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    Summary

    Hands are such a human thing, Hob thinks. To make, and shape, and create. The elegance of thumbs. Fashioned by thousands of years of slow and careful evolution for the sole purpose of holding.

    He wants to hold Dream. To rub their fingers together, that singularly human grasp, to push their palms flat, and their chests close, and he's not sure if he wants to hug his friend or cry on his shoulder, because he should have been there. He should have known.

    Hob has a hard time believing that Dream forgives him. He has an even harder time believing that Dream might want him back.

    Language:
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