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All things considered, Hob was doing pretty well for himself in the 21st century. He had a job he liked (two if you counted his ownership of The New Inn but at this point ownership was really almost all it was, so he didn't feel quite right calling it a job when most of the actual work was being done by people far more qualified than him), a cozy apartment filled to the brim with countless mementoes of his... unusually long life and people who cared about him (and whom he loved in return). Even some... not strictly people who cared about him, he liked to think.
For one, there were the cats hanging out outside The New Inn (Hob wasn't under any illusions as to where their affection landed between him and the food he regularly put out for them, but he understood. One doesn't forget starvation quickly and he most certainly had not.) Then there was Matthew, who... was? A person? Had been at some point? It was unclear, particularly because the raven sometimes seemed to use "human" and "person" interchangeably and that tended to get all kinds of confusing. Whether or not he cared for Hob was also a bit unclear, to be fair, but Hob liked to think that their now-regular spats about inconsequential bullshit had taken a turn away from hostile and towards, dare he say, friendly. At this point it felt like banter more than anything. Hob might not've gone quite so far as to call them friends just yet, but the bird no longer seemed like he wanted to peck his eyes out every time Hob opened his mouth. He did regularly comment on "his boss's dogshit taste" (only when said boss was nowhere to be seen, of course), but Hob was choosing to ignore that for multiple reasons.
Speaking of. There was Dream. His friend who, up until last year, had only shown up in his life once a century and now would hardly stay away for a month (to Hob's utter, albeit confused, delight). As much as the thought of outright insinuating that Dream cared for Hob of all people awoke a deep seated fear within the man, he tried his best to keep it at bay. And so far succeeded, if he did say so himself. Dream had repeatedly assured him they were friends and friends cared for each other. So. That was that. No use dwelling.
Dream was certainly a person and most definitely not human. He was so clearly not human, in fact, that his attempts to assure Hob he could "easily blend in" tended to skirt comedic. If the aforementioned "blending in" was anything like what he'd attempted back in 1389 (or any of their subsequent meetings, for that matter), Hob was immensely amused by the assertion. (He didn't care, of course. If anything, Dream's inability to act even remotely human was sort of endearing. His insistence on the opposite, however, was extremely funny.)
So yes. The 21st century had been treating Hob pretty damn well, if this year was any indication.
Hob stood behind the bar, supposedly contemplating the array of liquors in front of him, but in reality he'd been lost in thought for some time now. The pub was empty, past closing time, as Hob was partaking in a long time tradition of patiently waiting for his friend.
Alright, maybe "patiently" was a bit of a stretch. He'd been trying to concentrate on what drink to make for his no-longer-stranger, but kept getting distracted and lost in the nervous energy he hadn't quite been able to shake off all day.
Back when he'd first built The New Inn, he used to bartend nearly every day, relentlessly (spitefully) hopeful for his Stranger's return and anxious he'd miss it if he wasn't there 24/7. Then his teaching had gotten in the way (Professor Robert Gadling, can you bloody believe that? Who's a peasant now?) when the anxious hope had turned bittersweet (yet no less relentless).
Point was, Hob could mix drinks well enough, if only he could focus on the task. He sighed. This was ridiculous, Dream was gonna walk through the door any minute now and Hob was still criminally unprepared, all because of his stupid brain's inability to shut up for a second and complete a simple task.
It wasn't so simple, in Hob's defense. Yes, on the surface it might've been, but this was uncharted territory in a way. Yes, Dream had obviously been in The Inn before (he looked around in such wonder every time he thought Hob wasn't watching, as if that was ever the case. Hob wasn't entirely sure why, but that look had quickly become one of his favorite sights in the universe). He'd even been in Hob's flat (and yes, before you ask, Hob had gone a little bit insane because of that too). However, He'd never been in The Inn with Hob in the clear role of a host, so, obviously, he had to impress him. It was nerve-wracking.
And distracting. For fuck's sake. This was taking way longer than he'd expected. Hob made his brain concentrate on the bottles in front of him for the third time in ten minutes. Ridiculous.
