Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Slowly, with her breath steady and her head raised high, Death walks the street. The weather is pleasant, but she is too deep in her thoughts to pay attention to the setting sun and the colors it's painting the sky into. Death of the Endless has walked this path before, but the house she means to visit today has never hosted her. She’s met the man who lives there, but it was only a dream. 

It’s late evening and Death is confident Hob Gadling is home. His nights have been quite uneventful, as of late. Death has been thinking about paying his brother’s friend a visit for a while, but chose to observe him from afar, at first. Hob lived his life. He slept. He went to work. He saw friends. He returned home. He seemed fine from the outside, caused no concern from the people in his life. Nobody knew about his nightmares, about his tears, about the excessive drinking, about the heartbreak he’s been quietly enduring for months now. 

Death waited for his call, but it didn’t come. She was glad of it. 

Now, she stands on Hob’s doorstep, hating to come in uninvited, but feeling the need and walking in regardless.

Death asks for no invitation, no consent. 

She finds Hob sitting on the grass in his small backyard. He’s watching the sunset, a book abandoned by his side. Death clears her throat to warn him of her intrusion. 

“You,” Hob gasps. There’s fear in his eyes, but excitement, too. Death smiles at him. 

“Hello, Hob,”

He lets out a sad sigh, but fixes his face quickly and begins rising to his feet. 

“Please, don’t stand up,” she says and sits down next to him. Hob is surprised, but tries not to show it. 

“How have you been?” she asks. 

Death has only met Hob twice, though she doesn’t believe their first ever meeting back in 1389 even counts. She, together with her brother, heard Hob’s senseless speeches and decided to play along to them.

It took them over 600 years to meet again. At her brother’s funeral. 

“I’m alright,” Hob says and Death can tell he’s used to saying that, “What about…what about you?”

His voice shakes and he still can’t hide his nerves, but he does seem glad to see her. In a sense. 

“I’m good, too, thank you” she says, “Busy,”

Hob nods, decidedly not asking what that means. 

“Are you…are you here for me?” he asks, trying to sound relaxed and casual. Death is not cruel and will not torture this man, but she does stall for a second or two before answering. 

“I’m not on the clock right now, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says and Hob breathes out in relief, “Just wanted to see how you’re doing,”

This seems to surprise Hob.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Death smiles, “Dream would have wanted me to check in,”

The surprised smile fades at the mention of the name. Death, too, can’t keep her smile anymore. She shouldn’t use past tense with that name. Dream of the Endless is alive, safe and healthy in the Dreaming. But the loss of who he once was gets heavy enough for her to forget it, sometimes. 

“Every…every once in a while I manage to almost convince myself that that funeral was just an insane dream of mine and that he’s not really…gone,” Hob wouldn’t look at Death and his voice betrays him and breaks at the last word, “Thank you for disarming me of that delusion,”

There is no sarcasm in Hob’s voice, but Death still feels horrible for him. 

“I’m sorry, Hob,” she says, “You lost a friend,”

“You lost your brother,” he says, “In a way, I guess. I know there is a Dream, but I can’t…I can’t think of him as my Dream,”

Death nods. They mustn’t think like this – there is no Hob’s Dream, or old Dream, or new Dream, there is just him – Dream of the Endless, her younger brother, ruler of the Dreaming. She knows it. But she understands Hob. 

“Do you see him a lot? Dream, as he is now?” Hob asks, stumbling on his awkward words

“Not a lot,” Death sighs, leaning back. The sunset is almost done, soon to be replaced by starry skies. Death cannot look at the stars and not think of her brother. 

“The dinner went well. After that – there’s a lot to do in his realm. A lot he needs to learn, evaluate,”

Hob nods, though he doesn’t understand everything. Death knows that, too. 

“He could use your help,” she says and Hob looks at her with a frown

“My help? With what?”

“Understanding himself,” she says

Hob’s frown deepens.

“Is that why you’re here? To ask me to see him?” he asks

“Not at all,” Death promises, “I honestly did just want to see how you’re doing,”

“You wanted to see if I’ve changed my mind,” Hob doesn’t ask, he states, and he is wrong, but Death gives him space to continue, “To see if this grief is enough to make me want to give up on life,”

There is a tone of accusation in Hob’s voice, but Death chooses not to take it personally. She’s had to develop that skill a long time ago. 

“I have no wish to take you, Hob,” she says, honest, “But it is your choice,”

Hob looks away, into the everdarkening sky.

“I’ve thought about it,” he confesses, “More than I ever have. I think about how…the year 2089 will come sooner or later and he won’t be there. And that’s almost enough to make me want to go,”

“Almost?” Death asks

“Almost,” he confirms, “It’s strange, isn’t it? I barely knew him. But I…I can’t live without him, it seems. I’ll learn to. But now – I can’t,”

Death sighs, her hand reaching out to cover Hob’s. His eyes are red and he tries to hide them, but when she squeezes his fingers, Hob looks at her and allows her to see his tears. 

“You knew him,” she says, “And you meant…so much to him. I know,”

Hob shakes his head, his tears welling up and rolling down his face, breaking Death’s heart.

“I didn’t. There was so much I never…we never got to do. I wasn’t…I wasn’t good enough of a friend to him,”

This shocks Death.

”Hob!” She exclaims, she can’t help it, “How can you say that?”

”He came to me. Some time before…he warned me of what would happen and I didn’t believe him,” Hob looks at Death, no longer trying to hide his heartbreak. It is too grand. So is his guilt.

”Maybe…maybe that was him crying for help. Maybe I could have done something, helped him somehow. Or made it easier, at least,”

Death could see that these words have been choking Hob for a while now. But no relief came after saying them out loud. 

“Hob,” she calls out, slow and warm, “There was nothing you could have done,”

Hob’s face twists in pain only more

”I know I’m just a man-,”

”Not because of that,” she interrupts him, “And you’re not just anything. Only Dream could have helped himself. He chose this,”

This isn’t the purpose of her visit, but part of Death wishes she could soothe Hob Gadling. Comfort him somehow, give some relief. Clearly, she’s failing miserably at that. 

“Maybe I could have convinced him, then,” Hob says, voice barely above a whisper, “To stay,”

Death still holds his hand and squeezes his fingers harder now. She cannot say that no amount convincing would have worked and that she did try to convince him, too. 

“If he were here now, what would you say to him?” she asks, instead. Hob looks up into the sky, considering. 

“The regular clichés, probably. That he wasn’t alone,” Hob begins, “That whatever he was dealing with, it would pass. Things would get better. That I love him,” he adds, shyly. Death doesn’t dare say anything to that. She lets go of Hob’s hand and puts hers on his shoulder. She understands him. For weeks after she took Dream, she wondered when was the last time she’d told her younger brother that she loved him. And even more, she wondered if he believed her. 

“I guess it’s a bit too late for that,” Hob says, a humorless chuckle in his voice, “600 years of knowing each other and…not having enough time,”

“Well. You know Dream,” Death says, to which Hob smiles sincerely. 

“I miss him,” Hob says, “I don’t know how I’d gone a century between our meetings. It’s been just months and I…I feel it every day, all the time,”

Once again, Death says nothing to that. Just keeps her hand on his shoulder, letting him speak, letting him share his grief with her. 

But she cannot stay like this forever. Death is very busy, after all, and her task here is done. 

“Carry no regrets, Hob Gadling,” she says, rising to her feet, “You are a wonderful friend,”

Hob looks up at her in confusion. 

“Are you leaving?”

She nods.

“Will I see you again? Socially?”

She smiles and gives him another nod. With that, she makes her way out of Hob’s backyard, his small house, his little endless life. 

Her mind is made up. She smiles as she leaves. 

Chapter Text

Hob is not allowed to think about Dream. He has firmly placed the ban himself, when weeks began passing after the strangest funeral he’s ever been to, but the feeling of dread did not. 

He forces himself to shove it down. During work days, at least, he makes himself focus on other things – his classes, his students, his life that cannot be put on hold even if it is what he wants sometimes. 

But in the evenings, when he’s alone and the skies assume the exact shade of his friend’s eyes – still not as bright, though, never as bright – Hob cannot help it. He closes his eyes and it’s 1489 or 1589 or 1689, or any other of the brief precious moments they’d shared together. Dream is here. He’s sitting opposite to Hob, listening to his senseless speeches, guiding him and changing his life with one disapproving furrow of his brow, gifting him the rare sight of his smile, storming out in anger, returning to him with an apology and staying. Just staying. 

And then, Hob opens his eyes and none of it is true again. 

Hob lets the time pass. His days repeat one another, his weeks go by and suddenly a month has passed. Then two. Then three. He tells himself that the first few years will be the hardest, and wants to believe things will get better, but his faith is weak. Relief must come, and it usually does – Hob Gadling is no stranger to losses, after all – but this feels so different. Every loss Hob has ever gone through was there to prepare him for this. He does not feel prepared, nonetheless. 

Over his long and eventful life, Hob has established somewhat of a routine, a set of steps meant to help him grieve and let go of losses. Admittedly, most therapists and normal people in general would find such practice unnatural – trying to methodize something as chaotic and subjective as grief, but Hob would never share it with them anyway. This practice is true and tried, so he intends to stick to it, thank you very much.

His step one was, naturally, to get wasted. 

That’s what he did the morning he woke up from that awful dream. He’d called the university and announced himself unexpectedly and almost gravely sick, shot a quick email to the classes he was supposed to teach that day, and only then was he allowed to even acknowledge the dream as anything but that, as anything real. 

For some reason, Hob couldn’t cry. The panic and shock pounded against the walls of his skull, but found no way out, not through tears, not through sobs. Hob sat on the floor of his living room, the image of his friend – the way he used to be, the way Hob remembered him – frozen in front of his eyes. Their last meeting replayed in his mind. Dream had said it would be the last time. Hob hadn’t believed him. 

He’d drunk all the alcohol he’d kept in the house and as the poison spread through his system, so did the realization of what he had lost.  The panic wouldn’t fade and the alcohol brought neither relief, nor the oblivion Hob had craved. 

He woke up the next day, still on the floor of the same room, with the worst headache of his life, having seen no dreams. And that solidified his grief only further. 

The next step is supposed to be more helpful, rather than indulgent, but Hob skipped it anyway. For so many years, centuries even, losing people meant risking to forget them, too. The death of someone close meant their complete erasure from Hob’s life, from his mind. When he was young – or rather, younger – there were no photo cameras, no portable devices that could forever keep the smile of his friends in colorful pictures or record the sound of their voice. So what Hob did was go to the nearest store, buy paper and write. He would write down every memory he had about them, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He’d commit to paper every quirk of his loved one, every particularity of their character. Did they have a habit of rolling their hair on their finger, when lost in thought? Did they hate jazz music, no matter how hard Hob tried to get them to love it? Were there beauty marks on their face? Was there a specific way they enjoyed to be touched? What embarrassing secrets did they whisper under the cover of the night?

Hob had lifetimes tucked safely into yellowing pieces of paper, neat stacks of notebooks, electronic files on his phone and computer.

