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"Dream… are you feeling okay?"
Truthfully, he was worn out. He'd promised Hob to come back, and Dream had dealt with the matters that had required handling before coming back to visit. He'd sent Matthew ahead to ask if Hob was free on the relevant mortal date.
"Nothing I cannot handle," Dream said, still standing. "Repairing my realm was an effort, even for one such as I." He wondered if he was lying to himself and Hob. His forehead burned, his limbs ached, but he had promised Hob to arrive on this date, this time. He would not stand Hob up again.
Of course, standing up in general was getting difficult, and he was so focused on it that he didn't hear Hob's concerned words that followed. Maybe he should sit. He took a step, trying to find the couch, and his bones ignited in starfire.
"Dream!" Hob's voice sounded incredibly far away.
Dream wasn't quite unconscious. There were still sensations, lights and sounds and Hob's hands, but he couldn't move, speak, open his eyes. Something burned deep in his self, painfully and without end, like Lucifer's nova. Something cold and wet pressed over his forehead. A soft, involuntary sound escaped.
"Easy there, you've got quite the fever."
"Ah," Dream finally managed. "I had wondered." His eyes still hurt too much to open. He was on his back on Hob's sofa.
"Is this something you'll need to go back to the Dreaming for? To recover from?" Hob draped something soft over his body.
"I do not think so."
"You shouldn't have made yourself come, Dream."
"I promised you, Hob."
"I would have understood." Hob's hand brushed damp hair out of Dream's face.
Dream turned his head into Hob's fingers, not wanting the contact to end. "I owed it to you. And I wanted to come." He finally opened his eyes despite the ache. Hob was so close to him. Despite the feverish heat, he desperately wanted more of the warmth emanating from Hob's hands and body.
"You don't owe me anything. But now that you're here, will you at least rest?"
"I do not have much say in the matter, do I?"
"No. You don't." Hob smiled. Once Dream would have been furious for the presumption. But that was over a century ago, in another time. "Go to sleep, Dream."
Hob's gentle command was like Dream himself ordering someone to sleep or wake up: the effect nearly immediate. His eyes slid shut against his will, exhaustion and fever taking him.
Hob pondered the best course of action, and then decided on what he always did: Food and tea. He put on a kettle, haphazardly cobbled a soup together, and then sat back down with a book. After a while, he felt something pressed against his side. He looked down to see Dream snuggling closer in his sleep. Even as he watched, Dream shifted closer, hands curling against Hob's sweater, burying his face into Hob's side.
Hob shifted the cold cloth, draping it over the back of Dream's neck instead of his forehead. His friend shivered, clinging like a drowning creature, and didn't wake. Well. This is new. The heat radiating off Dream still concerned Hob, but better to let him rest. He ran his hand through Dream's hair a bit idly as he flipped the book open to its proper page.
At least ten minutes passed before Dream shifted again, a soft noise vibrating from his chest. It took Hob a few seconds to realize it sounded like a cat purring. Hob blinked, then shrugged a bit. Cats were delightful and strange creatures, had a tendency to hide their hurts, could be fickle and very firm with boundaries… Hob liked cats, but it hadn't quite occurred to him before now how much like a cat Dream was.
Another hour or so passed. Dream groaned softly, and Hob's eyes snapped downward. His friend's blue eyes were open. The flush on his cheeks was still pronounced, but there was more clarity in his expression. "Hey, Dream."
Dream woke up, slowly, and then had several realizations:
He'd tried to show up for a scheduled meetup with Hob, despite his body's feverish protests. He remembered burning heat and disorientation, Hob insisting he sleep. Secondly, his hands were fisted Hob's sweater, and he was essentially cuddling into the man. Thirdly, Hob didn't seem to mind.
"Hey, Dream."
"Hi, Hob," Dream replied, managing to extricate himself somewhat from Hob's sweater and side. Almost immediately, he missed the contact.
"I made soup," Hob announced. "No, don't you dare get up, I'm bringing it here."
When had it gotten so hard to argue with Hob? He pulled one of the blankets tighter, managing to at least sit up. By the time Dream had even tried to put his feet on the floor, Hob had returned, settling back in beside him with two thermos bottles. Hob's proximity rendered it almost impossible to continue his stealthy attempt at getting upright.
