Chapter Text
Against all odds, he showed...
Hob never expected him to. He had expected that that torrid night in 1889 would have been their undoing. That his big mouth would spell the permanent unravelling of their fledging friendship, five hundred years in the making.
But it hadn't.
All had not been lost in one wretched evening.
His stranger sits before him now, dragging half-lidded eyes across Hob's nervously drawn face and acting as if nothing untoward has passed between them. Granted, there is a strangeness about him. An energy he has never noted before. Perhaps now, the stranger sits too tall, or stares too long at Hob's lips as he talks. Perhaps when he smiles, it is too full, not the usual, nearly imperceptible half-smirk to which he is so accustomed.
Hob cannot make himself mind these changes. It has been a century after all, a fraught one at that. To remain unchanged would perhaps be more unnerving. The man is allowed to grow. And he must have. Otherwise he would not be sitting where he is, staring at Hob with the fascination of a genuine stranger (as if they'd not known one another for centuries).
Hob himself feels much the same. He feels as though he is looking at his friend for the first time. As though he might have never truly seen him.
Had his eyes always been as they are now?
When Hob tries to recall centuries past, all he can envisage is blue. Deep, endless blue. Cerulean pools that he couldn't stare at too long for fear of drowning in them.
Now it is as if his stranger's eyes are a lake reflecting the setting sun, streaks of something nearly gold within the azure depths.
He's mesmerising, distractingly so and Hob has to fix his eyes on the clock behind the bar before he can summon the ability to speak.
"So we aren't going to address the elephant in the room?" he asks with an abashed laugh. His stranger's gaze, though visually changed, has not dithered in its ability to make him tongue-tied.
"And what would that be?" the man before him inquires with his own breathy laugh. It is only when he leans forward that Hob notices he is without the luxury of his ruby.
Another change.
"Our fight," Hob offers with great effort, his throat constricting at the memory of their argument, so visceral he can almost feel the cool water dripping down his spine. He shivers.
"Yes, tragic bit of business that," the other man responds noncommittally. Hob feels as though he's been slapped. One of his greatest heartaches reduced to a simple placation. It is not like his stranger to be so cavalier, especially when speaking of a topic wherein he feels he is the righteous party.
"What's the idea then? We move on? Like nothing happened?" he questions insecurely. He cannot fathom how his friend has so readily put aside the pain of their meeting, of the challenge Hob had set that the other man had thwarted spectacularly. In Hob's eyes, it had been as if he had held a hand out to his stranger and the man had smacked it away. It had been terrible, and he had thought the damage irrevocable. To pretend such pain did not exist feels like a disservice to himself. He draws a shaky breath. The bar seems far too loud now. Too many patrons, too many ears. He wants desperately to be alone, but knows the other man will not like the inference, knows he will never truly consider them friends.
"Hob, it does not take a genius to understand I acted poorly. I often do. If you are willing, I am quite sure we can return to our usual routine," his stranger concedes, eyes travelling the length of Hob's body in a way that elicits another shiver.
"I don't... I'm not," he fumbles for the words. How would he even begin? To demand an apology from the other man, would likely end in a repeat of their prior meeting. With the stranger stalking off into the frigid night, leaving Hob alone to confront his hubris. It would only end in disappointment.
"Is there nowhere...more private for us to speak?" the smaller man asks, interrupting Hob's spiralling thoughts, seemingly unperturbed by his obvious confusion.
"My place, is just up the road. I never wanted to go too far, unless you decided to come back early... maybe to apologise. It's daft, I know," Hob admits, though he cannot be sure why. He feels -against his own will- compelled to bear his soul to his long lost friend. His sentimental rambling is cut off as the stranger places a lithe, gentle hand atop his tanned wrist.
"It is not daft. In fact it only endears me to you more. Lead the way and I shall follow," he whispers, his eyes glinting strangely. Hob ignores the insistent thrumming of his veins. He reassures himself that it is simply the tavern lights, paired with his own unease at being confronted with the man he missed for an entire century, that is making him feel on edge.
