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When Calliope wakes, slowly blinking at the sunlight filtering in from the blinds, her first thought is of the pleasant dreams she was having but can’t quite remember. When her eyes fall on the body lying next to her on the soft sheets, her next thought is that pleasant dreams certainly make sense when you are sharing a bed with the king of dreams. Again. Her eyes rake over Oneiros’ pale skin, and take in his lithe but strong form from the silky soft black tufts to the one leg lying over the covers artfully draped as if he was posing for a painting.
It’s so achingly familiar on one hand, but on the other hand there is one thing that is startlingly new. The Oneiros Calliope knew - and she knew him so well - didn’t sleep. She wasn’t even sure he could sleep.
“Mhm, what do you reckon he dreams of?” a voice sounds from the door. Calliope looks up. In the doorway, Hob is leaning against the frame, clad only in jogging pants so soft, they’re hanging deliciously low on his hips. He is carrying two small mismatching mugs with steaming contents.
“You know, on the account of him being the king of dreams, prince of stories, et cetera, et cetera,” Hob continues with a soft grin.
“I must confess, I’ve never… seen him sleep.” Calliope looks back at the restful form next to her as she sits up and leans against the headboard. She even thinks she spies his chest rising and falling minutely every few seconds. She knows the Oneiromancer does not need to breathe. Another human trait he has taken on. How you’ve changed, love, she thinks and in a sharp image she sees how things might have happened differently with Orpheus, if only Oneiros had changed sooner. It makes her heart ache.
Hob seems to notice something in her expression, because he pads over and sits on the edge of the mattress pressing his shoulder into hers. Calliope relaxes into the reassuring touch and accepts the mug he puts gently into her hands along with a soft touch of lips on her cheek.
“I made it Greek style,” Hob says as she sniffs at the dark coffee, “thought it might remind you of home.”
She nods slowly and takes a sip, careful not to disturb the grounds at the bottom. The rich aroma does indeed remind her of home and at the same time scratches at the ache in her heart and soothes it.
“None for Oneiros?” She asks, noting only the two cups.
“I don’t claim to be an expert in Dream’s eating and drinking habits but in my experience he seems to be more fond of the sweets than something like this.”
Calliope is struck by the sheer care and devotion this human shows in simple acts like this. Like making her coffee in this way, and knowing not to do the same for Oneiros. She thinks that may be what the two of them lacked the first time around; an anchor with a knack for caring about the smaller things and showing how much they matter. She hums and takes another sip. She wonders if he made something else for Oneiros then—
“And that’s why,” Hob says as if reading her thoughts, “I have a batch of crepe batter resting right now which I’m planning to serve with my signature black currant preserves, whenever this one wakes up.”
The adoration is evident. She thinks back to his first remark.
“But you don’t seem surprised that he sleeps,” Calliope notes.
“When he came back, after… well, you know,” Hob gestures vaguely, “we met more often and at one point I mentioned to him that he seemed exhausted and suggested that maybe he try and take a nap.
“You can probably guess how that suggestion was first received,” he chuckles and indeed she can imagine such a thing clearly.
And Hob continues to tell her of how Oneiros had come back to him after some sulking and asked for advice.
“Can you imagine, having what is in essence, the god of sleep, come to you, an almost completely normal guy, for advice on sleeping?” The crinkle around Hob’s eyes when he smiles, makes something in Calliope flutter. “Well, my ma always used to say I had a good sleep heart.
“So I installed him in my bed, and went to grab all the things I thought might help. Pillows, blankets, a diffuser, my phone to play white noise, the big guns.” Hob mimes having his arms full and Calliope can’t help but hide a smile behind the rim of her mug.
“And when I came in here with all of that, he was simply wrapped up in the sheets, fully clothed in coat and boots and all and fast asleep. Didn’t even wake for something like twenty hours.”
“Must have been the scent,” she offers and when Hob just looks at her, nonplussed, she continues, “he felt safe because your bed sheets smelled like you and thus invited him to relax, let down his guard and perhaps dream.”
“Oh, hadn’t thought of that.”
And oh, how pretty Hob is with that blush spreading across his features. She wants to kiss that sheepish smile, and since she’s now allowed, she does just that.
“I don’t… dream per se.” The rumble of a voice coming from Calliope’s left would have startled her if it wasn’t so soft. Both Hob’s and her attention are drawn to Oneiros, who is slowly blinking awake. Instead of elaborating on that vague remark, he stretches his entire body, slow as treacle and with the tiniest hint of a smirk. That is, she suspects, as much as they will get out of him on that topic for now.
“Did I hear something about crepes?”
Hob lets out a laugh and and bends to place a kiss on first Oneiros’ lips and then Calliope’s before rising from the bed.
“I’ll be right on it, love.”