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Long white wings sweep from behind Morpheus' shoulders, framing his dark head and narrow body. Filmy white fabric wraps across his chest, swathes his hips, trails into the dark air underneath and around his bare feet. It should look like a costume, something soppy and silly, but Alex is a skilled photographer. The picture is ethereal instead: Regal Morpheus with lyre in hand, posed as the angel Israfel suspended amongst ghostly stars, his alabaster skin and robe bright against the muted backdrop. In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, “Whose heart-strings are a lute..."
"It was strange." Morpheus' thoughtful voice cuts through Hob's concentration. Hob tears his gaze from the celestial figure in the photograph to look at Morpheus standing at the window, angelic face limned in grey light. It's raining outside, the city morose and quiet on the other side of Morpheus' studio windows. "Acting as the muse instead of as the artist," Morpheus adds. "Being seen instead of seeing."
Hob flips to the next photo. "Alex was right. You are a natural model."
This photo is a close up of Morpheus' face in three-quarters profile, eyelids lowered slightly, gaze distant and serene. His long dark lashes cast soft shadows under his eyes. There's a whole stack of photos in Hob's hand, a small book's worth of beautiful Morpheus in various costumes and poses. Hob's friend Alex is entering a local photography competition with the theme "Poetry", and has already chosen the Israfel photo, based on Edgar Allan Poe's poem of the same name, as their submission.
"I do not know what to do with so many images of myself," Morpheus says, eyeing the stack in Hob's hands. "What does one do with so many superfluous copies?"
"I'll take some!" The words are out of Hob's mouth before he can think, not that he would have changed his mind if he'd taken time to consider. He'll happily paper his walls with a thousand pictures of Morpheus.
Morpheus lets him take as many of the photos as he wants. He snips one photo and tucks it into his wallet. Another, of Morpheus crowned in a gold halo, goes up on the bookshelf beside Hob's treasured photo of Eleanor and Robin; now only a picture of his cat, Isolde, is needed to complete his family set. He puts a third photo, the close-up of Morpheus' face, in his office at work. On difficult or boring days he can look up from grading papers or writing exams, and marvel at the fact that he's managed to seduce the most gorgeous man he's ever laid eyes on, the spitting image of an angel.
His photo of Morpheus proves its worth a few weeks later, when Hob takes a break from grading essays to stare at the photo. One more poorly-written paragraph is going to send him over the edge, and Morpheus' captivating face is calming to look at. A tentative knock at his office door drags his attention back to his current surroundings. It's a touch early for office hours, but at the moment any distraction is welcome.
"Come in!"
A young woman, one of his few postgraduate students, peers in.
"Miss Majur! How are you?"
Adrienne Majur edges into the office. She's a quiet young woman, very studious and serious. She likely has a question about her thesis, and Hob racks his brain, trying to remember what she's writing about. Trade routes? Or is that Christopher's topic?
Adrienne sits across from him, fiddles with her bookbag. She's nervous, her brows drawn in, lips pressed into a hard line, and Hob is immediately on edge.
"Professor Gadling, I was wondering if I could pick up Jenny's assignments for her? She's in hospital."
Jenny McGill is his third postgraduate student this year. She wasn't in class yesterday, though he hadn't paid much attention to that. She rarely misses class but it's not unusual for a student to be out sick or to simply take a personal day. In truth, Jenny is a bit easy to overlook. She's pale and colourless, her skin ivory as Morpheus' but lacking any contrast in her hair and eyes. If it wasn't for her habit of wearing bright, overly large jumpers she would fade into the white walls of the classroom.
"I'm sorry to hear that," Hob says, pushing away his guilt at dismissing Jenny's absence. Adrienne's lower lip trembles and she looks quickly down at her lap, fingers twisting her bookbag strap. Students have cried in his office before and Hob knows he has a box of tissues somewhere but damned if he can find it at the moment. He does have a handkerchief in his pocket so he fishes it out and offers the square of red fabric to his now-sniffling student.
"Sorry," Adrienne sniffs as she dabs at her face.
"No need to apologise. How is Jenny? Can I do anything to help her? Or you?"
Adrienne shakes her head, her beaded headwrap glittering with the movement. "It was her boyfriend. I didn't know him but I thought she was happy. They were happy."
"Her boyfriend?" Hob repeats dumbly. His hands tense into rigid fists – he must be wrong, surely she's not saying Jenny's boyfriend hurt Jenny, hurt her enough to put her in the hospital –
"I wish she'd told me," sighs Adrienne. "Told anyone. What he's like."
Mousy, shy Jenny who loves the library… Jenny and her silly jumper with pandas embroidered on it that she wore last week… Jenny at the mercy of a monster, and she'd sat in Hob's class every week and he'd never really looked at her, had he? He's her bloody advisor, he should have paid more attention. Should have seen something –
"Professor?"
