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The first time Dream mentioned Matthew, Hob's breath was stolen from him. He literally, physically could not suck in any more air. It was an innocuous statement, all told, but the implication of it turned something sideways in Hob Gadling's interpretation of the world.
"Matthew will assemble a search party if I don't return soon," Dream had said with a sigh. As if Hob ought to have known who this Matthew fellow was.
"Do you... have a prior engagement?" Hob had asked, when his faculties returned enough to form words.
"Yes and no," was the Endless's unsurprisingly vague answer.
"Is Matthew a colleague?" Hob's voice was tight. Dream scoffed.
"Certainly not," he uncrossed his long legs, one knee hitting the underside of the table as he did.
"A... a friend?" Please say no, Hob's mind begged. Dream's expression turned contemplative.
"Of a sort, I suppose." Hob felt sick.
"I see. How long have you two known each other?" Hob knew he wasn't the most important person in the world, and that his friend was a being of untold power and influence. Of course he'd have more than one friend, no one lives as long as Dream did without some sort of long-lasting connection. It's just that Hob had fought so hard and so long for the title he'd somehow (stupidly) assumed he was the only one to bear the honor.
"A month, more or less. But I must away, Hob Gadling. I will see you again soon." Jealousy raged in Hob, and even the promise of seeing Dream again—much less soon—did not assuage it.
Hob sat in the New Inn for hours after Dream walked away, staring uselessly at the pile of ungraded papers he'd taken out when his friend left. Hob had no right to be as upset as he was, and he knew it.
But really, truly, how was he supposed to feel when the man-shaped thing that had been his touchstone, been his rock for over six hundred years so casually admitted that someone else had earned the honor of friendship after only a month? Hob was not a stupid man, nor was he in denial—he saw his feelings as what they were, and had made peace with them being unrequited. But this blow stung.
The second time Dream brought up Matthew was no less painful than the first, though Hob had the benefit of being prepared for it at least.
"Matthew told me to just 'Google it,' which is not an appropriate or useful answer," Dream had grouched.
"Do you even know what Google is?" Hob replied dully.
"He explained it to me," Dream handwaved the question away. Of course, Matthew had explained Google. Hob seethed.
"I am a teacher, you know. If you had a question about human sexuality, you could have just asked me," and though Hob made a conscious effort to keep the ire from his voice, at least a little bit of it must have bled through if the look on Dream's face was anything to go by.
"I should think not. Why would I burden you with such trivial matters as an errant question?" Dream leaned back in his chair, one hand cupping the still steaming mug of tea he'd yet to take a sip from.
"Because we're friends? Because I like to see you, talk to you—just, hang out?" Hob's brow furrowed.
"I, too, enjoy our talks, Hob Gadling. But that would mean my leaving my realm to find you. If Matthew can answer the same questions, then I would simply ask him." So Matthew lived in the Dreaming. While the hot spear of jealousy was still present, knowing that this other companion of his friend was just a dream made him feel marginally better.
"But if you created Matthew, how would he know anything that you don't know yourself?" Hob had always been a bit fuzzy on the details of Dream's realm and how it worked—the anthropomorphic personification of a human concept was a difficult thing to understand, after all.
"I did not create Matthew," Dream corrected. "He was a mortal, at one time." Hob's brow furrowed.
"Oh," he said. But what he meant was 'then he's just like me.' Jealousy simmered as hurt was stirred into the mix. "How did you meet, then?" Hob Gadling was a masochist, he had to be.
"Matthew assisted me in the retrieval of my tools." Hob took a sip of his lager that was impolitely large.
"I could have given you a hand," he mumbled.
"Certainly not, it was entirely too dangerous. I would never expose you to such harm. Regardless, as a human, immortal or no, I could not have taken you to Hell with me." Dream had the terrible habit of dropping the smallest tidbits of information that had the biggest fucking stories behind them.
"You went to hell with Matthew? You—you—why?" Hob had known the retrieval of Dream's tools had taken time and effort, but Dream had not deigned to regale him with the mechanisms of their recovery.
"Yes. A demon was in possession of my helm. I faced Lucifer in a duel to win it back," Dreams eyes, always so far away, seemed even further now as he lost himself in the memory.
"And Matthew helped you in this duel? Against literally Satan." Hob was not a religious man, but he had been a medieval peasant. He'd unpack the existence of Hell and all the moral and emotional quandaries that brought up later.
