Archive of Our Own

***

If Hob Gadling had had a 2022 bingo card, safe to say the reemergence of his long lost stranger would not have made the cut. But alas, he stands in front of him, eyes half-lidded, mouth pulled into one of those infuriating, all-knowing, holier than thou smirks.

Hob should be angry. He tries to make himself feel angry. But all that comes is relief. Relief so sweet and so overwhelming he fears he'll wake in his flat at any second.

It's not like he hasn't had this particular dream before… His stranger returning to him after all this time, with a very good excuse for his absence and a detailed explanation as to who exactly he is.

(Hob would like to tell himself, that that is where those dreams ended- but if one were to glance his subconscious for even a moment they would know that to be decidedly false.)

"You're late."

God he's pathetic. What a thing to say to the man that so callously abandoned him over a century ago. What a way to tell him that he’s been waiting for him for 40 some years.

He feels heat on his cheeks- but his stranger is seemingly unperturbed.

"Apologies,” he rasps, voice low and poised, sarcasm dripping from the vowels.

"I've heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting." He hangs on the word like he expects Hob to lose his mind- and for a moment, admittedly- he does.

He strains for a coherent response, wiping sweat-beaded hands on his tweed coat.

(He had been recently informed by his kind bar staff that tweed went out of fashion some time ago- but he was determined not let something as fleeting as trend deter him from style.)

"In my experience," he tries, voice scratching like a record.

"It is rude not to give one's friends..." he hangs on the word like the stranger had.

"A phone-call. What with the invention of phones and all." His laugh comes out hoarse, his stranger's amused gaze causing his throat to tighten.

He watches the other man's face twitch minutely into what must be- for him- a forlorn expression.

"Trust that my absence was through no fault or desire of my own,” he assures Hob, who is almost too busy wondering who speaks like that anymore, to infer his meaning.

His nervous smile falls.

"Are you alright, friend?" he asks before he can stop himself.

"I am much recovered." The stranger swallows uncomfortably.

"Is there a chance we may talk more privately?" he asks, regarding the tavern's other patrons as if they are rather loud and disquieting fauna.

Hob's concern only grows.

"Of course." He is standing and collecting his papers before he has the sense to show even one iota of restraint.

His senses finally return to him on the busy roads of London, zipping through the crowded streets behind the strange, unknowable man with whom he has aligned himself.

He stops in his place.

The stranger notices almost immediately that Hob no longer follows.

"Are you quite well, Hob?" he asks, eyeing the crowds with a gaze that would look more at home on a skittish cat.

"I've just remembered that my mother did not raise a fool,” he tells the stranger, eliciting a confused scowl from the other man.

"I do not take your meaning,” he calls back over the lively sounds of the street.

"She only had three rules, no taking the Lord’s name in vain, no spitting at the dinner table and no running off with strangers,” he explains, resolved to remain affixed to the footpath as long as it takes for him to receive answers.

The stranger seemingly understands now, his face twisting uncomfortably.

"Must we do this here?" he hisses in return.

"You underestimate an immortal man's love for the woman who reared him,” Hob squabbles.

His companion looks as if he would rather be, literally, anywhere else.

"Morpheus,” he bites, the venom in his tone doing little to distract from the vulnerability behind his starlight eyes.

"Lord of Dreams. No longer a stranger,” he concedes.

Hob's brain nearly short circuits. He's sure when he comes to again he'll be in one of those (not so fun) restraint-jackets that went out of fashion with asylums.

"Morpheus?" he asks, slack-jawed.

"The Morpheus- like from the books?"

(He promises he's so much smarter than this.)

"The very same." The exasperation drips from every part of Morpheus, from his tone to the tight line of his mouth.

"Though my friends have taken to calling me Dream- it is perhaps a truer representation of my function,” he clarifies.

"And what exactly is your function?" Hob allows, curiosity cresting the surface of befuddlement.

His stranger- Morpheus- huffs out a minute laugh, as if anything Hob has managed to choke out in the last few minutes could have possibly been funny.

"You'll have to follow me if you want to find out."

***

He tries not to gasp too loud as his friend- Dream- materialises an uncut loaf of bread from his jacket pocket.

He supposes the other man could have been hiding it within the deep, midnight-black folds of his coat since the New Inn, but (more troublingly) he suspects Dream has summoned it from elsewhere. Something that would have terrified 1489 Hob enough to kill him.

They sit on a bench seat in the park, Morpheus' long, slender limbs folded as regally as allowed by the slanted wooden frame.

He begins almost absentmindedly picking pieces from the loaf and scattering them for the pigeons at his feet.

"You were saying?" Hob asks impatiently, after a moment. There are about a thousand questions he wants to ask- followed by hundreds of follow up queries. Most importantly though, he wants to know where his friend has been.

Morpheus looks up at him as though he has interrupted a vitally important task.

"I was saying..." he scowls, turning back to his winged friends, who he obviously prefers.

"That I am Dream of the Endless. Lord of the Dreaming and all beings that Dream. I am the sovereign of my realm- creator of Dreams and Nightmares alike,” he explains, turning to hold out a piece of bread for Hob.

The domesticity of the act as well as the revelation of his friend's power leaves Hob speechless.

"If you're going to insist on knowing me- I suggest you offer the birds sustenance,” Dream continues, despite Hob's obvious confusion.

"Birds are far more knowledgeable than mortals realise. Well, you would know, you were around for the domestication of pigeons..."

"Dream..." he tries to interrupt the other man, but he is obviously somewhere else, eyes glazed over like precious gems.

Hob cannot help but feel like he's gone mad.

"Tragic what happened to their ancestors- cast out- desperate for affection- unable to fulfil their ingrained use..."

"Dream!" The volume of Hob's voice scares even him. Morpheus flinches at the sound.

"What do the birds have to do with anything?" he demands. He hadn't come for an aviary lesson. He'd come for the promise of answers.

Dream looks almost disappointed, though his features have changed so minutely that anyone but Hob would have missed it.