"Hmmm?" Adrienne is staring at him expectantly. Hob stares blankly at his desktop and he can't remember where he put the assignments. They're not really assignments, more like logs to help the postgrads keep track of the progress of their theses, and they don't take up much room. Just a binder, and Hob can't think right now, can't remember what colour the binder is or where he put it. "You know what? Can you tell Jenny that she's exempt from her paperwork for the next couple weeks? She doesn't need to worry about schoolwork on top of…"
"She said she wanted a distraction. Do you have any books she can borrow?"
After some fussing he finds a book on medieval economics and guilds of England that he's reasonably sure will be useful for her thesis, and almost drops it as he hands it to Adrienne. "Do you think – Would she like visitors?"
"Please don't. She's…" Adrienne doesn't finish. Doesn't need to finish. "Don't let her know I told you what happened. I shouldn't have."
Right. When she leaves he sits heavily. Rests his elbows on his desk and his head in his hands. He's frazzled for the rest of the day. Keeps looking at the spot near the back of the lecture hall where Jenny usually sits, her long lank hair a straw-coloured curtain across her face, her sleeves hanging past her wrists to cover her hands. Did the sleeves hide bruises? Did her hair hide eyes swollen from crying? Were there obvious signs that Hob missed? He's exhausted by the end of the day, and he doesn't usually meet with Morpheus on Wednesdays but right now he needs something to hold onto so he after locking up his office he makes his way to Morpheus' studio.
He lets himself in. It's late enough that Lucienne has left for the day and Morpheus and his raven Matthew are the only living things in the vast space. Morpheus is writing; the clack of typewriter keys is amplified by the concrete-and-brick walls, and he spares Hob only a glance before continuing his work. Hob doesn't mind. He doesn't want to be a bother so he meanders around quietly. Strokes Matthew's glossy feathers and accepts a couple affectionate pecks in return, studies the unfinished paintings left out. If Morpheus didn't want them seen he would have put them away. One painting in particular catches Hob's attention. It's smaller than most of the others, and the main focus is a black figure in a humanoid shape. The figure is vague at the moment but it's clearly in motion, arms pumping, legs preparing to jump from a great height. Rudimentary wings fan out from its back.
"It is called Gault's Dream."
Hob jumps. He hadn't noticed the typewriter keys stop tapping, or heard Morpheus' bare feet treading across the room.
"Lucienne commissioned it for her friend," continues Morpheus. Something in his tone suggests a deeper implication to the word "friend" but in this area at least Morpheus is tactful. Lucienne's private life is to remain a mystery for now, as Morpheus changes to subject with characteristic abruptness.
"You look tired, love."
Hob can't help but smile, albeit weakly. He will never get over Morpheus addressing him as "love".
"You are welcome to sleep in my bed," Morpheus adds. "Though it will be some time until I join you."
He shouldn't. He has classes tomorrow and he can't go in wearing the same clothes he wore today. He has to go home and feed the cat. A nap is tempting, though... Morpheus' bed is up in the loft, a bed too large for one person, draped in sheets with a higher thread count than Hob could possibly afford. He buries his face in the soft pillow and drowses, the smell of Morpheus filling his nose, a typewriter key lullaby guiding him to sleep.
Alex's photography competition is on Saturday night. Hob wants to be a supportive friend, he really does, but he's been sleeping poorly, dogged by guilt and questions over Jenny. He knows he's not being good company, all tetchy and grumpy, and poor Morpheus keeps throwing him questioning looks. Hob dully surveys the photographs on display but the only one he cares about is the one with his black-haired angel so he wanders over to the bar for a drink. The exhibit is taking place in a small repurposed garage, far grungier than the types of places that display Morpheus' work. Hob won't find any champagne here; it's strong beer on tap, no food. He tosses back a small glass then takes his time on a second glass before he gives in to his guilt about leaving the introverted Morpheus alone.
Even in a sea of black-clad artsy types Morpheus stands out, his ivory skin and messy hair a beacon from across the room. Hob's feet stutter in surprise when he sees that Morpheus is not alone. A brunette in a short black dress is standing before him, both of them in front of the Israfel photograph, the woman talking excitedly, gesturing from the photo to Morpheus and back. Hob knows flirting when he sees it, and the woman is making no secret of her interest. Morpheus is clearly – at least, clear to Hob's eyes – uninterested. His expression is somehow both blank and bored, his body a tense black line. Morpheus murmurs something and takes a step back, turning to walk away, but before he can take a step the woman reaches out and catches his arm, cupping the inside of his elbow. Morpheus, ever wary of being touched, freezes, and Hob sees red.
He's tipsy. He knows that. Knows he should take a breath before rushing to Morpheus' defence but he doesn't want to give himself time to think. He's a man of action. He strides forward, makes his voice loud and falsely cheerful. "There you are, babe!" He takes Morpheus' other arm, tugs the skinnier man towards him, presses a sloppy kiss to Morpheus' cheek. He can feel the wrongness of the situation, Morpheus going more rigid rather than relaxing at the contact. The woman mumbles a hurried excuse and slips away.
