Chapter Text
“This,” Dream declared, “is a disaster.”
Death popped over his left shoulder. “It’s fine, Dream. Don’t be such a drama queen. Green beans are supposed to boil. Nudge it down a tiny bit so it doesn’t boil over.” She adjusted the knob, which hardly lowered the blue flames. After a moment, the green beans stopped boiling so violently. “See?”
Dream glowered menacingly, in a way that was perhaps ineffective, given that the subject of his ire was green beans. “Have I mentioned I hate hosting dinner parties?”
“Hmm,” Death mused. “I believe you’ve mentioned it. Once or twice. An hour. For weeks.”
Dream retied the strings of his apron where they had loosened. “It is not my turn to host.”
“Yes, I think you’ve mentioned that before,” Death replied dryly. “And, as I know I have mentioned before, Del is still splitting her time between youth hostels and couch-surfing, so we needed another option.”
“And when is the last time you hosted, my sister?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“This counts, right?” Death said innocently. As he shifted his glare from green beans to his sister, she patted his shoulder sympathetically. “Chin up, little brother. I have a good feeling about tonight.”
“Your magical thinking is not proof,” Dream grumbled. He turned on the oven light to check the roasted potatoes. “These are done.”
“Got it.” Death grabbed oven mitts and removed the potatoes from the oven, letting them rest on the trivets on the counter. She pulled out tongs and a serving dish, waiting for the potatoes to stop sizzling before she transferred them over.
Dream heard the front door open and close, and after a moment Hob swept in to the kitchen. He had a reusable wine bag under each arm, although only one was filled with wine.
“I had to go to two different off-licenses, but I found everything,” Hob said. “This seems like…an ungodly amount of alcohol for one evening.” Without being asked, he began unloading the bottles onto the drinks cart at Dream’s right.
“Desire will never let Dream forget the time that he ran out of liquor,” Death said, smirking.
“I didn’t run out of liquor,” Dream corrected. “I ran out of gin. And I wouldn’t have, if Desire hadn’t decided to pour all of us multiple gin martinis.”
“Has he been like this the entire time I’ve been gone?” Hob asked Death.
“I think you know the answer to that,” she said wryly.
“I am right here,” Dream said tetchily.
“Hey,” Hob said, tugging at Dream’s apron until Dream faced him. “It’s going to be fine.”
“Magical thinking,” Dream groused, without heat. Hob’s eyes crinkled and he tugged at Dream’s apron again, this time toward him, to kiss Dream softly.
“Awww,” said Death behind Dream, before she transitioned the sound into a faux-retch. “Blehhh.”
Hob stepped back, his hand flying up to tug at his earlobe. He squeezed Dream’s hip affectionally before turning back to the drinks cart.
“I meant to ask,” Death said, focusing back on the potatoes. “How did Dream meeting your parents go?”
“Oh, they loved him,” Hob said, arranging the bottles by type and height now that he’d unloaded all of them.
Death froze, the lid with which she had been about to cover the potatoes hanging in the air. “Really?” she said.
Dream sniffed. “Is that so surprising?”
“Yes,” Death said unapologetically.
Dream ignored this insult admirably, and he lowered the heat on the green beans as low as they could go, to keep them warm until everyone else arrived.
“My mum thinks Dream is a theatre wizard,” Hob said, smiling indulgently. “He was able to recall a play she saw just from the vague details, ‘I think it was 2009 or 2010, or maybe 2011’ and ‘there was a trunk that fell down some stairs and we thought it might have a body in it, but it didn’t.’” Even in profile, Dream could see the fondness Hob held for his parents from the quirk of his lips. “And he listened to my dad re-tell the entire story of The Stand,” Hob continued, “even though I’m pretty sure he’s never read any Stephen King.”
Dream glanced at the clock, and started pulling the salad ingredients out of the fridge. “I read On Writing,” Dream said. “And Ghost Brothers of Darkland County.”
“Yeah, those aren’t strange selections at all,” Hob teased. “Anyway – he was very polite. Absurdly patient. Oi, unclench,” he said, pointing to Dream, who’d opened his mouth to protest loudly. “I don’t mean that you’re not patient, I mean it’s absurd how patient you had to be today.”
Dream shrugged and continued chopping the spinach and parsley. “You like your parents, your parents contain glimpses of you, and I love you,” Dream said. “Why should I not enjoy your parents’ company?”
