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"I still can't believe your real name is 'Morpheus Endless' and your fake name is 'John Murphy'," Hob snickered.
Morpheus glared. Hob took his hand, which was as much affection as Hob dared display on the train, particularly with Morpheus in such a sour mood at having to see his parents. Morpheus' parents lived on a large estate outside London, too far to visit often but close enough that it wasn't much trouble to visit once a year for an annual family dinner. Morpheus had looked positively murderous about the whole affair even as he invited Hob to accompany him. "Might as well get it over with," he had grumbled when Hob accepted.
Now, on the train to the Endless estate, Hob said, "It's a lovely name, just a bit unusual."
Morpheus continued to sulk. He had little positive to say about his family, save for his older sister Teleute. Hob remembered all too well Morpheus' statements that his family had not attempted to help when he had been kidnapped, and that Morpheus was not used to being offered help. Apparently the rest of the Endless had been content to leave Morpheus in loneliness and grief and mental crisis, which rankled Hob. When he asked why Morpheus even went to the annual dinner if he hated it so much, Morpheus had simply replied "They are my family", which Hob didn't think an adequate excuse, but he was curious about the family that had produced his brilliant, beautiful boyfriend so he had stopped pushing the matter and had focused instead on trying to cheer up Morpheus.
A chauffeur picked them up from the train station, at which point Hob realised he was about to be dealing with people who had Money. The uniformed chauffeur held the door for them and called Morpheus "Sir", and the car had buttery leather seats and tinted windows. The engine turned so smoothly that Hob was caught by surprise when the scenery outside started moving.
Morpheus brooded the entire ride. Hob stared at the glimpses of mansions that they passed, magnificent monstrosities looming behind pruned trees and at the ends of snakelike driveways closed off with elaborate gates and fences. The Endless estate was marked by a wrought iron gate worked into filigree flowers and vines, and a long smoothly-paved driveway brought them to a grim, Gothic manor, replete with stained glass, arched windows, and pointed stonework on the roof.
As they climbed out of the car Morpheus whispered, "Do not let them rile you."
Hob got the feeling the instruction was for Morpheus as well as for Hob, and in front of the sweeping staircase to the elaborate front door Hob pulled Morpheus into a gentle kiss. He rested their foreheads together, cradling Morpheus' face between his hands. "Don't worry, love. It's one dinner. We'll get through this."
Morpheus clasped Hob's hand and led him into the house, through a massive front hall to a large dining room, without stopping to show any of the rooms they passed along the way. The dining room had to be large, for ten chairs were placed at sizable intervals around an oblong table of dark wood. The chairs were tall-backed and looked too intricately carved to be comfortable, and seven of them were occupied. Morpheus led them to the two open seats next to each other, at one end of the table, while Hob took in the black-and-cream striped wallpaper and black chandelier and the black stone fireplace in which crackled a strong fire. Despite the flames, the room was cold.
The people seated around the table were odd, to say the least. Morpheus, black-clad and deathly pale with uncombed hair and a dour expression, fit right in. When Hob's parents were still alive, family get-togethers brimmed with chatter and laughter, cosy hugs, jokes and singing. There was none of that here. The family sat in awkward silence until Morpheus and Hob took their places.
"You made it!" the woman seated cross from Hob beamed. She seemed friendly enough. Like Morpheus she was wearing all black, though her outfit was decorated with a silver ankh necklace. "Just in time!"
"Pity," muttered the person seated on Hob's left. They were very beautiful, with short hair and strange golden eyes that Hob assumed were the effect of contacts. They looked Hob up and down, then grinned. "Not a massive step down from Calliope," they crooned in a tone that suggested approval despite the somewhat insulting description. Then again, Hob had seen the gorgeous Calliope so he really couldn't find it in himself to be terribly insulted by the comparison.
Morpheus made the introductions, going counter-clockwise from the woman on Morpheus' right to the person on Hob's left. He indicated the woman seated at the foot of the table. "Mother."
Mother offered no other name by which Hob was to call her. She was a portly, beautiful woman with a cascade of long black hair threaded with silver. Her shimmering lavender dress was rather tight and low-cut for a family get-together, and quite at odds with everyone else's attire.