And then Dream died and Hob did not want to write.

He didn’t fear forgetting a single detail of their once-a-century meetings because he knew it wasn’t possible. Even now, over 600 years later, he remembered every word Dream had said to him when they first met in 1389. Granted, it wasn’t a lot of words, and maybe that was part of the reason why Hob had no wish to document their friendship. It would be an awfully short piece of writing. Hob had no idea what Dream liked. Didn’t know what he did outside of his occupation, and up until just a few months ago, he hadn’t known what his occupation was either. Hob was grieving a ghost. 

The following step in Hob Gadling’s program entailed way less action, but was nevertheless much harder. He was supposed to allow himself to feel the loss. Not push it down, not distract himself endlessly, but instead – let that pain hurt him for as long as it needed to. Hob had found that it was the only way to ever hope that pain would eventually pass him in a peaceful manner. 

This step, as previously established, was discarded, too, and with it all following ones. There was no focusing on good memories, or doing something useful in the honor of the deceased, or telling a friend about them. Hence, the final step was never to be reached, either. Hob would never let go of Dream. Never.

More than three months have passed since Dream’s death and all Hob did to get over him was occasionally (too often) repeating step one and getting drunk, and completely ignoring his everpresent pain. Oh, and he talked to Dream’s sister a few weeks back. That was a strange experience. 

If it wasn’t for his job, Hob definitely wouldn’t be able to tell the date or what day of the week it was. In fact, he began confusing the weekdays so often that after having brought the lecture notes of the Wednesday class on a Friday again, he printed out his schedule and hung it on various surfaces of his house – next to the mirror in the bathroom, on his fridge, on the inside of the front door. He’d even set it as the lockscreen of his phone, which meant having to take down the picture of his late dog, which was just another reason for him to be sad. There seemed to be many reasons for that, as of late. 

He was meant to cross out the day that just passed every evening, and then, replace the paper on the weekends. The idea, while not hopeless, didn’t always bring good results – Hob would often forget or lose the pen he’s meant to cross the days out with; remembering to re-print the schedules every weekend was a herculean task, at times, but more than anything the whole ordeal just upset him. He’d never needed to do this before. 

Today is Friday, which Hob knows, because he once again had to politely reject numerous friends and coworkers, who offered to go grab a beer, but certainly wouldn’t end the night after just one. His pockets were full of excuses for occasions like this. He’d only recently began his life as Professor Robert Gilbert and still had a sick mom to take care of and an adventurous sister who insisted on stealing him away every weekend. 

Today is Friday and Hob chooses to walk home – a whole 40 minute walk – since the weather is so nice and fresh air and exercise are supposed to be good for “battling the blues”, as some of his especially attentive friends have noted. He regrets his choice not to call a taxi almost immediately. He can afford it now, the unreasonably expensive cabs, the unpaid time off he’ll have to take if faced with another morning when he just cannot pull himself out of bed. He could afford to quit his job and live off his savings for a while, for a lifetime, maybe. He’d told himself he wouldn’t do it, knowing that his job, as tiresome as it can be, was the only thing keeping him somewhat afloat. That conviction fades with each passing day and that scares Hob more than the prospect of having to walk for 40 minutes with nothing but his thoughts as his company.

He reaches his home – in 47 minutes, not 40 – and he is faced with something even worse. A complete absence of anything to do – a daily occurrence that shocks and upsets him constantly. He knows he won’t fall asleep before midnight, so that means at least 5 hours of nothing, which will be followed by 2 more days, 48 more hours of the same thing, and then Monday is promised to come – a work day, an empty evening, then 4 more of those, and so on, so forth, forever. 

Hob drops his bag and falls face first onto the couch. 

Hours pass mercifully quickly in the half-asleep state Hob is in. At a certain point he grows too disgusted with himself and forces himself into the shower. He leaves his hair to air-dry under the judging gaze of his expensive, yet untouched hair care products and returns to the living room, to the couch. 

Another hour passes before Hob finally pays attention to his stomach that has been growling with hunger since before he left university. 

His fridge is, expectedly, half empty. There are ingredients, but Hob cannot be bothered to cook. He notices his saving grace then, three quarters of a sandwich he’d bought yesterday and didn’t finish. He has dinner for today, after all. 

With the not-so-appetizing sandwich in hand, Hob returns to the couch. Somewhere in the process he turned on the TV and now there’s a show playing, one he’s been half-watching for a couple weeks now. He wouldn’t be able to name a single character to save his immortal life, but it’s enough to fill the room with some noise, so Hob leaves it on and the episodes pass one after another. He waits for midnight, then he will turn the TV off, head to the bedroom and prepare himself to do it all over again the next day. And the next. Forever.

Some time after 11 pm Hob’s plans are interrupted by a faint knock on the door. So faint, that Hob decides it was part of the TV show and doesn’t grace the door even with one look. Then, it happens again, a louder knock, followed by another quiet one. Hob is tempted to ignore them all. It’s late, there’s no one he’s expecting, and no one whose unexpected visit would make him happy. But then the knock persists once again and Hob gets up, sighing and mumbling that he has a doorbell and whatever it is, it can certainly wait until the morning. 

“Yes?” Hob asks the door, not hiding his annoyance. His brief question is met with silence, the only sound in his house being the shootout that’s happening on the show. One Hob would very much like to witness. 

“Yes?” he tries again, louder, pressing his ear against the door. 

He cannot be certain, but he could swear he heard breathing on the other side. And then the faint knock repeats again. Hob wishes he’d installed a camera on his porch, like he meant to years ago. 

“Mate, say something or I’m going to bed,” he tries, one last time. 

He hears a voice then. 

“Help me,” the voice says. Quiet and weak enough for Hob to decide he misheard it. Familiar enough for Hob to grab the doorknob and slam the door open. 

The figure who stands before him is clearly using all their remaining strength to stay upright, and with nothing to lean on, they begin falling.

Dream of the Endless, old Dream, Hob’s Dream, falls into Hob’s arms before he can even understand what is happening. 

He catches him anyway. 

Chapter Text

Hob kicks the door closed and takes a breath for the first time since his friend seemingly returned from the dead and materialized himself outside of Hob’s house and then in his arms. 

Dream is unconscious, but breathing, unmistakably alive and concerningly light in Hob’s arms. He heads towards the couch to put him down, and then changes his mind and carries Dream into his bedroom instead, trying to focus on doing everything he can for his comfort, and pushing away the insistent thoughts that he is supposed to be dead. 

Hob gently places Dream on the bed and stands there, breathing and staring, thinking that he must be dreaming and knowing that he’s not. 

Dream looks the same as he remembers him. 

His skin is still pale, even paler than usual, his hair a wild mess with a few strands falling over his shut eyes. Hob’s hand reaches out on its own to brush them away, but he stops it, suddenly afraid to touch Dream. He’s even more afraid to look away from him, as if his attention is the only thing tying his friend to the mortal world. 

He forces his eyes away from Dream’s face, onto his body. Underneath a simple grey t-shirt, his chest rises with breaths surely he never needed to take. The rhythm is steady, slow, and Hob finds himself hypnotized. Unaware of it, he lowers himself and sits down on the bed, by Dream’s side. Carefully he places his palm on Dream’s chest and watches it rise and fall down in that same rhythm. He feels Dream’s heartbeat, how calm and slow it is, compared to Hob’s own heart that has been knocking its way out of his throat for minutes now. Dream is alive. 

Dream is alive. 

Hob tears his hand away, jumps on his feet and runs out of the room. Only then, a closed door away from his peacefully sleeping friend, he feels like he can breathe. Until he can’t, again. Until it’s not breaths that make their way out of Hob’s chest, but harsh, loud and ugly sobs. He drops on the floor, his back to the closed bedroom door and cries the tears of loss, and grief that never came to him all those months ago. And more than anything, he cries tears of relief and gratitude, keeping his hand over his mouth, fearing to wake Dream. 

Dream sleeps through the entire night and some more, but Hob barely manages 5 minutes at a time without checking on him. In the duration of those 5 minutes he manages to convince himself that Dream has either: died in his sleep, run away, just disappeared, or had never been there in the first place. He chimes into the room, approaches his sleeping friend as quietly as he can, checks his breath, checks his heartbeat and leaves again, just to repeat the procedure again in 5 minutes. 

This is the longest night of Hob’s entire existence. 

He cannot think how or why Dream is back. He can’t think how he found his house or where he was before. Cannot fathom what weakened him to the point of passing out in Hob’s arm the second he opened the door for him, or what would have happened if he hadn’t. What if Hob went to sleep earlier that day and didn’t hear Dream’s quiet knocks? What if he accepted his friends’ invitation and spent the night at the pub? Would Dream be lost, lost to him still? Would Hob ever find him?

He cannot think of those things, but that’s what he does, sitting at the kitchen table with daylight filling the room. He checked on Dream minutes ago, but the desire to do it again will become unbearable very soon. 

Hob pours himself a glass of water and forces it down his throat, before leaving the table. He is frozen halfway through the living room, when he hears the sound of the bedroom door opening. 

Dream emerges from the hallway, pacing slowly towards where Hob is standing. His hair is even more of a mess, he’s barefoot, but still wearing yesterday’s clothes that Hob didn’t have enough courage to change unconscious Dream out of. He’s looking around, confused and disoriented, but when his eyes land on Hob, he gasps.

Hob does, too. 

The eye contact is electrifying, and Hob cannot break it, not by looking away, not by saying something. So the two of them stand in the center of Hob’s not-so-large living room, and Hob has no idea what to do. He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he’s aware that his fingers are squeezed into fists, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms, and that he’s breathing too loudly. 

Dream’s face is unreadable. 

“Hob,” he says, finally, and Hob thinks he might cry. He didn’t think he’d ever hear his voice again. 

“Dream,” he forces out, but it’s so weak, so pathetic, it surprises Dream. Brows furrow on his already displeased face. 

The silence drags and Hob feels like he’ll die if he doesn’t hear Dream’s voice right now. 

“How…how are you feeling?” he asks, “Are you okay?”

Dream frowns at the question and looks down on his body. His hands press against his chest, he takes a breath. Hob waits. 

“I feel…strange,” he responds and this scares Hob

“Strange how? Are you in pain?”

“Yes,”  Dream responds, but his voice is distant, confused. Concern shoots through Hob and he’s finally moving. He approaches Dream in two big steps, places his hands on his forearms, not even realizing he’s doing it. 

To his horror, Dream flinches from the touch and stares at him, wide eyed. 

“What’s wrong?” Hob asks, “What’s hurting you?”

He is looking at Hob as if he’s speaking a foreign language. Dream of the Endless is a master of all human languages, but perhaps not right now. 

“What am I doing here?” he asks. 

“You…you showed up at my door last night. Passed out immediately,” he explains, “I was actually hoping you’d clear some things up for me,”

Hob doesn’t say anything as cheap and insulting as you’re supposed to be dead or I mourned you or I think I’m going crazy and hallucinating you. Instead, he waits for the words to reach Dream, clarity painting his beautiful face, quickly turning into anger. 

