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The club was always cold. That was the fact that lingered with Dream, the fact that hit him every time he stepped foot inside of it. Soon enough, he would be warm, pressed against the bodies all around, dancing with the music. Soon enough, he would have a body keeping him warm, even against the inevitable chill of outside. Soon enough, he would have a cold glass of something in his hands, something that would inevitably warm him up.
Yet when Death was still around, she had taken him out once, telling him he needed to make friends. He had left the evening no richer in friends, but the outfit she had forced onto him remained, and the atmosphere of the place resonated with Dream. He rewore the mesh shirt, cropped just enough to show a plain sliver of his stomach, sleeveless, and the tight black jeans. He saw the way people looked at him, when he wore these, compared to his other clothes. No, his visit with Thana didn’t leave him richer in friends, but he had learned so much without her meaning to teach him.
He feels people’s eyes on him, the way they always are, and feels pleased. Though his movements feel awkward, always have and always will, he walks with grace over to the dance floor. He hopes he looks the way he wants, hoping to warm up before getting some alcohol in him. Dream doesn’t smile, even if he is enjoying himself, as much as one can in a place such as this. Nothing but a way to kill time.
The music is boring, a beat to dance to, an anchor to move to. There are voices in his ear and hands often at his back, his side, his shoulder, but he doesn’t even give them a smile. It’s rare that he even acknowledges them. It’s not till later, till Dream doesn’t feel the cruel chill of the air, that he makes his way over to the bar. He planned to sit where he always does, in a quiet corner. He finds that it is the best for his purposes - he can see anyone approaching, and he’s been told his strange, pale glamor seems only enlightened by the shadows. Itching as he is for some sort of touch, Dream hoped to increase his odds as much as possible in his favor.
Walking up to the seat half draped in shadow, he finds it occupied. Hands still shaking from the bass of the music, he frowns, ever so slightly. He stayed silent, trying to figure out who this man was. The man who he had never seen here before, and Dream was good with faces. He hadn’t ever actually encountered somebody sitting there before, and Dream was scrambling to think of what to do now.
“You alright there, mate?” The man asked, smiling slightly. Good naturedly. His smile was as bright as the sun, even as he obviously was confused as to why Dream had stopped in front of his seat.
Dream looked him up and down. He had dark hair, and was older than Dream, for sure. His biceps filled out the sleeves of his t-shirt nicely, though he didn’t look ridiculous like some of the men who had come to primp and preen at the club. He had nice eyes, Dream decided.
“You’re in my spot.” The words had come out without Dream thinking too much about them, preoccupied with trying to catalog the stranger in front of him.
The man raised his eyebrows, laughing softly. Dream could feel his gaze on him, not quite sure if he was joking or not. “I didn’t know there were spots here. Didn’t seem like that type of place.” His eyes wandered down to Dream’s shirt, and he felt his lips twitch, just barely, into a smile. “Are you even old enough to be in a place like this?” He asked, eyes flicking up to meet his. There was genuine concern in the strangers eyes, yes, and Dream was not surprised. The club was not the cleanest around, and it wasn’t hard to get one's hands on drugs, if one so wished (though Dream hated even the thought of it). Yet, there was something more there, too, something behind the innocent concern that warmed Dream up just fine.
“More than,” He replied, sliding into the seat next to him now, forgetting about his spot. The man seemed like he would hit the spot just fine, just the way he was looking for. “Ask the bartender, if you like. He knows me well, by now.” As he spoke, Dream leaned back against the counter, letting his shirt ride up a little more.
As Dream leaned back, the other man leaned forward, just barely. “Then, it seems, I can feel less awful about admiring you, stranger. I’m Hob, by the way.” He didn’t hold out his hand, but the one that was leaning on the bar slid over slightly, closer still to Dream.
He moved closer so his fingertips brushed over Hob’s. “You may admire all you like, Hob. And you may call me Dream.” As he spoke, he decided to step off of his seat, whispering his words until he knew Hob would be just barely able to hear them, close enough that he could feel the heat off of Hob’s breath. Standing up, he had to look down to meet Hob’s gaze.
Shaky hands found his hips, careful to stay on the fabric and not touch the alabaster skin beneath. “Well, Dream, what if I’d like to do more than admire?” Hob whispered back.
Dream’s landed gently on Hob’s shoulder, feeling warm and pleased, even as he wished to feel the warmth of his hands on skin, instead. “Feel free to do as you wish. I am not as delicate as I have been told I look,” He decided, feeling the hands at his waist tighten.
Hob licked his lips, sending a shiver down Dream’s back. He leaned his head in slightly. “May I?” he asked, and Dream nodded, just barely, leaning down to meet Hob halfway.
Hob kissed hard and heady, lips soft and strong against Dream’s own. He liked that about Hob, how he seemed to push headfirst into this. How his lips parted against Dream's as he seemed to give him an out, and when he did not take it, Hob seemingly kissed him harder. He kissed like he was going to devour him and Dream was beginning to think he might just let him. Hob didn’t ask questions, just let his fingers dip into the waistband of Dream’s pants until he had to pull away to take a shaky breath that Dream felt, hot and heavy against his own face. He almost hoped he would take charge like that in other aspects too, the way he tugged him forward, closer by the waist of his pants. He was half in Hob’s lap already, and his face turned red as the man laughed again, his good natured, bright laugh.
“As much as I love the idea of me personally being your seat, dear Dream, I can think of a few better ones,” He decided, leaning in to kiss Dream a few more times.
He melted into it, kissing back hungrily. “Oh?” He just managed to breathe out.
“How about we take it back to my place, love?” Hob whispered in his ear, finally breaking their connection at the lips. Dream felt that shiver all the way down his back again as he nodded.
Later, tangled into Hob’s sheets, with his sweat still cooling, Dream found he didn’t want to go home. The idea of home, of the manor echoing and empty around him, engulfing him brought a nasty pit to his stomach. Yet he knew he had to. His head hurt, and he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep as he gathered his things, hoping not to wake Hob beside him. He felt better, now, and that’s what mattered. He would take a shower when he got home. He would sleep in his own bed, sprawling until he didn't even touch the edges of the glorious fourposter, and he would
not
wonder about the sleeping man who he had left behind. His thoughts would not linger on the streak of grey in the man’s hair, nor the kind way he had touched Dream. He would not curse the man’s kindness and wish he had been rougher, had left some sort of mark on him to make holding on that much easier. Simply because, those are not things Dream does. He is better than that, he reminded himself, and closed his eyes until sleep would be convinced to take him, aching and tired as he was.