"No, he could not. It would not have been allowed. Though—I am loathed to admit this—had he not been there, I would have been worse for it." If Hob ever met this Matthew fellow, he could not be responsible for his actions.
The third time Dream of the Endless mentioned Matthew, Hob was in the middle of making them dinner. He'd just taken the quiche from the oven and was finishing the vinegarette for the salad when Dream's quiet observation broke his heart just a bit more.
"Matthew would like this, I think. He often complains of how food just isn't the same in his current form. I understand, to a degree; humans do so love their small indulgences, do they not?" Hob wasn't sure if it was a rhetorical question, but he gave a half-hearted shrug anyway.
"Sure we do. Life isn't worth living if there's nothing to live for.” When Hob sat the quiche on the table, it was with a smidge more force than necessary. Dream's brow shot up at the display, but he did not remark upon it. "So am I ever going to get to meet the famous Matthew?" Hob asked over his shoulder as he returned to the kitchen to fetch the salad.
"If that would please you. " Hob didn't think 'please' was the right word, per se. "Matthew is my envoy to the Waking world. He is my eyes and ears, and can cross the threshold more easily than I. I will send him to you when he returns from his scouting." Hob faintly regretted asking.
"He must be a pretty powerful guy, then," he observed, busying his hands with serving the food.
"In a sense. But also not." Hob laughed, but it sounded bitter even to his own ears.
"I hate when you give those nonsense answers, you know." The corners of Dream's lips quirked up just the slightest bit, as if amused by his human companion's ire.
"I know."
Several weeks went by without Hob hearing from Dream again. It was not unusual, even though they met far more frequently now than their previous centennial engagements. Dream of the Endless was a busy creature, and had many responsibilities to attend to. Hob understood, but he always held out a smidge of hope his friend would find him again soon.
That's why, when he made the climb up the stairs from the bar to his flat, the noise of the television didn't alarm him. Dream often let himself in, and while he'd never previously shown interest in television, he often occupied himself by fiddling with Hob's new technologies. He had a lot of catching up to do, after all.
"Dream?" He called out as he opened the door, pausing to slide his shoes off and drop his messenger bag. The living room was empty, and no lights were on in the flat, save for the glow of the tv screen. "Dream?" He called again, flicking on light switches as he investigated further. Trepidation started to tighten his shoulders, and his eyes flicked nervously about, searching for anything out of place.
"Sorry bro, the boss is busy," a man's voice came from behind him—the kitchen. Hob whirled around, but saw no one.
"Who are you?" Where are you, he wanted to ask. Hob stalked into the kitchen and turned the light on. There, in the middle of the floor, pecking at an overturned box of granola, was a large raven. He stilled.
"Sorry about the mess, I got hungry and the boss insisted I wait here for you." The raven said. The raven fucking said.
"The boss." Hob echoed faintly, sinking heavily into one of his kitchen chairs. A talking raven wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever encountered, but it was certainly in the top five.
"Yeah, the boss. You know, Morpheus, King of Dreams? Dream of the Endless? Oneiros? The boss!" Hob nodded.
"Sure. Dream sent you. Is everything alright? Is he..." Hob didn't want to think worst-case scenario, but knowing now that his friend had been captured, that he could be captured, had Hob perennially on edge.
"Everything is fine!" The raven assured. "The boss just said you wanted to meet me is all." Hob frowned down at his guest, who had abandoned his snack to hop over to Hob's feet.
"Meet you?" The raven cocked its head.
"Yes, meet me. Man, the boss said you were a smart guy, but I'm not sure I see where those praises have been coming from." Hob continued to stare at the raven, its words tumbling about in his otherwise empty brain. His jaw dropped as realization hit upon him.
"Matthew?" The raven puffed out its chest, flapping its wings to come sit atop the kitchen table.
"The very one!" Hob's face dropped into his hands. Laughter, totally unbidden, spilled from his lips and his shoulders shook with mirth.
"A raven. You're a fucking raven," tears streak down his face, and he could barely form the words around his chuckles.
"Well, duh. Didn't the boss mention that bit?" Hob shook his head. His chest was tight from lack of air, and he struggled to regain his composure.
"No, Matthew. He definitely did not mention that bit."