“I apologize for disturbing you, Hob,” Dream says through his teeth, “And I thank you for your hospitality. I must leave you now,”

With that, Dream is headed towards the front door. He walks with the same conviction as he always did, but there’s something different to it, too. As if every step is hurting him. 

Hob stops him before he reaches the door, grabbing his shoulders and ignoring the way Dream’s eyes widen once again after the contact. 

“Like hell you are,” Hob says and he wants to laugh and cry and scream and embrace Dream, but he does none of that. He doesn’t unhand him either, despite his friend’s efforts to be freed. 

“As of yesterday evening, I thought you were dead! Then you show up here and try to escape again?”

“I regret inconveniencing you, but-,”

“Jesus, Dream!” Hob’s voice rises on its own. And then the tears come, too. His next words come out in a broken whisper against his will.

 “I thought you were dead,” 

Dream’s silence is a torture. Letting him watch as Hob tries to hold back tears and fails is a small death. 

“I was,” Dream says, then, “I should be,”

Hob’s arms fall. Helpless, he can’t stop Dream from leaving even if he tries. 

“What happened?” he asks. 

“I don’t know,” Dream says and Hob finally sees that he is scared. That there are tears shining in his eyes, too. 

“I was…no more. And then I was at your door,”

“Did you…did you do something to come back?”

“Nothing can be done to escape the Sunless Lands,” he says, “Unless…,”

“Unless what?” Hob braces himself for Dream’s answer.

“Unless someone else interfered,” 

Dream stares at Hob, and he’s almost assured he will accuse him of interfering. But what could he have done? No riches of his could have bought Dream back. No knowledge or experience could have helped. In all truth, Hob was faced with his own helplessness. He wished he could deserve those accusations. 

“My sister,” Dream mutters. 

And suddenly everything makes sense. 

It takes real magic to get Dream to sit down and take a moment. There’s a maniacal glimmer in his eyes and from time to time they still jump to the door. Hob prepares himself for having to fight Dream to get him to stay.

They’re seated on his couch and through his eyes, Hob can see the tornado in Dream’s mind. He wishes he could read it, too, because his friend is not helping him understand it at all. 

“Can I…get you something?” Hob asks, already feeling pretty useless, but Dream’s bewildered gaze makes him feel blatantly dumb. 

“Like water or some food?” he still forces out

“I do not require…,” Dream begins his usual phrase, but stops halfway. He places his hand on his stomach and his brows furrow. Then his breath picks up, now quick and harsh and Hob doesn’t know what to do. 

“Dream?” he asks

“She brought me back,” he says, hatred and anger seeping through every syllable of every word, “She brought me back human,”

The realization sets Dream off. In seconds, he’s up from the couch and rushing to the door again. Hob follows. 

“Dream, will you stop, please?” he calls out, but his friend doesn’t listen. Hob’s salvation is the lock on the door that Dream seems to struggle with. 

“Open this door,” he commands

“Where are you going? What is even happening?”

The tears that have already dried on his face threaten to come back, this time out of sheer confusion and frustration. Maybe this is a dream, Hob thinks. He’s had similar nightmares before, twisted versions of Dream’s funeral. He’s dreamed of losing him even when he was alive. He’s dreamed of getting him back, too. Can this be a dream? If so, could he stay in it, this time?

“I must find my sister,” Dream says

“Death?”

“Yes,”

“Why? Why right now?”

“She’s done this. I require answers,” 

Hob cannot believe the anger with which Dream says those words. He looks and sounds as if given the chance, he’d make Death pay for what he believes she’s done. If Hob had that chance, he’d probably fall to her feet, thanking her. 

“You…she brought you back. You are alive. Are you not…happy?” 

Hob’s heart shatters further with every second Dream doesn’t answer him. He pulls on the doorknob. 

“Open the door, Hob,” the command is weaker this time. Hob doesn’t know whether to consider it progress. 

He wipes his face and takes a breath. This is Dream. This is how he’s always been – stubborn, single-minded, insufferable. 

“Alright, Dream,” Hob says, “How about this – we look for her together, okay? I’ll help you, I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. Just…slow down for a second, please. I didn’t sleep a wink last night,”

As if to reaffirm his words, the headache that’s been creeping up on Hob for hours, hits him with its full force. Dream still stands by the door, seemingly considering Hob’s words and Gadling is preparing himself for another rant of how dare you assume I would require the assistance of someone such as you et cetera et cetera. 

“Fine,” Dream says instead, surprising Hob. He lets go of the doorknob and looks at his host expectedly, as if he’s supposed to explain what slowing down means exactly. Hob wishes he had the answer. 

He chooses to start easy. 

He sits Dream down at the kitchen island and puts a kettle on. This gives him seconds, when he has something to do with his hands and has his back turned on Dream. He breathes and stares at the kettle. What now?

“Are you really human?” he asks, when the water is boiled and two cups of tea are placed on the table. Dream chooses to just look at his for now. 

“Yes,” he says. Anger returns to his voice. 

“Is it really…that bad?” Hob asks and Dream looks up at him. From under his eyebrows, his gaze is murderous. Hob forces himself to hold it. 

“I did not ask for this,” he says

“You were dead. Now you’re not. That is a positive development,” Hob says, “Right?”

Dream makes a sound that’s neither affirmative, nor rejecting. 

Hob tries to drink his tea – his favorite tea, all the way from India – that now smells and tastes like dirty hot water to him. 

“Well. For what it’s worth. I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, willing his voice not to break, to sound casual and normal, but of course it doesn’t. 

He forces his nose down the tea mug again and counts to five before looking up at Dream, just to see him watching him attentively. 

“Were you there? At the funeral?” he asks

A shiver runs down Hob’s back at how casually Dream mentions the word. 

“Yeah,” he says, “I went to your funeral. Well, maybe went isn’t the right word, I just fell asleep and…well, it was awful,”

He doesn’t want to talk about it. Just like he didn’t want to talk about it when Death showed up in his backyard, but felt like he couldn’t deny her anything she asked. He feels the same way now, under Dream’s softened, but still demanding eyes. 

He swallows the tasteless tea down and steadies his breath. 

“I met some of your family. Lucienne and Death. Listened to your siblings’ speeches. Even met the new bloke,”

“You did?” 

Hob nods. 

“How did he…seem to you?”

Dream seems weirdly shy asking the question, something Hob has never known him to be. 

“Not you,” he says, “I don’t understand it. They say he is Dream, they call him that, he’s greeted into the family as their brother, all of your realm’s residents now serve him, but he is not you and I don’t understand-,”

“Hush,” Dream cuts his rant. Hob didn’t even notice when he grew mad, when the thought of that Dream, new Dream that mustn’t be thought of as new, began causing this much resentment. 

He knew he wasn’t alone in this judgement, though. 

One of the strangest things that has ever happened to Hob in his very long and very strange life was finding a new friend in the face of Dream’s talking raven some time after the funeral. He didn’t really pay attention to Matthew during his short and life-altering visit to the Dreaming – a figure as such seemed to fit perfectly into Dream’s insane world, and Hob was rather…occupied. 

The raven himself, though, did pay attention to Hob, apparently. 

He showed up for the first time a week after – knocked on Hob’s window as he was having his late dinner and scared the hell out of him. 

“The immortal, ain’t you?” was his version of greetings. Hob, with pasta leftovers stuck in his throat, just nodded. And that was the start of their beautiful friendship. 

Matthew didn’t have a schedule, didn’t say when he’d show up the next time, he just popped by every so often – sometimes once a week, sometimes every other day, and they’d talk. 

They mostly talked about Morpheus, of course. 

More than anything, Hob was glad to spend time with someone who missed him as much as he did. He collected the little precious drops of knowledge Matthew had on his master, his habits, his phrases – anything, no matter how small. 

Matthew hated talking about his current master, though. Even went as far as to call Hob a traitor for having invited him to meet up in a hundred years time. This bitterness – though Hob didn’t necessarily share it – was refreshing compared to the readiness the Endless have expressed to forget Morpheus and accept the new guy. Matthew was a human soul, for sure. 

His human heart did begin melting towards this Dream, of course. He looked progressively more guilty while badmouthing his boss, but didn’t stop doing it. Hob loved talking to him. Loved feeling that in some way, he was still a part of Dream’s life, even with Dream being gone. 

But he is not gone anymore. 

He’s here and he’s mad at Hob for what he said about his own replacement. 

“Do you not hate him?” Hob asks. He knows it’s wrong, but he asks anyway. 

“Hate?” Dream wonders, “He is composed of the only parts of me that do not deserve to be hated. If you expect me to hate him because he’s taken over my function, he had no choice in the matter,”

“I get that. I think,” Hob says, “But it doesn’t have to be rational. Most people would resent him, if they were in your situation. Matthew does,”

Dream is only slightly surprised to hear about the bond Hob has built with his former raven. A small half-smile blooms on his face, when Hob tells him about his visits, so Hob doesn’t stop, wanting, craving for that smile to remain, to grow wider. He retells all of Matthew’s speeches to him, and maybe that could be considered snitching, but he doubts the raven would care. He’d be too happy to have his old boss back. 

“Perhaps I should have introduced you two to each other when I had the chance,” Dream says.

“I wish you had,” Hob admits, “And your sister, too. I won’t lie, I was pretty scared to meet Death, but she’s not scary at all. She was just…sad, when I met her,”

“At the funeral?”

“And after,”

Dream sits up straight at the words. 

“You have talked to Death? After the funeral?” he asks, his tone closer to demanding again. 

“Yes, she came to see me a few weeks ago,” Dream’s eyes widen, he urges Hob to continue, “It was a brief visit, she just wanted to see how I was doing,”

“What did she say to you? What did you talk about?”

“Nothing!” Hob raises his hands in a helpless gesture, “She said she just wanted to check in,”

“You must tell me exactly what she said, word by word. There is not a chance that it is a coincidence that she talked to you before doing this to me,” 

Hob is stalling, opening his mouth and closing it again and again, searching for words. The conversation he’d shared with Death was nothing out of ordinary, just two people grieving over someone they once loved, and would keep loving no matter what, but Dream’s gaze makes him feel guilty, as if he’d done something wrong. 

Hob has to remind himself that he’s done nothing at all. 

“She asked me how I was,” he repeats, “How I was…holding up, or whatever. I thought she wanted to take me, or at least see if I was ready to go. I told her I wasn’t. We talked about the new Dream, we talked about you-,”

“What did she say? About me?”

Hob has been trying to act normal, but his body is failing him. He can’t hold Dream’s gaze, while thinking about the way he cried in front of his sister at a single thought of him. His face feels hot, he knows he’s blushing and he knows Dream sees it. 

“Nothing. Just…regular things,”

He is an awful liar. 

“Hob,”

Dream knows it. 

