Work Text:
Hob opens the door to his flat, banishing all thoughts of lectures and classes from his mind, somewhat giddy with anticipation of what the evening might bring. It’s still so new and raw and fucking perfect – this thing with Dream, Morpheus, here with him in the waking world. He absently takes off his coat. It’s a constant journey of discovery, his friend slowly adapting, learning, enjoying. Hob loves being around for all of it, every mad second of it. He doesn’t mind indulging every whim, following an errant thought, an unorthodox idea. Now that the pressure of Dream’s function is gone they have nothing but time.
The coat slides out of his hands when he finally registers what he’s seeing. The walls in the entryway, the bare parts of them, painstakingly remodelled during the most boring days of pandemic lockdown, painted in mingling shades of grey, are covered in script – black letters and signs, Latin and Greek, symbols that almost look like hieroglyphs, neat yet intricate. He slips out of his boots on autopilot, tip-toeing on socked feet into the direction of his living room, following the trail of equations, curiously tracing some of the paint, barely drying, residue dark on his finger.
He reaches the end of the corridor, opening into the wide, open space of the lounge, last rays of sunlight filtering in through high windows, and gasps. The string of formulae fans out along every wall, swirling up and down, around paintings and decoration and furniture. Hob recognizes it as maths – but the kind that’s way beyond his comprehension. Non-linear his silly peasant brain whispers in awe.
Morpheus is in the corner between the bookshelves, clearly running out of space, tin of black paint on the nearest board, slender finger dipping into it every now and then, continuing his calculation at a steady pace. He’s wearing an impossible combination of clothes, black leather pants – the ones he got for their recent ventures into clubbing, tight to the point of obscene, no room for underwear whatsoever –, one of Hob’s old uni hoodies, bottle green, sleeves rolled up, and sapphire-blue socks, hand knit, courtesy of Constantine. It should look ridiculous, but Hob doesn’t, it’s – his mouth is very dry.
He waits for Morpheus to finish his latest array of variables and close a bracket before he clears his throat softly as not to startle him. His friend turns around with a smile that knocks the remaining breath out of Hob.
“Hello, Hob.”
“Love. What are you doing?” He takes a couple of steps until he’s right in Morpheus’ personal space, close enough to touch. The butterflies in his stomach reappear with fluttery vigour.
“I wanted to find out when you might be home.”
“But,” Hob stutters, “I told you, at six?”
“I wanted to understand what it means.”
Hob’s at a loss for a moment before it clicks. “You can rely on clocks here. Mostly. I mean, unless -”
Morpheus simply leans in and cuts him off with a kiss. Hob foolishly expects relaxed softness and stumbles a bit under an unforeseen onslaught of blatant passion and pure want. He gets lost in it, the accompanying touches sharp and hot and promising, yet not enough, never enough. He lets out an embarrassing whine and blinks his eyes open when Morpheus pulls back.
“I do not need to solve it anymore. You are,” a nip on his jaw, “here,” a lick on the side of his neck, “now.”
