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Hob Gadling prides himself on no longer jumping whenever his strange friend decides to visit him. He’s learnt to sense it, somehow, a now familiar presence, like static electricity in the air, making his arm hairs stand up before he hears the usual, “Hello, Hob.”
It’s always random; they’ve abandoned their centennial schedule now that Dream tentatively acknowledged their friendship status, but it’s not like they agreed on a new one. Dream just drops into Hob’s world - the Waking World, he calls it - whenever he appears to have some time free from his duties, and Hob is not about to complain. Besides, his newfound friend seems to respect his personal boundaries enough to only visit when Hob’s not otherwise occupied. Like today, when he’s got a two hour break between lectures and decides to take a stroll through the park after lunch.
He suspects it’s more than pure luck that Dream has never appeared next to him during work, or in his shower (although that’s something he’d hardly object to - but that’s a dangerous train of thought, better leave that alone). The idea that Dream likely has a way of checking on him and knowing if it’s an appropriate time to drop by should be slightly disturbing, but he’s glad for it.
“Hello to you too, my friend.”
They fall into stride, silent; Dream meets his eyes for a moment and gives him that tiny smile that he’s been offering more freely this century than ever before, at which Hob’s heart skips a beat every single time. Then Dream seems to become utterly transfixed by the way fallen leaves crush underneath his boots with every step. He appears pensive today; not that he’s normally very talkative. Hob would account for probably 90% of the words spoken in their conversations, and even if Dream would occasionally offer remarks or ask questions, it’s usually Hob initiating a topic.
He used to think he needs to fill all these silences between them, the fear that Dream would grow bored and turn his attentions to some hotshot writer or brilliant musician instead still eating away at his insides; but over time, he realized that Dream seemed perfectly content with Hob’s companionship, even if he didn’t have any interesting stories to tell. He’s learned to bask in those friendly silences, let them stretch for a bit throughout their… meetings? encounters? Hob tries not to think of them as dates, really, but he’s not sure if there’s a better word for it as they walk side by side in the warm autumn sunshine, or sit at the kitchen table of his flat, sharing a bottle of wine and talking. They feel like dates.
Would a creature like Dream even partake in such a trivial, human thing as dating? Hob has to keep reminding himself Dream is not human; because despite the strange, alien aura around him, like the air electrified on the verge of a storm, everything about him screams otherwise.
It’s not something Hob’s only just noticed. Even back during their centennial encounters, he studied every muscle movement on the face of the man who seems to have tried his hardest to appear stone cold and unemotional, but was anything but. He smiled when he was amused and frowned when something displeased him. His voice tone changed ever so slightly in his questions when a story Hob had been telling him captured his curiosity. He could cry when he was upset, apparently; not that Hob’s seen him cry, but he clearly saw the tears in Dream’s eyes back in 1889, when he called him lonely. (Hob himself certainly did shed a few aggravated tears after their quarrel; wondered if Dream did, too. Selfishly, bitterly hoped for it.)
And yet… Dream’s definitely not human. Hob still can’t properly grasp the concept of an Endless, isn’t sure any human, albeit immortal, is meant to. He cannot even be sure Dream is built of real blood and bone and skin. For all he knows, he could be made of marble, all pale, smooth and perfect.
He’s not unfeeling, he certainly forms attachments (judging by him enjoying his time around Hob) and sentiments (whenever he speaks of his sister - Death, and that’s taken Hob a minute to wrap his head around), but can he love, the way humans do?
Hob really should not be entertaining those kinds of thoughts, but he’s never been strong when feelings were concerned, and especially the ones he carried in secret, kindling the flame in his chest with every chip of attention and kindness his stranger-friend offered him over the centuries. And then, amidst both the silences and spoken words, sometimes, there’s been these looks. Century after century, and even more prominent now that they’ve been meeting more frequently. Hob’s had more than enough lovers in his lifetime to consider himself very familiar with these kinds of looks. So maybe, just maybe…
“Wanna head to the pond?” Hob finally chases his thoughts away and breaks the silence to ask, and raises his hand holding a paper bag. “I brought some bread. Ever fed ducks? It’s quite meditative, has always felt that way to me, at least.”
