, intrigued. He walks back over, looks down at Hob.

“Tell me, Hob Gadling, do you dream?”

“I’ve been dreaming again on the past few months, hardly anything before that for a hundred years. Although I have had the most wonderful dreams since I’m immortal. Why?”

“What do you dream of?”

“The past sometimes. Mostly the wonders still awaiting.”

Love of living and dreams of hope. When the dreams die, the Nothing grows stronger. The Dream of the Endless feels some love and compassion for this plane again after so long. There is a storm in his mind and heart.

“In a hundred years then” he says softer, then he leaves.

*

It’s not a hundred years. Not even two days. Hob is at home, back in the city, because he couldn’t stand to stay in his flat above the inn. He is restless even in his sleep, something has shifted the day before. He can’t forget that smile, the moment he was almost brave enough to touch his friend’s hand but decided against it. He almost screwed up his only real friendship once – the only friendship that followed him through the hundreds.

He turns in his sleep, has never been this anxious since he lost his late wife and children. He dreams about the day, the stranger hadn’t come: the disappointment, loss, sorrow, hurt. But now he knows something had happened. He doesn’t know what or how, but his friend had been hurt, that much is clear, and he could’ve been dead or lost with him waiting in the Inn none the wiser forever.

The thought makes him violently sick.

The stranger is the only constant in his life, the only one unchanging and unmoving. Cold. Distant. Mysterious. But there is always warmth in him, somewhere deep, so he only catches glimpses every time – but he does catch them.

He chases that warmth in his own way. It’s like a game. A war. A challenge.

Though Hob sleeps now on his medical mattress – the very best one, he could get –, and he dreams of beautiful plains, never-ending worlds, creations spotted with his own memories. It’s the most wonderful dream he had for a long time yet he is anxious. He is looking for something. A call is tugging him.

So he walks.

So he finds.

Just a step and the dreamworld disappears. There are black dunes of fine sand around him, black clouds racing on the sky with warm light filtering through them. There is no wind, still everything moves, yet everything stands still. Sand gathers around his ankle, he fights for every step and still he walks toward the nothing. Toward the call. The ground becomes more difficult before it gets better and firmer under his feet. There is a dark, lean tower in the distance, he heads there.

When he gets closer, he realizes the tower is a pair of legs and the structure is a person in dark clothes. Hob hardly reaches up to his ankle. He squints up but has to shield his eyes from the light through the dark clouds.

“Hob Gadling” the voice booms. He recognizes it and he is not afraid. Not jet, at least.

“Where are we?” he shouts upwards.

“I decided to show you something. You told me about your life, I will give you a glimpse of mine.” Hob looks out toward the fields of dark sand which now swirls around them. It’s dangerous, wild, beautiful: a dream in one second, a nightmare in the other.

Suddenly wind wakes and there is sand everywhere. One hand on the man’s boot, he shields his eye. The sand is painful in one second and gentle in the next.

“Am I dreaming?” He cries through the storm. His mouth and hair gets full of sand.

“Yes.”

“But are you real?”

“…Yes.” The voice calls out on his right in the second the sandstorm stops and when he jumps the stranger stands beside him. The man’s hair is messy, his eyes are dark with stars in them and Hob had never seen something so beautiful before. The sand swirls about gently again and there is a new, great form in front of them. It’s simple but contains galaxies, it’s grand but confined. Growing. It’s alike and nothing like a tree at all.

They stand there and stare at each other but something is different. Different aside of the obvious.

“Hob Gadling, this is my kingdom I’m rebuilding, the Dreaming, where no one can hear us, or reach us. They won’t know I invited you here and I want it that way.”

“Who are you?” he asks again softly, looks up at the man.

There is hesitancy again, a guarded, cold look and an inquisitive, daring rise of the chin.

“I have many names. For you, I am Dream of the Endless. The Sandman. Morpheus, the King of Dreams and Nightmares.”

Hob isn’t surprised. It’s a totally different feeling. Morpheus reaches out for him, like he wants to touch his arm, his heartbeat rises, breath catches – and he wakes sitting up in bed, panting with a feeling of crushing loss and disappointment. He remembers black plains and sand but he can’t remember what the most important dream of his life was really about.