He stands, stopping for a moment, distracted by the nearly unnatural warmth in his arm where the stranger's fingers had lain.
He moves toward the door then, shrugging on his grey coat in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the cacophony of overwhelming emotions that threaten to consume him (or at the very least cause him to burst into tears in a public place). He feels a strange, all-encompassing longing. A nostalgia. A desire. A fear that his friend will run off again, stealing his heart away with him.
He's never been so afraid, or elated. He's never known such hesitation or anticipation. Seeing his stranger again has felt akin to falling in love, the rush, the excitement, the all-consuming fear of rejection. It feels as though it has happened all at once, leaving him breathless as he walks.
When he turns to ensure his friend has followed, he is only paces behind, a slightly unnerving smile gracing his rosy lips.
***
The door to his flat creaks as it opens. It is not the newest building in London, in fact, it may be the oldest that still stands, but to Hob it feels like home.
The light buzzes when he turns it on, illuminating the darkness in a flickering yellow haze.
He can feel his stranger's lingering, curious eyes on him as he goes about his usual home-time rituals, shrugging off his coat, hanging his keys, setting the alarm behind them as he shuts the door. He knows better than to trust the hundred year old locks on the joint.
The gaze of the other man is so palpable, so visceral, so charged and unending that Hob is unsure whether he wants it to continue forever or immediately cease.
"It was my understanding," the stranger begins, walking into the living room as if he owns the place. He moves toward the bar cart, positioned neatly behind the settee, pouring himself a not-insignificant portion of Hob's finely aged brandy.
"That you would have found yourself wealthy after six hundred years of life," he continues, tipping the glass to his lips with a haste that startles Hob. As though the idea that the man might thirst is ridiculous. He realises in the stranger's waiting gaze, that it is his turn to speak.
"Everything I had, I lost when I was drowned. After that, I found it best to keep a low profile," he offers, standing in the entryway, as if he were the stranger in his own home.
It feels unusual to have his friend here. In a place that is only his own. It feels as if the other man has taken a scalpel to his chest, pulled back the skin and is now rooting around callously in his heart.
"Low indeed," the other man huffs into his beverage.
Now that's the stranger he knows. Biting. Sarcastic. Borderline mean, were he not so flirtatious in his jabs.
"What about you?" Hob asks, attempting to quell the rapid beating of his heart. He is compelled to move toward the other man and does not fight the urge. He steps forward, shrinking the small but momentous space between them.
"What about me?" his stranger teases, finishing his drink and ditching the empty glass on the half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen.
Hob watches, far too distracted by the movement of his narrow, pale wrists to respond to the jape. He is overcome by the sudden urge to pull back the man's long, dark sleeves and to press his lips to the vulnerable flesh of his forearm.
"I've got you quite distracted, haven't I, Mr. Gadling?" the stranger asks, a devious smile playing on his lips. Hob's racing heart stutters in his chest.
He narrows his eyes at the man, trying to clear his head. It is not unusual for his stranger to flirt with Hob, seemingly at his expense, but never so brazenly. Never so intentioned. Never while looking at him as though he means to devour him whole.
"I'm not sure- I'm not sure I understand what's happening," he admits, watching the other man as he closes the space between them. Hob unwittingly takes a step back, then another, feeling far too much like prey being pursued. His attempts to flee are thwarted by the locked door, the cold handle biting into the flesh of his back.
"There is no use hiding it, Hob," the other man responds ominously, stopping his pursuits mere paces from the mortal. The space between them short enough that if Hob reached out, he could gently caress his stranger's face. The idea of it plays out behind his eyes like film projected against a cinema screen, so tangible that it leaves his breathless.
The other man laughs like he might have glimpsed directly into Hob's daydream.
"I know what you desire, dear," he speaks again, returning to his pursuit slowly.