Dream chuckles, like there’s some joke there that Hob isn’t aware of, but nods. “Why not. Let’s go feed the ducks.”
The ducks begin approaching them the moment they reach the shore; Hob divides the stale loaf into two parts and hands one to Dream, who still looks amused as he accepts it. The ducks flock around in a tight circle, quacking excitedly, snatching pieces of bread as soon as they hit the water.
“Make sure to throw some bits further, to those on the outer circle”, Hob instructs him, doing just that. “I believe in fair and equal distribution of bread.” That gets him another chuckle from Dream.
They remain standing there for a while once the bread is gone, just watching the ducks swim away, some of them ducking their heads underwater - to drink, probably; several make their way onto the shore and sit on the grass, bathing in the fading warmth of the sun, unbothered by his and Dream’s presence. It still, bizarrely, feels like a date, and Dream’s been throwing him those glances, again… Hob takes a leap of faith.
The moment his fingers touch Dream’s hand, the man flinches, takes a sharp step to the side. The ducks on the shore flap their wings and scatter. Hob swallows at the panic rising in his throat, steels himself for another “you dare” tirade; but Dream doesn’t really look angry, more like… tense, confused; almost frightened, perhaps?
The next time Hob blinks, Dream is gone.
Fuck.
Regret and embarrassment eat away at Hob for the next several weeks; and as he goes about his life, uninterrupted by Dream’s sudden visits, these feelings don’t fade away, but rather settle alongside a growing panic that maybe this time, he’s fucked things up beyond repair, and Dream will want nothing to do with him anymore.
So a month later, when he opens his eyes one Sunday morning and sees a familiar shape on the edge of his bed, to say he feels relieved would be an understatement. Under normal circumstances, it should feel creepy - was Dream watching him sleep? - but Hob can’t give a damn, scrambling to sit beside Dream, glad that his flat feels chilly enough in late October to be wearing a T-shirt and pajama pants to bed.
Dream glances at him, silent, his expression unreadable, but his jaw clenched tight, eyes frantically searching Hob’s face, like he’s gauging Hob’s own reaction to his visit; Hob doesn’t have time to unpack that, needs to speak his piece before Dream changes his mind and disappears again.
“I’m sorry if I offended you,” he says quickly. His fingers itch to reach out, maybe put a hand on Dream’s shoulder, but those kinds of impulses are what got him into this current situation in the first place, so he folds his hands on his lap, picks at a hangnail on his thumb; it’s easier to have this conversation without looking Dream in the eye. “It was out of line, stupid, I wasn’t thinking, I just thought…” He sighs. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. I keep making these human assumptions about you, and you’re not, you know, human, maybe you’re repulsed by touch in general, or maybe it’s just me, doesn’t matter”, he’s rambling now. He should probably stop. “The point is. I shouldn’t have touched you without asking. I won’t do it again, I promise. I just hope I haven’t ruined our friendship?”
When he finally looks up, his chest aching with hope, Dream’s expression is not what he expected. His usual stoicism is completely shattered, like that cursed day in 1889, but this time he looks more uncertain, bewildered, and utterly miserable. He looks like he’s bracing himself to speak, and Hob waits, nervous but patient.
“You have not offended me, Hob. Nor was I repulsed, I assure you. It was merely… unexpected.” Dream speaks softly, quietly. “My reaction was undignified. I should not have disappeared like that, and for so long. It is I who should apologize to you.”
“Okay,” Hob sighs in relief, trying to formulate a response beyond that through a tornado of emotions. They’re okay then. He should count his blessings, leave it at that, but his stupid mouth isn’t cooperating. “So is it just you that doesn’t like being touched? Or like… Oh god, I didn’t accidentally break some cosmic law about touching an Endless, did I?”
