Work Text:
“Dream.” Hob greets with a warm smile as his friend pulls up the chair across from him. And what a novel thing it is to be able to greet him by name, and welcome him again only a week after his unexpected makeup appointment. Hob seems to mull this over for a moment before he nods, smiling softly. “It suits you,” Hob pronounces. Dream bites the inside of his cheek in an effort to suppress a smile, to maintain his usual mask of neutrality and disinterest, but knows that he’s failed when Hob simply chuckles. He knows.
Hob knows, Morpheus thinks, suddenly awed by this no longer mere mortal man across from him. Hob has known him 500+ years- no- a handful of meetings in that time, once a century, in which Hob talks about his life, new inventions, hopes for the future and Dream listens, saying very little, but somehow, against all odds Hob knows. Hob knows him. Knows him better at times perhaps than Morpheus knows himself. It’s a bit daunting. And exhilarating. Being seen and understood. Sought after, for who he is, rather than what he or any of his siblings might be able to give.
“Sorry,” Dream says when he realizes Hob is staring at him, waiting patiently and hopefully (because somehow Hob Gadling positively overflows with it) for an answer to a question Dream’s not heard asked while lost in his thoughts. And suddenly Hob looks nervous. Like it must have taken a phenomenal effort of harnessing his courage, and a healthy dose of his impulsivity to ask something of him the first time. He’s avoiding his eyes now, Morpheus notes, and Dream feels anger welling up within him. Not at Hob. But himself. This man only knows to fear questions of him because he responded so abominably before- to the simple suggestion of friendship.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Morpheus apologizes, hoping perhaps the use of the new title between them will help soothe Hobs unspoken fears and convey his sincerity. “I was… lost in thought,” he admits. “Ask again, Hob Gadling. When you are ready,” Dream prompts softly, “and I will answer.”
Hob sighs. A barely audible noise he likely doesn’t even know he’s made at Dream’s apology. The sort of involuntary shudder of sound as one sinks into a comfortingly warm bath. He doesn’t look much less nervous, but his shoulders relax a little and soon enough he brings his gaze back up to meet his.
“I… I was wondering whether… well, I didn’t get to ask before, and I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon-not that I’m anything less than delighted- but you mentioned you had a lot of work to be done, and I suppose I just wanted to know whether I’d be waiting another hundred years for our next meeting, or 70, or… I don’t know maybe you can’t be that precise. Only, I don’t want to miss it or be the one keeping you waiting,” Hob replies softly.
There’s hope in the question, in the words, in his voice, in his eyes, as Hob watches from across their little table. So much hope Morpheus wonders Hob hasn’t been made a patron Saint of it yet, if only more people knew of him. Such a delicate, fragile thing, Hope. The thing with feathers, he thinks, recalling a poem plucked from the mind of a dreamer. But so powerful too, he thinks, recalling his duel with Lucifer.
Morpheus considers the question, or perhaps, more accurately, how best to answer it.
“Do not most friends see one another more frequently?”
“Well, yes, I suppose, but we’re not… most people, are we?”
“No, we are not,” Morpheus agrees.
“Got all the time in the world.”
“Indeed,” he nods. “Still, I should think any great length of time spent waiting for a thing to happen rather than living in the present moment is rather wasteful, wouldn’t you agree?”
Hob looks a little taken aback, stumbling to regain his footing in a conversation that has taken an altogether different, though not at all unpleasant turn from the one he’s been attempting to rehearse in his head. He shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant, knowing that he’s failing, knowing that Dream knows, shooting his companion a fleeting and nervous smile.
“I dunno, there is that bit about absence making the heart grow fonder-“
“Has it,” Morpheus probes. “Made you think of me more fondly,” he clarifies. “I should have thought, after the way I left things, and then not turning up…”
“No,” Hob interrupts, and Morpheus nods.
“No it didn’t make me grow any fonder of you. And it didn’t see me hating you, or whatever else it is you’ve got spinning round your head right now either.” Dream looks up from where his gaze has dropped to the table to meet Hob’s gaze and the tender (far too tender, too soft, undeserved) smile that’s waiting for him.
“I thought about it,” Hob continues. “There were times it felt like it would have been easier. Safer. To be mad at you. To hate you. But I’m older than I look, and with any luck, a bit wiser for it too. And anger is, exhausting. If your absence inspired anything new or increasing within me it was, sadness. Loneliness,” Hob admits quietly. “I missed you,” he confesses, words and gaze unflinching now he’s gathered himself and whatever steam necessary to get through what he needs to say.