"The gall of mortals, to so readily cage something that they have no possible hope of understanding,” he seethes, shutting his eyes and huffing out a frustrated breath.

Hob realises they're not actually talking about birds.

"It's wrong,” he agrees kindly, feeling a little silly. He is currently teaching a intro to literature class and yet he'd walk face first into an obvious metaphor, sticking his preverbal foot in it in the process.

When Dream turns to him again, his eyes are wet, long lashes casting shadows in the midday sun.

"I'm glad you believe so. I'm glad you're not the kind of man who would imprison a being against it's will,” he whispers.

Hob can't help but remember a conversation past- a very similar one to this- in which he had expressed the grotesque wish to profit off of slave ships. He shudders at the thought.

"Is that what happened to you?" he dares to ask, casting his eyes on the birds so as to give his friend some privacy. He tosses the bread that has become mush in his closed fist.

"I'm afraid you are correct." His friend breathes. Hob aches to place a comforting hand on his shoulder but, given their physical distance on the park bench, he imagines it would not be welcome.

"I was captured in 1916,” Dream admits.

Hob looks up from the bird picking at his offering like someone has slapped him.

"You what?" he asks, aghast.

"A magic user by the name of Roderick Burgess sought to imprison Death, sought to force her to return his son to him. As I am not she- and would never betray her- I was forced to remain imprisoned until quite recently,” Dream explains, misty eyes returning to the birds.

Hob feels the whole world tilt on its axis.

"How recently?" he chokes, feeling his own eyes grow wet with hot, righteous tears. He'll kill this Burgess prick, he'll kill him and everyone he loves and burn their conniving bodies for good measure.

"Within the year- time moves somewhat differently within the Dreaming so I am unsure exactly how many days it has been since my escape. Safe to say I was interred in the Burgess Manor for more than a century,” he replies robotically. Despite his clinical delivery of the facts, Hob can tell that the memory pains him. He can see the ghost of it roaming through Dream's night-sky eyes.

"Jesus, Dream." He cannot help himself this time from placing a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. He squeezes it once, before moving swiftly away. To Hob's surprise, the other man does not implode.

(He is both impressed and relieved when it becomes apparent that -despite his impulsive display of affection- Dream has allowed him to remain tethered to his mortal coil.)

"Do you need me to kill anyone for you?" he asks, throat tightening with grief, with all of the foolish apologies that threaten to spew from his lips. He knows Dream would have no time for them.

Morpheus lets out a humourless laugh.

"Your offer is kind but ultimately unnecessary. The at fault parties have been dispensed according to my will,” he tells Hob, jaw tight enough that he fears for the being's teeth.

"Well the fuckers deserved whatever hell you wrought, friend,” he reassures him, trying his best to form his face into an understanding smile. He has to push down unimaginable grief. He will grieve for Dream later, in private, where his feelings will not harm the other man.

"No man deserves to be unjustly imprisoned,” he says sternly, hands curling into fists upon his knees.

“You’ve been gone an awful long time… the things people do to each other now. Concentration camps, refugee families pulled apart at borders, protestors imprisoned for daring to challenge tyranny I..." he stops, realising that Dream- being the Lord of nightmares has probably seen his fair share of the horrors he describes.

"You're troubled?" Dream posits unhappily, turning his eyes on Hob once more.

"I did not mean to trouble you,” he frets.

Hob waves him off gently.

"My troubles are all my own, my friend." He laughs.

"Though perhaps we might chat about something a bit lighter?" he offers, pleased to see Morpheus' face draw upward into a half-smile.

"Very well,” he agrees, crossing his legs and leaning lazily on the park bench.

"What have you been up to since last we met?"

***

After their first impromptu meeting, Dream begins showing up more frequently in Hob's life, at increasingly strange times.

First he shows up in the back of Hob's lecture hall, listening glibly to him speak about the literary works of Shakespeare (which Hob would completely neglect if the syllabus allowed).

Next, he finds Dream sitting behind the bar, perched delicately on a barstool like a bird on a wire, refusing to speak with anyone other than his friend.

Oftentimes, Hob finds Dream waiting in the living room of his flat, after he is done closing up for the night. He isn't a frightened man by nature, but the equivalent of an eldritch horror lounging on his couch is always enough to spook him (no matter how many times it occurs). Hob helpfully informs Dream that the other man is lucky his marksmanship had waned since Vietnam, or he would have found himself wearing a bullet hole where his ruby used to reside.

They don't talk about Dream's time away. They don't talk about the war. Instead, they speak of only the good stuff. The stuff that makes Hob want to continue existing despite the hellish century of his life that Dream missed.

"And we fly now!" Hob laughs over perhaps one too many glasses of whiskey. Gobsmacked by Dream's indifference.

"I know many beings who can fly,” Dream replies nonchalantly, catching the straw wrapper Hob launches at him with grace.

"Oh, bugger off!" he exclaims.

And so Dream does.

***

The one place Hob hadn't expected to see Morpheus, was in his dreams.

Well not literally.

It was quite often throughout the centuries that his friend had cropped up in his resting hours, wrapped in fine garbs of various centuries (or more often in nothing at all).

He knows now though, that those Dreams were only cheap impersonations of the real being. He is able to distinguish them from the true Dream almost instantly, the regal slant of his shoulders, the glide with which he walks and most importantly, those sea-glass eyes which none of his subjects, dream and nightmare alike, can ever seem to get right.

"Your majesty." He bows exaggeratedly in front of his friend, laughing at the displeased look that pulls at his cheeks in response.

"Sorry, Dream,” he tries again, holding a hand out enthusiastically with the intention of having Dream shake it. The other man looks down at it confusedly. So they hadn't exactly decided how they wanted to greet each other yet.

"What can I do for you, my friend?" he asks, looking at his surroundings, they had changed from the living room of his childhood home to a lush green field, stretching as far as he could possibly see.