Hob is -once again- unsure whether to be elated or terrified.
"And what is that?" he manages, the words falling from his mouth like a prayer. The other man is close enough now that his voice must cast breath over the smaller man's face.
In lieu of an answer, the stranger opts to take Hob's face in his hands, his impossibly smooth palms in direct contradiction to the firmness of his grasp.
Hob sucks in a jagged breath.
"Am I correct?"
The stranger's lips curl into another devilish smile. The image of their mouths pressed together assaults Hob, flashing behind his eyes with as much clarity as if it were a memory. He can practically taste the stranger, feel the heat of their bodies intertwined.
"Why are you doing this? Why now?" Hob asks breathlessly, searching the other man's eyes for something he cannot name. Something that has been present in their last five meetings, not desire (for there is plenty of that now). No he seeks something unknowable, something unique, a guarded sort of fondness that only his stranger is capable of. A look that says 'I'm terrified to need you, and even moreso for you to need me'.
There is nothing of that in this man's eyes.
"Because I can," the stranger responds simply, closing the space between them so that now their lips are only a whisper from one another. Now every heaving breath Hob draws is filled with the scent of the other man -far too strong- like peaches and candle flame.
"Because I want to."
The aching distance between them finally closes. The stranger's lips find Hob's with a dizzying determination. His hands come up nearly instinctively to grip the smaller man's waist, to draw him nearer so that he might fulfil the vision of their bodies pressed against one another.
Despite his fervour, and the other man's enthusiasm, it is not how Hob imagined it would be. Looking at his friend, he had always supposed he would be cold, near freezing. He had spent hundreds of hours imaging how it might feel to press warmth into his stranger, a man that always seemed to Hob like he needed a warm meal and an even warmer coat.
This stranger is hot, nearly painfully so, his lips against Hob's feel like an inferno set to render him ash.
It is far too strange, that the realisation of his deepest desire would be accompanied by a lingering fear, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, an unnerved voice in the back of his head refusing (despite his best wishes) to shut up.
It's all too easy. The voice whispers. Too simple.
Nothing with his stranger had ever been easy, nor swift. Becoming his friend was like asking him to submit to having his teeth removed one by one.
His friend was always a feral cat, one desperate for affection but terrified to be held. This stranger is the opposite, they do not act as if they are desperate for affection, alas they move as though they're entitled to it, as if they know they will get exactly what they want without question.
He forces himself to pull away.
"You're not him," he says, voice so weak that he isn't even sure he's spoken. The look of displeasure that passes over the stranger's face is the only indication they've heard. Their eyes flicker more notably this time, blue irises engulfed by liquid gold, their cat-like pupils narrowing to slits with their evident anger.
Their features continue to stutter before Hob, once rosy, familiar lips flickering to a darker, more ruthless shade of red.
They withdraw from Hob as though he is something poisonous, turning their back and curling their arms around themself. The low, thunderous laugh that emanates from them is enough to still Hob in place.
"What was it exactly?" they ask bitterly.
When they turn to regard Hob again, they're nothing like his stranger. A tall, blonde being stands before him, straightening the collar of a golden suit, their eyes narrowed toward Hob as if he were a particularly difficult section of the crossword.
"What did I miss? What integral part of the facade did I fumble?" they hiss.
"I was miserable, borderline intolerable, I wore all black, I moped about as convincingly as I could," they continue in their tirade, counting their perceived attempts to appear as his friend on their fingers in some deranged list.
"Was it the eyes?" they ask, stilling for a moment. Hob has never been more intimidated by a being. Despite no longer wearing the face of his best friend, there is still a palpable allure to them, something in their aura that demands attention. Hob is reminded of sailors lured to their deaths by beautiful creatures on the rocks. He feels as though he could easily befall the same fate now.
"They're always the give away aren't they?" the being continues to ramble, a little deliriously, moving back toward Hob.
