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If asked a year ago, Hob would have said that what he was looking for dating-wise – such that he was looking for anything – was someone nice, someone kind, someone easy to get along with, someone to build a comfortable future with.
That, he would have said, was his type.
Oh, how horribly wrong he was.
“I do not,” growls Dream, still scribbling unintelligible nonsense on the board, “require your supervision.”
Hob sips on his coffee. A poor choice of beverage, in retrospect, considering it’s 2:35am, but usually necessary when dealing with Dream. Hob needs all the brainpower he can get. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t open a door to another reality and kill us all.”
“That is not possible.”
“I thought maths could solve anything?” says Hob, leaning back in his chair. Actually, Dream had said maths can explain any mystery of the universe, but, details. “‘Sides, I promised your sister I’d get you to eat.”
Dream’s voice drops into an even more annoyed register. “She should not interfere.” He finishes whatever strange equation he was writing with a flourish, and turns to Hob. “Nor should you.”
“You like the company, I know you do,” says Hob. “Even if you won’t admit it.”
Dream looks at him stormily, eyes glinting. Hob has never had a more moody and petulant friend. Not that Dream would consider them as such. In fact, he’d once said Hob made him want to claw his own eyes out of his head so he wouldn’t have to look at him.
But he never actually makes Hob leave.
“Your writing is unreadable, by the way,” Hob tells him, and Dream swivels around to look at his chalk scribbles again. “If you want the recognition for finishing whatever heretofore unsolvable proof you’ve just completed, might want to make it legible.”
“I do not care about recognition,” says Dream, with incredible disdain. “The answers are there in the mathematics. If others cannot see them, that is not of my concern.”
Hob tips his head back with a groan, rocking his chair onto its back legs. “God, you’re such an arrogant twat.”
Dream looks at him in astonishment, and Hob smiles beatifically back at him.
“Last week you were extolling my brilliance,” says Dream, stiffly.
“Oh, I didn’t say it was unearned,” Hob says. “Just that you’re fucking insufferable about it.”
Dream slides into a chair across from him, looking at him like he wants to step into his mind and pick apart his thoughts to find out why Hob says the things that he does. Funny, Hob feels pretty much the same about him.
It must be far too late at night for rational thinking, because he doesn’t catch the words before they slip out.
“I kind of want to take apart your brain to figure out how it works.”
Dream raises an eyebrow. “Like you do your devices?”
As a child, Hob had taught himself how a computer worked by taking it apart, piece by piece. Nearly zapped himself to kingdom come in the process. He thinks he might be in the middle of doing the same thing now. Meddling with things made of dangerous voltage. “Exactly.”
Unexpectedly, Dream smiles. “That is flattering.”
Now that they’re closer, Hob can see goosebumps rising along his bare arms. It’s bloody cold in the Maths building late at night. Hob is pretty sure they kill the heat after classes end for the day. Not that Dream prepares for such things.
Hob holds out his sweater. “Here.” He might have worn an extra layer for just this purpose. “You’re freezing.”
Dream takes it with more docility than Hob had expected, and tugs it over his head. It drapes loose over his shoulders, because he never fucking eats anything so he’s a twig. His hair sticks up in all directions with static. Hob wants to dig his hands into it.
Actually, there’s a lot more he’d like to do with Dream wearing his sweater like that.
He’s got it so bad for this idiot.
Dream leans his elbow on the table between them, head propped in his hand. “I still do not know how computers work,” he grumbles. “Despite your attempts to explain.”
Hob grins, because this has been a thorn in Dream's side for ages now and he can't help but find it amusing. The fact that there's a branch of mathematics that Hob is better at must piss him off to no end. “I don’t know why. The maths has got to be simpler than what you do. Must be because it’s all logic-based. Not sure you’re capable of logic.”
Dream doesn’t deny it. “Logic is overrated. What is it meant to explain, but simplistic human thinking? The universe operates on poetry.”
“Poetry? That’s what maths is to you?”
Dream nods, looking strangely vulnerable to have voiced such a heartfelt thought on the subject. “Do you not see it?”
“Frankly? No. But that’s why you’re the maths whiz.” Hob leans on his own hand in turn, looking into Dream’s eyes at an angle. The only poetry I see is the poetry of you, he thinks, but decides Dream would not at all appreciate the sappiness of this comment. “I think you might just have a direct line into the world’s secrets.”
Dream’s nose scrunches up. “That is ridiculous.”
Hob taps along his arm with a fingertip. “You’re just a higher order being that lives on tangent lines and deigns to grace those of us on earth with its presence.”
“You are ridiculous,” says Dream. He doesn’t pull his arm away from Hob’s touch. “And what you said makes no sense whatsoever.”
Doesn’t Hob know it. Nothing about Hob has been making any sense whatsoever either, recently. Particularly not how enamored he is with this aloof, superior being who is, quite honestly, a complete asshole ninety-nine percent of the time.
“That’s just how it is with us normals, honey.”
Dream’s cheeks color at the pet name. “You are not,” he says.
“Not what?”
“Normal.”
Hob presses a hand to his heart. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Dream rolls his eyes. “I meant that you are—” he starts, hard and fast like he does when he needs to explain why Hob is so wrong in his understanding of what Dream’s said, but then pauses, as if he isn’t sure he likes where that bullet train is taking him.