"I thought we might have a stroll in my realm today- seeing as I am most often a guest in yours,” Dream offers. He’s tense as a bowstring, and Hob feels the familiar sting of unwelcome affection in his gut. He knows that Dream would despise it, were he to try and comfort him, or express his concern in any manner- but he aches privately to relieve his dearest friend of some of the burden he so heavily carries.

"Sounds swell,” Hob agrees, allowing them to walk in silence for a moment before pushing his luck.

"Is everything okay, Dream?" he asks the trees, not daring to ask Morpheus to his face. He's sure he imagined it, but they seem to wave in response.

"My realm is repaired, I have banished those who would challenge me and the unsavoury business with my great-niece is resolved and yet..." he stops walking.

"And yet trouble seems to follow me. Someone from my past, someone I once dearly loved was imprisoned, kept as a slave, and I was too similarly imprisoned to rescue her,” he admits, a singular tear gracing his porcelain cheek. Hob wipes it away before he can help himself.

"I'm sorry, friend. Do you want to talk about it?" he offers, against his own advice.

Dream looks at him for a moment, as if deciding something.

"If you would indulge me," he begins, leading Hob in the direction of an imposing castle, his cloak trailing in the soft grass.

"I should like that very much."

***

When next they see each other Hob is wrapped so tightly in grief he fears it may finally suffocate him.

He is dreaming once more. He knows this to be true. The more time he spends with Morpheus the more he is able to recognise the signs. The shimmering quality at the edges of his vision, the lack of necessity to draw breath, the faintest of sounds like the thrumming of a refrigerator, they all suggest that he exists within Dream's realm, sequestered away in the land of sleep.

He will not make himself leave this dream though- he cannot- the very act of it alone would split him squarely in half.

"Hello, little one,” he croons, playing with the exposed, pea-sized toes of the infant swaddled in his arms.

He looks upon the daughter he lost with wet and joyous eyes, a mixture of longing and horror burning at the base of his throat.

"I want to hold her!" Robyn's tiny insistent voice calls from the hall, he storms into the room, buckled shoes clicking on the wooden floors.

A very flustered (but alive) Eleanor follows closely behind, unsaid apologies on her lips.

"Cece is sleeping now, dearest,” she explains, eyes finding Hob.

"Or she was supposed to be." She laughs.

Hob looks down at his daughter, Cece, Cicily after his mother.

"I could no sooner deny her my attention than I could deny myself air to breathe,” he admits, cradling the bundle close to his chest.

Just a second longer.

He tells himself.

Just a second and he'll wake.

"Hob,” Dream's low, timid voice fills the space. When Hob's eyes snap upward his daughter is gone, as are the memories of his wife and son. Instead, he and Dream now stand in the room in which his wife died. He can feel his hands slick with her blood.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps, fighting back the urge to scream and swiftly clock his friend for the intrusion.

"You were suffering- greatly. I had assumed a rogue nightmare had laid claim on you despite my instruction but you... you did this to yourself,” Dream admits, forehead pressing with concern.

"Why?" he whispers.

"You had no right to come here,” Hob growls.

"You had no right to take my family from me,” he whimpers.

Dream looks bereft.

"Your family was gone long before I entered this dream, Hob,” he responds, more gentle than Hob has ever seen him.

An ugly, cruel laugh escapes Hob.

"And what would you know? Hmm? The great and Endless Dream. You've watched every life from beginning to end, seen into the minds of every person who has ever lived. You know nothing of mourning- and you don't get to tell me how to do it,” he berates his friend, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that spawns from the sorrow in Dream's eyes.

"I too lost a son,” Dream admits then, wiping away the dream so that they stand once more in Fiddler's Green.

"What?" Hob rasps.

"My wife- Calliope- the one who had been imprisoned. She and I had a son. We lost him and the grief tore us apart,” he laments.

"Dream, I… I'm sorry,” he stumbles. He expects to be met with anger, expects to be chastised for putting his foot in it so royally. Instead, his friend smiles wistfully.

"You were not to know,” he whispers.

Despite every part of him screaming that it is a bad idea, Hob closes the space between them, wrapping his arms around the other man. Dream stiffens against him.

"What are you doing?" he whispers, but does not pull away, his cool breath tickles Hob's neck.

"Hugging you, ya dope." He laughs, trying to stifle a gasp as Dream's hands sneak around his waist.

"Very well then."

***

They see each other almost entirely in the Dreaming after that. Dream allows himself to pop in when he feels it appropriate. There is normally sufficient warning, the dream Hob resides in usually ceasing movement a few moments before his friend's arrival.

Tonight that is not the case. When Dream appears in Hob's dreamspace, he finds Hob and his still (very) mobile companion in various states of undress.

The man pinned to the bed below Hob freezes, as expected, only seconds too late for Hob to make himself presentable.

"Dream!" Hob's exasperation comes out more like a wanton sigh. He hasn't quite shaken the... feeling... of the dream off yet. Dream's presence making it all very confusing.

"Hob,” Dream mocks, as if the display is tedious and beneath him.

"You can't knock?" Hob asks, aggravation finally appropriately colouring his tone. He rolls off of the bed, pulling his jeans on hastily.

"Many apologies to you and your handsome friend,” Dream waves a hand and Hob's lover disappears.

"I hadn't meant to interrupt. I had a sense that you were thinking of me- and thus thought it appropriate to enter the dream. I was unaware of its nature." He is apologising, but there is a smug smile tracing his lips. He eyes the space with a curiosity that would drive Hob mad- were he not too busy trying to calm himself down.

"Can't a man multi-task?" he manages to retort, heat burning his cheeks.

Dream runs a finger along Hob's armchair lazily, before throwing himself into the seat. He crosses his legs with a regality reserved for a King.

"Is this a dream or a memory?" he asks sedately, half-lidded eyes finding Hob.

"Does it matter?" the other man huffs insecurely.

"I suppose not,” Morpheus stands, flicking his coattails as he does.