Chapter Text

“No, no, no, no no…!” he rushes out of bed, looking frantically for paper and pen. He writes what he remembers:

stranger

dream

sand

dark

He sketches the not-tree and the storm but now they look like some child’s drawing: a pathetic tree and some scribble. He stares at the paper disappointed and he is torn between trying to get back to sleep or filling the blanks. He decides on the latter, gathers his laptop and searches the things he remembers from the dream without success. The hits lead him to some old news articles though, online magazines specializing in the occult and strange.

He'd paid little mind to these before. If the supernatural wants something, beings will come knocking. Not like he ever tried to get anyone’s or anything’s attention – the opposite really. As he didn’t even know, how he gained immortality, and which force could be capable of messing with the gifts he had. Except now he finds articles about some sleeping sickness and the only survivor, a woman, waking after a hundred and something years – and just a few months before.

Something pokes at the back of his mind but it leads nowhere.

He can’t focus that day: stands in the classroom, before the history students, tries to teach but his mind wanders back to the dream, his friend, the hundreds of years behind his back, the day of their first meeting. How a mysterious man turned up out of nowhere, how strange he was, how Hob didn’t age a day since then. He always wondered what the stranger did and why he did it.

“The occult” he says suddenly. The students are watching. “The occult of the past three hundred years. Go!”

Upon his expectant look, a hand rises.

“Alastair and his followers?” He at least knows those.

“Yes. Anything else?”

“The Burgess family?” another says. “The Magus with the devil in the basement?”

“Jack the Ripper?”

“There is one with the Devil and the Wandering Jew.”

“Is that so well known?” he raises an eyebrow.

The guy shrugs. “Local history. I find it interesting. Did you know, professor, that they met in that in at the edge of the city? The one the city left to rot? Allegedly.”

They didn’t let it rot, he is still fighting for it to be renovated instead but he doesn’t think it’s important enough to mention that.

“Okay. Occult and dreams. Who is next?” No hand rises. “Nothing on occult and dreams?”

“Well, there is a lot about occult and dreams” a woman says “ but I don’t really understand…”

“The sleeping sickness?” another interrupts. “The virus which came and went like the Spanish flu?”

He sighs, sits on his desk. “Yes. There is that.”

He feels terribly tired.

*

At home, he eats dinner alone and his mind wanders through the years of his long life. He wonders if he should press this matter. He likes to think the dream was really real, his stranger friend showed him something important even if the abrupt awakening made him loose lot of it.

There is always hope the information will come back up. He will just remember it suddenly out of nowhere, there is no reason not to just wait the usual hundred years and meet then. Ask the questions then.

He chews slowly.

Like there really is no reason to make him angry again. It easier if things flow in their natural way, not pushing where he is not supposed to, not trying the boundaries. Then he remembers the moment the man walked up and smiled down at him, remembers that joy and relief flooding him, the urge to hug him tightly. That other… fondness.

That peculiar, wonderful kind of fondness, that makes one stuck in ones head, in his thoughts, interest… heart? No, that’s a no. Or well... He wasn’t actively thinking about him – and only occasionally dreamed about him. For a considerable time after some meetings though.

And this peculiar fondness wasn’t new either, it woke at their second meeting which was so long ago he doesn’t remember everything perfectly well, but the stranger asked why he wanted to live still and he, in his eagerness blurted out chimneys. He talked about chimneys of all things and the stranger followed his gaze excitedly and was like: yes, chimneys, how wonderful, yes, a marvel, really, a miracle, clearly the epitome of ingenuity, perfectly worth living for without a single word and with only his gaze. And since that exact moment Hob Gadling wanted to know him and kiss him.

But that really doesn’t matter now.

Or it does matter a little bit still, because of how the stranger smiled at him in the New Inn. How he came back a little different and Hob was concerned. That’s what decides it: the concern. Because he wasn’t pushing the boundaries and pressing where he shouldn’t, he wouldn’t be here now, five hundred years later still alive and well.

Falling asleep in this mental state was hard though, making himself dream was harder. He doesn’t succeed on that first night, not on the second or third. He dreamed on the fourth but couldn’t control it and woke with a headache and disappointment.

On the fifth night he dreamed – and woke in the dream. He had done this before, controlling his dreams, though he hadn’t made a habit out of it. But now he was there and more or less free to move about. He was standing in the middle of a busy market: Edwardian market, he stood out like a sore thumb.

