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Dream could be painfully oblivious sometimes, especially when it came to evaluating his own appearance. He was certainly vain; he was very aware of how beautiful he was, and the effect he had on humans. He also knew that his fashion sense was impeccable, always dressed in jaw-dropping couture, yet he still kept stealing all of Hob’s jumpers (If you BORROW something, you don’t get to DYE IT BLACK. That is just so rude.)
But his biggest blind spot was his face. How was it even possible to have a resting bitch face AND at the same time have zero poker face? Dream considered himself to be this unreadable canvas of regal professionalism, when he was really a walking 90s mood ring.
He was currently barred from attending Hob’s lectures around the start of term, because the absolutely feral look Dream would get when overhearing the cacophony of loud daydreams from the new batch of students would send Hob into a nervous tailspin that would throw off the entire lecture.
”You can’t turn up looking like some goth twink sugarbabe — no, don’t deny it, you always wear a lot more eyeliner than usual, and the piercings, and that V-neck that is so deep you practically have your tits out — and then you stare at me like you want to Kirby-inhale me.”
”I do not now what magical creature you are referring to, but I would be terrible lonely if I consumed you. I merely attend your seminars because I want to encourage your academic endeavours.”
”Oh yeah? What was my last lecture about?”
”…”
”Exactly.”
”I remember that it was indecent.”
”My love, it was about the history of labour unions.”
”Ah. Well. I may have been preoccupied with the thought of our next union.”
”DREAM, who told you about sex jokes?!”
”Death.”
”Ah. Well, warn a man next time.”
”No, Death is here.”
He waved her over with a soft smile.
Hob loved it whenever Death had time to join them during one of their weekly meetups at the New Inn. From the moment he first saw the two siblings interact with one another up close, he had understood that Dream’s quirks did not come from his status as one of the Endless, but a sullen middle child. And it certainly helped to know that he could call in reinforcements to the Dream wrangling crisis team, when needed.
Not that it was often needed — for all his gloomy predictions and booming threats, Dream rarely actually lashed out at Hob. His usual “exit, pursued by raven” tantrum would have him storm out and slam the door, go to the park to sulk for a few hours, and then to return with a sheepish look on his face and an overly dramatic apology. Or, if he was feeling a bit sassier, he would return in cat form, and proceed to push Hob’s coffee cup off the table. If anything could rival Hob’s legendary Shakespeare rants, it would be hearing Dream ranting about caffeine, as if it broke the Geneva convention.
”Hello my peaches! Can I top you up?”
Death shrugged off her leather jacket and sent off a radiating smile to the bartender, who scrambled over to take her order (The New Inn didn’t even do table service, Hob thought bemused).
As Death was ruffling the eldritch chaos that was Dream’s hair, Hob relished in knowing that he got to see this softer side, which Dream shared with so few. When Hob had been introduced to (and completely smitten with) Dream’s little sister Delirium, he had been struck by just how tender and patient Dream could be when he made the effort; keeping his voice low and his tempestuous emotions under control, so as to not scare away Delirium’s butterflies.
Two hours later, they were all pretty drunk, although the endless siblings certainly had a higher alcohol tolerance than Hob. Death had even managed to bully Dream into trying a Pornstar Martini. Hob could barely contain himself at the sight of Dream, frowning and pursing his lips, clearly surprised by the tanginess of the sour concoction. He contemplated the experience for a full minute before explaining a little too loudly:
”I just fail to grasp exactly what element is supposed to be pornographic?”
”Would take too long to explain, little brother. But at least acknowledge that human alcohol has come a long way from the ale they served the night we all met for the first time.”
Hob feigned an affronted gasp, clutching some invisible pearls. ”You come into my pub, commandeer my bartender, and then proceed to insult the ale of my birth century…”
”Well, you didn’t own it back then! And, to be fair, I only said that Dream found it undrinkable — he was always a picky eater, too.”