Dream gives him a tiny smile at that. “No. No, it’s not that.” He turns to fully face Hob, sits on the bed cross-legged. He’s not wearing shoes, of course, because Hob’s scolded him about it before (“I don’t care if they are an extension of you or whatever as you say, there’s very real street mud on them” ). “I believe I did not give you much detail about my captivity.”
Hob mirrors his pose, careful to keep enough distance so their knees don’t brush. It is true, he still doesn’t know much about what happened to Dream; his friend has given every indication that he doesn’t like talking about it. Hob knows he was captured by some asshole mage to serve him, give him immortality or whatever, but Dream never gave in, and so the man kept him locked up, followed by his son, until one day a lucky accident allowed Dream to escape.
But the detailed version appears more horrid that Hob could ever imagine, and by the end of it he’s gripping the sheets, anger boiling inside him as Dream finishes recanting the full story of his imprisonment. What kind of monster does that? Keeps a living being locked up in a fucking glass orb like some sort of Christmas toy?
Hob takes a deep breath, tries to quell his anger. This is not what Dream needs from him right now; besides, he’s assured Hob that both father and son paid their price, Roderick Burgess dying of a heart attack, his son Alex now stuck in an endless nightmare.
“I’m so sorry”, Hob says, almost calm, although his voice trembles. “Are you okay?”
Dream looks surprised at the question. And then, even more so at his own answer, as it escapes his lips. “No. I’m not sure I am.”
Dream’s admission, so painfully honest, breaks Hob’s heart.
“I’d never been isolated for so long. From the Dreaming, or the waking world. It was so quiet, and now it’s not, and sometimes it’s too much. Everything. The dreams are so loud, and so is the waking world, so much louder than I remember. And touching…” He swallows audibly. “Like I said, unexpected. I think I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel anything, besides cold air and smooth glass.”
Silence falls between them again. Hob tries, and fails, to find the right words, groans quietly in frustration.
“Fuck. Um. I don’t even know if I’m qualified here, to be honest, I’m a man of multiple professions, but therapist is definitely not one of them.”
Dream cocks his head at him, frowns.
“I do not need human therapy, Hob. I’m…”
“Right, right, an Endless, king of your realm, immortal and untouchable - quite literally, I might say… Sorry, that was unfair.” He sighs again, holds Dream’s gaze. “Point is, what happened to you was extremely fucked up, and it makes sense that you’re not okay. I’ve been to war, Dream. Multiple times. I’ve known, very intimately, what PTSD looked like centuries before the term was coined.” Dream opens his mouth to say something, and Hob quickly raises a hand, “No, shut up. If you try to give me some kind of you dare speech, I swear I’ll kick your ass, king or not.”
“I’d like to see you try”, Dream retorts, but it sounds amused rather than threatening.
Hob chuckles in relief, because that right there was a bold, honest, but very risky move on his part. “Here’s the thing. I take it you don’t have much experience with friendships?”
Dream thinks on his answer for a moment.
“I suppose not. I do have loyal subjects… my creations. My siblings. I’ve taken lovers before, but I imagine that’s different.”
Hob files that information away for later. Not the time to dwell on that now.
“Friends help each other, Dream. And ask for help when needed. You know? It’s bad enough I didn’t do anything to get you out…”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“See, I don’t know about that,” Hob shakes his head. “Maybe I could have, if I didn’t outright assume you didn’t want to see my face anymore? Not the point. Still makes me feel bad. And I’m not sure if I can help now, but at least let me try? Don’t run away, don’t shut down like that, you know? It’s okay to not be okay, doesn’t matter if you’re human or not, but it’s not okay to bottle it all up.” He has to duck his head to meet Dream’s averted gaze, and pleads, voice soft. “Dream. I’m here for you. Just talk to me when something’s wrong. Or when I’ve done something wrong, just tell me.”