“She asked me what I’d say to you if you were still here,” Hob forces the words out and leaves his chair, putting his empty mug and Dream’s full one into the sink. He turns the facet on, relieved to hear the water run, any other sound except for Dream’s demanding voice and his pathetic and broken one. He also hears Dream’s chair squeak in protest as he gets up from it. 

“What did you tell her?” Dream asks, impatient. He’s now standing by Hob’s side, and just days ago – it was all Hob wanted. Now, he wants to run away. 

“Nothing,” Hob says again, trying to focus on the mugs, but Dream reaches out and turns the water off. 

“If you think this is some game-,”
“Dream, I was mourning you!” says Hob. The words come out on their own, louder and harsher than either of them expected, “I was grieving and so was she, and I was so fucking grateful that she came to me because I felt insane every waking moment of my life after that day. You were supposed to be immortal, an Endless, for god's sake and then I’m at your castle, they tell me you’re dead and I just wake up. No one explains shit to me! What…what do you think I said to her? I said you broke my fucking heart,”

There are seconds when the two of them just look at each other. Hob’s out of breath and Dream is wide eyed and small. He’s never raised his voice at him before. Never really told him what he felt, not like this. And he regrets it now. It’s immediate – the shame, the remorse – and it seeps deeper with every moment Dream stays silent. 

Hob walks past him, grabbing a towel and drying his hands. He breathes deeper and tries not to panic. He’s almost sure that when he turns back around, Dream will be gone again. 

“Hob,” he calls out. Still there. 

Gadling waits for his heart to calm down before turning to him. 

“Forget it, I’m sorry,” he says, carefully not looking at Dream. 

“Hob,” Dream repeats, but the words don’t come easily to him, it seems. Hob needs to end this torture. 

“Let’s just do it, let’s find your sister, let’s see what she says,” he makes his voice sound sure and steady and finally looks up at his friend. Dream’s eyes are cloudy, full of doubt, but then he nods. 

It’s over. 

Turns out, there’s not much two human beings can do to summon Death of the Endless. Even if one of them is an immortal man that she seems to favor, and the other is (was?) her little brother. 

They still have to try.

Dream is pacing around Hob’s living room, frown on his face, deep in thought. He's still restless, though he agreed to stay home for the brainstorming session at least, and once they formed something close to a plan, they’d leave the house. 

Hob is sitting on the couch, watching his friend. 

“If you had to talk to her in the past, how did you go about that?” he asks

“I had a gallery. All I needed to do was hold her sigil and call for her,” Dream responds. 

Hob sighs.

“Well, what if we fall asleep and try to find our way into the Dreaming and do just that? The new boss probably already knows you’re alive,”

Dream stops in his tracks. 

“We do not know that,” he says, “And it is not easy for the dreamers to stumble upon the castle. It is not meant to be possible,”

“Surely they’ll make an exception for you,”

“No,”

“Maybe Matthew will stop by and we’ll ask for his help,” Hob says, smiling. He can hardly imagine how happy the raven would be, if reunited with Dream. 

“No,” Dream’s harsh tone quickly wipes the smile away from his face, “No one from the Dreaming shall be involved in this. We will find another way,”

“Why? Don’t you want to see them?”

“I said we will find another way,” Dream says and his voice leaves no room for further discussion. 

“Fine,” Hob sighs, remembering his own promise to do whatever Dream says, “Let’s just…I don’t know, call for her, then. Maybe the sigil isn’t necessary,”

Dream hums.

“There were times when my sister came to my side without an official call. Perhaps she just sensed my…need,”

He is far away then, looking somewhere in the distance. Hob wonders what memory is playing in his mind, but doesn’t dare to ask Dream to share it. 

He stands in the middle of the room and breathes out. He shuts his eyes and opens them again, a newly found determination glistening in them. 

“Death of the Endless, my sister. It is I, Morpheus. I do not stand in my gallery and I do not hold your sigil, but I ask for your presence, still. Would you come?”

Hob listens to Dream’s voice, mesmerized and almost frightened. He does not dare to say anything, doesn’t even breathe. Seconds pass and the silence weighs heavy in the air. 

“My sister, I require your company. It is urgent,”

Nothing. 

Dream waits for another minute, tries again and sighs in disappointment. 

“Should I try?” Hob asks, “I mean, you two did say that if I ever want to…you know, call it quits, I should just call for her,”
Dream looks at him. 

“Be my guest,”

Hob nods and gets up from the couch. Dream takes his spot, staring up at him, the way Hob was, just now. He feels strange under Dream’s gaze, though – weirdly exposed and out of place in his own living room. He pushes the feeling down. He’s here to help Dream. 

“Death of the Endless,” he begins, and he almost wants to laugh, so ridiculous it feels.

“Death of the Endless,” he tries again, “I stand…in my living room, and I ask if you would be so kind as to pay us a visit, please? We really need to talk to you. Please?”

Hob looks at the door and around the room, remembering that the Endless can just show up wherever they please and human doors and locks cannot stop them. 

The room is empty, save the two of them. 

“Well, we tried,” Hob drops himself on the couch next to Dream, “Other ideas?”

“Yes,” he says, “There is someone who may help us,”

Chapter Text

Dream has a very vague idea where his friend lives, so he and Hob are forced to spend at least an hour virtually walking through London's streets on Google maps, trying to find the house where one Johanna Constantine is supposed to reside. None of this would be necessary, of course, if Dream could still travel via swirls of sands or locate people through their dreams. He reminds Hob of that every 3 minutes. 

During that hour Hob finds that:

Dream has no understanding of modern human technology

Dream has very questionable orientation skills, if stripped of his powers

Dream has the patience of a child. 

He sighs and rolls his eyes at Hob’s ridiculous questions, such as what part of the city does she live in? Is it an apartment complex or a house? Do you know her phone number?

At a certain point, the two of them decide to finish the virtual search, and - being about 60% sure that they have the right address - Hob leads Dream to his car. 

Johanna – probably – lives a whole hour drive away and Hob is simultaneously thrilled and terrified at the thought of spending such a long time stuck in a car with Dream. What should he talk about? Is there a type of music Dream enjoys? Or should he just not bother him?

Dream gets into the car silently, with no complains, but Hob can tell he’s uncomfortable. His hands are squeezed into fists, his shoulders are rigid and tense. Hob can see Dream’s efforts of keeping his breath steady. He rolls the windows down and waits before starting the car. 

“You’re okay?” he asks. 

Dream breathes deeper. 

“There is no other way for us to reach her. I shall endure,”

He doesn’t clarify any further, not even when Hob continues looking at him with a question in his eyes. He’s forced to drop it and start the car, but persistent beeping cuts his ears. 

“It’s your seatbelt,” Hob says, nodding at his own, buckled one.

Dream reaches for the belt, positively having no idea what to do with it. He looks at Hob, confused and annoyed and Gadling has to bite back a smile. 

He frees himself and reaches close to his friend, buckling him down in a quick gesture, but then he makes a mistake of looking up at him. Dream is staring down at Hob, all annoyance gone from his face. His gaze is open, careful, somewhat surprised, and Hob holds it for way too long, with his hand still on Dream’s seatbelt. 

Have they ever been this close? Hob surely has never noticed how long Dream’s eye lashes are. And he doesn’t know if it’s a new occurrence, a consequence of becoming human, or not, but Dream’s skin has a smell – something sweet, but rich and deep. 

Hob yanks himself back into his seat before he takes a breath. 

“All good,” he says and starts the car. 

Usually, Hob quite enjoys driving. It helps him clear his head and get some alone time after being surrounded by young students all day – those people might be legal adults, but to Hob they are very much children and often that’s exactly how they behave. 

So driving can be therapeutic, and Hob believes he’s pretty good at that – being behind the wheel basically since its invention and all that. He doesn’t get road rage, doesn’t speed in inappropriate places, he can even parallel park. 

All of that has been true for years and years and years. Right until he’s had Dream of the Endless in his passenger seat. 

Dream doesn’t talk, but he mercilessly fidgets with the car radio. He switches stations every 20 seconds, doesn’t let a single song or program run its course fully, doesn’t leave a single button untouched. About halfway through their drive, Dream turns the radio off – Hob doesn’t know if he did it accidentally or on purpose, but he leaves it as is and turns his face to the window. 

Hob must look at the road, so he doesn’t watch the way wind runs through Dream’s hair and the way his irises move underneath his closed eyelids. He’s also just a man and his gaze jumps at his friend’s face every so often. So what? He’s a good driver, he could safely take them wherever they needed to go while blindfolded. 

(he wouldn’t do that, of course)

In 54 minutes Hob parks the car in front of the building that hopefully has Johanna’s apartment in it. Dream has remembered that she lived on the top floor, so that narrows their choice a bit. Hob looks at Dream before opening the car door. 

“How do you know her again?” he asks

“Her family has served me for many generations. She has, too,”

Hob doesn’t ask what exactly “serve him” means. He’s heard of Johanna before, of course, even before officially meeting her at the funeral. She didn’t speak to him then and he’d never had the misfortune of requiring her services. He did remember her ancestor, though. If this Johanna is anything like her, this meeting won’t be boring, to say the least.

“Alright, then. Let’s go,”

In minutes, they are standing in front of Johanna’s apartment door. Well, they have no way of knowing beforehand if it’s actually hers, but Dream seems convinced. They knock and only silence responds to them. 

“Maybe she’s not home,” Hob offers. Dream rolls his eyes. 

“Constantine,” he practically shouts into the door. Hob can hear a noise on the other side, but no one responds. 

“Or maybe she’s just not expecting company,”

“She never is,”

Dream pounds on the door louder and shouts her name again, clearly frustrated at not being able to just manifest himself inside the apartment. Hob doesn’t know how to help. 

“Maybe we should say it’s you?” he asks

“She knows it’s me,” he says, “Johanna Constantine. Open this door,”

The door flies open and a small female figure stands before them, holding a dagger in her hand, pointing it at Dream. She looks at him for a beat too long, but doesn’t express surprise in any other way. The dagger is a breath away from his face. 

“Ghost, shapeshifter, or an unfunny prank, you two?” she asks.

Hob watches as Dream’s lips stretch into a smirk. 

“It is good to see you, Johanna,” he says and her bravado shatters for less than a second, before she picks herself up. 

“And you’re dead. So I can’t say the same,” she says

“Would a dead man stand before you as I do?”

“Weirder things have happened,” she allows and her gaze shifts to Hob, “And you are?”

Hob isn’t sure how to answer her question. 

“A friend,” he says. She doesn’t look satisfied and keeps staring at Hob with her eyes squinted ever so slightly. Hob can pinpoint the exact moment when the bulb lights up in her head. 

“I remember you,” she says, “At the funeral. At his funeral,” her gaze travels back to Dream

“May we come in? I am in need of your services,” he says

The dagger finally comes down. Johanna crosses her hands at her chest and smirks wider. 

“A dead man and an immortal show up at my doorstep because they are in need of my services,” she says, “Come on in,”

Johanna’s apartment is a mess. Her possessions cover each surface in layers of varied thickness. Clothes, books, unwashed mugs are everywhere, making her already modestly sized flat seem even smaller. The only thing that slightly helps the mess is the darkness that reins over the space. Every light is dimmed, shadows hiding in every corner of the room, dancing on the faces of the three people present. 