Slurring her words a little (even though Hob was sure she didn’t actually need to), Death pounced at the opportunity to heckle Dream.
”But oh, you should have seen him that night. So uptight and fussing.” She scrunched her face into Dream’s signature pout, and perfectly mimicked his booming voice. ”I do not see what purpose this will serve.” -- ”You know, Big Brood.”
”I actually brought him to the tavern in 1389 because there had been complaints that his dream-creations were becoming dangerously detached from the human consciousness of the waking world. It was bad. Like, the ’Hello, fellow kids’ meme bad.”
Hob was laughing so hard that he was wheezing. Dream’s scowling pout did a poor job of hiding the fact that he was preening like a peacock over the loving attention (and that he was charmingly oblivious to the 30 Rock reference).
She continued: ”But just as I was about to give up and let him scurry back to his moping palace, then our dear Hob comes along — with his ruggedly handsome face and infuriating lust for life — and just completely distracted you, little brother. Honestly, how is it possible that you can both hold a grudge for 10 000 years, and at the same time have the emotional object permanence of a goldfish?”
She locked eyes with Hob fondly.
”I hadn’t seen Dream that interested in anyone in centuries, and the equally starryeyed look you gave him, Hob, was just so adorable that I immediately forgave you for your little insult.”
”Though I now admit that my younger self was maybe skirting the ethical edges by turning you into a temporal honeytrap to lure my brother into actually living a little, but in the end, it worked out fine, didn’t it? I mean, look at him now — he’s practically Indiscretion of the Endless!”
Death cackled at her own joke, and Hob wondered if adorably horrifying dad laughs ran in the family.
Hob suddenly felt woozy with giddiness, and a little dazed by the heartscorching implications of her confessions, and — was Death making finger guns at him?
Dream only hummed and leaned into Hob, basking in his bodily warmth. Dream was a surprisingly handsy drunk, even in public — and when they were alone he was as grabby like a damn octupus, Hob recalled fondly, stealing touches and kisses like a greedy raccoon with eyeliner.
Hob chuckled, trying to regain some semblance of emotional control.
”Okay, but come on — Dream cannot have been so oblivious that he thought that he had actually been blending in during each of our centennial meetings.”
Judging by the sullen, regal indignancy of Dream’s facial expression, he had thought wrong. Hob and Death burst into giggling.
Dream muttered defensively: ”I was always dressed in the style of the era. I fashioned the entire ensemble out of dreamstuff, having consulted the dreams of the finest French tailors.”
Hob cooed: ”My love, you have never passed as human, straight, or subtle in the 600-odd years we have known each other. And you must have been really distracted by me constantly mooning over you if you managed to miss just how much you stood out of the crowd.”
”I did not.”
”Oh, darkling, I hate to break this to you, but — You looked like a dominatrix courtesan catering exclusively to depressed timelords.You looked like you had bought the East India Company and begun to exclusively trade in eyeliner. Not to slutshame, but looking like that, and waving that ruby around, you were just asking for trouble. It’s amazing that no one ever tried to rob you before 1789.”
A faint silver blush was blooming on Dream’s pale cheeks, and he was doing a piss-poor job of suppressing a sheepish smile. Finally he decided to join their game, turning to face Hob with those scarlet lips drawn into a decadent smirk, eyelashes fluttering seductively, responding in a husky stage-whisper:
”Well, then you would surely have come to my defense.”
”Ah, well, now that actually explains a lot.”
Dream glowered petulantly at him, in a comically exaggerated attempt to feign affront.
”Rakish Rogue. Flattering Fiend. Incorrigible Imp.”
”You love it.”
”Perhaps.”
”Caro mio.”
”Mon cher.”
Death was shaking with laughter, screaming into a black pillow she had frantically and — not very discretely — materialized into existence.
”Of course Addams Family would be right up your alley, little brother. At least promise me I get to be Wednesday Addams in this scenario?!”
”Fine. Desire can be Fester.”
”DREAM, I SWEAR TO LESSER GODS”