Morpheus gestured to the empty chair across from himself. "Olethros, our Prodigal. He will not come."
The woman across from Hob was Teleute. She waved when Morpheus introduced her. Her heavy silver ankh necklace glinted brightly in the dim room.
"Potmos." The man so named was shrouded in a gigantic worn brown hood. He had pushed his empty plate back and set a thick book on the table and was reading, his thin fingers trailing rapidly along Braille lines.
"Morpheus," Potmos intoned, but didn't acknowledge Hob at all.
"Manea." Seated at the other end of the table, Manea looked to be the youngest. She was very short and thin. Her head was half-shaved, and the unshaven part sprouted dirty auburn hair dyed with streaks of pink, green, and blue. She looked to be wearing a big black leather jacket and not much else.
"Father" was seated at the head of the table, a burly man with a riot of red hair and a copious beard. He narrowed his small eyes at Hob and grunted.
"Aponoia." A curvy woman hunched over the table as willing herself to disappear, she stared at Hob with blank, pale eyes. Her stringy brown hair puddled on her empty plate.
"Aponoia's twin, Epithumia." This was the person to Hob's left. They fluttered their lashes and pursed their red lips.
"This is Robert, my beau," finished Morpheus. The strange names had all muddled together by this time, and Hob tried desperately to recall them as he copied the ankh-woman's cheerful wave.
"So you're a pillow-biter now." Father boomed. There was no vitriol behind the slur but it was shocking just the same. "Ran out of luck with women so you're trying it on with men?"
Hob spluttered. The golden-eyed person and the ankh-woman fidgeted and frowned. Mother rolled her eyes.
"I am as I have always been," Morpheus replied stiffly.
"Don't mind him." Mother waved dismissively towards her husband. She patted Dream's shoulder. "He's hard on all of the children except Potmos."
"What," Hob said flatly, confused by her reasoning; her apparent acceptance of Father's casual cruelty; and by Father's blatant favouritism toward Potmos, who had given no indication that he had heard any of the conversation and was entranced by his book.
At some unseen and unheard signal a line of staff trooped out to serve the food: filet mignon, a salad with walnuts and satsumas, and red wine. No one spoke save for Manea, who was going on about something to do with pillows and beds and the colour of blankets that were warmest. Hob had the impression she wasn't quite right in the head but no one else looked alarmed by her chatter.
"You're looking well, Morpheus," the ankh-woman (Teleute, Hob remembered) said.
Epithumia leaned into Hob's space, their gold eyes travelling over Morpheus' figure. "You do have a little more to hold onto," they leered. Hob gaped, torn between being offended and being grossed out by this flavour of sibling interaction.
"Don't be mean," murmured the woman on Epithumia's other side. (Aponoia? That sounded right.)
"Why do you assume I'm being mean?" Epithumia moaned, stretching languorously and pouting. "I'm saying that you look delicious, dear brother."
"Do not," Morpheus warned, his tone dark with a threat of violence if Epithumia didn't comply.
"Fine!" Epithumia snapped. "Go die in a ditch, then!"
"I wish the same for you every day," Morpheus hissed. Hob swallowed a laugh and pretending to be coughing on the strong wine instead.
"Anyway. How did you two meet?" Teleute asked. She took a bite of her salad, somehow making the action look refined.
Grateful for a familiar and normal topic of conversation, Hob recounted their meeting at Nyx, which sounded disappointingly mundane in retelling. Teleute smiled sweetly anyway. "Awww. I'm very glad he's found someone. I've been worried about you, moron."
This last bit of affection was aimed at Morpheus, who shrugged.
"What about you?" Hob asked Teleute. "Anyone special? What do you do?" Compared to everyone else in the family, Teleute seemed the most conventional, approachable and warm. Hob wondered what secret weirdness she was hiding.
"I'm not really interested in dating or anything of that sort," Teleute replied. "I'd rather focus on my job. I'm a hospice aide. You know, taking care of the terminally ill, holding their hands at the end. I think there's just something so beautiful and comforting about death."