“Hey” he grabbed a man walking past him. “Have you seen a tall, dark man recently? With stars in his eyes? He is… his name is…” There it was, on the tip of his tongue, but he just didn’t know how to form the words.

He tried someone else. “Black sand? Have you seen dunes of black sand about somewhere?”

The people of his dream think him a madman but they point him to a stand with a woman he once knew behind it.

“I have what you’re looking for.” She places a hourglass on the table with strange black sand in it. “But would he want to meet you? The king drifts through the Dreaming, his palace is unreachable in the center of this realm.”

It clicks and Hob smiles widely, relieved. “King Morpheus. Dream of the Endless.” He grabs the hourglass. “Thank you.” He runs off to the center of the market, calls him shouting.

“King Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, I came to visit! I have questions, my friend, so if you maybe have some time to hang out…” Nothing happens so he tries again and again. People are watching, gathering around him, he is causing ruckus, the guards close up around him.

“That’s plenty enough, you madman!” one moves to grab him, then suddenly the world is empty. Silent. The stalls and houses are just fronts, plastic and wood props like in some western he had seen. Wind wakes and one falls down.

Morpheus stands at the end of the street and watches, expression not exactly blank but Hob can’t read him now, even less than he could in the waking world.

“You came!” he closes up cheerfully.

Morpheus looks to the side. “This once. You have questions.”

“Yes–” but looking at the man’s face his smile falters, his voice softens. “You look ill.”

The man looks down at him at that with those stars in his black eyes. The stare is hard, like he wants to frighten him. It works only because Hob has no idea what to expect.

“I have rebuilt my palace, my subjects returned and everything is back as it ever has been.”

“But?”

Yet Morpheus is clearly worked up over something.

“They forget their places, and I… You shouldn’t concern yourself with me.”

“That’s not what friends do.”

“Friends…” Dream’s voice is cold.

“We’ve just run these circles” he rolls his eyes.

Morpheus looks at him sharply. “These are my creations who step out of line. Even you were just a mere game at the beginning between me and my sister, Death. We bet on how long it would take for you to break in life and beg for the relief of death, and now you just walk in here like...”

“Death is you sister? Like death Death.”

“Death of the Endless. Destiny, Delirium, Desire, Despair, all the Endless.”

“And you bet on me?” He thinks back to all the days spent together talking, how Dream of the Endless listened to him talking about the world. How he got excited about chimneys and Hob smiles warmly. “You bet against me and were still on my side. You want me to live.”

Morpheus glances at him sideways and it counts as affirmation. Hob laughs softly. The King of Dreams still radiates tension but then something softens about him. Whatever got him this angry, Hob just defused the situation.

"I had no intention to tell you, who I am. The less you know, the better."

“Yet you told me.”

“I hadn’t expected you to make a scene.”

"I bet" he smiles fondly, then really things about what had been said. “It doesn’t matter how it started, I'm still immortal and I wore you down till you went soft on me.”

“You can still be captured or hurt, even if you can’t die.”

Morpheus looks him straight in the eye now, and it makes breathing quite hard. The town is long gone around them, there are only fields with tall grass with the black sand underneath them and broken mirror images above their head. The man’s voice throws Hob back to two hundred years ago when Constantine attacked them in the tavern. How it was the focus point of the turn of events; how the shell of the King of Dreams cracked and he admitted to care for him.

Hob wants to answer but then Morpheus reaches for him again and his breath catches. The gesture is a caress on the cheek but the hand halts just before Dream would touch him. They stare at each other and there is a turmoil and storm in the man’s eyes.

“I was captured. I was…”

“Hurt” Hob ends the sentence softly. There comes no affirmation to this one, just the puzzlement. Hob takes hold of the hand gently, moves into the touch. Morpheus doesn’t draw back but there is a terrible war in his gaze and his features are hard.

“My power is back, I don’t understand why it is harder to deal with this situation than before, but… Meeting you helped” he says. The confession makes Hob feel things he will feel for a very long time after this.

“We can meet aside of our dates, you know that, right? I mean, we are living next door technically. You can just visit whenever.” There is a small smile on the man’s lips. “Things change.”

And Morpheus watches again. He talks with his eyes, Hob could watch him all day.