He turns attempting to find the door, before he can learn of their intentions for him, he places a shaking hand on the knob, trying desperately for an exit.
Whoever... whatever this being is, they know of him and of his stranger, and they have a power over him (a power he is unsure he can fight much longer). He worries the other man could be in similar danger.
"Now, now," the being places a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he is overwhelmed by a warm sensation, something akin to the feeling of a lover's eyes on his from across the room, or a hand on his cheek or at the small of his back, comforted, contented.
"There is no need for all of that," they whisper in his ear. Hob feels as though he cannot move.
"We both know I can't hurt you."
***
"How do you know who I am?" Hob manages, turning abruptly in an attempt to rid the stranger's hands from his body.
The being's face draws inwards in foe concern, before breaking into a delighted smile.
"Please Hob," they tease, unrelenting in their bodily insistence that he remain against the door.
"You're famous. The deal you made with my pathetic older brother. Your immortality. I've been dying to meet you." They laugh.
Brother.
The word slams inside Hob's mind, the implication rattling around in his head like air through diseased lungs.
This person, this being, this unknowable creature before him, is related to his friend and knows of he and Hob's tumultuous relationship.
"Why?" he demands, determined to see past their charms. Whatever powers his stranger has, this being must also possess. They lured him here with knowledge of his own desire for his friend. He could almost choke on the guilt of it.
"Mm, that's always the question isn't it?" they ponder, finally releasing Hob from his place at the door as they return to the bar cart, pouring themselves another drink.
"Why do humans act as they do? Why does the heart act seemingly contrary to its own best interests? Trust me darling, when I tell you even I am unsure of why desire leads men to be so impossibly dense," they say wistfully, speaking as if Hob were an old friend they were catching up with, and not a man held captive in his own home.
Hob will not allow the strange facade to continue any longer. He moves to the concealed weapon by his belt, unsheathing the blade and throwing himself forward in one impossibly slick motion.
Before they have time to defend themselves, his stranger's sibling is locked in his grasp. One of Hob's hands curled in that silky blonde hair and the other with a knife pressed to their throat. The glass of brandy crashes spectacularly to the ground, coating the linoleum in glass and liquor.
"Oh you know the way to my heart, Hob Gadling. And perhaps other areas if you're still interested," they joke despite the biting steel against their skin.
"Tell me where he is!" Hob demands, voice more animal than he would normally allow. He has tried so hard over the centuries past to maintain his humanity. He has fought not to become lost to darkness. The mounting concern for his friend however, threatens to drive him nearly feral.
"Hob," the being croons, running a hand up his arm and resting the knife from his grip with impossibly strong fingers. It clatters to the ground beneath their feet, making home amongst the shattered glass.
"You're not going to hurt me. You're not that kind of man. There is no desire for violence in your heart," they offer, unfazed by Hob's act of malice.
The mortal feels his face wet with tears.
None of this makes any sense. He feels as if he's fallen into some strange, surreal dream. He feels as if this being might be holding up a mirror, forcing him to gaze upon his own psyche.
"Who are you?" he whimpers.
"Ah now we're asking the right questions," the being approves.
"I am Desire of the Endless. If you hadn't already guessed by my fun little incursion into your mind, I am the anthropomorphic personification of desire. Of want, lust, and attraction. I know what you crave, what you long for. I exist because people will always seek the destructive power of love, even if they already hold the world in their hands," they explain, seemingly more tempered in the exchange. Hob feels a little more sure of himself, without their eyes devouring him.
"Desire," he huffs. Of course his friend would be something Hob has never heard of. Of course he would have siblings as vindictive and spiteful and alluring as this.
"Indeed. And that daft being, my brother, the one who is so clearly in love with you, is Dream of the Endless," Desire confesses.
Hob feels as though he's been struck in the chest. The realisation of his friend's name -after so long- from lips other than his own, threatening to drive him insane.