Slowly, looking more vulnerable than Hob’s ever seen him, Dream nods. He clenches and unclenches his fists on his lap several times, looking at them, as if lost in his thoughts; then slides one hand onto the bed between them, palm up.
“Could you…” He stops himself, breathing heavily through his nose. Hob waits, heart hammering somewhere in his throat. “Back at the pond. You were going to hold my hand?”
“Yes,” Hob replies, plain and simple, his voice a little hoarse with emotion; not seeing any point in hiding his intentions, now that he knows Dream’s reaction had nothing to do with him personally. He barely breathes under the intensity of Dream’s stare.
“Could you try again?” Dream finally asks, voice small and uncertain, and Hob almost laughs at that; he always assumed Dream could read him like an open book. Can he not see his own name carved deep into Hob’s heart, years ago, long before Hob learned it himself?
Hob looks down at him palm. Dream’s fingers twitch slightly as he slowly reaches out, but he doesn’t flinch this time.
His hand doesn’t feel like marble at all. Just skin, smooth and unblemished, a little cold to the touch - something Hob did expect, somehow. The angle is off for proper hand holding, but he curls his fingers around Dream’s, tucks his fist into his palm and looks up again, finds Dream’s gaze fixed on their linked hands.
“You are helping me, Hob”, Dream speaks again. “You have been… this whole time.” Slowly, his thumb begins running along Hob’s knuckles, back and forth, and Hob has to remind himself to breathe, once again. “You know how our… acquaintance began with a mere curiosity of mine. I am glad we have become friends, since” - Hob’s heart warms at the words - “but that original sentiment of mine still stands. Your undeterred positivity, your inherent ability to find new purposes in life. It’s inspiring. Something I have been struggling with, truthfully.” He squeezes Hob’s fingers, smiling and meeting Hob’s eyes, his own full of warmth and something else, something, perhaps, like affection. “And this. This is helping, too. Thank you.”
Hob nods, swallowing hard and trying to settle his fluttering heart; he knows he’s blushing now, and Dream can clearly see that, so it feels stupid not to say what he’s really feeling. “Anything for you, Dream.”
He might have hallucinated the slight flush tinting Dream’s cheeks at that, and isn’t brave enough to glance up again and check; but the way Dream draws in a shuddering breath and reaches to grasp his other hand is, quite certainly, very real.
They sit like that for a few more minutes, in a comfortable silence, just holding each other’s hands, before Dream lets go, slowly, reluctantly. “My duties require my attention now, Hob. But I will be back soon”, he assures Hob before disappearing.
Hob flops back onto the bed and groans. He’s a grown, 664-year old man, not some lovesick teenager. He’s not going to swoon, or kick out his legs, or scream into a pillow because he just held hands with the love of his life.
Okay, so maybe he does all of the above. But later, as he calms down, he reminds himself that this is not about him, and for the moment, it doesn’t matter if his feelings are reciprocated. Right now, first and foremost, Dream needs a friend, someone he could talk to and maybe hold hands with for no other reason other than that, apparently, noone had touched him in over a century; and Hob genuinely feels honored to be this person for him, even as his own unhelpful brain keeps providing him with all kinds of other ways he could be touching Dream.
Something has shifted between them after that conversation, Hob can feel that. Dream drops by more often now - two, sometimes three times a week. He seems more relaxed around Hob, and also appears to gravitate closer to him whenever they are in the same space. Their shoulders would brush as they walk together. He’d lean forward against the table as they sit opposite each other at the New Inn, drinking and talking. Instead of sitting down at the other end of Hob’s couch, Dream places himself right at its center, the sides of their bodies pressed together.
The newfound proximity is a pleasant development in their relationship, and also drives Hob absolutely insane, because he’s itching to do something, grab Dream’s hand, or wrap an arm around his shoulders; but he would never allow himself to overstep, to freak Dream out again by making an unwanted move.