“But they don’t. Not really. Nightmares cannot become dreams, mortals can’t shed the way they live, I cannot change who or what I am. Our core is a given.”

“Then maybe that’s not our core, that wants to change.” They are still holding hands though the arms were lowered and they stand close to each other. “Why are nightmares?”

“To teach… Strengthen…”

“Why are dreams?” Morpheus understand what he is getting at. Maybe the core is strength, care and darkness, not what’s built around the lessons. “Maybe the two of us are already more core than filler” Hob smiles. “We change harder.”

*

They walk and the scenery changes around them, they pass through ages and lands Hob visited through his life: oceans, isles, continents, distant calm lands and big cities. Some are not familiar and he figures those are from Morpheus memory even though they are in Hob’s dreams. They talk – or rather Hob talks hardly stopping for a breath and Dream listens, but he does listen and smiles sometime like in the Inn a few days ago.

Calm. Private. Soft. Like in that exact moment he has no care for anything else.

Hob’s chest hurts for the thought of leaving, but he feels the morning at the back of his mind. This will be the last place they visit today. And it’s a cliff with a bench at the edge. Waves crush on the stones below, the sun is setting behind their back. It’s beautiful. Romantic.

“Visit me, will you?” he turns back toward the King of Dreams.

“Maybe.”

Hob rolls his eyes, sits on the bench and Morpheus sits beside him. It’s not a long bench, they are quite close. It’s the first time today they are both silent, Hob’s elbows on his knees.

“Can I ask you something important?” He looks back over his shoulder. Morpheus looks at him. “Are you the King of Wet Dreams as well?”

He catches the moment the Dream of the Endless was caught off guard and almost laughs. Like this, he just snorts indignantly but he seems amused.

“You are no prude Hob Gadling. Neither am I. The Dreaming is freedom, comfort, lesson and revelation. The rules you try to force down there has no meaning here. I don’t form the dreams of individuals but love, sex, family, friendship all exists in the Dreaming in abundance without judgement.”

“Except for you?”

“Even for me.” Dream of the Endless watches him seriously again. “I find concept of love beautiful, intimacy and sex meaningful… but reality always lacks compared to the dreams. Shadows. Echoes. Love expires down there, fouls, only stays untouched in the dreams.”

Hob thinks about his lovers through the years, his wife and dead children after he never remarried, tried to avoid having children. He understand and feels for the Dream of the Endless.

“The Dreaming is not a nice place, my friend.” Morpheus says and wind wakes and it blows black sand out of the cliffs they sit on. “It’s just as much terror as comfort. Dreams are distant, cold…”

“And warm and hopeful. Don’t be such a pessimist.”

“I had a mortal lover I banished to Hell because he fell against Desire and Despair. I put her there and she will stay till I forgive her, and I still don’t see myself doing that.” The man stops. “Do you understand this?”

Hob considers, then nods. “I think I do. I also think that your siblings have nothing on me. I met great despair, you have seen me at my lowest. I acted on my desires and I only want to live. See the dreams of humanity filter through your kingdom and become real. Experience everything that’s yet to come. I don’t have despairs or desires but I still have dreams.”

They look at each other and Hob smiles softly seeing the careful expression on Morpheus’ face. Dream of the Endless cups his head, caresses his cheek, leans in but to his forehead.

“It’s time to wake, my dear.”

And Hob does, slowly and easy this time. He just stares at the ceiling and tries to work through the feeling in his chest. When he turns to get up at last, something pokes him. The hourglass with the black sand is still in his pocket.

*

Dream of the Endless is in his throne room with his attention on the books and the Vortex. He cares nothing about Rose Walker but every dream vortex is exciting. This, now is a strong one, threatening. There had been a lot of threats lately. A lot of change.

He thinks about Lucienne in the Library, Gaut, Matthew, the others, he feels unusually bad about them and even more about the fact he can’t just deal with something in his own kingdom.

What changed? What broke?

He thinks about his capture, Hob, and the nature of dreams – then he decides to deal only with the Vortex for now.

That’s the second the first crack happens.

Chapter Text

The King of Dreams stands in his library and watches out the window. The others are gone, even Lucienne gave him some space. His reflection is stuck between him and the outside and there is little sign of the turmoil on that face.