“So?” Johanna says, “You two are waiting for me to make you tea before telling me how on Earth you’re alive again or what?”

Dream seems endeared by her rudeness and that surprises Hob. 

“It is precisely why I’m here,” Dream says, “I have died, but I was brought back. I must know how and why,”

“Brought back? Who could have done this?” she asks

“I don’t believe anyone but my sister could have,”

“Death?” Dream nods, “Can she even do that? Bring the dead back?”

There’s a fire lighting up in her eyes, as she asks her questions. Hob recognizes it – the fire of grief, of someone who’d lost too much. 

Dream nods again. 

“She can. But it doesn’t mean she should. She’s only done it a handful of times and almost always regretted it. She swore to never do it again,”
Johanna sighs and drops herself on a chair. Neither Dream nor Hob were offered a seat. 

“Nice of you to show up here and all, but what do I have to do with this? You’re alive. Go live,”

“I am human,” Dream says with disgust in his voice. Johanna isn’t impressed. 

“Most of us are,” she says and then looks at Hob, “Are you even human still?”

“Very much I am,” he responds and Johanna opens her mouth to ask something else, but doesn’t get a chance to

“I must speak to my sister. I need you to find her,” Dream says firmly. She turns back to him. 

“You want me to find Death?” Dream responds affirmatively and Constantine laughs. 

“Death? Summon Death? Who do you think I am?”

She leaves her chair and walks over to the small fridge. There’s no real kitchen in her apartment, just an equally messy continuation of the living room that has some kitchen appliances. Hob makes a point not to look inside the fridge  when she opens it. When he looks at her the next moment, she’s holding a bottle of beer. 

“Not even Burgess could do it, if you remember,” she says, opening the bottle.

Dream’s eye twitches at the mention of the name

“You speak of Burgess as if he ever did possess true magic. Do you see yourself below him?” he asks. 

Johanna squeezes her jaws. 

“No one can summon Death. No one alive and certainly no one human,”

There’s a second when her eyes light up and she swallows down a mouthful of beer. She looks away, but Dream has caught her, too. 

“Speak your mind,” he orders and she, inexplicably, does. 

“No human can summon her,” she repeats, “But…I guess I have connections,” 

She sighs. 

Now Dream’s eyes light up. In hope.

“I could maybe talk to the Corinthian. Maybe,” she says. The light is blown from Dream’s eyes. 

“You’re in touch with the Corinthian? Still?”

Johanna seems embarrassed at the question and Hob wishes either of them would clarify why, but doesn’t ask for it. He remembers the Corinthian as Dream’s failed nightmare - one that brought much turmoil into his post-imprisonment life. He remembers the way Dream talked about him, many months ago, during their first meeting in the 21st century. It had been their longest meeting yet – they spoke for many hours. Hob told him of his life in the past 130 years. Dream told him everything. The Corinthian was one of the painful tales. A failure of his. 

He seems to be striking a nerve even now. 

“Not really, no,” Johanna turns around to put the beer away, or escape the conversation, “We were…seeing each other for a minute, but it’s over now,” she says quickly

“You were shagging a nightmare?” Hob asks, his mouth quicker than his brain. 

He can’t tell who looks more offended at the question – Dream or Johanna. 

“Wasn’t my first nightmare, I’ll tell you that,” she says, “It is over. He just…shows up in my dreams sometimes,”

She shrugs and Dream does look disgusted, but he wipes it off his face. 

“I guess I could talk to him next time I see him,” she says, “Which I have zero control over, by the way. It certainly would be easier for someone from the Dreaming to reach your sister,”

“Not an option,” he says, which Hob knew he’d do, “Corinthian mustn’t know about me. Find another way,”

Johanna scoffs. 

“You come to me with an impossible task, I give you a perfectly suited solution and you reject it?” she asks, “What if there is no other way?”

“There is,”

“Please do tell,”

There’s a frustration in her voice that doesn’t really fit into her otherwise not caring attitude. 

Dream looks lost in thought for a moment and then fixes his gaze on Johanna again. 

“There is…something that used to be mine,” he begins, unsure, “A stone. It was a boon from my sibling but I have thrown it into the Waking world,”

“What kind of a stone?” Johanna asks

“It is meant to give its owner whatever their heart desires,” 

There’s a strange gloom on Dream’s face as he says the words. 

“Lapis desiderii,” Johanna says, almost breathless. 

“It’s a myth,” Hob cuts in. The two look at him, “It doesn’t exist,”

The search for the lapis desiderii was fashionable a few centuries ago. The silly legend took Britain and most of Europe by a storm – many of Hob’s friends fell victim to it too. A stone that promises to fulfil any wish, any dream with no price for the owner. It was too good to be true. No one has ever found it. 

“It is real, Hob,” Dream says, “And you, Constantine, must search for it and bring it to me,” 

Johanna raises her eyebrows. She scoffs and stalls before finding her words. 

“There are rumors, but-,”

“Follow them then,”

“Someone probably has it. And they wouldn't part with it,”

“Everything has a price,” Hob says. 

“Not this,” Johanna says, “And even if it doesn’t, you two can’t afford it,”

“I have money,” Hob says and smiles. 

“Not that kind of money,”

“I have money,” Hob insists and Johanna tilts her head, watching him. 

“Who are you?” she asks. Dream saves him once again. 

“Locate the stone,” he orders, “Obtaining it will come second,” 

He moves towards the door, marking the end of the conversation, but Johanna doesn’t necessarily agree with that. 

“What’s in it for me, then?” she calls out. 

Dream stops in front of the door but doesn’t turn around. 

“You could hardly afford me when you were…you. What can you give me now?” she asks.

Hob sees how Dream’s face twitches in pain. 

He doesn’t respond. 

“I have a feeling you won’t do it out of the goodness of your heart?” Hob asks and Johanna laughs again. He doesn’t think that offering her money would help, either. 

Dream turns to her. 

“What is it you want?” he asks. 

Johanna comes close to him. Too close. Looks up and scans his face with her foxy eyes. Hob can’t help the way he clears his throat. 

“I keep the stone,” she says, “And after that, you never bother me again,”

Dream looks down at her. 

“Fine,”

“And if I don’t find the stone,-"

"Which you will,"

"-The second part of the deal stands. Never bother me again,”

“It will be my pleasure,” 

Dream turns around and walks out of the door. He doesn’t check to see if Hob is following him, but he is. He catches up with Dream on the stairs, right after silently handing Johanna his card.

“Have a nice life,” they hear her voice, followed by a loud slam of the door. 

Dream gets into the car and no longer requires Hob’s assistance with his seatbelt. They drive off in silence. The day is slowly heading towards its end – the clock shows 5 in the evening and Hob has felt each and every one of those hours. He’s exhausted and starving, and by looking at Dream’s bleak stare and pale face, he assumes the feelings are mutual. 

He parks in front of the first okay looking restaurant they encounter. 

“This isn’t your home,” Dream states and Hob is relieved that at least that was his expectation. 

“Humans need to eat,” he says and gets out of the car. Dream follows. 

They’re seated in a booth by the window, opposite to each other. Hob buries his nose in the menu, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Dream. From the way he’s looking around the cafe, reading the menu items off of big screens and mouthing the words. He’s still wearing the same clothes he slept in, and a spike of guilt comes at Hob with that realization. Should he have offered some of his clothes to him? Would he have accepted them? Will he accept them now?

All day Hob’s sanity has depended strictly on his efforts to not let his mind wander. During the night, all he could think about was Dream’s physical safety. Then, it was getting him to stay and not run off on his own god knows where. Afterwards, helping him find Death. Keeping his mind focused then was harder. Still is. 

Even now he tries not to think about why Dream is so fixated on finding his sister. He chooses to believe he just wants answers and nothing more. 

He also does his best not to think about the future of any kind. Future that lies outside this cheap cafe, that awaits them in his house, that hides in tomorrow’s morning. 

What now? Hob doesn’t think. Doesn’t. 

“Need some help?” he asks Dream instead, watching him read the menu again and again with concentration even his best students don’t give to their assigned reading. 

Dream looks up.

“I don’t want any of this,” he says

Okay. 

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” Hob asks

“Yes,” Dream responds, “Your house,”

“I haven’t gone grocery shopping in a minute and it’s a long drive. You need to eat,” Hob says. Dream isn’t pleased. 

“I know this is…kind of new to you, so it’s normal you’re reluctant to try things-,”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” he says with hostility Hob didn’t expect

“I…that wasn’t my intention at all,” he says, “You haven’t eaten in 15 hours. At least,”

Dream doesn’t look one bit concerned about that and doesn’t grace Hob with a response. 

“Alright, I’ll order for you, then,” Hob says and calls the waiter with a quick gesture and a smile. 

Under Dream’s cold gaze, the process of ordering their lunch-dinner aka the first meal of that day is akin to taking an exam for a class you haven’t been to once. Hob points at meals and appetizers of various kinds, ordering way too much food for two people, and hoping that at least one thing will be to Dream’s liking. 

The cafe they end up in is one of those that have a bit of everything. So when Hob’s order arrives, it includes: burgers, fries, mozzarella sticks, fish and chips, a green salad, tuna spring rolls, a New York style cheesecake, quite dry looking steak, and some nachos. 

Dream stares at the feast in front of him, and while his face expresses mainly confusion, Hob can hear his stomach growl. 

“Dig in,” he says. 

Hob himself tries a bit of everything – he never was picky about food – but ends up favoring the burgers and nachos. Dream is much more careful. 

For a while, he just watches Hob eat, making him feel like he’s on the wrong side of a zoo park. Then, he reaches out for a single fry, puts it in his mouth carefully, as if it might bite him in return and chews slowly. 

Hob manages not to laugh, but he can’t bite back his smile. 

“Good?” he asks

“Not particularly,” 

Hob cannot help himself this time.

Dream eats very slowly, but he does eat. He finishes most of the salad and the mozzarella sticks. He tries the burger and remains indifferent to it. Tries the steak and confirms Hob’s guess that it’s dry and tasteless. Steals a few of the nachos that Hob pronounced his. Doesn’t even give Hob a chance to try the cheesecake. 

Hob gladly gives it up. 

“Do you think Johanna will actually find the stone?” Hob asks, when the meal is finished and he feels the weight of their silence again. 

Dream sighs, keeping his eyes on the table. Hob considers asking the waiter to pack up the leftovers, but then decides he’ll cook Dream something better tomorrow. 

“If anyone can, it is her,” Dream responds. 

“You think highly of her,” Hob notes and Dream doesn’t deny it. 

Clearly there’s history there. All Dream said about Constantine was that her family has served him well, but Hob finds himself curious for more. What connects her to him? What tasks did he have her do that he couldn’t assign to Hob, instead? How come she’s deserving of knowing him, helping him, and he is not?