Then, one evening, Hob notices that Dream isn’t paying much attention to the second Lord of the Rings film they’ve been watching. These kinds of non-dates were becoming more common: Dream, as Hob quickly discovered, absolutely fell in love with films. He said it was fascinating, the way humans could now visualize great stories, the level of imagination it required to make it all look so real and immersive; not unlike a dream. And, apparently, the Price of Stories was quite the fantasy fan. “Tolkien possessed one of the most imaginative human minds,” he remarked after they finished Fellowship of the Ring, and expressed interest in seeing the rest of the trilogy in film.
So the fact that now, instead of watching the screen, Dream stares at Hob’s hand resting on his own knee, is saying something.
“Dream?” Hob speaks softly, and Dream jerks his eyes back up to his face, as if embarrassed to be caught. “If you want something, just ask. Anything, remember? I meant it.”
“I would like to hold your hand,” Dream says after a moment’s thought, looking a little shy, and Hob tries not to laugh. It is a bit hilarious. Like they are in 3rd grade or something, Jesus. But he just smiles at Dream and reaches, wordlessly, to take his hand.
This time, the angle is perfect. Hob entwines their fingers, pulls both their joined hands onto his lap and turns to look at the TV again. He begins rubbing slow circles into the knuckle of Dream’s thumb; Dream makes a sound deep in his chest that might just be a purr, and then rests his head on Hob’s shoulder, his body relaxing fully. For lack of a more suitable word, it’s cute . Hob’s heart swells with affection.
“Is this alright?” Dream asks, words slightly muffled against the sleeve of Hob’s T-shirt, and Hob wants to scream, god yes, this is SO alright, more than alright, the alrightest, please stay like this forever.
“Yes,” he replies simply. After a moment’s pause, he adds, “You don’t have to ask, you know. If you want to hold my hand, just take my hand. Okay?” He feels Dream nod against his shoulder; Dream’s hair brushes the side of his neck in the process, and he suppresses a shiver. God, he’s got it bad .
The next time they’re having beers at the New Inn, instead of sitting across from Hob, Dream takes the spot on the same side of the booth, and at some point during their conversation he rests his hand on top of Hob’s on the table. It stays there for the rest of the night, and Hob is so grateful for the 21st century allowing them to do that without attracting attention (well, not too much attention; he still catches some people throwing glances, but those are innocent ‘aww, cute’ looks rather than the ones suggesting they are about to be stoned to death, so that’s okay).
Given blanket permission to hold his hand, Dream just keeps doing it any time they hang out together. It never fails to make Hob’s heart ache with longing, but he’s getting used to the feeling. Definitely beats meeting the man every hundred years and not knowing if he even enjoys Hob’s company, or just keeps showing up out of some sort of obligation.
But all the hand holding in the world couldn’t prepare Hob for the way one day, instead of sitting on the couch next to him and leaning against his side as usual, Dream just sprawls himself across the length of it and rests his head on Hob’s lap. When Hob doesn’t move, completely frozen in place, even breathing more shallowly, as if Dream were a cat who’d get spooked away by movement, Dream turns his head to look up at him, brows furrowed. “Alright?”
“Yeah”, Hob replies quickly, jerking his head in a nod, not wanting to give Dream any cause for doubt. He smiles down at him reassuringly and grabs the remote to hit play. (It’s Stardust they’re about to watch this time). “Totally alright.”
Humming contently at his response, Dream reaches to practically manhandle Hob’s arm across his own shoulders, entwining their fingers. Hob's heart rate treacherously picks up; he suddenly wonders if Dream can feel his pulse in his hand. Even if Dream does, he doesn't acknowledge it in any way, his full attention on the screen.
It is alright, even if Hob is very much aware that it's miles away from how friends act around each other, at least in his own experience. Dream did mention that he’d had lovers before; that's something Hob definitely thought about a lot. Maybe he’s wrong again, getting his hopes up on imaginary signals that might just be part of Dream’s completely platonic need for some comforting touch. But it does feel like they're both dancing around this new touching development, and Dream's slowly pushing its boundaries. Maybe Hob can give them a little shove of his own, see what happens if he does.