“You were the heart of the Dreaming” he told Fiddler’s Green and his voice broke just a little. His calmest, purest creation, love, comfort and safety in the Dreaming. He put every bit of compassion and wonder into that dream he still had thousands of years ago.

Even when he had no care or concern left, Fiddle’s Green stayed a shelter in the Dreaming for everyone. His creation, a little bit of himself – gone as well. Gone to live and stray while he was imprisoned. He remembers a time when everything in the Dreaming was in his hand, when the lack of compassion didn’t bothered him. When he dealt with every minor thing on his own. Swiftly, effectively, and his subjects knew their places well – not like now.

Then something went out in him. Broke or died in him and he feels that the turmoil inside is cracking the walls the same way the vortex cracks his kingdom. He dealt with that, banished them all from the Dreaming – he doesn’t know how to deal with the damage in himself.

 “You were the hearth of the Dreaming. And you were gone” – Fiddler’s Green told him. The words and accusations echo in him, though there is hardly any sign of them on the reflection. He is not the heart of the Dreaming, he saved that part of himself by putting it into something else and what was left, was definitely not a heart – or was it.

“My Lord” Lucienne comes back.

“I will deal with the Corinthian” he moves from the window.

So he does that: uncreates his failed nightmare he was so proud of ages ago, argues the Vortex, punishes the killers, watches Rose Walker drive away and he stands there for a moment. There is a little bit of time till the girls sleeps.

*

This hourglass is the strangest thing. Even when Hob turns it, the sand doesn’t flow. It stands on his nightstand, though he does slip it into his pocket every time he leaves home for a longer period of time. Now it’s late in the afternoon, he is at home. Meals and drinks are already prepared, he is making the last touches on his shirt and hair – there are a few colleagues from the English Department invited over for dinner. They do this once a month and he finds it quite nice.

Outside it’s raining heavily, he had to turn on the lights.

He just prepares some books they were going to talk about when he sees the sand flowing in the hourglass: from the bottom to the top. A sign from the Dreaming. He hadn’t visited that side since that time a few days ago. There was also no word from the King of Dreams. They went with meeting each other once in every hundred years, so he wasn’t particularly nervous yet, though he did miss Morpheus and their dream together.

Now he looks around excitedly.

“Dream?” he leaves the bedroom to go to the living room. “Are you here?”

Then there is a knock on the door. He hurries there, opens it and smiles warmly at the King of Dreams standing outside.

“You come knocking everywhere?” he arches a brow and steps aside to let the other in. “I thought you to be the turn up out of nowhere kind of guy.”

There is a shadow of a smile on the man as he passes by him into the flat.

“This is no formal meeting.”

He grins “Thank the gods, I am all out of formal attires.”

They stare at each other and that softness in there again in Dream’s eye. The same smile as in the Inn. Butterflies flutter in Hob’s stomach, the memories are too real again. He wants to kiss the man badly, it’s great effort to not stare at his lips.

“This is no dream now, is it?”

“No. You are wide awake.”

“Good” he swallows. “Either way. Can I offer you anything? Dinner? Wine? Something stronger?”

“No” Dream says immediately, then reconsiders. Hob sees the gears turning in his mind. “Yes. If you are offering. I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Intrude?” he cocks a brow already leading Morpheus to the table. “Listen to me, my dear friend, cause I tell this only once: You are welcome here anytime.” There is a moment again as they look at each other and Hob is happy and grateful for the look Morpheus gives him.

“And this…” he takes the food out of the oven. “is my one surefire dinner. I’ve been making this since the 1600’ with some minor changes here and there, and let me tell you, there is nobody on Earth making this better than I do.”

“And only five people remember there had been a dish like this at all.”

“Maybe true, but it’s still the best it could be.” He puts food on two plates, places them on the table in front of them. “And this is the beer which goes with it.”

He sits then watches as Dream tries it, how he contemplates every bite, drinks his beer then smiles. Hob feels extremely proud.

“Careful, don’t flood me with so much compliment.”

“It’s good.”

“Good??” He pretends offense. Dream looks smug. Hob realizes he loves him and remembers what was said in the dream. “Would taste better in the Dreaming?”

Morpheus considers this. “No. But it’s not the food, it’s the moment.”

