Work Text:
DreamBar
Hob sees the sign on an evening walk. He does a double take, chuckles to himself and snaps a picture that he will never show to anyone.
But even later that night, when he's already in bed he cannot get it out of his head.
He cannot help but think - what if the New Inn had an annex like this? Maybe he could lure his friend over more often if there was something with his name on it, something real, something tangible, something that basically screamed "permanently reserved for Dream"? Maybe they could have an actual drink at the bar and then…
He fails to finish the thought. He just drifts and drifts, words jumbling and blurring together.
DreamBar
Hob opens the door like he has a hundred times before. It's his favourite spot for a nightcap after all.
He waves jauntily at the barkeeper, drinking in the sight, familiar mop of raven hair, mystical blue-silver eyes, black apron over a black crop top - Hob knows it's a crop top, like you just know things in dreams, he only needs to get him out of this silly apron, away from the bar, or maybe - huh - simply bend him over the counter, apronless.
His stranger, his friend, the barkeeper of his dreams - uh, Hob cringes inwardly, suddenly lucid, aware, glad that this is only happening in the safe confines of his mind - moves around to tinker with some of the bottles for whatever purpose, and Hob uses the moment to snap out of his useless gaping and finish his approach.
"The usual," he says as he slides onto the barstool while his friend turns back to him.
"And what might that be?" the barkeeper rasps in that infuriatingly sexy voice, molten honey drizzled over serrated razor blades, his eyes suddenly dark, almost black with something shiny in them, like diamonds. It's so like him, so fitting, so Dream - for Hob finally has a name for him, has had it for weeks now, freely offered after more than six centuries, and he's still treasuring it, like he's never treasured anything before, he wants to chant it into pale skin, over and over, whisper it against lips curved in an almost smile, a shared secret, theirs.
And that's it. Hob has no patience for another silly, tame fantasy tonight. Not again. Really. Walking into this bar is like the last straw. He's so done with far-fetched ideas and what ifs, with glimpses of something, anything, with waking up disoriented and longing and - he leans over the counter, leaps basically, as much as you can leap from this kind of position anyway. He grabs Dream's shoulders, bringing their lips together, and it should be awkward, angle and everything, dreaded lack of response, cold refusal - and then it's anything but.
It's passionate and perfect, there's no bar separating them, Hob's fully in Dream's arms somehow, there's no apron, only a long black coat sprinkled with twinkling stars hanging over one shoulder, the other bare and milky white, nothing underneath except for skinny jeans, and Hob melts into the kiss, pours everything into it, the waiting, the aching, the loving.
It goes on longer than it should, no need to breathe apparently for either of them. And just like that Hob's painfully conscious again, knows that this is all in his mind, that he's asleep, and he breaks away, suddenly afraid to continue, to imagine more of this while he cannot -
"Oh," Dream murmurs, pulling him back in, mouthing at Hob's jaw, tracing some stubble with his tongue. "I apologize. This dream is over."
And Hob's awake in his bed, sitting up with a gasp, panting like he's just run a mile, before he becomes more aware - of the figure next to him, raven hair and pale skin.
"Dream?" he whispers, afraid to make him disappear, like tendrils of smoke dissolving in the eerie light of the moon that shines on them through the crack between the curtains.
"A bartender? Really? That's what did it for you?"
"You sound like you're mocking the invention of chimneys again." Hob aims for accusing and ends up at completely smitten. It doesn't seem to matter as he can feel a smile against his skin when Dream presses a kiss on his collarbone.
"Hob," he says, and it feels like a promise, palpable, inevitable.
"Dream," Hob replies, something heavy in his throat, almost choking.
"Love," he adds, setting it free. He leans in for a kiss and when he closes his eyes, he hears a whisper against his lips, soft like fairy wings.
"Beloved."