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Dream's eyes are glassier than usual, which is no small feat, considering how Dream generally seems about to cry in general. Morpheus is tipsy and approaching outright drunk. In Hob's defense, he hadn't even expected Dream to accept the first drink for New Year's.
It turns out that Dream, drunk, is a touchy-feeler talker, even as Hob tries to steer him down the sidewalk while a bit tipsy himself.
"Night is my mother," says Dream, looking at the stars. "She threw me in a black hole once."
"I'm sorry, a black hole?" Hob sputters.
Dream makes a noncommittal noise. "Somehow I was still her favorite. Sometimes I look up – and know how small I am next to her. We were all so tiny next to her."
Hob doesn't know how to reply, and simply tugs Morpheus closer.
"People suffered while I was locked away," Dream says. "But the world didn't end. It – it kept going, and it was too different when I got out, still is, I don't know how to navigate it." He laughs, hollowly, a terrible sound that makes Hob want to hold him close and never let go. "I once thought myself too important – and now I know that I'm – not. Dream will always exist, but I –"
"Hey," Hob finally says, gently. "You're important to me. Beyond your duty. You know that, right?"
Dream turns fully to look at him, eyes starshine and galaxies, and stops dead.
"Dream…" Hob says again, a little concerned at this point.
"Why do you keep living?" Dream asks, bluntly, and oh, that's also concerning in this context. Tears have started falling down Dream's face.
(He is too sober for this conversation.) Hob sighs. "Come on, love, we're not having this conversation on the sidewalk."
Dream lets Hob guide him the rest of the block to Hob's flat, sit him on the couch, lets Hob hand him a cup of tea without saying anything. He's stopped crying but the tear tracks still glisten on his face.
"How long have you felt like this?" Hob asks.
Morpheus blinks at Hob. "What do you mean? Like what?"
"Like you're not worth anything, or that living is a burden," Hob says.
"I have a function," Dream says, as if it's an answer. Hob's not sure how Dream is still producing sentences, and a part of him feels a niggling guilt at that he's having a conversation Dream would never have sober – but it's too concerning to just let go.
"My function is my worth and what I exist for," Dream adds.
And if that doesn't lodge a knife in Hob's ribs. "God's wounds, Dream. You're killing me here."
"I'm sorry," Dream says. "I tend to hurt everyone around me."
"That is not what I meant, love," Hob says. "I just want better for you. I care about you. If you stopped being Dream of the Endless tomorrow and turned into a human or something, I'd still care for you."
The noise Dream makes is soft, vulnerable, and wounded. Without thinking, Hob takes the tea mug out of Dream's hands and then hugs his friend in a tight embrace. Morpheus folds into it, fitting curled up almost like a cat in Hob's lap against his chest, very terribly small. He's shaking in Hob's hold.
"Dream, more people care about you than you think, both for and beyond your function," Hob whispers. "Let me spend this new year proving it to you. Let everyone help you find meaning and joy in your function and outside it."
"Hob," says Dream, voice utterly strangled.
"You don't get to forget this conversation, either."
"As if I could," his friend says, sounding thick with tears. A hand finds Hob's. "I could … let you try to do that. What you offered for this year."
"Good," says Hob. "Good. I'd probably do it anyway, you know."
A wet chuckle. "You're persistent enough, friend. I don't doubt it."
The digital clock hits 00:00, signifying the start of the new year.
"Well, it starts now, love," Hob says, looking out the window as he rubs Dream's back in slow circles. "It starts now."