The soup did smell delicious, and it came with tea.
"I do need… to tell Lucienne and Matthew before they worry," Dream finally said, sleepily listing into Hob's side.
"You can tell them when you sleep, right?"
"...Right." Sicker than he thought if he couldn't even remember that.
They were woken by a knock on the door.
Hob extricated Dream's hands from his shirt once again, laying him down, and went to peer through the peephole. A vibrant young Black woman, in a dark tank-top and wearing an ankh necklace, waved. "Hello, Hob!"
He opened the door, a bit confused, and then - "We've met before, haven't we?" A smoke filled tavern centuries ago, a woman who had accompanied a stranger dressed head to toe in black and wearing a ruby.
"Yep!" She grinned. "I'm Dream's sister."
Sister? Hob poked his head back toward the living room. "Hey, Dream, we've got a visitor! Your sister?" To Dream's sister: "He came down with something. Didn't even know he could get sick."
"His Raven told me," she said. "Thought I'd come help out with babysitting duty."
"Death, my dear sister, I do not need to be babysat." Dream's voice was raspy and weak.
"Death?" Hob said incredulously. "Wait - okay. One second. Come in. Do you want tea?"
The personification of Death grinned again, and hopped inside. "I'd love tea."
Death had come bearing the film Mary Poppins and enough fresh produce to put a farmer's market out of commission. Hob had gone to shower and do other things, things he presumably hadn't done since Dream had been laid out on his couch.
"Dream, be honest with me, are you okay?"
"Do I look 'okay?'" Dream quirked an eyebrow, gesturing to his flushed and burning skin.
"Emotionally, you daft idiot."
"It… has been a lot. But I think I will be."
"Good. I've been worried about my little brother." Death ran her fingers through his hair, and he involuntarily leaned into it.
"It was Desire, you know. They… wanted me to spill family blood."
"Oh, Dream." An undercurrent of anger laced her voice. "Do you want me to talk to them?"
"I gave them a warning… I do not know if they will heed it, but. Their goal was… to humble me. Make me treat them like an equal. I am not sure why they think that - that - will -" His voice stopped working for several long seconds, as if there was no air, as if he was inside a glass bubble.
Death pulled Dream closer, and his head fell into her shoulder.
"There - there wasn't air - I could not have called for anyone if I had tried by the time I thought to."
"You can breathe now, Dream." His forehead radiated heat.
"They wanted you - I couldn't let them have you - so I stayed silent, until I couldn't speak if I tried -"
"Shh. Shh. I know. I know, baby brother." She rocked him a bit. "I'm sorry we couldn't come for you."
"Sister -" And then he began sobbing silent rivers into her shoulder.
Hob settled in on their other side, hair damp from the shower, and reached out tentatively before rubbing circles into Dream's back, until the sobs stopped and Dream had slipped into something like sleep.
"You're good with him," Hob said softly. "I'm glad he has people like you."
"I'm glad he has people like you," Death replied, gaze soft. "This isn't just because he's sick, you know. He's opened up some."
Dream's fever broke later that evening, though he still looked like shit, if Hob was being honest. "More soup for you," he proclaimed. "Death, want some soup? I added some of the tomatoes you brought."
"Soup would be lovely," she said brightly.
Later, after Death had put in the Mary Poppins DVD - "How come you know so much more about how to do human things than he does?" Hob demanded - Dream felt himself melting, boneless, into Hob, Death's arm slung around his other shoulder. A low rumble sprang up in his chest, like a cat purring.
"You're like an overgrown cat," Death said, chuckling.
"I must still be overly feverish," Dream said, trying to justify his clinginess but aware of how weak the excuse was.
Death poked him. "Just admit you're comfortable."
"...Fine. I'm comfortable."
"Yes!" Death pumped a fist in the air.
Dream brought one hand up to cover his face, groaning. "Sister, must you make a production of it?"
"You're the one making a production of it. Shut up and watch the movie," she ordered him.
Hob laughed, softly, at the exchange.
"...Fine," Dream said again, but with no heat, and dropped his hand, until Hob took it.
It was safe and warm.