Hob grins so widely as an answer, it hurts. “Well then…”

They eat dinner: Dream is silent, listening to Hob talk his ear off about his days, the Academia, the things he learned about in the last few days. It’s nice. Familiar. Domestic in a strange way. But he also watches and sees the storm in his friend under the surface. Drowned, strangled emotions are in his every move, glance, small smile. Hob doesn’t pushes now, but in his own way, he listens.

*

Hob puts the plates into the sink and the food back into the oven to keep it warm for later. He considers another beer then decides against it. Dream stand in the living room part of the apartment, at the window, one hand keeping the curtain to the side. He watches the world outside, features empty and distant.

Hob can’t have that. He walks up to him, puts his hand gently on his back. Morpheus throws him a side glance then looks back out of the window, eases into the touch a little, lets himself lean just a little bit closer. Their reflection seem like Hob is holding him. He studies the King of Dreams.

“You still look ill” he says softly.

“Ill?” Morpheus considers it this time. “Maybe I am ill. I… I am a form of a concept, a wish, a hope. I am the Dreaming: every wish, every color, joy, fear. I created every dream and nightmare and put a tiny bit of myself into them. And I loved them once.” Dream’s voice breaks a little, their eyes meet in the reflection. “Thousands of years ago, a different set of dreams, before my son died.”

Hob swallows, he knows this kind of loss very well. Anger creeps into Dream’s voice.

“I am the master of my realm. The sole lord of that world. I’m not wrong. I’m not out of my element. Nothing escapes me… Except now. When I met misfortune, my creatures left to see the world, my palace crumbled and I can’t seem to find my footing back to what I was.”

“Maybe it’s growth.”

“Growth?” Dream snarls.

Hob shrugs. “Who is beyond growth?”

“Maybe you are still too young to get this.”

“Maybe you are not in the right mindset right now to think straight.”

He expects a long argument, and Morpheus does seem angry and upset, for a second, but the man just thinks about this a little. Then he makes a face.

“It’s not growth. The opposite of that.” Morpheus’s expression changes as something shift. He throws a side glance, his voice is now hollow when he carries on.

“I had been imprisoned by mortals for more than a hundred years. They stole from me, kept me behind ancient sigils and a glass cage without food and air. They killed my raven. My creations came here to live while I was there and I can’t understand why. This world is a shadow, it fouls and kills dreams. I serve the mortals, I’m at their mercy in regards of things even if I’m endless, but I can’t find joy and wonder here like my sister or you. Some mortals are interesting, but I cannot love them.”

For a second they just stand there is silence, Hob thinks about the suffering his friend went through while he was drinking whisky in the tavern, waiting. He takes Dream’s hand gently.

“I’m so sorry.”

Dream turns to him, looks at him and his gaze is deep. Endless. Hurt. Now Hob sees the dark and stars in them again, the eons, hopes, fears, joy and sadness: everything that was, will or could be, every mortal, every death, idea, daydream and fairytale.

“I saved into my creatures what was left of me ages ago. There had been only cold after that. Now there is only storm. I am not the heart of the Dreaming” he says quietly.

Something breaks in Hob’s chest, he reaches out, cups Morpheus’ face, pulls him to himself; their foreheads touch, noses brush, his hand buries into Dream’s messy, soft hair, while the man’s hands feel warm and heavy on his side.

“But you are, love” he says softly onto the lips. “You are. You are all tough love, pride and compassion. It’s just a hiccup. A bump. You just broke a little, like the rest of us.” He caresses Morpheus’ neck, shoulder. The King of Dreams pushes closer. “It’s nothing that can’t be mended and healed. Let me help you. Let me…”

He feels a breath close on his lip, he kisses Morpheus and Morpheus kisses him back immediately. Forcefully. The curtain tears from its hinges as they turn and Hob pushes the man against the glass with a noise. They kiss like they are crazy, drowning: Morpheus’s long fingers are in his hair, his lips hurt, chest hurts, he is dizzy with want, compassion and emotion. He kisses Morpheus’s jaw, bites, kisses and tastes his neck, his hands find their way under the black cloths, up on a naked back, soft warm skin, and Morpheus pushes against him with his lips in Hob’s hair, keeps him close with one arm, the other one works on his belt, their bodies are flat and hard against each other – when the bell buzzes.