Mad at himself for such pathetic and ugly thoughts, Hob shoves them down. 

“It will still take her time,” Dream says and Hob has to remind himself to listen, “Days,weeks. We must try our own way, in the meantime,” 

“I…yeah, we can,” Hob allows, “Just…not sure what that would be,”

Dream looks out the window. The sun is still high in the sky, despite how late it is. The street they’re on is quite alive and Dream watches attentively as a man attempts to cross the street on the yellow light. His indifferent eyes widen as a car speeds towards the man and mere seconds save him from death. 

He turns to Hob, eyes glimmering. 

“I may have an idea,” he says. 

What follows next is pure madness. 

“Are you insane?” Hob asks, blunt and loud, once Dream finally shuts up, “It’s a genuine question, did she bring you back mad?”

“I understand the risks-,”

“The risks?” Hob makes an effort not to jump out of his seat. His attempts not to attract attention are fruitless, though - everyone is staring at them. 

“You’re proposing pure insanity. Staging a near death situation to meet your sister?” Dream nods, not at all understanding Hob’s reaction. 

“It will certainly attract her attention,”

“It won’t,” Hob says, “I’ve been in accidents that were supposed to be lethal before, she didn’t care,”

“It won’t be you,” Dream says calmly, “It will be me,”

Hob doesn’t know what to say. His hand moves on its own, pushing an empty plate off the table and the sound of it shattering brings him back to reality. 

The waiter – who didn’t sign up for any of this – is by his side before Hob can react. He apologizes profusely, and gets out of the table. He pays, leaving a generous tip and heads out of the cafe. Dream is following him, but they stop by the car. 

“It might work,” Dream insists.

“Or you’ll die. Again,” Hob forces himself to say, “Or get injured,”

“It is within my right to try-,”

“No, it is not,” Hob says and there’s a speech bubbling up in his throat, something about how your life doesn’t just belong to you, and your death won’t happen to you at all, just like Dream’s death didn’t happen to him. It happened to the room of people who spoke and cried at his funeral. It happened to Hob. 

“I veto it,” he says instead, finally shocking Dream into silence. Hob uses the moment to unlock the car and get in. 

Dream does the same. 

“I haven’t granted you veto rights,” he says, as Hob starts the car. 

He scoffs

“I think you did when you showed up at my door in the middle of the night and immediately started bossing me around,”

Dream doesn’t respond, but at least his awful idea is seemingly forgotten. It takes Hob a minute to get rid of its aftertaste, though, to relax his shoulder, slow down his breath, stop squeezing the wheel until his knuckles are bright white. Dream would do this. There’s no escaping it. But this time, Hob is there to stop him. This time. 

By the time they reach home, Hob is too tired to feel anything else but his exhaustion. When the door finally closes behind them, he sighs with relief. That doesn’t last. With his friend there, silent and moody, he’s never felt this…restless within these walls. He leaves Dream in the living room to go use the bathroom and comes back to see him standing in the same place, in the same position. His face is unreadable, he won’t talk to him, won’t even look at him. Hob doesn’t know what to say to him either. He wants to ask if he’s okay, how he feels, but he’s been unsuccessfully attempting that all day. 

“Do you…wanna sit down?” he asks, nodding at the couch. Dream obeys silently. 

This is progress, Hob supposes. 

He offers Dream things to eat, or drink and he turns everything down with a polite No, thank you. Quarter of an hour passes like this – in awkward silence, the two of them sharing the space of Hob’s living room, his couch, but feeling like there’s a universe between them. Hob ends the torture, getting up and saying that he’ll prepare the guest bedroom for Dream. 

Hob is an excellent host and has many friends, so his guest bedroom always is prepared, with clean sheets and stocked up bathroom, but he goes over everything once again, swapping perfectly fresh pillow cases with other perfectly fresh ones, opening the window to let some air in, leaving the lights on. He goes to his own bedroom and retrieves a change of clothes for Dream, if he wants them. Then he calls for him. 

“So,” he clears his throat as Dream walks around the room, “Mi casa e su casa, obviously,”

He tries to chuckle, but Dream doesn’t respond. Hob sighs and forces himself to speak. 

“I’m going off of an assumption that as an Endless you didn’t really have the need to take care of your physical body, though I also am sure you’ve seen what humans usually do. Certainly someone has dreamed of taking a shower before,” Hob wants to die of how awkward this feels.

“I can show you how the shower works, no problem, but you should find everything you need stocked up. And here’s some clothes for you to sleep in. They’re clean and as close to your goth aesthetic as I could find,” he lets everything out in one breath. Dream is seated on the edge of the bed, watching him.

“My bedroom is right there,” he points, “So if you need me for any reason at all…I’m here,”

Dream is still silent and the look on his face goes from attentive to analyzing and just weird, so Hob chooses to consider the conversation finished. 

“You must be tired, maybe you should go to sleep before-,”

“Hob,” Dream says, finally.

“Yeah?”

He evades his gaze, turning it down on his hands. 

“I do not wish to take your hospitality for granted. More importantly, I don’t wish to be a burden to you. Just because it was your door I showed up at yesterday, doesn’t mean you are now responsible for me and if my presence inconveniences you in any way, you must tell me and-,”

“Dream,” Hob says. He looks up. 

Hob expected anything, but that. Every word from Dream’s mouth is a small arrow to Hob’s heart. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows he must stop this nonsense. 

Hob cannot explain how all distance disappeared between them. He couldn’t tell you where he got the courage to sit next to Dream and place his hand on his shoulder, causing a breathy gasp to escape his lips. 

“If you try to leave, I simply won’t let you go. I’m stronger than I look, actually,”

Dream looks at him, the joke lost on him. So Hob speaks plainly.

“I want you here,” he says, “I’m happy you’re here. I’m…I’m very happy you’re here,”

Dream swallows. And then there’s another new sign of humanity – a faint blush creeping up on his cheeks and down his neck. He nods quickly. Relaxes. 

Crisis is averted, but Hob can’t look away. Fears that none of this is real and that he’s just dreaming come back. He pushes them down. He gives Dream’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, gets up and leaves the room, before he says or does too much. 

Today was eventful enough.

Chapter Text

To his own surprise, Hob sleeps through the entire night, with no nightmares or unpleasant dreams visiting him. Having forgotten to set an alarm last evening, he wakes earlier than he usually does on the weekends, but way later than he used to. It’s a bit after 10, when Hob opens his eyes for the first time on that Sunday. There’s time to take one singular breath before his anxiety begins choking him. Memories of the last day and the previous night flood his mind. He jumps out of the bed and almost runs into the living room, to find Dream seated on the couch. 

His hair is wet and he’s wearing the pajamas Hob gave him last night, which – as he predicted – are too big for him. The black shirt is too loose in the neckline, exposing part of Dream’s collarbone and shoulder. The grey pants are too long. Dream is even wearing slippers. 

Hob spends way too much time staring, before he remembers to talk. 

“Good morning,” he says, making an effort to sound normal and casual, “How’d you sleep?”

“Well, thank you,” Dream responds, his voice emotionless. Hob can’t help noting that it sounds like an automatic response. 

Dream joins him in the kitchen, as Hob brews the coffee. He doesn’t ask his guest how he takes it, figures it will be easier to do what he did yesterday – present him with a bunch of options and see what he likes more. He opens the cabinet above his head and considers. There’s Italian espresso that sounds like something Dream would enjoy, but there’s always a chance he, like Hob, will find it too bitter. A couple years back Hob gave in and bought a fancy coffee machine that is big and functional enough to substitute a whole coffee shop. He could make him one of those ridiculous frappuccino drinks with some sugary syrups and cream on top. He did like the cheesecake yesterday. 

“I had an idea,” Dream says, pulling Hob out of his thoughts. He turns around. 

“Instead of summoning my sister, we could go somewhere we know she will be,”

Hob sighs. 

“Do you not want to have breakfast first?” he asks

“This is important,” Dream insists and by his tone, yeah it is, “You swore to help,”

Swore? When?

“And I will,” Hob says, “But I’m afraid I won’t be much of a help without coffee and breakfast first. And most likely, neither will you,”

Dream rolls his eyes and obediently sits at the table, ready to be served. Hob smiles at him, affection blooming in his chest. 

Dream has the patience to eat one toast, a slice of an apple and one forkfull of the eggs Hob made, before he goes back to talking about his idea. As for the coffee, he favors americano. Hob memorizes that. 

“Somewhere we know Death will be,” he repeats Dream’s words, “Like a hospital? A hospice?”

Dream’s eyes light up.

“Exactly,” he says. 

Hob pulls out his phone and does a quick google search: how many people die in a single hospital per day?

0.3 to 3 or more deaths per day, Google responds. 

“Okay, yeah, this might work,” Hob says and Dream rises to his feet, impatient. 

“We mustn’t waste any time,” he says

“Dream, we can’t just go into a hospital and ask who’s about to die,” Hob says, but the idea doesn’t seem that obvious to Dream. He looks at him with why not? written on his face. 

“They’re not gonna let us in without a good excuse,” 

Dream seems devastated by such senseless development. He sits back down – more like drops himself on the chair, sighs, and crosses his arms at his chest. Somehow, even such a childish gesture looks good on him. Hob groans, leaves his half-finished breakfast and gets up.

“Let me make some calls,”

In his life, Hob has hit the rock bottom many times and each time he managed to find a deeper one. There were periods – years, decades – when he was broke, nameless, disgraced. But not this one. Certainly not this one. 

By most standards, Hob is a rich man. He doesn’t like showing it off, almost no one in his life knows just how much Hob has to his (fake) name, but now, he’s rich enough to know that the real capital is not money. 

It is connections.  

Surely, he could get them into a hospital. 

“Alright, I can’t believe that worked,” he says, returning to the kitchen

“What worked?”

“I have a friend who owns a private hospice for the elderly outside of London. I called in for a favor, she’s expecting us in the afternoon,” Hob beams

“Without a good excuse?”

“Well,” Hob sighs, “I had to say you’re writing a book about the elderly life in the UK and I’m helping you with research. She’s obsessed with writers, so it was the only way,”
Dream hums. Nods. 

“When do we leave?”

Hob tries to get Dream to eat something else, considering the two hour drive ahead of him, but he refuses. The spoiled child aspect of his personality is on full display now – he ignores Hob’s attempts to call to his reason. The only thing that stops him from storming out of the apartment is the simple fact that he has nothing to wear. 

“Everything of mine is too big for you,” Hob says, standing in front of his open closet with Dream sitting on his bed behind him. 

“Should we stop by a store on the way?” he asks, knowing what Dream will say

“It will be a waste of time,” 

“Well what’s the alternative?” Hob turns around, “You’re supposed to be this fancy writer. Gotta dress the part,”

The importance of his appearance seems to finally reach Dream. He sighs. 

“We have to be quick,” he says

“Of course,” 

Hob pulls out a white t-shirt and a pair of jeans from his gym fanatic era that should stay on Dream’s narrow hips at least with the help of a belt. 