“But it didn’t make me fonder for not seeing you, because that’s not possible.” Morpheus shakes his head, and slowly, careful like he is a stray cat that may bolt at any moment, Hob reaches across the space between them and covers Dream’s hand that had thoughtlessly reached for the mug of tea for lack of something to do with himself during this exchange before realizing he’s no need or desire to drink of it. Dream lets it slide from the handle of the mug to lie on the table, and Hob clasps it, thumb stroking gently over pale, cool knuckles.
“You do not know me,” Morpheus manages, amazed and rather annoyed at how shaky his voice suddenly sounds, though he will blame it on still recovering from neatly a century of disuse. Hob raises a challenging eyebrow.
“Perhaps. Not entirely,” in a tone that well conveys he is giving up this liminal ground for Dream, only because he wishes to. “But I’d like to,” he continues. “I like what I do know. And I know myself. I know I want more than I can get. Let’s be honest, I always have,” Hob chuckles at his own self-depreciating joke, while Morpheus frowns. “But this isn’t just curiosity or some passing fancy.”
“What is it then, Hob Gadling? What do you want?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I am the not my sibling Desire.”
“I have no delusions or wish for you to be,” Hob replies shaking his head. “You worry this is all of their doing.” It isn’t a question, it doesn’t need to be. Hob has listened intently without interruption as he has relayed to him the reason for his tardiness. Morpheus nods. “Have they ever interfered so before?”
“I do not know. I would not put it past them. Our relationship is… complicated.” Hob bites down a laugh.
“Family always is,” he agrees. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Dream of the Endless. Lord of the Dreaming, shaper of dreams and nightmares,” Hob ticks off. “Have you never tried to influence my dreams?”
“No.”
“Right, because you’re interested in my experience.”
“At first,” Morpheus concedes, though the admission tastes bitter in his mouth. “But later, I… it felt an invasion. Do you truly wonder whether I-“
“No,” Hob interrupts. “I don’t think you have tried to exercise any undue or otherworldly influence on me,” offering his hand a reassuring squeeze. “But, I think if you had but visited even a fraction of my dreams there would be little need to ask what I want,” he continues with a meaningful look.
“I know whatever it is that I am now, doesn’t put us on anything like the same footing. You have a realm, countless subjects, influence, responsibilities and power I’m only beginning to understand. But,” he goes on before Morpheus can argue. “I have time. Perhaps that’s all I have, but, it’s yours. If you want it. And I will happily accept whatever you would be willing to offer.”
“Whatever I would be willing to offer,” Dream repeats, Hob nods. “A man of your experience ought to be more careful the power he cedes to others.” Hob chuckles.
“That your way of saying I’m too old to be this stupid,” he teases, clearly not the least bit concerned. “You know me, by now, surely. I’ve been an impulsive and stubborn bastard from the day you met me- probably since birth. Besides,” he continues, gently flipping their hands so he can lace his in his companion’s, “It’s you,” Hob says simply, as if this explains and excuses everything, with the same soft smiles and twinkle in his eye that has long since taken to haunting Dream in the years between their meetings.
“You’re my dream, Lord of Dreams. My one, and every one,” Hob confesses, slowly drawing his hand to his mouth and pressing it with a gentle kiss.
“I would not have thought it possible, but you have become even more bold in my absence, Hob Gadling.”
“In for a penny,” Hob smiles. “You’ve not scolded or run out on me yet. And I may have made some promises to myself about what I’d do the next time I saw you again,” he admits, a faint blush of color rising in his cheeks. At Morpheus’ raised eyebrow he continues, “that I wouldn’t wait another day or hundred years to tell you how I felt.”
Hope, Morpheus thinks, suddenly recalling the rest of the poem, sings a song without the words and never stops at all. It sings, always, even when it cannot know whether any others can hear it.
Hob has spent the last century and change hoping. Hoping that he hadn’t ruined everything. Hoping that his friend would come back. Hoping he would have the chance and find the courage to say what lies in his heart. Hoping that this confession, that laying himself entirely bare wouldn’t be the end of everything.