He approaches Hob, who crosses his arms over his bare chest abashedly.

"Though I thought we had agreed to be honest with one another,” he challenges.

He is right of course. When Dream had confided in Hob about his lost son, the pair has agreed that they would speak of those not so good things. The things that keep Hob up at night, that haunt his waking hours, the things that claw at Dream's insides, making peace almost impossible. They agreed on absolute, unafraid honesty. They were- after all- the only person the other could talk to about such things.

Hob groans then, wiping a hand across his face.

"The man in particular is a memory. I did know him, we did- well what you saw us doing. The setting is a dream. I don't even recall ever being in a place like this- but I guess I must have,” he explains, moving awkwardly past Dream to retrieve his shirt.

Dream looks unfazed by the situation.

"I believe, Hob Gadling, that this is a University dorm room." He is too pleased about all of this. Too glib. If Hob's heart would stop racing for a moment he would tell his friend so.

"What cause would you have to be there?" His companion laughs.

"You know I am a teacher, Dream. And I did in fact attend uni for a time,” he responds defensively. He watches as Dream approaches the bed, leaning over it to run his fingers across the rumbled sheets. Hob has to force himself to look away.

"Why're we still here?" he asks, voice more stricken than intended. He is really struggling to keep himself composed. When all he truly wants is to continue the contents of his dream with his new guest.

"Did you find that it was a satisfying recreation of your lover?" Dream asks, distractedly.

Hob feels as though he'd rather summon Death herself and ask her to take him away than continue the conversation.

He swallows hard.

"I'd say it was until you so rudely interrupted,” he tries to joke.

Dream turns to him, tutting in displeasure.

"I've always trouble with creating dreams such as this. They feel somewhat hollow to me. I know the purpose they serve- of course- but I have trouble believing that the Dreamers cannot sense that it is not their true love,” he admits, forehead wrinkling as if he is trying to solve a puzzle.

Hob lets out a chuckle that takes the other man by surprise.

"I don't think Dreamers think about it that much. I think they're probably sufficiently distracted,” he reassures Dream.

"Though," he begins, unsure why his mouth is still moving.

"I can always tell now... when it's you... the real you and not the 'recreations' as you call them,” he informs the Endless.

When Dream looks at him again there is a realisation in his eyes that threatens to set Hob alight. They're shining so brightly that he has to look away.

"You dream of me?" Dream asks as if he can't quite believe it.

Hob laughs, mortified.

"Doesn't everyone dream of their friends?" he covers lamely.

Dream's face snaps back from barely concealed joy to his usual cool mask. He walks over to Hob, snapping his fingers in his face robotically.

"This dream is over."

***

It is Hob who has to seek out Dream again. After their little run in a few nights earlier he has been strangely absent from his evenings. And though Hob is happy that his dreams -of that nature- can go on uninterrupted, tonight there is something he needs to tell him.

"Dream!" he calls into the empty halls of his manor house. He instantly recognises it. His home with Eleanor and Robyn.

His stomach twists cruelly at the thought.

"Morpheus! I need to talk to you!" His voice echoes, but there is no reply.

All at once the candles lining the hall flicker on, the candelabra above his head illuminating spectacularly. He is distracted by the beauty of his former home by a wretched scream.

Hob has to stop himself from running directly toward the sound. In the waking world, he would never deny a call for help, but here he knows it is of no use. Here, he knows that scream.

"Papa!" He feels more than sees Robyn wrap around his legs, clinging to Hob as if he can offer him any protection from the horror in the next room.

How do you protect your son from the sound of his mother dying?

"It's alright, dear Robyn. All will be well,” he hums, running a hand down the boy's back soothingly. The same way his mother did for him when he was small and frightened.

He knows though that all will not be well. He knows any moment he will be called into the room and asked to make an impossible choice. One that will be for naught in the end. He knows his wife will die in her labours- and their child will live for only an evening before passing away in her sleep.

She didn't even have a name.

The grief threatens to cut Hob open, to spill his insides onto the floor.

Why didn't he give her a name?

The scene before him falls mercifully away. He is not in Fiddler’s Green as he expects, but a blank white space, the edges of which he cannot seem to comprehend.

Dream is in front of him, familiar eyes wet with tears. He reaches up to cradle Hob's cheek.

"Wake,” he tells him gently.

***

When he does wake he is in his room, the beginnings of morning streaking through his bedroom window. To his surprise, Dream sits on the edge of his bed, hand resting impossibly close to Hob's on the duvet.

"Are you alright, my friend?" he asks, his glassy eyes have seemingly followed him from the Dreaming.

He looks how Hob feels. Broken, afraid, his agony a bird with clipped wings fighting desperately against its cage.

Hob swallows, sitting up and wiping the grief from his eyes.

"Not really." He sniffs out a laugh.

Dream says nothing, instead his hand twitches in a way that looks almost involuntary. Hob is desperate to take it- but resists.

"Thank you- for ending it,” he says seriously, tipping his head back and huffing through more tears.

"You know you can end the dream similarly- at any time- now you are aware of the Dreaming you are able to control it. I believe mortals call it lucid dreaming,” he tells him, voice almost clinical. Hob can see the pain still residing behind his eyes.

"I know,” he chokes.

"On this occasion though I was looking for you.”

Dream's face falls, Hob isn't entirely sure but he thinks he can see his bottom lip trembling minutely.

"I heard you calling,” he admits, looking as though he is battling internally with himself. With a hefty sigh he finally reaches forward, taking Hob's life-worn hand in his own.

"Is there something you need? Name it and it is yours, old friend,” he whispers.

The sentimentality of the act pulls Hob up short. Had he not already been crying, tears would spring from his eyes now. Instead they fall in consistent rivers of grief down his pillow-marked face.

"I got word that they're finally tearing down the White Horse,” he says, his voice hushed. He runs his thumb across Dream's snow white hand.

Dream makes a disappointed sound in the back of his throat.