“Is it okay if I touch your hair?” He asks softly halfway through the film, his free hand already an inch away from Dream's head; but he wouldn’t, not without his friend’s consent. The head on his lap shifts a little, but Dream doesn’t look up, silent for a long moment; Hob’s about to rescind the offer, his cheeks burning up with each passing second, when he hears a quiet “Yes” and exhales with relief.
Dream’s hair is silk soft; with the way it always sticks out in all directions, like he’s used half a bottle of one of those ‘extreme hold’ hairsprays, it is a pleasant surprise to find there seems to be no actual product in it. Combing his fingers through the soft pitch-black strands, Hob chuckles to himself, thinking how Dream might just be keeping his hairstyle this way by sheer force of will.
He hears Dream sigh, seemingly content with what he’s doing, and it gives him the courage to bury his hand deeper, blunt nails scratching lightly at the scalp, moving in slow, soothing circles. Dream keeps making quiet, barely audible sounds, somewhere between a hum and a purr. Hob’s never seen him this relaxed, completely unguarded. He’s very much aware of the trust this traumatized creature keeps placing in him.
They stay like that until the credits roll, and Hob’s hand falls back onto his lap as Dream raises himself to sit next to him, still holding his other hand. He’s smiling, and his hair looks even more wild than usual.
“Thank you, Hob. This was… really pleasant,” he speaks, voice hushed, as if revealing a secret.
“Anytime, Dream,” Hob replies with unconcealed fondness. Dream nods, gives his hand a final squeeze; the next time Hob blinks, Dream’s gone, leaving him alone with his yearning heart.
It’s December already, and London’s witnessing its first snowfall of the year, when Dream accompanies Hob on a walk home from running some errands. They don’t hold hands this time; instead Dream hooks an arm around his elbow, and they walk like that the entire way, arms locked, hands shoved into pockets for warmth.
By the time they enter Hob’s flat, both their coats are covered in melting snow, so he really shouldn’t be surprised when Dream mirrors him in shrugging off the wet coat and placing it on a hanger by the door. It’s surreal though, suddenly seeing Dream without his signature garment; in just jeans and a plain T-shirt, he looks… tiny. That shirt is probably an XS and still loose on him. All long, skinny limbs and pale skin, Dream looks like a scrawny teenager, except Hob knows very well that he’s not.
Hob realizes he’s been staring when Dream shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, crossing his arms on his chest, a gesture so obviously defensive Hob wonders if there is some kind of metaphor for ‘shedding your armor’ here, but he doesn’t comment on that.
“You go ahead, make yourself comfortable, I’ll go make us some tea”, he smiles, tearing his gaze away and heading for the kitchen.
They haven’t made any plans on what to watch this time, so Hob just leaves whatever’s on TV run as background noise as they settle on the couch. It doesn’t escape his attention that Dream keeps inching closer with every sip of tea, until he’s practically curled up against Hob, bony knees digging into his thigh as Dream patiently listens to him grumble about the piles of coursework he needs to grade over the next two weeks. (Hob’s not really annoyed about it, he loves reading most of his student’s works, and judging by Dream’s amused smile, he understands that.)
The conversation lulls after a while. Placing the empty mug on the coffee table, Hob settles more comfortably, leaning against the back of the couch, and Dream just goes with him, solid and warm against his side. It feels easy and natural, to wrap an arm around those slender shoulders; he is met with a warm smile before Dream rests his head on Hob’s chest.
They are cuddling, Hob suddenly realizes, and neither of them bothers to inquire if this is alright; the agreement on this seems unspoken. Too much is unspoken at this point, in his opinion. He sighs, hating to break the moment, but his lovesick heart is finding the confusion and uncertainty a bit too much to handle lately.
“Dream,” he murmurs, his lips almost touching the tips of the man’s hair. “We should probably talk.”