And Dream, Dream, although he’s never allowed himself to admit it has spent the last 130 years dreaming. Dreaming of stopping, of turning back when Hob chased him out into the rain calling after him. Dreaming of hundreds of alternate endings, of reunions, of escapes, or when prone to fancy- of rescues, of making up to Hob for time lost and his rotten temper and pride having got the better of him. He has dreamt of a thousand things, but never once allowed himself this. For to have Hope is powerful, it is everything. But to lose it? It is not a thing a being of his power and responsibilities can well afford.
“I love you,” Hob continues. “In case that wasn’t clear enough yet. Suppose I’ve said it every other way but plain at this point.”
“You were clear enough,” Dream replies swallowing. Hob nods, slowly loosening his grip, making to pull away his hand when Dream still hasn’t answered, but Morpheus tightens his grip, keeping it there.
“Dream?”
“Have you any idea what you are asking for?”
Hob laughs, shaking his head. Because probably not. Not entirely. It’s only in the last few days that he’s even begun to scratch the surface of everything that his friend is, that Dream has finally begun opening up to him, confirming things Hob has only inferred and supposed about him based on their meetings over the centuries. But he’s not about to change his mind.
“You, Duck,” Hob replies. “I’m asking for you. However little or much of yourself as you’re willing to give. If that’s just friendship, I’ll cherish it all the same. I know how presumptuous it must be to think someone like you would ever… think of me like that, and if you don’t feel that way then I’ll not say another word about it. But, I don’t think I could have lived with the regret of never saying anything, of not… trying at least.”
“Duck,” Dream repeats quizzically.
“Dream, so help me, if all you got out of that was my slip of the tongue pet name, I will be the first to end one of ‘the Endless’.” Hob doesn’t know if that’s true, or even if it’s possible, but it’s the first threat that comes to mind, and it brings a smile to Dream’s face-his impertinence- so he is counting it as a win.
“I- I’m going to need some kind of answer from you, eventually,” Hob admits softly, and there is a vulnerability in it that once again pulls at something within the Lord of Dream’s chest.
Morpheus has been many things to many people in his long existence-feared and worshipped, revered and loved, but more often for what he is, not who. So rarely like this. It radiates from Hob-his hope-his love- like a star does into the space around it-tendrils of warmth and light reaching out into the dark. And Dream, with his cloak and eyes swirling with galaxies, with stars, sees and cares only for this one. He dreams he is a moon, helpless to do anything but reflect this gift, this beautiful light back.
“The longer we sit here like this, the more you rejecting me is going to hurt,” Hob confesses. Dream frowns.
“And why is that?”
“Because you still haven’t let go of my hand. Because you haven’t told me any of this is beneath you or stormed out of here yet. Because there are a thousand easier ways you could have turned me down already. Because the longer we sit here… the more I hope,” Hob trails off a bit shyly.
Dream shakes his head, but there’s the barest hint of a smile turning up at the corners of his mouth, finally giving voice to some of his thoughts.
“Hope is the very essence of who and what you are, Hob Gadling. I have seen the proof of it every century we’ve met. I see it in this shrine you’ve built and waited in, even when you could no longer be certain of ever seeing me again.” Hob flushes a little, but doesn’t protest. How can he, when it’s true. He’d waited. And he’d have kept doing so. To the ends of the Earth, since his life is no longer one to be measured in days. They both know it. “It is one of the things that I love about you,” Dream continues softly, thumb caressing his hand where it continues to rest in his.
Hob’s heart stops. His head snaps up so quickly to meet and search those incredible eyes that seem to contain whole worlds within that his body protests, but Hob ignores it. Ignores everything except Dream. His Dream…? What else, Hob longs to ask. What else do you love about me? Do you mean that- love me- do you burn for me- as I do for you?
“You wish to kiss me,” Dream states, still smiling softly. It isn’t a question. It’s almost certainly rhetorical if it were, but Hob answers it anyway.
“Bloody fucking always, from the start,” Hob agrees vehemently, choking a little on a laugh and the emotion welling in his throat.
“Mm,” Dream hums.
Hob doesn’t recall later who leaned in first, it doesn’t matter, he supposes, only that after a moment that may have been an eternity in itself they both did, that they met across the table, that the moment their lips touched it felt impossibly like both a beginning of something incredible and the culmination of everything he ever wanted, ever hoped for, in his over long life.