"I tried to keep it standing. Tried to mark it as a historical site, but they wouldn't listen and no amount of money could save it. I held it off as long as I could,” he whimpers, voice breaking at the words.

"I know you did, dear friend,” Dream reassures him.

"Anyway," Hob continues, looking Dream in the eye once more. Here, wrapped in grief as they are, his eyes shine with the depths of the galaxy. Hob feels as though if he looked long enough, he could map out constellations behind them.

"I thought we might have one last meal there. My lock picking isn't what it used to be- but if that fails I might be able to break down the door." He chuckles wetly.

Dream seems to consider the offer.

"If it is the White Horse you miss, I would be able to create it in the Dreaming for you,” he tells Hob with a earnestness that suggests he would rebuild it brick by brick if Hob asked.

"Wasn't it you who said that the Dreaming is but a recreation?" he challenges a little weakly. He's so tired and vulnerable. He feels like he's been dunked in ice water and rung out.

"Mm,” Dream agrees, displeased.

"I just want to see it- one last time,” Hob confesses, watching understanding bloom in the pools of Dream's eyes.

"And so we shall, tonight. But first you require more rest. It is barely dawn. Sleep. I will ensure that no nightmares trouble you now," Dream agrees.

Hob looks down at their interlocked hands, the pallor of Dream's only highlighted by the tan of his own. He is reminded of a line of light blue sky meeting a dark mountain, of man reaching its hand up to God.

"You'll stay?" he asks, no longer trying to hide his vulnerability. Dream has seen all of his greatest fears, all of the worst things he has ever done, and yet he remains.

Dream smiles sweetly down at him, unlacing their hands to pull the covers up around Hob's chin.

"As long as you'd like."

***

Hob is the first to arrive.

(He supposes he should be glad that Dream will not have to witness him using his shoulder as a battering ram.)

When the door finally breaks free, collapsing inward, sending dust billowing around him, he is overcome with grief.

How many days had he spent in this place?

How many hours had he drank away?

How many times had his stranger walked through the door and stolen the breath from his lungs?

He wouldn't be alive still, were it not for the White Horse. This is an irreconcilable fact. Had he not agreed to a pint or three that day- over six hundred years ago now- he would never have caught Dream's eye, never have been able to live the extraordinary life the other man had graced him with.

He fights back the sting of tears, moving further into tavern and clearing away the debris littering the spot where they had sat on the night of their first meeting.

After the space is cleared, he lays down a picnic blanket, placing a basket filled with food and drink atop.

He realises he's not sure he's ever seen Dream eat. He definitely drinks, Hob knows that from the nights they've shared in his apartment, but he can't be certain that his Endless friend even needs food.

Sighing heavily, he allows himself to sit on the blanket, pulling distractedly at the corner while he awaits his friend.

He tries not to remember the last time he was here. When he thought he'd lost Dream forever. The cruel sting of rejection assaults him as vividly as it had that day. Oh how all he had wanted was for his stranger to walk through the door.

"Your lock picking skills are not what they used to be then?" Dream jokes affectionately from the doorway.

Hob can feel Dream's eyes on him before he even turns. He feels all of the hairs on his arms stand to attention.

"Haven't had much use for criminality recently,” he japes in return, turning to smile at his friend.

His breath hitches in his chest. Dream looks exquisite tonight.

He wears an all black suit, embroidered with tiny pinpricks of silver that look like stars. Hob's sensible button up and slacks suddenly seem unworthy.

"Look at you,” he exclaims, gesturing for his friend to join him and laughing as he watches Dream try elegantly to sit cross legged on the ground.

To his surprise, Dream looks almost abashed, heat finding his cheeks.

"I thought it appropriate to mark the occasion with fine outerwear,” he defends, his face pulling into a devilish smirk.

"I see you did not receive the memo,” he teases.

Hob lets out a choked laugh.

"I came straight from work!" he retaliates, heat finding his cheeks as well.

"Not all of us can just lounge about our Kingdom all day."

Dream's face grows serious for a moment.

"You could, if you so chose it,” he tells Hob, before letting out a breathy, embarrassed laugh.

Hob is rendered silent by the implication, by the seeming invitation for him to reside in the Dreaming permanently should he wish it. Dream is noticeably disquieted by the silence.

"I mean no harm, the clothes flatter you,” he says quickly, lithe hands finding the wicker basket.

"And what do we have here?" he asks, pulling open the lid to reveal the contents of their dinner. A bottle of whiskey and two bacon sandwiches that Hob picked up from his favourite deli on the way over.

He is suddenly very worried about the meal, he fears Dream might be offended by the meagre offering- but the Endless smiles extravagantly at the food.

"Hob Gadling," he breathes, unwrapping one sandwich from its foil and inhaling deeply.

"You spoil me."

Hob supposes Dream could be making fun of him, but there is a look in his eyes, a soft sort of fondness that makes him decide to trust the other man’s earnestness.

Hob allows himself a chuckle.

"You're welcome. Though it's not like they broke the bank,” he self-ridicules a bit, overwhelmed by Dream's warm affection.

Morpheus’ smile drops.

"This is no small act, Hob,” he says seriously, eyes welling before flitting away embarrassedly.

"No one has taken such care in providing me a meal before."

***

They talk for hours. Hours and hours. They talk so much that the walls must grow tired of listening.

Dream wants to know every detail of Hob’s life (and Hob is desperate to tell him).

They finish the bottle of whiskey, the warm liquor thrumming inside Hob's veins, allowing truth to pour from his lips.

The pair end up on their backs on the blanket, both staring up at a ceiling that dares to collapse on them.

"When did you first fall in love?" Dream asks, voice contemplative and quiet. When Hob looks over at him, he notices his eyes are shut serenely, his mouth parted. He looks as though he has not a care in the world.

"Uh jeez. Probably back in the 14th century. When I was a boy. Much too long ago to remember now." He chuckles.

Dream cracks one eye open to look at him incredulously.