"Dream," he whispers. It sounds right, both the name and the fact that his friend is the personification of dreaming. Of the most beautiful and wretched time in a human's life. Of the gamble one makes when they press their head to their pillow, as to whether they will be met with monumental joy or untold torment.
"Your people tend to refer to him as Morpheus," Desire offers casually.
"Where is he?" Hob asks weakly. The realisation of who exactly his friend is, having stolen all of the air from his lungs. He aches in some deep, indeterminable part of himself. He supposes it might be his soul. He had never much believed in any of that, but given the being before him, he supposes the existence of a hollow space within himself for the light of his consciousness, is not too far fetched.
"Oh darling, does it matter?" Desire asks impertinently, leaning lazily against the couch. With the revelation of his friend, of Dream, all of the allure Desire once held, has left. They no longer have any power over him.
"It matters more than nearly anything. You say you know my desires. Well look inside me and tell me what I wouldn't give to see him again," he challenges, hands curling into fists.
"Anything," Desire admits, looking for one aching moment like something nearly resembling a human being. There is a timidness, an insecurity, perhaps even a jealously that Hob never could have foreseen.
"What do you want?" Hob levels, staring down at the being before him. The fleeting look of apprehension in their eyes dissipates as quickly as it had formed, a rainbow disappearing behind a menacing cloud. They laugh, grasping Hob roughly by the hair and drawing him dangerously close.
"What if I said I wanted you?" they demand, eyes narrowing in challenge. Hob is once again overwhelmed by the scent of sweet peaches.
"Why would you want me?" Hob asks, there is no self-flagellation evident in his tone, only strained curiosity.
"Because I would take great pleasure in knowing that I stole my brother's toy out from under his nose while he was too incapacitated to protect it," Desire snaps.
"Lucky for you," they release their vice grip on his hair, pushing away from him, so that they might turn their back, as if the very sight of him is suddenly offensive.
"I take no pleasure in faux affection. I have no need to coerce lovers," they continue haughtily.
"What," Hob seethes, fed up with the entire display.
"do you want?" he bites.
Desire whips back around with a pleased grin.
"How about I offer you a deal?" they ask.
"A deal?" Hob inquires.
"A deal," they confirm, seemingly far too delighted with the whole arrangement.
"I tell you where Dream is and what peril has befallen him and in exchange, you sacrifice your desire to me," they offer.
Hob is nearly too busy being consumed with worry to listen to their demands. Thoughts of what horror Dream might face nearly overarching the being's proposition.
"What?" Hob whispers breathily, reeling from the deal he must make.
"It's simple."
Desire grins, holding out a steady, manicured hand.
"In exchange for the location of your friend, Dream, all I require is that you relinquish your desire to me," they explain again.
"So I'd feel nothing?" Hob asks, voice quavering as he looks down at the being's outstretched hand. It could easily be a bluff, a trick, a trap. But the idea that his friend is in danger is too damning to ignore.
"There are many other emotions and experiences that are not my purview. As I said, I am in the business of desire, of yearning and pleasure. You would still be you, you would still have all of your own memories, still hunger for life as you always have. You will even remember your goal in saving my brother, but I suppose you'll find your relationship... lacking should you see him again," Desire says, their smile pulling at their cheeks in a way that looks nearly painful.
Hob cannot fathom it. He cannot comprehend that he may be able to look at Dream and not see him as the man that hand crafted the moon and the stars. As the beginning and end of everything. He is unsure who he would be, did he not worship the other man so.
He supposes that alone should be justification enough for the sacrifice he must make.
"You'll give me Dream, in exchange for my desire?" he asks, despite now understanding the terms, he needs to hear it again. He needs to fully comprehend the sacrifice and know that Desire will keep their word. He needs to look into their eyes as he makes his vow.
"You have my word, Hob Gadling," the other being oaths, eyes shimmering with vindictive pleasure at their deal.
"Your Dream, for your desire."