“You’re…” Hob hesitates, trying to determine how to pose the question gently, to expose his heart and vulnerability and not make it sound like he’s accusing the Lord of Dreams of being fickle. You’re sure you’re not going to change your mind? Not going to leave me alone again with no word or news from you for another century or more? Instead he settles on what he’s been told is his most charming smile, allows himself to focus entirely on the high of their kiss and hope. “You’re really good at that,” blurts out on a laugh, running a hand over the back of his neck, shoving down any lingering nerves. “Can we do that again?”
“This is ill-advised,” Dream offers ruefully, though his eyes are still on Hob’s lips. “The last mortal-“
“Good job I’m not mortal, then, isn’t it,” Hob interrupts, because oh no, the Lord of Dreams does not get to kiss him like that and lose himself this quickly to maudlin thoughts and pessimism. Not if he has anything to say about it. Dream’s frown increases.
“Be that as it may, it must be said that I do not have a good track record where these sorts of relationships are concerned.”
“So,” Hob replies indignantly. “Whatever comes up, we’ve got all the time in the world to work it out. I can’t die. Not unless I ask for it, right? And I’ve already told you. That’s never going to happen.”
“You can still be hurt,” Dream replies echoing his warning from centuries before. Hob could hurt him too, he thinks, resisting the urge to resurrect and reinforce the walls he’s so carefully and thoroughly constructed over the ages, walls Hob Gadling has impossibly torn down, or perhaps more accurately, somehow managed to scale over. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to. Hob already knows this. He must.
“Of course I can. And we’re going to. Hurt each other. Whether we like it or mean to, or not. That’s what happens when you let someone get close to you,” Hob continues offering their still joined hands a reassuring squeeze. “But I care about you- I love you- more than I fear getting hurt. And I trust you- I trust us- to figure this out.”
“You are incorrigible,” Dream replies, but there’s amusement, and something fond in his voice, a slight smile returning to his face once more, a moon reflecting its neighboring star.
“Something else you love about me,” Hob grins.
“Unquestionably,” Dream confirms and he’s leaning back across the table again, free hand reaching out to cup the back of Hob’s neck, as if Hob would ever think of pulling away, of being anywhere but here, as Dream’s lips crash into his once more, long fingers tangling and mussing his hair.
Strictly speaking, it isn’t necessary for Hob to breathe. Or rather, failing to do so won’t kill him. If Death does finally decide to come collect, however, Hob thinks this is probably the ideal way to go. Dream, though, aware of his lover’s more corporeal limitations, or perhaps simply incredibly attune to Hob himself, draws back before he can suffocate from their kisses.
A whine of protest involuntarily escapes from somewhere in Hob’s throat, then a breathless laugh, and Dream has seen sunrises beyond counting, but the shimmer in the large brown eyes that stare up at him, Hob’s smile so effortless, unrestrained, so wide it seems impossible it doesn’t hurt to maintain it, is brighter and altogether more precious than all of them put together.
This is dangerous. Too readily all-consuming. And Dream is starved. Hungers to consume this beautiful, impossible creature in front of him. To be consumed by Hob, by this thing between them. So many years cloistered and denying himself, that a being such as himself might even have wants, needs.
“I think you’re lonely,” Hob had said, his words cutting right to the quick, seeing right through his carefully constructed facade.
It’s only now, and Dream is shamed by the tardiness of this realization, it occurs to him that Hob was probably lonely too.
“I am sorry,” Dream apologizes, frowning, the words heavy on his tongue and his heart.
“Whatever for, my Dove,” Hob asks uncomprehending, and for a moment Dream is too stunned to reply, chest clenching, warm at the nickname and the fondness with which it is uttered. And Dream will be damned if he is about to point out the man’s use of yet another avian term of endearment lest Hob become self-conscious enough to stop.
“For keeping you waiting so long.”
Hob frowns now. “You already apologized, and we talked about that. It wasn’t your fault. Burgess-“ Hob begins, the name spoken with more indignation and fury Dream has ever before seen from his friend. The only regret he’d expressed when Dream relayed to him the details of his end was that it came so quick and wasn’t delivered directly by Dream’s or his own hands. It stirs something in him, how fiercely protective Hob is of him, recalling how quickly he had jumped to his aid when Lady Johanna Constantine had threatened the pair of them centuries passed.
“No,” Dream interrupts, shaking his head. Because he hasn’t apologized. Not truly. Not aloud. Merely acknowledged that he owed one, but Hob, gracious with him as he is, as he has always been, asked for no more and forgave him anyway. Even before an explanation for his absence was given. “Not then.”