The front door creaked softly and Hob grabbed three bottles in a near panic. Well, that was decided, he supposed.
"Dream?"
"Hello, Hob." The slight smile was radiant. They always were. "I apologise for the delay, there was work to be done in the Dreaming."
He somehow managed to look both regal and sheepish at the same time. Would the wonders never cease?
"It's alright, my friend, you're barely even late." In all honesty, Hob had no idea what time it was, but he'd once had to wait 133 years for this man, he could mange... half an hour? An hour? Whatever it was. Besides, he'd been rather embarrassingly occupied. Not that Dream needed to know that.
"Can I get you a drink?"
Dream looked like he was about to decline, but Hob must've looked pathetically hopeful because he gave a slight nod instead.
"Wonderful!" Hob smiled. Right. He was actually doing this. Fuck it.
"How've you been, duck?" he asked, getting orange juice from a mini fridge under the bar.
"Relatively well. My prolonged absence means I have to restore certain diplomatic relationships," he furrowed his brow a little, which in Dream's case was basically a snarl, "The Fey in particular have been most troublesome. Their prolonged visit is the reason I was late tonight."
"Sounds annoying."
"Indeed."
Dream looked annoyed, too, it was honestly fucking adorable. Hob chuckled under his breath and waved dismissively at Dream's questioning expression.
"And what about you, my friend? Has your scheduling dispute been resolved?"
"Sort of? Rue and a couple others backed me on the complaint, so the faculty had to budge, but it's only marginally better. I've honestly accepted that the whole year's probably gonna be a mess."
"Is there a way I could help?"
"You're not giving my boss nightmares, if that's what you're suggesting."
"I wasn't." He totally was.
"It's fine, honestly, this kind of fuckery is pretty much par for the course. But I appreciate your concern, dove," Hob smirked, grabbing a bottle. Dream eyed the cherry liqeuer suspiciously.
"Bear with me. You're gonna like it." He sure fucking hoped so.
"I didn't know you tended the bar as well," Dream said, leaning slightly on the counter.
"Technically, I don't. Haven't for a while. But what's the point of owning a pub if you can't commandeer it for a" date "meeting once in a while?"
Dream smiled and Hob knew he'd never get tired of the sight. Not that he'd ever doubted that, but each knew smile cemented the knowledge more and more. He was so far gone it was embarrassing.
"That is sound logic, Hob Gadling."
Oh come on, it was way too fucking early for the full name thing. Sometimes Hob thought the bastard knew exactly what it was doing to him and kept saying it on purpose. Then again, Hob absolutely did occasionally use Dream's name when not entirely necessary just to see that wrecked little glint in his eyes that Hob kept telling himself he was imagining. (The lie was growing less and less convincing and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to keep it up. Hopefully it would at least survive through the night.)
Actually, it wasn't early. It was around 1 a.m. and the first time Hob had suggested this whole thing Dream had looked like he'd been about to murder him with a glare alone. But he'd come around eventually. Hob had assured him he'd still spent his owed eight hours in the Dreaming, he'd just start in the morning. There was a joke there about Sundays and worship he couldn't quite be arsed to make. Dream had still been reluctant to accept, but the idea of having the bar for themselves had seemed to finally sway him. He'd had that same (completely imagined, of course) expression he had when Hob called him 'Dream'. The Inn was clearly important to him and Hob had a bit of a hard time keeping his eyes from watering every time he was confronted with that fact.
(Some time after that conversation Hob had been accosted by a disgruntled Matthew who'd said he owed him a coffee for the weird-ass weather in the Dreaming. Hob had no idea what the fuck that'd been about, but he'd bought the coffee anyway. The poor bird had seemed to need it.)
Hob put the finished drink on the bar in front of his friend. "Here you go, duck."
Dream raised a single eyebrow at the offering.
"Dream?" Look, he'd never said he wasn't a hypocrite.