"Do not lie to me, Hob Gadling. I know you to be a sentimental old fool. Who was she?" he demands.

"He,” Hob corrects pointedly, closing his eyes to conjure the face of the first boy to whom he gave his heart.

"Was a stable boy, named William. We were boys together. We would climb trees and play with sticks and throw horse dung at each other." He laughs, feeling great joy swell in his chest.

William's green eyes dance behind Hob's closed lids. He suspects Dream has something to do with the clarity of his memory.

"Sounds very romantic,” Dream teases, though his voice is light and gentle. He is enjoying the story then. Hob thinks.

"I'm getting there,” he chides playfully.

"We only ever kissed once. We were wrestling in a field and he stopped for a moment to cradle my face. He smelled like hay and rain and I couldn't stop myself from reaching my lips up to kiss him,” he continues wistfully, before coming to an abrupt pause in his story, wishing that it had a better ending.

"What then?" Dream encourages, rolling on his side to look at Hob.

Hob allows himself to mirror Dream's movement, trying to keep the tears from his voice.

"He died. Along with my father and half of my village, from Plague. When he got sick they took him away, kept him locked up in his house. I hadn't known he'd died until I saw him on one of those awful carts they used to drag down the street. I had tried to run to him, take his body into my arms, to hold him one last time. But my mother wrapped her arms around me and held me in my place, held me while I screamed down the entire square..." he trails off, gentle tears marking the blanket beneath them.

When he looks up at Dream again- William's face disappearing behind his eyes- he realises he looks stricken. His face a mirror of Hob's grief.

"I convinced myself I would never love again. That God had punished us for loving one another by ensuring we'd be parted... but I did love again and despite how much it hurts every godforsaken time I do it... I'll keep doing it. Because there is no greater joy. It's worth the torment. The pain of losing William was more than worth the time we spent together,” he speaks passionately, gasping as Dream's hand reaches up to touch his cheek, wiping away a stray tear.

"I knew you were unique in your appreciation of life, Hob Gadling," he tells him, voice wavering.

"Though the extent of your beauty is only now revealed to me."

Dream's voice is barely a whisper and Hob has to stop himself from crying out aloud when he withdraws his hand.

They are silent for a long while- longer than they should be. Staring at one another as if daring the other to speak. Hob supposes he should talk next, that he should thank Dream for the heart-wrenching compliment. But his mouth could no sooner form words than his heart could stop hammering in his chest.

He isn't sure if it's the whiskey, or the dim tavern lighting but Dream looks as if he's a man enamoured.

Once more, he is a mirror of Hob, a face in a reflective pool. A man in love.

He'd spent so much time keeping himself from showing Dream affection. Kept himself at arms length to save his own feelings. But now, in his gaze, Hob feels invincible.

He reaches forward a trembling hand, cupping Dream's cheek.

All he can manage is a shaky gasp, eyes flitting to Dream's lips. Hob is but moments away from fulfilling his centuries old desire to touch those lips with his own when Dream speaks again.

"You dare..." he hisses, pulling away from Hob like his very touch burns. He sits quickly, wrapping long arms around slender knees protectively.

"I... I'm..." Hob feels like he has been punched in the chest.

Once, when he had been foolish enough to let his new-age girlfriend to convince him to go mountain biking, he had been ejected from the metal frame and rolled down a rather large hill. He still remembers the feeling of hitting the ground, of all of the air being forced from his lungs. He feels that way now. Dream's rejection leaving him gasping.

"Stay silent." Dream's voice is hard and cruel. His shoulders forming a tense line.

"I should never have allowed this." He sighs, shaking his head.

"Allowed? I..." Hob sits up beside Dream, attempting to put a hand on his shoulder. The other man flinches away.

Hob feels sick to his stomach. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have thought that an Endless, immortal being would chose him, when he could have his pick of anyone in the world, or any world for that matter. He must look so pathetic. An ant falling in love with a god.

Dream stands then, dusting off his impeccable coat, as if the display of affection may have dirtied it somehow.

"I will see you in 2089,” he says, voice strained.

"Perhaps by then our relationship will have returned to what it was originally intended to be,” he condescends- a master scolding a misbehaving canine.

"And what exactly was that?" Hob manages to gasp out as Dream is leaving. He stops, placing one hand on the ruined door frame. He clings to it so tightly that Hob fears for the integrity of the structure. With a grip that tight, the whole place may just crumble in his hand.

"I was meant only to be an observer,” Dream whispers, voice so low that Hob has to strain to listen.

"And you, the observed."

***

Hob wakes on the floor of the White Horse, head pounding with drink and unshed tears.

He hadn't the strength after his encounter with Dream to leave. He had simply rolled onto his side, letting grief pull him into a fitful rest. The sun streaming through the warped glass is what finally wakes him.

"Fuck,” he curses aloud, not particularly caring if people passing by can hear him.

Let the coppers come. Let them put him away for trespassing. He certainly feels like a trespasser now- a man to be punished for crossing boundaries he was never meant to cross.

He feels a shame so heavy that it threatens to crush him where he lay.

Dream had been his friend. A good friend. The kind of friend that keeps you sane. Hob had needed him. And more bafflingly, Dream had needed him in return! Dream had confided in him, told him of his life and his grief and of the things that frightened even the King of Nightmares.

He sits up, wrapping his arms around himself, as if his own touch might heal his broken heart.

He cannot stop the tears from surfacing, from drenching his face and the collar of his shirt. He cannot stop the memories of his time with Dream since their reunion. They play behind his eyes, memories both good and bad leaving him aching in the place where his heart would be, were it not dashed at Dream's feet.

The memories feel like nightmares now. A thousand little nightmares and Hob is sure they will haunt his dreams when he sleeps.

He laughs at the irony. Dream will haunt his dreams. But not his Dream, a sad recreation, a being compelled by his own pathetic mind to love him.

He wonders what will hurt more, the dreams in which Morpheus cares for him in return, or the dreams in which he doesn't. For the only thing worse than unrequited love is requited love that cannot be.