Dream looks dazed, almost sleepy when he raises himself back up to meet Hob’s eyes. A tiny crease between his eyebrows as he asks, confused, “About?”
It’s not like Hob didn’t rehearse this conversation multiple times. He had a whole speech planned, wanted to start by telling Dream how much his friendship means to him, how he’s perfectly happy to remain perfectly platonic hand-holding mates if this is what Dream needs. But as he gets lost in the mesmerizing gaze of Dream’s eyes, mere inches away from his face, all that comes out of his mouth is naked, unobscured truth.
“I’m in love with you.”
His cheeks immediately fill with color, heart beating a mile a minute, and yet the confession leaves him feeling boneless, relieved, like a weight lifted off his shoulders, whatever may come next.
Dream doesn’t look particularly surprised at his words. His face softens, and he smiles, reaching to brush Hob’s cheek with his fingertips, sending shivers down his spine. “I know.”
“What?” Hob stares at him, mouth agape, thoughts racing. “Since when?”
“Since you said, 'Anything for you',” Dream replies, like it’s obvious, and now that Hob thinks about it, yeah, that might as well have been a love confession.
“Dream,” he pleads, because Dream’s face is completely unreadable at the moment. “Say something. Just tell me we’re okay, at least. I might be five seconds away from a panic attack.”
Dream shifts on the couch, facing him fully, then takes his hand, squeezing it reassuringly before he speaks, slowly, as if weighing every word. “You kept offering friendship when your intentions were clearly to court me. And I was grateful for that. I wasn’t sure if I was fit to take a lover, so soon after… everything.” Lover, Hob’s brain screams at him, the hope squeezed tight into a tiny corner of his heart now swelling rapidly. “But you kept amazing me with your kindness and patience. You gave me so much comfort and affection, and you asked for nothing in return. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone quite like you, Hob Gadling.”
Hob just stares at him for a long moment, understanding slowly dawning on him. He has no reason to doubt that Dream speaks the truth; and yet, hoping that the man might reciprocate his feelings, seeing hints of that here and there, are not the same thing as hearing it with his own ears.
“So, uh,” he cups Dream’s cheek gently, and Dream leans into the touch easily. Hob can’t help the joyful smile spreading across his lips. “Lovers? Is that something you’d be interested in… being? With me?”
“If you’ll have me?” Dream responds, and Hob hates how this sounds like a question.
“Let me kiss you, and I’ll show you just how absolutely, hundred percent, unequivocally I’ll have you, darling.”
Dream inhales sharply, his eyes widening, and then he leans in first; Hob meets him halfway, tilting his head before capturing his lips. Fucking finally . Several centuries overdue, and yet would probably be worth another eternity of longing, because it’s Dream, and Hob is so stupidly in love with him.
It’s slow, gentle, almost chaste at first, and Hob doesn’t push, lets Dream take the lead, lets him be the first to release a shuddering breath, slide a hand around the nape of his neck and pull him closer, deepening the kiss, licking into his mouth in a way that makes them both moan quietly.
Hob slowly runs his hands along Dream’s bare arms, feels him shudder and keeps going, across Dream’s shoulders, down the length of his back. His fingertips find their way underneath Dream’s T-shirt, barely brush the soft skin of his lower back when Dream breaks away. Pupils blown, lips red and swollen, breathing hard, clearly overwhelmed, and Hob immediately moves his hands back up, letting them settle on the man’s shoulders.
“I’m sorry, I…” Dream begins, but Hob interrupts him.
“No. Don’t ever apologize, not about this.” He presses a gentle kiss to Dream’s forehead. “I’m immortal, remember? And so are you, my dear. We have all the time in the world.” Hob sits back a few inches, giving Dream some room to recover.
Only a moment later, a familiar hand slides over his palm; Hob entwines their fingers and smiles. And Dream’s still there, still holding his hand, when he slowly drifts off to sleep, happier than he's ever been in his unnaturally long life.