There it was. "Oh." Hob cut his filet mignon neatly while he tried to think of a response. "Personally I don't rate death. I'm not going to have anything to do with it for a good long while."
"Of course not," Mother interrupted. "You have to stay here and take care of my darling." She reached out and stroked Morpheus' hair. Morpheus stared at his plate. Father snorted. Hob eyed Mother's ring-decorated hand, still petting Morpheus, and wondered at which point familial affection became too familiar.
At the other end of the table Manea had picked out the walnuts from her salad and was flicking them at Aponoia, who sighed heavily but made no effort to brush off the walnut bits sticking to her hair. Potmos turned a page in his book. Father demonstrated no interest in any of his children, speaking only to Mother. "Will you leave again so soon?" he enquired between sips of wine.
Mother eyed him with suspicion. "Of course."
"Mother and Father do not live together," Morpheus whispered to Hob.
Mother overhead this. "I have invited Morpheus to accompany me on my little holidays," she said. "I do get very lonely – " Here she cast a glare at Father. "But he has refused, the selfish thing."
Epithumia groaned. "Must we always go on about Morpheus?"
Mother huffed. "What have you been doing, Epithumia, aside from prancing from lover to lover? Aponoia? Still living at the treatment centre. Manea? Who knows, and she'll tell no one. Potmos? Nose stuck in a book, as usual. Olethos? Still no word from him. Morpheus and Teleute make use of themselves, at least."
Father grumbled, "Potmos never asks anything of us. The rest of you could learn from him."
The staff filed in and swept away their plates; Morpheus' food was mostly untouched. The used plates were replaced by large slices of white cake studded with black fondant roses. Hob loved cake but as he looked at his pristine slice he found that he didn't feel hungry at all.
This was turning out to be a very long evening.
After dinner they were chauffeured back to the train station. It was almost nine and they would get back to London late but Morpheus had refused to spend the night at the Endless estate, a decision which Hob had previously questioned but now found entirely understandable. The chauffeur, though silent, gave the distinct impression of keeping an ear out for gossip, so Hob kept his opinions to himself until he and Morpheus were huddled on their train seats in a mostly empty carriage.
"Your family is…" What was a description that wouldn't offend Morpheus? "Interesting?"
"Yes," Morpheus replied. "But they are mine."
"Do your mother and your, um, Epithumia seem overly familiar.. to you? I mean, I don't think my mum ever… Well. They just seemed a bit inappropriate to me. At times."
Morpheus blinked in surprise at Hob's discomfort. "They have little concept of personal space, and Epithumia makes a game of goading me. That is all."
Perhaps Morpheus would benefit from a lecture on the importance of personal boundaries and consent, especially for someone who, like Morpheus, didn't often like being touched. Bullet points, Hob thought. Short and sweet. No one gets to touch you or make comments about your body or sex life without your express permission beforehand. Not even your family.
Morpheus interrupted his thoughts. "I think they liked you."
They spent the night at Hob's place, where the bed was sizable and Morpheus wouldn't be distracted by unfinished paintings. Hob was woken by soft kisses fluttering over his cheeks and lips, and as soon as he was awake enough to react properly he kissed Morpheus fiercely, pulling his slender body close. He kissed along Morpheus' neck, carding his hand through the soft hair, and slowly reached for the hem of Morpheus' shirt. Morpheus gently pushed his hand away.
"Not now." Morpheus pulled back slightly, eyes downcast. "I am sorry."
"Don't apologise." Hob had told him time and again that sex would never be a requirement for their relationship. There were so many other ways of being intimate, and he hated the idea of Morpheus feeling pressured to perform. "Is this about your family? Their… comments? You know you're bloody sexy, right? At any weight."
Morpheus shook his head. "I do not care what they think. But I thank you, Hob, for your acceptance of myself and of my family."
"Hey." Hob dropped a kiss on the tip of Morpheus' pointed nose. "I'm just happy you're here."
"As am I." Morpheus snuggled close and Hob hugged him tightly. Soft and loving and oh so sweet.