“Brush your hair, maybe,” he says and leaves the room. 

For some reason, Hob isn’t at all surprised to find out that Dream hates shopping. He is yet to find a human activity Dream doesn’t hate, but it’s only been a day and a half and Hob is a naturally optimistic person. 

They parked in front of the most generic male apparel store Hob could find and for the last 20 minutes Dream has been pacing around the store, with a deep frown on his face, pulling pieces of clothing out and putting them back in. 

“You were the one who said we need to hurry,” Hob, who’s following his every step, reminds him. Dream gives him the same look he gave him the day before, at the cafe. 

“I don’t like anything here,” he says, which Hob is already used to by now. 

“And you won’t, unless you start trying things on,”

Dream slips a sweater off its hanger – a deep maroon shade with a v-neck and looks at it for 10 seconds straight. 

“You choose,” he says then, “You have a much better grasp on human fashion of this century,”

Hob doesn’t know if he should take it as a compliment. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” he says, “Besides, we do have to buy you more clothes. Something you like, something you’ll be comfortable in,”

“It’s not important,” Dream says, putting the sweater back on its hanger and onto the rack, “All of this comes second to our task,”

Hob sighs. 

“It is important,” he insists, “We don’t know how long our task is gonna take,” Hob had to do the air quotes, “And…what happens after?”

It’s been just a little over 35 hours since Dream showed up outside of Hob’s house. More than 35 hours they spent in each other’s immediate proximity, and aside from Dream’s demands to see his sister, they haven’t really talked. Hob still forces any thoughts about the future out of his head, but what does Dream think? How does he picture the inevitable and terrifying after that would follow his encounter with his sister?

Hob didn’t intend his question as anything but rhetorical, but Dream looks at him with something very real in his eyes. Real and vulnerable. Hob holds his breath and waits, but Dream refuses him once again. He turns away and goes back to analyzing the clothes

“Try this,” Hob says, mainly just to say something and end this torture. He hands Dream a brown long sleeve shirt and a pair of dark grey slacks.

“It’s generic, but fits the character,” he says. Dream doesn’t argue, at least not with his words. His face is…as usual. 

Hob sends him to change, promising to find some shoes. His combat boots would work, he thinks, they’d bring some edginess into the outfit, but he should have options. 

By the time Hob finds a decent pair of lace-up shoes that are hopefully Dream’s size, he’s already waiting for him outside the changing room. 

No one would really call this outfit trendy or even stylish. It painfully lacked character, nothing to catch the eye. The eye of anyone, but Hob. 

Hob cannot hide his smile. 

“So? What do you think?” he asks, stepping closer

Dream looks down on himself, as if only now getting the idea to check the new clothes. He looks up and sighs. 

“I have no opinion regarding these clothes,” 

Hob drops himself on the little sofa, his head in his hands. 

“You said it fits the character,” Dream says, seeing Hob’s reaction. 

“It does, but I want you to like it,” he says, and Dream furrows his brows in confusion. 

“People use clothes as a means of self-expression. Or because it makes them feel good about themselves, their body,” he tries to explain. Dream doesn’t look like he cares about any of that.

“We don’t have time for this,” he says, “These clothes will suffice,”

“Fine, but we will have to come back,” Dream opens his mouth to argue and Hob physically shoves him back into the changing room, “Give me the clothes, I’ll go pay,”

On his way to the cashier Hob picks a couple plain t-shirts, one pair of jeans, some socks and underwear, all of which he hopes are at least close to his friend’s size. Waiting in line, paying, bringing the clothes back to Dream, waiting for him to change, it all takes way longer than what  either of them would prefer. By the time they make it to the car, it’s 2 pm, the time they agreed they’d already be at the hospice. 

Hob can sense Dream’s anxiety. It pours out of him in his rigid movements – in the way he fidgets with the seatbelt, unlocking it by accident a couple times; in the way he tugs on the collar and sleeves of his new sweater, the way he taps his foot endlessly, throughout the entire drive. It’s a test on Hob’s patience – was it anyone else in his passenger’s seat now, he’d most likely end up shouting at them and then feeling bad about it. With Dream, he says nothing. He breathes deeply every time he unlocks the seatbelt and the ear-curling sound of the alarm fills the car. 

“We need to work on your character,” Hob says, about halfway through. Dream is currently exploring the glove compartment. He acknowledges Hob’s words with a neutral hum

“I’ll have to introduce you to people, can’t exactly call you Dream,” Hob continues

Dream closes the glove compartment, finally stills. 

“What do we need?” he asks

“Well, a name, for sure. A brief backstory would be nice. You’re a writer, so maybe something you’ve worked on before,” Hob lists, “We need to decide how we met,”

He steals a quick look at Dream, but it doesn’t help decipher his emotions. It never does. 

“Is it really necessary?”

“Uh, yeah,” Hob says, “You’ll have to talk to people. Not just the patients there, my friend, too. And she’s very talkative and curious,”
Dream sighs. 

“I’ll go along with whatever you come up with,” he says, clearly trying to close this topic.

“Dream!” 

Hob wishes he wasn’t driving while having this conversation. 

“You can’t be so passive about this!”

This being your life, your new life, this blessing of a life, that I somehow ended up responsible for, even if you say I don’t have to be, Hob wants to add, but doesn’t.

“It is infinitely insignificant,”

“No, it’s not,” Hob insists, “It’s all important, okay, all of it. You need a name, and you need clothes, and you need to choose it all yourself for yourself. Please!”

Hob feels like he may have a fever. 

He rolls the window down, trying to get more air, trying to cool down.

“Humans do not name themselves,” Dream states. And looks at Hob, expectation in his eyes. 

“You want me to name you?” he asks. Dream nods. 

Hob gives in. For a minute he flips through a list of names in his mind, trying to attach any of them to the image of his friend. Nothing works. 

“I can’t,” he says, “I know it’s just for today, but I can’t. You’re Dream to me. Choose something yourself,”

Dream is silent for a few moments. 

“Dream is not a real name,” he then says, “I’m afraid the closest thing I have to an actual name is Morpheus. Dream is…what used to be my function. It is his now,”

There is sadness in his voice. Sadness and a strange kind of acceptance. 

Hob clears his throat.

“That’s the name you gave me,” he says, “Remember? In the New Inn, some months ago,”

“I do remember,”

“Do you wish for me to call you Morpheus?” Hob asks, “It is a bit formal, but…if that’s what feels right,”

“Nothing feels right,” Dream says under his breath and Hob has a feeling he doesn’t just mean the names. 

Maybe it’d be better, easier to drop it. Use any random name, Tom, or Bill, or whatever, and leave Dream alone. 

But…

“What feels more like you? Dream or Morpheus?” Hob asks, “Outside of the context of your function and the new guy and everything. When you think of yourself, what name comes to mind?”

“Dream,” he says right away, “But I have no rights for that name now,”

“Bullshit,” Hob says, “It’s your name! Who cares about rights and who else might have it?”

Dream doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t seem convinced either. 

“I’m calling you Dream,” Hob adds, definitive,  “And we can use Morpheus today. It’s a bit…unusual, but might fit the character of a pretentious writer,”

Dream doesn’t object. One less problem. 

The backstory is a bit easier to figure out. Robert Gilbert and Morpheus No-Last-Name met back in uni, when the former was doing his PhD in history, and the latter was studying English and creative writing. Morpheus lives abroad, so they don’t see each other much, but now he’s thinking of moving back home and delving into the world of non-fiction literature. 

Dream isn’t very interested in the process and agrees with everything Hob suggests, which is simultaneously easy, frustrating, and sad. 

It’s a relief when they make it to the hospice. 

Hob has known Larissa May for many years now, but he’s never taken her up on one of her endless invitations to come visit her hospice. She used to joke that one day, a day very far away, a room would be waiting for him.

She has no idea how long she'd have to wait. 

It’s an old mansion – big and moody – much more inviting than Hob expected. He leaves the car in the small parking lot and the two make their way to the front yard. There’s a small fountain with chairs and little tables around it – some empty, some occupied by the patients, or, as Larissa insists on calling them, the guests. 

She’s, of course, there to greet them, too. 

“Robert!” she cries before gathering Hob into an embrace, “It’s been so long!”

“It has,” Hob smiles, “You look as showstopping as ever, my dear,”

Larissa laughs. She is a tall, blonde woman with a brilliant smile and the most contagious laughter Hob has ever heard. 

He hasn’t heard it in a while.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she says and drops her smile, all serious out of nowhere, “I should be mad at you, you know? I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks, and you call me back only when you need a favor,”

Hob freezes, his own smile gone, too. 

In all truth, most of his friends could say the same thing to him. He hasn’t been the best at keeping up with them since the…in a minute. 

Hob considers his words, which is hard when both Larissa and Dream look at him like he just committed a crime.

“It’s a good thing you can’t stay mad at me then, right?” he tries, and, inexplicably, the awkward joke works. Larissa rolls her eyes and grants him another small smile. 

“I suppose,” she says, “I shall not forgive you for your lack of manners, however. Introduce me to your friend this instant!” she demands. 

Hob turns to Dream. 

“This is my old pal, Morpheus,” he says, clasping his arm around his shoulder, desperately trying to sound convincing. For all his love of theater and cinema, Hob is and has always been an awful actor. 

“Morpheus, this is Larissa,”

The two shake hands. Dream – Morpheus – smiles politely, and Larissa’s eyes light up with interest. 

“Morpheus, what a name!” she says, still holding his hand, “It is a pleasure,”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Dream says and does the unbelievable thing of kissing Larissa’s hand. She melts. The tricks that Hob didn’t even know Dream had work perfectly on her – his slow bow, the ghost touch of his lips against the rough skin of a woman whose hands were never not working, his heavy gaze. She blushes like a school girl. Hob needn’t have worried at all. Dream’s got this. 

Larissa invites them into the hospice for a quick tour, but her attention is completely monopolized by Dream. Hob paces behind them, trying not to laugh, as the two converse. 

Larissa, predictably, has a ton of questions. Hob listens as Dream talks about their university life, the constant and never fading desire to write, the struggles of trying to get published. Larissa nods at every word, furrowing her brows in empathy. She vaguely gestures towards various hallways, explaining which rooms are where, though neither she, nor Dream actually care about the tour. She only remembers about Hob’s existence when Dream begins telling her of his kindness and hospitality. 

“Robert has supported my idea as a true friend, but it is my great regret we had to bother you in the process,” he says. 

“Oh, you stop it,” Larissa gasps, “I have enormous respect for writers. If I can help you with your book in any way, any whatsoever, it would be my joy,”

Hob cannot believe how well this is working. Too well, perhaps. With all this lying and pretending, he almost forgot that they are here to watch someone die.

“I believe it would be most useful if we could interview some of the oldest guests here. If you don’t mind, of course. Their experience could play a major role in my writing,”

Larissa nods. 

“I wouldn’t normally allow this,” she says, “The oldest guests of ours are nearing a hundred years old, they are much…fragile,” she looks at Hob, finally. 

