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Dream of the Endless had never been what you'd describe as particularly compassionate. At least up until recently. He could say that it was necessitated by his very nature (which he has), but anyone who's ever met his older sister would immediately call bullshit (which they have). A century spent in a glorified fishbowl changes you, however. And so does realizing you've wronged almost every single person who'd even remotely cared for you in the span of your, some would say, ridiculously long life. It also makes you never want to repeat those same mistakes ever again, to fix everything you so callously broke. But some damage cannot be undone.
Oh, he'd tried, believe him. He'd apologised profusely (alright, not... profusely. But he had apologised, that had to count for something, did it not?) and vowed to himself to never again let his pride and his fear drive him to hurt a friend. A vow that had proven harder to keep than it by any right should've been. However, Dream was not about to stop trying any time soon (and considering what would constitute "soon" to an Endless, this was not a promise he made lightly. Then again, neither was any other.)
He was lucky. Not only had Hob forgiven his frankly petulant display at being perceived a little too clearly for comfort back in 1889, he had also, for some inexplicable reason, showed genuine concern for Dream's own well-being upon finding out exactly why he'd missed their centennial date. The man even confessed to feeling guilty for not somehow hearing of Dream's plight earlier and coming to his rescue (a guilt wholly and utterly misplaced, as Dream had immediately assured him). He would be lying if he said he'd never in his long and miserable years of capture wondered what would happen had Hob known he'd been there. If he'd have stormed into that loathsome basement, broken the lifeless icy glass and taken Dream away from there, taken him home. (In his darkest moments he'd thought that, perhaps, Hob had known. That he'd decided Dream wasn't worth his time, wasn't worth the aid of the man he hadn't even been able to call his friend.)
He'd stopped wondering after while. After Jessamy. It'd be better if Hob stayed away.
Dream was not in that basement anymore. He wasn't and he was never going back there, not if he had anything to say on the matter. Which he did. So. That was that.
Except, of course, it wasn't. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, Dream felt like part of him had never left that basement. Part of him was still trapped in the glass cage with no air, no sun, no starlight and only a distant memory of dreams for company.
So it was not hard at all for Dream to see that Hob was trapped as well. Different parts of him scattered across time in different basements. Human atrocities so vast and all-encompassing, they still reverberated throughout the Dreaming to this day and personal tragedies so devastating, the world-shattering grief had made a permanent home in Hob's eyes.
And one of those fragments, to Dream's despair, was trapped in 1889.
Hob hadn't been the one to tell him. Of course he hadn't. No, Hob had been quick to forgive and quicker to console, quick to push down all the hurt that had gathered up inside him, in fear of, what? Driving Dream away? (Again?)
So, no, Hob hadn't said a thing. But, despite not being reliably compassionate throughout the years, Dream was and had always been incredibly perceptive. He did feel every single emotion the dreamers had in his realm, after all, so he had to be quite apt at recognising them. And what he saw in Hob was fear. Not of him, never of him. Hob was incredibly adamant in his refusal to be scared of the objectively menacing immortal entity of unknown power with whom he met once a century (since the terms of their deal had been clarified to him). He was stubborn like that.
So, after a while Dream had had to admit that Hob's fear was not of him, but of losing him. It laced their every interaction, bled through the cracks in Hob's carefree facade and cut deep into the mangled thing Dream still dared to call a heart.
But that wasn't entirely fair. Hob wasn't constantly afraid, not so much so that there wasn't room for anything else. There was wonder in the way he looked at the world around them, still not quite used to the rapidly advancing technological marvels, passion in the way he talked about teaching, a craft he'd taken up relatively recently and was still enamored with, pride in how he moved around The New Inn, a place he'd made so that Dream would have somewhere to return to (a fact that Dream still couldn't bring himself to fully process, for he feared he'd break the moment he did).
There was love. So much love, it threatened to drown him. It was in everything Hob did, every word he said, every unconscious gesture, every expertly mixed drink was overflowing with love and with a constant, vibrant, unfiltered delight at being alive. Dream had almost forgotten what it was like to be around him. Now he wondered how he'd ever been able to spend days away, let alone centuries.
One time Dream had looked into Hob's eyes and found adoration within. It had taken away the breath he only had because after a century without air one grew to appreciate it, however unnecessary. He tried not to think of that look too much for the same reason he tried not to ponder the implications of The New Inn (and failed just the same). Hob had seemed like he'd wanted to say something back then. Something vital. Important. Instead he'd shut down and Dream had been met with that then-unfamiliar fear.
Since then Hob seemed to catch himself often. He'd say or do something wonderful, then freeze and either backpaddle or look at Dream like a deer in the headlights, waiting to be hit. When Dream had finally realised what'd been happening, he'd felt sick. He'd taken Hob's hand in his and pulled him into a hug they'd both used to hide the tears threatening to spill over and drown them both.
This was entirely his fault and he'd be damned twice over if he didn't do everything in his power to fix it.
Now it was happening again. As it had many times before and as it would less and less until it stopped happening for good, if Dream had anything to say on the matter. Which he did. So. That was that.
(Every time Hob feared Dream would leave, he stayed. He stayed, deliberately and pointedly so, until Hob wasn't afraid anymore. And then he stayed, still.
In the year since their reunion Hob had began to fear less and less. But it hadn't stopped altogether.)
"Why, duck? Did you miss me?"
He had.
Hob's grin fell and Dream missed that, too. It had been radiant, so full of life, shining even through his exhaustion. Now his face was twisted in terror of losing his closest friend, all because he'd dared to presume to be loved.
"Yes" he said earnestly, an apology and a declaration in equal measure.
Hob looked stunned, his quiet disbelief sending a jolt of heartache through Dream. He wanted to cry.
He wanted to kiss Hob's own tears from his eyes, to pull him into his lap and never let go for as long as both of them lived. (Forever.)
Instead he reached over and wiped away a single tear. He had come here for a reason, he supposed. With his other hand he pulled Hob's face down and planted a gentle kiss on his forehead. Hob's face fell on Dream's shoulder. Dream cradled him to his chest, hands moving in soothing patterns through the man's hair.
"Dream, what did you-"
"Shh, go to sleep, Hob. I will meet you in the Dreaming," he promised.
Hob's breathless chuckle sent a wave of such fondness through Dream, that he couldn't bring himself to even consider being offended when he spoke.
"You twat."
Dream sighed softly, his tiny smile blessedly unseen.
See? I'm still here. I'll always be here.
Some damage cannot be undone. But he intended to try. After all, he was nothing if not persistent.