He thinks of William and Eleanor. Of great loves ripped tragically from his hands.

He's desperate for them now. For their comfort. For their unabashed love for him.

He can just picture their faces, a little muddled by the passage of time, but still so beautiful.

He can see the way their eyes glowed when they looked at him. He might not have been an expert, but he knew in their gaze he was loved.

Without warning Dream's face appears in his thoughts, glorious blue eyes alight with something so familiar... love.

Dream loves him.

Hob knows this. Knows it like he knows his own name.

Their time together resurfaces in his mind, he considers it from Dream's perspective. The vulnerability of confiding his imprisonment to Hob. The tenderness with which he pulled him from his worst nightmares. The hesitant, fledging love Dream exhibited in watching over Hob while he slept, by showing up in his best suit to their meeting, by asking about his first love.

Dream loves him. He doesn't know why he couldn't see it before.

Further confounding for Hob, is Dream's reaction to his advance. Why push him away? Why look love directly in the face just to condemn it?

He casts his mind back to the last time -before last night- that he and Dream spoke of love.

Calliope. He realises. The beautiful muse, the mother of his child, torn from him by grief, only to be abused by the humans whom she so devoutly serves.

"He's afraid."

The realisation comes out aloud, echoing off of the empty walls of the White Horse.

***

"Morpheus!"

It had taken Hob some time to fall asleep, what with the equivalent adrenaline of a romcomesc airport chase scene thrumming through his veins, but he eventually managed.

He is running across Fiddler's Green, lungs pulling in desperate breaths he knows he does not need in this place.

"Dream!" he tries again, as if he may will the man to appear before him. Trying to use what little sway he seems to have on the Dreaming to persuade it to produce his love.

"Dream!"

At the edge of Fiddler's Green lies a forest Hob has never seen before. He wonders how on his many trips to the castle he has been able to neglect such a formidable landscape.

It looks like something out of a gothic horror, branches like ghostly hands, thorns poking from spindly limbs, threatening to entrap any passer-by. There is nothing Hob wants less than to cross over into darkness, but something like intuition pulls him forward.

Why would the Dreaming show him this place, unless it was where he was meant to be?

"Dream!" His voice echoes off of the trees, ghoulish moans creating a horrifying symphony from his calls.

"Dream, love, I'm frightened!” he shouts. He knows that Dream can sense his fear, knows that his pain causes the Endless just as much sorrow. Surely he will not allow Hob to continue suffering for long.

"I know why you pushed me away! It's okay. I'm here! I'm not going anywhere!" he pledges to the trees.

There is a flicker of something dastardly in the shadows and Hob gasps, eyes dashing from tree to tree in attempt to locate his foe.

Before he has a chance to move, the nightmare being is upon him, a long claw-like hand taking him by the neck and pressing him against a tree, he shuts his eyes, willing himself to be calm. Willing himself to take control of the dream as Morpheus taught him. Despite his best efforts the hand remained affixed to his throat.

"You know nothing,” a voice both familiar and terrifying accuses.

Hob opens his eyes to see Dream before him. It is his Dream, he knows this by the shine in his glassy eyes, but he is a darker version of himself. A nightmare. He stands taller than Hob, with longer, slimmer limbs, his dark hair obscuring most of his face. When he speaks, Hob notices the points on his teeth. He looks like a being that would devour Hob whole given the chance.

He supposes that this display is meant to scare him, that Dream believes he could frighten Hob off with theatrics. But this couldn't be father from the truth. The man could grow to ten feet tall, with skeletal wings and pointy horns, he'd still be Dream. He'd still have Dream's eyes.

"Dream,” he sighs, his whole body relaxing at the realisation of who holds him.

Dream's forehead crinkles with confusion. He lets out a displeased grunt.

"You can't scare me, love,” Hob whispers, reminded of the timid way in which one must approach a feral cat.

"I should,” Dream laments, dropping his hand from Hob's throat, there is a crack of thunder above their heads that causes him to jump. His survival instincts tell him to run, but he remains resolutely fixed to his place, holding Dream's agonised gaze.

"Those who have had the great misfortune of loving me, will tell you that you would be remiss not to fear me,” he admits, looking up as rain begins to pour from the open sky.

"You're probably right!" Hob calls over another crack of thunder.

"But those people don't know me. They have no idea who they're dealing with." He laughs, feeling his clothes soaked through with rain.

"This isn't a joke, Hob. My love has razed cities to the ground,” he warns, body trembling.

"I tried so hard to keep myself from you, to keep you at a safe distance. It is why I only allowed myself to be in your presence once every hundred years. But after spending a century locked away I could no longer deny myself your company. I had been denied so much for so long that I finally let myself break. And in knowing you I fell so deeply in love, that the idea of losing you was more wretched than I could comprehend. The idea that you loved me too- that I might ruin the one -truly- good man with my love- I had to leave. I had to run. I'm doing this to protect you, Hob!" he shouts over the whipping winds. He is shuddering all over. Hob reaches his hands out and places them on Dream's elbows, the nightmare does not pull away.

"Bullshit!" Hob challenges.

"What?" Dream lets out an aghast laugh.

"I call your bluff, Dream Lord,” he begins, taking a step nearer the other man.

"You know how I feel about love, Dream. I'm not afraid of being hurt again. It's worth it. You're worth it!" he insists.

He expects another long-winded argument from Dream, but instead, his lips.

Dream pulls him close by the face, pressing his mouth desperately to the other man's. He tastes like tears and rain, he smells of lavender and birthday candles. Kissing him feels like being set ablaze, every nerve in his body set alight by the Dream Lord's touch. Dream kisses like he's never been kissed. Like he may never be kissed again. He drinks Hob in with a desperation that leaves them both breathless.

When they pull apart they're both trembling, despite the clearing of the skies. They look at each other as if seeing one another for the first time. Dream has returned to his usual form, sweet blue eyes, muddled pointy hair, shorter than Hob but just as determined.