“When?”
For all the years, the months, the weeks, the hours in-between, Dream thinks mournfully, for all the other times I left you waiting, hoping, when I could simply have come to see you if only I weren’t so stupid, so stubborn, and proud, but the words feel impossibly stuck in the back of his throat.
Hob hears them anyway, all the words he wants but can’t say. He’ll speak them aloud one day, Dream resolves. He owes Hob as much, even if his friend would never ask it of him. But Hob is smiling again, something small and tender, delicate, but so powerful. A bird singing. Loud and strong without pause, without thought or care for an audience. A star that burns, brightening and warming the space around it. A hand reaches up, full of callouses from lifetimes spent fighting men, from this lifetime spent fighting essays and endless paperwork, a hand that has seen and dealt in blood and death, immeasurably tender now as it cradles the cheek of Dream of the Endless.
“Dream,” Hob whispers softly. And Dream has heard every version and variation of his name uttered every possible way, and yet this way, in this voice, is the sweetest. “My dream,” Hob continues, a thumb stroking softly across his face that Dream is powerless to do anything but lean into, relishing and nuzzling the touch in an almost catlike fashion. “No more of this. You are here now. You were worth waiting for. I’d keep waiting,” Hob presses on. “If you suddenly decided we needed to wait another 100 years, or 130, or-“
But Dream doesn’t let him finish. Hob has waited long enough. They both have. He’s kissing him again. Dream is kissing Hob Gadling with all the gusto and youthful enthusiasm of a first kiss, all the hunger of a new lover, and the desperation of one who might never have this chance again. No more waiting. He might have said as much aloud for the way Hob laughs again, or perhaps, like so many other things Hob simply knows. Hob presses his forehead to Dream’s, catching his breath once more, though he doesn’t look a bit sorry for having to do so as Dream takes in his kiss swollen lips, still stretched in a wide smile.
“I love you,” Dream exhales, realizing suddenly he’s not said it yet. Not explicitly. Just in case, as Hob had said, Dream hasn’t made it clear enough yet.
Hob’s answering smile could put this planet’s sun to shame, which must be why a moment later a large black raven careens smack into the largest window with an indignant squawk startling the pair and several other nearby patrons. Not for the first time Dream thinks he simply isn’t allowed to have nice things.
“Friend of yours,” Hob asks with amusement hastily collecting his markings into his messenger bag as Dream reluctantly stands with a heavy sigh.
“No,” Dream replies automatically. “Yes. No,” he insists as Hob chuckles. “An overly familiar and terribly unprofessional employee.”
“So, in your case, yes,” Hob teases following him outside and around the corner to the back of the Inn away from prying eyes.
“It’s alright Matthew,” Dream nods as the raven seems to appraise his Lord’s companion. “He’s a friend.”
“Was beginning to think you didn’t have any Boss,” Matthew quips, while Hob does his best to act like he sees talking Corvids seven days a week.
“Surely you came with something other, more important in mind than mocking me.”
“Yeah,” Matthew agrees sobering, shifting anxiously from one foot to the other. “Boss-“
“Out with it, Matthew. What is it?”
“Erm, well, it’s the Dreaming, Sir. The weather it’s- it’s all over the place. There was that drought right before you left-“
“Yes,” Dream nods.
“Well now it’s raining. Pouring, really,” Matthew continues, shaking himself as if trying to banish the thought.
“That is good news, I should think.”
“Roses, boss. It’s raining roses.”
“Ah.”
Hob tries and utterly fails to suppress a snort that turns into delighted laughter and sees him clutching his side. Dream raises an eyebrow, but internally something hiccups in his chest and warms him immeasurably hearing Hob’s laughter, even if it is undoubtably at his expense.
“Seems you have work to do. I will see you later,” Hob manages softly when he’s finally pulled himself back together to face Dream who’s cheeks are ever so slightly more pink.
“Tonight,” Dream interjects, leaving no room to speculate how long Hob will have to wait to see him again, finding himself already impatient to see him again. How did he ever waited a century before? “When you enter my realm, Hob Gadling, I shall be there.”
“See you tonight, then,” Hob nods, positively beaming.
“Well, that ain’t gonna help with the roses,” Matthew mutters softly. Dream ignores him, and surprises Hob with a brief, but tender kiss, before taking a few steps back and he and the raven disappear in a whirl of sand.