The anthropomorphic personification of the collective unconscious blinked at Hob slowly and carefully sipped at the colourful liquid.
"It's... sweet."
"So are you," Hob definitely did not fucking say, could you bloody imagine the absolute disaster that would've been? (He did think it. Sue him.)
"It's called a blood and sand," he said instead. "Thought it'd be fitting, since, you know... sand." Kill him.
Dream hummed in what almost could be mistaken for amusement. There was a tiny bit of orange zest on his lip and Hob wanted to brush it off with his thumb. He stopped himself with the relative ease granted by centuries of practice.
"Do you like it?" Hob smiled sheepishly, "It's alright if you don't. I can make you something else. Or just get you a beer."
Dream's hand curled tighter around the glass (seemingly unbeknownst to him) as he sook his head.
"No need. I find the taste rather enjoyable. As I do the sentiment."
"Oh?" Hob's smile turned playful, "So you liked the godawful pun then? Good to know."
The King of Dreams did not dignify that with a response, but the corners of his mouth twitched upwards almost imperceptibly and that was a definite win in Hob's book. One of these days he was going to make Dream laugh, just once, and then promptly perish (at last) because there was absolutely no way he'd be able to actually handle that. Which was fine, as making Dream laugh might've been on Hob's very short list of things worth dying for.
Dream took another sip. Hob fought to keep a ridiculously dopey grin off his face and lost miserably.
At some point during the night they'd moved to their usual booth. Hob was on his whoever the fuck knows which beer and Dream was nursing his second (!) blood and sand. He'd smiled at Hob about a dozen separate times, each giving him a figurative (for now) heart attack and Hob only spilled his drink once, while hopping over the bar to follow Dream to the booth.
Safe to say, the night was going extremely well.
Hob wondered if Dream could even get drunk. The slight flush on the godlike creature's cheeks pointed to perhaps yes, but he could've just been hot in that ridiculous coat of his. Either way, if Hob had been hoping to be the sober(er) party (if only not to make an even bigger fool out of himself), he'd missed his chance about a pint ago. Not that he minded terribly, Dream was his friend, and besides, he'd seen Hob in infinitely worse states.
Hob was, however, getting progressively more relaxed and consistently reminding himself not to lean into Dream's side was taking herculean effort. Especially when Dream kept looking at him with increasingly difficult to ignore affection. It was melting Hob's insides and making his heart forget its primary function.
"Hob?"
"Huh?"
Dream was looking at him inquisitively.
Shit.
"Sorry, love, could you repeat that?"
Dream's lip quirked in amusement, "I asked why you were smiling like that."
Well. Great. You're a buffoon, Gadling, just so you know.
"Like what, dear?"
A clown, even.
Dream seemed conflicted for half a moment. Then he slowly reached over, giving Hob time pull away if he wanted to (like hell), and gently cupped his chin. His thumb lightly touched Hob's bottom lip.
"Like this."
Hob wasn't breathing, too scared to shatter this surreal moment of pure divinity. He wasn't smiling anymore either, actually, but he was gonna let that sli-
"I'm not smiling."
Are you a fucking idiot??
Dream's eyes widened and he let out a surprised laugh, abrupt and the furthest thing from dignified.
Oh.
Oh god.
Hob had been right, this was absolutely going to kill him and he wasn't even gonna think of complaining. He grinned in delighted awe.
Dream seemed to recover from the surprise rather quickly, gracing Hob with a smile of his own.
"There it is," he hummed, eyes once again fixed on Hob's lips.
For a moment Hob wondered if he was dreaming, but that hardy actually mattered where his friend was concerned. Whether or not he was dreaming didn't make this any less real.
He exhaled shakily. Slowly, as if in a daze, Hob took the hand cupping his face and brushed a soft kiss against it.
Dream sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide.
"Shit," Hob mumbled. What has he done. "I'm so sorry, I didn't-"
"Hob."
He stood abruptly and walked over to the bar, knees slightly trembling.
"Fuck."
"Hob-"
"Fuck, Dream, I am so sorry."