He reaches up to press his lips to Hob's once more, a gentle, longing kiss.

"You can still refuse me. Even though you love me and know that I love you in return. It would be the smarter thing to do to banish me. To resolve yourself to a life wherein I am but a footnote,” he offers, biting nervously at his lip.

Hob isn't sure if it is Dream's selfless offer, or the reemergence of the sun, but he feels warm all over. Dream would sacrifice their love to keep Hob safe. He had broken his own heart in an attempt to shield Hob from the same fate.

"No one's ever accused me of being smart,” he jokes, pulling Dream back into his arms for another tender kiss.

Dream gasps in delight, melting into Hob, shaking hands moving from his chest to wrap around his shoulders, to curl wantonly in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I must apologise..." he murmurs against Hob's lips, trying to extricate himself from the other man's arms. Hob tightens his hold, hands moving from Dream's narrow waist to the small of his back, where he presses the two impossibly closer.

"Mm mmm," Hob disagrees, mouth never leaving Dream's. The smaller man laughs, pulling his head back so that he can look into Hob’s eyes. Hob allows himself to pout like a small child that has been denied their favourite sweet.

Dream runs a gentle finger down the curve of Hob's cheek, chuckling sweetly.

"Hob," he warns softly.

"Dream,” Hob parrots.

"I am sorry that I reacted so poorly to your advance when last we spoke,” Dream apologies determinedly.

"As you have guessed I was afraid, much as I was in 1889. I have a tendency to flee when emotionally threatened. I am working on it."

Hob lets out a breathy laugh, running his hand up Dream's back in a way that illicits a shiver from the Endless.

"You're forgiven,” he says simply, attempting to once more connect his mouth with Dream's. Morpheus sighs defeatedly.

"Do not placate me with false forgiveness with the intent to expeditiously bed me, Hob Gadling,” he accuses.

Hob laughs so hard he snorts.

"I'm not lying to you, duck,” he reassures the other man affectionately, pulling out of the embrace for effect.

"I've known you for a long time, Dream. I know your intricacies and your moods. I know your fears. I know that your knee-jerk response is to run when things are outside of your control. But I still love you. The same way you know everything I've done and still love me. I forgave you the moment I realised that you hurt me to protect me. It doesn't make a lot of sense- but then again love rarely does,” he explains passionately.

Dream's eyes soften, his face pulling into an expression that is equal parts sorrow and longing.

"You would so readily forgive me?" he asks, voice quiet.

"I would,” Hob agrees, pulling the man to his chest. Dream allows himself to be held, pressing his forehead into the space of Hob's collar bone.

"And you love me?" he whispers.

"Good God man!" Hob exclaims playfully.

"Yes. I love you. I love you despite your best efforts! What more can I do to convince you?" He laughs.

"Stay with me?" Dream's request is muffled by the skin of Hob's throat.

Hob cannot help but think about the morning prior. About Dream's willingness to watch over him while he rested, to ward off his nightmares. He's always protected him- really. He's been willing to fight for Hob's safety since 1789.

He presses a kiss into Dream's inky hair, echoing the other man's sentiment from the day past.

"As long as you'd like."

***

In this particular dream, Hob is dancing with his wife at their wedding, the only alteration of the memory is the removal of the guests. Not that it didn't feel that way in reality, gazing upon Eleanor had always made it feel like they were the only two people in the room.

He should feel sad. There should be some grief attached to the idea that he will never hold the woman he loved in his arms again, but here he can feel no pain. As the consort of the Dreaming he is untouchable to nightmares, thus he is dealt only the most wonderful dreams.

"He's a good one, you know?" Eleanor states, after a moment of careful contemplation, allowing herself to be twirled in Hob’s arms.

"Who?" Hob chuckles softly, spinning her around the room. There is muffled music somewhere in the distance.

"You know who. You make each other better, you and he. That's what I think love is- really,” she tells him.

"He doesn't make it easy,” Hob half-jokes.

"He's so convinced that he's this terrible, unlovable thing,” he laments.

Eleanor smiles knowingly. He's never known anyone as wise as she was.

"True love is rarely easy. You've said it yourself. The pain is worth it. The lowest low pales in comparison to the highs. You love him and he loves you. That will be enough in the end."

Hob hums in agreement as they step around the room, he allows himself to savour every part of her. So similar to the man he loves now, in many ways, lithe, slender frame, dark hair, shining eyes.

"May I cut in?"

Hob turns to see Dream standing before him, eyes misty as they often are when he regards his lover.

"Of course,” Eleanor agrees, squeezing Dream on the shoulder once comfortingly before departing.

Hob wants to thank her before she leaves, for her understanding, her grace, for giving him a beautiful life, even if hers was cut tragically short, but she waves him off. She already knows all of that. She leaves him instead to Dream.

"I hope my timing was not inopportune," Dream worries aloud, taking Hob into his arms and moving in time with the music.

Despite months having passed since their mutual declaration, Dream still acts as a shy school-boy around his first crush.

"I sensed you were thinking of me," he continues.

Hob silences his worries with a lingering kiss.

"Always am,” he responds simply, pressing the man closer.

"I trust the Dreaming has been treating you well?" Dream inquires. Hob would chide him for being a worry wart, did his concern not make his heart race.

"It has been exceptionally wonderful as of late,” Hob agrees. After centuries of wartime nightmares and lost loved ones, he welcomes the special treatment that courting the King of Dreams affords him.

"Yes, well as the Dreaming is an extension of me, it loves you as I do,” he explains, punctuating his point with a swift peck.

"Stop the presses! You love me?" Hob gasps with faux shock, a devilish smile on his lips. He has not yet let Dream forget about his inability to believe he was loved. Hob is relentless is his affectionate teasing.

Dream's joyous laugh echoes off of the ballroom walls, surrounding them both in gentle glowing light.

"Despite my better judgment," he teases, pressing their forehead together.

"I do love you, you old fool."

***