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“You know,” Hob remarked as he was packing up his lecture notes after class, Dream leaning against the board and watching as usual, “I once overheard a student say I was ‘unfuckable, but definitely marriage material.’”
“That is astoundingly rude,” Dream sniffed. “You are eminently ‘fuckable.’”
Hob turned to him. “That’s the part you thought was rude?”
“I would fuck you,” Dream insisted, as if it was a point of personal pride.
“That ship’s sailed. And, you know,” Hob added, scrunching his nose up at the thought, “I don’t think I want my students thinking about me like that anyway.”
“The others do,” Dream said, dashing Hob’s hopes. “Some of them.”
Hob cringed. “Just because you read minds doesn’t mean I want to.”
“I do not–”
“Yeah, yeah, daydreams, I know.” Hob had gotten many a lecture on the matter.
“I must agree on the marriage question, however,” Dream added.
That stopped all of Hob’s thought processes. “Hm?” he said, eloquently.
Dream just looked at him expectantly, as if Hob should know what response he was supposed to give to this.
“I mean,” Hob floundered, “I guess I have been married before, at least. Only fucked it up… a lot.”
Dream gave him a half-smile. Not quite ease, but certainly less pained than the last time this topic had come up. “If that is a contest, I am the winner.”
Hob couldn’t even disagree on that, not even to spare Dream’s pride.
“However–” Dream continued.
Never a good start to a sentence.
“I happen to think that–”
And he stuttered, stumbling over his words. That caught Hob’s attention. Dream didn’t stumble. He either spoke, or he didn’t, but he didn’t trip halfway through.
“Dream?” Hob took his hands. “What?”
“If you would permit several missteps,” Dream started, careful and deliberate now, “the… attempts of one unpracticed in this art–”
What the fuck–
“I would be. Honored. To try again and prove your students right.”
Hob tried to pick through that quagmire of a sentence. Dream watched him intently, uncertainty flashing in his eyes when Hob didn’t immediately respond.
“Are you saying you don’t think you’re marriage material?” Then the actual pertinent question caught up to him with a lurching sensation. “Wait, are you asking me to marry you?”
“For permission to try,” Dream said, nodding. “Yes.”
Hob dragged him into a hug, held him tightly in his arms. “You don’t have to try, you idiot,” he said, choking up, “you don’t have to get perfect at it like with your damn sculptures. Don’t you know you’ve belonged to me for centuries?”
He realized belatedly he’d meant to phrase that more like I’ve belonged to you, but Dream only said, “Yes. Yes,” with a relieved sigh.
Hob kissed the side of his head. “Good.”
“Husband,” Dream murmured, the word reverberating through Hob’s chest. Hob was about to protest that they weren’t actually married, not yet, but who knew how it worked for a dream lord, anyway? What were human formalities in comparison to their years, in comparison to choosing, over and over again, outliving any church, any government bureau that might hand out pieces of paper?
Hob wasn’t sure if talking about it made every difference, or if it made no difference at all. He supposed he’d figure it out eventually, as he always did.
When they’d been standing there for a while, just breathing together, Hob said, “We’ve learned so much from my students today. What do they think about you, I wonder?”
“Fuckable, but not marriage material,” Dream said, deadpan, and Hob hid his laugh in Dream’s shoulder.
“It’s because you’re too pretty. You’re like a wild thing and they aren’t meant to be caught. Would it amuse you to prove them wrong rather publicly?”
Dream hummed in satisfaction. “I will consider an appropriately dramatic venue,” he said, and Hob laughed again, squeezing him tighter.