"Hob Gadling, if you apologise again, I will put you to sleep and we will have this conversation in my realm where you won't be able to lie."
Hob was beginning to hyperventilate, but the sheer absurdity of that statement almost snapped him out of his panic. He turned around, leaning his back on the bar for support, only to see Dream standing at a meter's length.
"I can absolutely lie in the Dreaming, what're you on about."
"Not if I don't want you to."
"Right! Bit creepy, but sure."
Dream averted his gaze for a moment, looking almost chastised. "I apologise. I do not wish to make you tell me anything you don't want me to know."
"You're good." Hob's panic had let up, leaving him feeling, frankly, a bit silly for the outburst. He'd thought he was getting better.
"Can I apologise for freaking out, at least?"
"No, you most certainly cannot." Dream looked anguished at the prospect, a slight shimmer in his eyes.
Hob sighed softly. "Dream, I-" He stopped. Not yet. "Never mind. You want another drink? Since I got up already. I don't think I need any more myself, but you've only had-"
"Hob," Dream interrupted his rambling, expression unreadable, "What is it you wanted to say?"
"Dove, I said never mind, ok? It's nothing."
"I sincerely doubt that."
"Dream," the name came out sounding like a warning. Hob took a steadying breath and continued, tone more gentle, "trust me, just drop it, alright?"
"...Alright."
"Right," Hob smiled, "Drink?"
Dream nodded, gears visibly turning in his head. Hob tried his best to not be anxious about that and even somewhat succeeded. That is, until Dream started speaking.
"Hob, I- I think it best that you knew I- That is to say, I feel-" He huffed quietly in frustration.
What was happening? Dream was never at a loss for words. Never. What the fuck was going on, was he alright??
"Dream?"
The King of Nightmares held up a hand, a silent plea for patience. Hob nodded slowly, his insides churning with worry.
Seemingly to steady himself, Dream took a deep breath (which, might Hob remind you, he didn't need) and started speaking.
"I have come to realise that I have not been properly communicating my... feelings. It is... difficult for me, as you have probably gathered. Still, you deserve to be told that- You deserve to know you are cared for. By me. I am sorry I have failed to let you know."
Hob swallowed around the painful lump inside his throat.
"Dream..." his voice was shaky.
Hob reached for his friend's hand, grasping it like a lifeline, to Dream's apparent relief, if his grip was any indication.
"I know. It's okay, I- I know. You might not've said it, but you did... communicate it." He let out a wet chuckle, squeezing Dream's hand harder than was probably comfortable, but the man didn't complain.
"I have hurt you," Dream said in an almost whisper, face contorted with grief and shame.
Hob's heart clenched painfully. He would much rather die by Dream's laughter than his anguish.
"You apologised."
"That's not enough."
"Dream." Hob sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. After all this time he was still afraid to say it.
Dream obviously knew that. Of course he did. Hob was a great many things, but blind wasn't one of them. And he knew Dream. Had known him for centuries. So he saw the little gestures, the touches, the looks, the pointed... presence of his friend in his life.
Dream was trying to make a point.
So.
Point made, he supposed.
"I love you. You know that, right? Surely you must."
Dream blinked slowly, a tear running down his cheek. Hob reached for it absentmindedly, halted half-way, then closed the distance and wiped it away.
"I do," Dream murmured, pressing his face into Hob's palm. "I love you as well. Deeply."
"I know," Hob whispered and found that, for perhaps the first time, he actually believed that.
Dream smiled softly and Hob noticed most of the distance between them had gradually disappeared, leaving only a few inches of space. Dream placed a hand under his chin, eyes searching.
"May I-"
"Yeah."
Hob closed the distance first. Dream's lips were soft, slightly colder than a human's, and tasted of cherries, oranges and summer rain.
They parted after a moment, staying close enough to breathe each other's air. Dream let out a content sigh that almost made Hob's knees buckle.
"So," he said, barely above a whisper, "how about that drink?"
Dream laughed and Hob had never felt more alive.