Morpheus wrenches his arm free of Hob's grasp. "We should talk. Outside." There's a threat in that statement, icy anger that knocks the brazen alcohol buzz right out of Hob's blood. Already he's fervently wishing he could reverse time but Morpheus isn't waiting so Hob stumbles after him.
Outside they march past people milling about and drinking in the dark, walk down the block until they are caught in the illuminated circle of a streetlight on an empty part of the sidewalk. Morpheus turns on his heel, so quickly that Hob almost walks into him.
"You need not have interfered," Morpheus snaps. "Do not grab me like that again, Hob."
Only now it hits. He manhandled Morpheus, publicly claimed him as if Morpheus was a possession, and now he's wondering if, in his drunken state, he grabbed Morpheus harder than intended. If he left bruises on the thin pale arm. In his mind's eye Jenny tugs her jumper sleeves over her hands. Fuck. He will never forgive himself if he's hurt Morpheus. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. He's so tired.
"You have been upset lately." Morpheus' hard tone has softened, gentle coaxing tinged with something else. Uncertainty? "Have I done something to upset you?"
Fuck fuck fuck. "No! No, of course not!" Morpheus has been bloody perfect, amazing, incredible, and Hob is the one messing everything up. "Sorry." He sits on the kerb, runs his hands through his hair. Morpheus gracefully folds himself to sit beside him.
Once Hob starts talking about Jenny he can't stop. His guilt, his worries, his difficulty sleeping. Circling back to Jenny again and again, wondering what he missed. "I just – I should have seen it. I should have done something to help her before she ended up in the bloody hospital."
"Perhaps she did not want you to see it," Morpheus says quietly. He looks down at his knees, needlessly smooths his trousers. "It can be… galling, letting others see your weakness."
"Being hurt isn't a weakness," Hob points out.
The yellow light of the streetlamp highlights the smooth silhouette of Morpheus' shoulders and the feathery spikes of his uncombed hair, leaving Morpheus' downturned face in shadow. Down the street a man laughs, a bellowing carefree sound, and a car trundles past. Finally Morpheus speaks. "No. It is not."
They sit in silence. Eventually Morpheus stands, and helps Hob up as well. "When you see her again," Morpheus says without preamble. "Do not treat her with pity."
"I won't," Hob promises. It's almost absurd to think of pitying her. How can he, when he's seen Morpheus progress from a trembling and tear-stained starveling to someone firmly confident, someone Hob depends on. Survival doesn't warrant pity; it demands awe, admiration of the inner strength required to move forward and search for happiness and hope even after seeing the worst of the world.
"We should return to the gathering," Morpheus notes, and this time he offers his arm freely to Hob. They walk back to the crowd and the light, holding each other.
Later that night Hob is careful to hold Morpheus gently. Morpheus' arm is not bruised, thank God, but gnawing guilt remains. He cradles his sleeping lover against him as if Morpheus is fashioned from the most delicate glass, and he rests his hand on Morpheus' chest, feeling the shallow, steady breathing and the even beat of Morpheus' heart. This is the most precious thing, he reminds himself. This man who has opened himself up to Hob, who has left his heart vulnerable, who trusts Hob enough to sleep deeply beside him.
Hob wants to be worthy of that trust. He's been given a gift and this evening he mishandled it. Never again does he want to fear the effect of his touch upon Morpheus.
He will not make that mistake again.
Jenny returns a week later. She's paler than before. Wispier. She trails behind Adrienne and doesn't speak at all during the lecture. After class Hob asks to see her in his office, and she ducks her head and follows him meekly.
"I'm glad to have you back," Hob says. She doesn't respond, looks everywhere but at him, her pale gaze roaming the small untidy office until it lands on the photo of Morpheus.
"If you need anything, if you want to talk about anything, my door is always open," he adds.
"Thank you." Clearly she's not interested in talking. Hob won't push. She'll talk to him in her own time, or find someone else to confide in. Adrienne is proving a loyal friend so at least he knows Jenny isn't struggling alone. He offers an encouraging smile as she stands to leave, and is rewarded with a shy glance and a flimsy half-smile.
He'll keep an eye on her, of course. It was strange... being seen instead of seeing. He sees her now as if for the first time. She's stronger than she looks.
Adrienne is waiting outside his office, and as soon as Jenny opens the door Adrienne reaches for her. The two young women walk away arm-in-arm, clutching each other tightly as they whisper to each other, quiet words only they can hear.
Gault's Dream is finished. Gault is a determined, leonine figure, pitch black with streaks of iridescence lacing her skin like rainbow lightning or sunlight playing on crests of dark waves. Her wings are blue and black, powerful butterfly wings instead of lacy gossamer. She's running toward the edge of a cliff that overlooks a stormy beach, the barest hint of bright blue blooming on the horizon.
Her wings aren't quite unfurled, too folded considering how close she is to the cliff's edge. She won't launch herself into full flight, nor will she fall to her death. She'll leap off the edge, wings opening, and she'll fall for a little while. She'll fall, but then? Then she'll fly.