Hob groans and curses. He kisses Morpheus again, but then someone knocks and calls his name. Several someone. The kisses stop reluctantly but the touches stay and they linger in each other arms still. He hugs Dream tight but gentle, buries his face into his neck, draws circles on his back under the clothes. Dream’s arms come up around him, he hugs him back, Hob feels a head laid onto his shoulder.

He is aroused. Vehemently protective, but Morpheus’ touches calm him. Then the bell buzzes again, twice this time.

“I’ll send them away” Hob moves reluctantly. “Or kill them.”

“No” Dream stops him softly, holding his hand.

“Then stay. It won’t be long. I feed them, seat them for an hour and send them home. Think of it as socializing with the locals.”

“I have duties elsewhere, must deal with a vortex.” Hob looks at him exasperatedly. “I couldn’t have lingered anyway, but I can come back.”

Morpheus is different now: he smiles a little, fond and calm. His expression’s not as guarded and cold, cloths not that straight, hair just as messy. Hob smiles too, just as fond. He could make the Dream of the Endless laugh, could help him ease the storms, anger and tension – mend what was broken now and all those thousands of years ago.

They have all the time to do everything properly.

“You see the worth of this world when you talk to me, don’t you? That’s how we became friends.” Dream watches and that’s a yes. “Then live life with me! I won’t just talk to you about what I live, I will show you. I will bring you there and we can try out things together.” The bell buzzes again, there are people chatting out in the hallway. “Please.”

Morpheus considers him, then something shifts about him and he smiles a little again. “Very well, Hob Gadlin, I shall visit you, when this is over.”

Hob grins widely, Morpheus cups his cheek again as he passes to the door. He watches after him for long as he passes his guests and looks back before he disappears down the stairs. A woman, one of his coworker watches as well then winks at him.

“Who is the dark and handsome, Robert? Are you hiding a lover from us, dear?” she jokes.

“He is a very good friend of mine.”

“Friend, huh?”

Hob smiles. “A lover actually.”

The woman claps him on the shoulder. He is distracted through the whole night.

*

*

*

“Down with the boots’” Hob orders. Dream frowns and makes a face. “Oh, come on! And you also can’t complain about it just to be a foul sport. The lakeside is not for everybody but we won’t know till you try.”

He reluctantly takes his boots of. The breeze tickles his feet and feeling is terrible. Hob chuckles as he sees his expression and he squints at him sternly.

“Now the shirt!”

His jacket is already lying beside them on the plaid.

“The sun hurts.” There is a sunshade above them and still. Hob considers this standing above him.

“Yeah. You are way too white for this age. UV would get you quickly if you were mortal. Just unbutton it a little then!” He doesn’t wait though and kneels to unbutton it himself. Dream lets him, this is just a game after all with its own set of rules and dance moves.

He sits on the ground with his coat and boots beside him, in trousers, barefoot and with three open buttons. Hob only wears a short at this point, his neck and chest is peppered with kissing marks. Dream smiles softly, traces one, the man grins.

“Now you sit here, enjoy the view and I will be back with drinks and snacks.”

He is left alone for now among the people on the lakeside. He watches them, thinks about the vortex, the Dreaming, the new dreams and nightmares, how close he became to unleashing something terrible by walking into Desire’s trap.

He caresses the grass beside him, the sun is warm on his skin, people are chatting and laughing about. He still doesn’t get it but being here sometimes does feel nice.

“So I brought…” starts Hob as he arrives back, but as Dream looks up he sees his sister on the other side of the lake. Hob sees her too and his breath catches.

“Is she?”

“She’s not here for you.” Death waves them enthusiastically, Dream nods back in greeting. “You would like her.”

“Maybe.” Hob is nervous. “Not just yet through. But maybe thank her in my place, huh, when you get the chance.” Dream pulls him down and he sits, but does not leg go of Dream’s hand till he doesn’t see the woman anymore. Then he leans against Dream with a sigh, he kisses his head and they sit like that for almost one whole minute – then Hob starts talking.

“So last week in Sweden, when you were doing that nightmare, I had been in that observatory, and…” He talks and Dream listens, the grass tickles his feet and he smiles a little. He still doesn’t gets everything, but this, like this, is really very nice sometimes.