“We understand, of course,” he says, “We won’t be long,”

She still seems hesitant, but the warm look Dream gives her melts her heart. She sighs. 

“Alright. Sir Ben Williams is rather…talkative, despite his age,” she says and begins walking deeper into the hallway. Dream and Hob follow her. 

“His health took a negative turn some weeks ago, unfortunately. He’s better now, otherwise I wouldn’t allow you to visit him, but remember he needs rest. Even when he insists he doesn’t,”

Hob nods. He looks at Dream, hoping to gain some of his determination, but fails. This feels wrong. 

Larissa disappears inside the room to talk to the patient, and the two of them wait. 

“Such a sweet talker, you are,” Hob can’t help it. 

“You said I must play a character,”

“Well, you’re quite a natural,”

Dream smirks, but the door opens and Larissa emerges before he can say anything. 

They are invited in. Larissa didn’t lie that this was a luxury hospice. Hob wonders and fears how much these people (or their children) are paying for it. There are multiple rooms, all beautifully decorated with soft furniture and warm lights. The wall-length windows look out into the forest that’s behind the hospice. It’s a nice place to grow old in, if one must, Hob thinks. 

The elderly man sitting on a chair by the window seems content enough to agree. 

“Sir,” Hob begins, “My name is Robert, this is my friend Morpheus,”

The man looks at them. 

“Yes, Larissa said you two have questions for me,” his voice is strong and steady. So is his gaze. Only the grey hair and wrinkled skin give out how old he might really be. 

“If you don’t mind,”

“Why would I?” he smiles, “Who am I to deny two youngsters some of my infinite wisdom?”

Hob smiles and looks at Dream. A small smile has graced his lips, too. 

Hob pulls two chairs and the “interview” begins. He and Dream are armed with notebooks and a recorder, all to look professional, but in reality, they are just killing time.

Sir Ben Williams and his infinite wisdom are certainly some good company for that. 

Hob has prepared a list of rather generic questions to ask during these interviews – things about his collocutor’s youth, career, his experience here, in Larissa’s hospice. Sir Williams is answering the questions with mild interest, but keeps throwing glances at Dream, who impatiently fidgets on his chair. 

“Aren’t you the writer?” he asks him, interrupting Hob’s brilliant question about the most popular hobbies among the elderly. 

“I am,” Dream responds. 

“And he’s your assistant?” he nods at Hob. Quite insulting. 

“He’s my friend. And he is far better at this than I am,”

The older man hums. 

“How old are you two?” he asks.

Dream and Hob share a glance. 

“We’re older than we look,” Hob says, making the man laugh

“And how old might that be? 35? 40?”

“You’re close enough,”

The secrecy doesn’t seem to anger Ben. He smirks and shakes his head.

“I suppose I’m being impolite,” he says, “It’s just…curious. Why you chose such a topic for your book,”

He looks at Dream and Hob begins to worry. They never really discussed this part of their backstory. 

“Like you said, sir,” Dream says, “We seek your infinite wisdom,”

Out of anyone else’s mouth the phrase would sound bitter, sarcastic, but Dream pours every bit of his sincerity into it. He says it like he means it. He does mean it. 

“Well,” Sir Williams clears his throat, “I shall not disappoint,”

Hob puts away the notebooks, forgets his list of questions. He leans back on the chair and listens as the man in front of him retells his life. It’s almost comical – he is in his 90s, but not more than a child, compared to Hob’s age. He’s nothing, a blink in the eyes of the universe, compared to Dream’s.

Hob still finds himself listening with interest to the tales of his life.

He’s led an honest, difficult life, worked hard, dreamed even harder. Perfectly normal, perfectly average. And now he’s here. Nothing in his tone suggests that he’s particularly happy or upset about this development. Sir Williams talks about his life as something that’s already behind him. 

Hob hates how similar he finds his tone of voice to Dream’s.

“I wanted to live my life so that I had no regrets. I always tried to tell the truth, do what’s right. I didn’t always manage, but my intentions were always in order,” he says, at the end of his tale, nodding at his own words, “If you two are here for some life-altering advice, you have the wrong room,”

Hob smiles together with Ben 

“Do you then?” he asks, “Have any regrets?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Many, so many,” he shakes his head, “Nothing I can do about them now. They’ll go to the other side with me,”

Hob nods. He knows comforting the man is useless. He, too, is familar with the the taste of true regret.

“Are you afraid?” Dream asks. 

“To die? No,” Ben sighs, “I’ve lived here in this hospice for the last two years, waiting for her. Lady Death,”

Dream’s eyes light up. 

“You’re in good health. There may still be years ahead of you,” Hob tries, but the man dismisses him. 

“I can sense her,” he says and smiles, “She is…a frequent visitor to this place. I know she’ll come for me soon, too,”

Hob looks at Dream, whose face is too excited for a person who just heard someone say they may die soon. He gives his foot a quick kick. 

“Fearing death is pointless,” continues Sir Williams, “In the end, she’s there for all of us,”

Dream opens his mouth and Hob fears what will come out, but by the grace of god, there’s a knock on the door. Larissa peeks her head in, signaling for the two men to come see her. 

She’s sorry to interrupt, of course, but Ben needs rest and it is way past lunch time, but maybe the two of them will accompany her for afternoon tea? Hob immediately accepts the offer. Dream isn’t happy. 

“I must stay,” he whispers to Hob, falling two steps behind Larissa on their way to her office, “She might come to him today, I must be there,”

“We have no way of knowing that. Humans can’t actually sense their death coming,  you know? The man is just old and a bit crazy,” Hob whispers back. 

“I’d rather not take any chances,”

The furious whispering is not the most effective way of communicating and obviously Larissa can hear parts of it. She looks back and Hob smiles, elbowing Dream. 

“We can’t say no to her,” he insists, ignoring Dream’s pleading eyes – and those are hard to ignore. 

Dream doesn’t abandon his attempts to go back right until the moment the doors of Larissa’s office close after him. 

All the charm that was seeping out of him less than an hour before is now gone. He’s cold and disinterested, looking at the clock or the door, not even hiding it. Larissa’s questions either remain ignored, or honored by simple one sentence answers. Or picked up by Hob. 

Hob knows this about Dream, of course, he’s expected this. Once Dream’s attention is caught by something, nothing else in the world exists. 

“Do you believe you’ve gathered enough material by now?” Larissa asks when the tea is finished, which is her not-so-subtle way to know when they intend to leave. 

“No,” Dream answers, sharp and harsh, “We were in the middle of a conversation with Sir Williams, I hoped to return to it,”

Larissa purses her lips. Hob knows what she’s about to say. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” there it is, “The guests here have schedules. Sir Ben’s evening is full, I’m sorry,”

Dream leans forward in his chair. 

“I’m sure it is possible to make an exception once,” he says, “His contributions is beyond priceless, it is necessary,”

“Some other day, perhaps,” Larissa’s tone remains soft, but Hob knows she won’t give in, “You may interview some other guests, in the meantime,” she looks at the clock, “Although there is a long drive ahead of you and I know you don’t like driving during the night, Robert,”

She looks at Hob, perhaps out of real care, perhaps to get him to control his eager friend. If she only knew…

“We would hate to overstay your welcome, Larissa,” he says, “Two hours and we’re out of your hair,”

She agrees, insisting that overstaying her welcome is impossible, that they are always welcome here, but she must think of the guests first. Hob nods with understanding and sympathy. Dream stares ahead of himself, dark and broody. 

They go outside, back to the fountain. According to the strict schedule Larissa mentioned before, the guests usually enjoy some time outside before dinner, if the weather allows. Some engage in slow strolls, some read, write letters to their friends and relatives “on the outside”, paint, sew, chat among each other. Nurses walk among them, bringing them medicine and tea.

Dream eyes every single one of the people in front of him and turns to Hob. 

“He’s not here,” he says

“Larissa said he needs rest. He’s probably in his room,”

Dream takes it as an instruction to go directly there, and won’t listen to Hob’s explanations that they can’t disobey Larissa. It gets to the point where Hob needs to grab Dream by the elbow and drag him away from the building. He looks up and, of course, sees his friend watching them from her window. There’s a kind looking woman sitting by the fountain alone, and Hob quickly chooses her as their next victim for the fake interview. 

They introduce themselves to her – well, Hob does, because Dream doesn’t care about any of this anymore. He’s not rude, but he definitely doesn’t go out of his way to get his company to like him, like he did with Larissa and Sir Ben. 

So the interview begins. 

This time Hob sticks to the questions he’s prepared, asking her about the hospice, what she enjoys, what she dislikes, what she would change. The woman – Miss Carter – gives some pretty insightful answers and Hob thinks that all this research could actually benefit people, if he comes up with a way to use it. 

He finds himself immersed in the conversation, nodding and taking notes. And then  - an alarm goes off. 

In seconds, all nurses run inside and the patients begin murmuring among each other. Hob turns to Miss Carter. Her eyes are sad, worry painting her face. 

“What is this?” he asks

“An emergency alarm,” she explains, “Something…something bad is happening,”

When Hob turns to look at Dream, he’s already gone. Hob sees as he runs into the building. 

The peaceful and calm hospice is now filled with chaos and fear, you can smell it, sense it in the air. Hob rushes inside, following the crowd, but doing his best not to disturb anyone and get in anyone’s way. He sees Dream’s back next to one of the rooms. He, together with many nurses and some of the younger patients are looking through the open doors of Sir Ben Williams’s room. Hob approaches the room carefully, looking in. 

There are doctors inside and the man himself is hidden behind their backs. Larissa is in the corner of the room, staring ahead of herself with blank, defeated eyes. Her expression tells Hob everything he needs to know. 

He walks closer to Dream. Places a hand on his shoulder, making him turn to him. There are tears in his blue, heartbroken eyes. 

Hob holds his gaze and waits. Dream shakes his head once.

He takes Dream’s hand and leads him away. His friend shows no resistance, doesn’t say anything. Not until they’re away from the chaos, not until they are in the car. 

It’s not in Hob’s habit to leave without saying goodbye, but he believes it’s the best thing he can do for Larissa now. He’ll call her tomorrow. He’ll start calling her more often. 

Dream is still silent when the car door closes behind him. 

“You didn’t see her?” Hob asks, though the answer is obvious. 

“No,” Dream’s voice is dry, lifeless.

“Were you…too late?”

“No. I was there when he…,” he doesn’t finish his phrase, “She is avoiding me. She knows I’m looking for her, and she’s hiding,”

Hob looks at Dream, at the singular tear that has fallen from his eye and rolled down his cheek, at his shaking hands. He reaches out, puts his own hand on top of Dream’s. He looks up.

“Maybe…maybe this is a sign. To stop looking,” he offers. He expects Dream to get angry, to push him away, to shout. But he doesn’t.

“What…what do I do then?” he looks up at him and asks, voice barely above a whisper, a desperate plea, a horrific secret that has been behind all these pointless attempts all along. 

Hob holds his gaze. 

He doesn’t have an answer.