“You are…” he starts again, tapping his elegant fingers in the air to a rhythm only he can hear – the same habit Hob’s observed when he’s working through a particularly difficult equation. “A stymying problem,” he finally concludes.
It sounds, bizarrely enough, like a compliment. And there is something flattering about holding the attention of someone who normally disdains the company of others. It makes Hob feel…
…well, like maybe he isn’t in this strange dance of theirs all by himself, after all.
It makes him feel bold. He takes Dream’s hand on the tabletop. Waits for him to pull away. He doesn’t.
“You can solve it if you want,” he says. “Or try to. Lord knows I’ve been trying to solve you since we met and haven’t managed it.”
The night presses down on them. The meager lighting of the classroom sets Dream’s face in shadow. Dream, Hob had thought when they’d first met, who fucking names their kid that?
Their inauspicious first meeting had resulted from Dream refusing to give up the classroom he’d covered in his scribbles even though Hob had to teach an undergrad discussion section in there. You know, actual university business? Hob had said. So? Dream had sneered in return.
Hob hadn’t been able to get that scrawny self-important nerd with his black clothes and chalk-covered hands out of his head. So of course he’d gone to bother him again. Retribution, and all that.
“Solve it,” Dream repeats, watching him fixedly. He’s started playing idly with Hob’s fingers; Hob’s not sure he’s even aware he’s doing it. His gaze is a very intense thing to be pinned and picked apart under. Dark starry eyes and infinite cleverness.
He’s so damn pretty. Hob is so into him it’s unreal. Apparently, his actual type is brilliant, insufferable gits. Who knew?
“Well, go on,” Hob says.
Dream lifts Hob’s hand, studying it. Hob watches, breathing shallowly. Dream looks back up at him, and Hob can only imagine what expression he finds on his face. Want to the point that it’s pitiable.
Dream tilts his head, eyes half-lidded, taking apart the apparent problem that is Hob. Hob waits for him, waits for him to figure it out. To see if it’s something he wants.
His grip tightens on Hob’s hand. He pulls Hob to him, and Hob goes, leaning across the table and into the kiss.
It’s not tentative. Hob doesn’t know why he thought it would be. Dream is demanding about it like he is about everything else in his life, and again Hob questions why he loves this man – but he does, and it’s good. So good.
Hob must have just been born insane, but if this is the reward then he’s not complaining.
Dream’s mouth is hot against the cold room. Hob holds his face between his hands, nearly overbalancing across the table, and at the touch Dream makes a pleased sound that sends Hob’s heart singing. Dream tips his head up, daring Hob to lean in more, put himself even further off balance for him.
Hob does, of course, but not without a grumble that Dream swallows with a tiny smile. His hand tugs on Hob’s shirt, streaking the fabric with chalk dust. Hob’s not complaining.
He huffs against his mouth, half fond irritation, half laugh. “Bloody difficult, you are.”
Somehow, it’s the wrong thing to say. Dream lurches back like Hob’s stung him. “Is that so,” he growls, and staggers to his feet, mouth just tinted red from kissing but now set in an upset line. “In that case, I will deprive you of the problem.”
Hob watches, whiplashed, as he starts walking towards the door.
Then he gets his wits about him and jumps to his feet after him. “Dream!” God, why does he have to be such a— concern overrides the thought halfway through. “Dream!”
Dream doesn’t stop, shoulders wound tight. Hob follows him out the door at a clip, his heart jumping around in his chest.
He catches him just down the hall, snagging him by his wrist and pulling him to a stop. Dream yanks his arm out of Hob’s grasp, but Hob grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him against the wall, stilling him in shock.
“Listen,” he insists. “For one second, God.”
“Why?” Dream grounds out through his clenched jaw. “So you can taunt me about how difficult I am?”
Hob has called him a dick at least fifteen times with barely an acknowledgment, but somehow this, now, is what’s got to him. Hob is pretty sure he knows why.
“You are the most difficult fucking person I have ever met,” he agrees, but continues, before that pinched unhappiness can settle on Dream’s face, “but you are not difficult to love.”
Dream stares at him, gaze moving around Hob’s face. Disbelief at being read like that, perhaps. Yeah, Hob thinks, I fucking pay attention to you, you nitwit.
Hob takes his face between his hands. “I like difficult, don’t you fucking get it? I like you.”
Dream meets his eyes. Hob hopes he can tell how serious he is.
Slowly, the anger unwinds from Dream’s shoulders. “I… like you as well,” he says, seeming uncomfortable to admit it. Caught having human emotions. How terrible.
“Okay, then.” Hob finally exhales. “Alright. Come here.”
He drags Dream down into a hug, tucking Dream's face into his shoulder. Dream wraps his arms around his back. Hob sighs into him, so relieved.
When they’ve stood there long enough that the remaining tension has melted away, Hob pulls back, ghosting a finger over Dream’s lips. “You aren’t difficult to want, either,” he murmurs. “We got interrupted.”
Dream leans back against the wall, pulling Hob with him. “I would have thought you would want someone…” his lips press thin as he feels for the word. “Nice.”
Hob chuckles, holding him by his hips, pressing a kiss into his neck and whispering there, “Oh, love, where is the fun in that?”