Dream didn’t find this all that romantic – he thought it was rather close to the transitive property than to any kind of passionate remark – but Hob was looking at him with a sort of startled tenderness.
“Aww, how sweet,” Death said, before miming retching again.
Hob’s eyes were still warm on Dream’s, even as he retorted, “It would be sweet, if I wasn’t so very aware of the many annoying ways I am becoming my parents.” Hob clapped his hands together. “Alright, that’s drinks cart done. What else can I help with?”
Dream shook his head. “There’s just the salad left to do. Go change.”
Hob brushed a perfunctory kiss over Dream’s cheek – even as Dream knew the increased physical affection was a strategy Hob had cultivated to keep Dream relatively calm in advance of all that was to come, it still helped – and he left the kitchen.
Mercifully, Death decided not to comment, although from the cheerful look on her face this was a near thing. They worked together in companionable silence for a long stretch, until the sound of the doorbell interrupted them.
Death looked at the clock. “Maybe Destiny was able to come after all – he’s the only one who’s ever this early.” She wiped her hands on a towel and left the kitchen to answer the door.
Dream had focused so much adding the parsley and spinach to the summer squash that had been marinating that he didn’t hear whoever was at the door – although presumably it was Destiny, and Death had led him directly into the living room where Hob and Death had set up the dining table, as it wouldn’t fit in the kitchen once all of the necessary leaves were added. Dream added feta to the salad and washed his hands before casting a critical eye over the spread of food.
Upon reflection, there was another reason Dream liked Hob’s parents.
Hob had been sent with his father to change the lightbulb in the hall – “just a little too tall for your dad, even with the stepladder, and he’s not as young as he used to be,” Mrs. Gadling had said – when his mother turned a sharp eye to Dream and said, “I’m glad he has you.”
Dream had choked. “I…I beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Gadling kept a weather eye on the door behind Dream, lest Hob sneak up behind him and overhear. “My son, Robert? I believe you’ve been dating him for some time now,” she had said, dry as papyrus.
“I’m familiar,” Dream had said slowly. “I just – how do you mean?”
“I don’t know you too well,” she had said, drawing herself up. “But I’ve seen the way you look at my son. Like he hung the moon. Like you can’t believe how lucky you are.”
“I love him, yes,” he had admitted.
“Oh, that’s obvious,” she had said. “But you also strike me as someone who likes to get in their own way on occasion. And speaking as someone who married such a man, I thought I would reveal something to you that you may not know.”
Dream had swallowed. “Go on.”
“Robert has always been good at making friends, at dating,” she had said. “He’s kind and affable and people like to be around him. He has all sorts of love in his life, and he’s not terribly good at protecting his heart, except in one aspect. And it is this aspect that tells me that he loves you rather a lot.”
“In what way is that?” he had asked.
“In his whole life, Robert has only brought two people home to meet us,” she had said. “One of them was Eleanor. The other was you.”
“Oh,” Dream had said, stunned.
“I imagine he didn’t tell you, because he hasn’t realized it himself,” she had said patiently. “We’ve certainly met partners he’s had while we were visiting him in Chicago. But you’re one of two that he’s made the trek over here with.” She had given him a critical look. “I just hope you’re better to him than Eleanor was,” she had warned.
“I have every intention of being so,” he had promised.
“Good,” she had said, and she had patted his hand fondly.
Dream shook himself from his reverie as Hob came back into the kitchen. He’d changed into his brown bomber jacket and dark jeans. “Didi said we could – erm. Are you alright?”
“Perfectly well,” Dream said. He tilted his head at Hob. “Are you?”
“Mostly,” Hob said. He ran his hand along the edge of the counter. “Bit nervous.”
“I think Didi and I have prepared you for Desire as well as we could,” Dream said in a rush. “And if they go too far, I’ll—”
“Dream,” Hob interrupted. “It isn’t that.” He watched his fingers jump from tile to tile. “I’m nervous your family won’t like me, is all.”
This had never occurred to Dream. He could not imagine someone not liking Hob. How would such a thing even be possible. Dream covered Hob’s hand with his. “I like you. Quite a lot, in fact.”
Hob turned his hand over in Dream’s and squeezed. “I know.”
“And you have, heretofore, garnered the approval from fifty percent of my siblings,” Dream reminded him.
“Fair enough,” Hob said with a rueful smile. “I…I just know how important your family is to you. ’s why I care.”
Dream opened his mouth to say that his family wasn’t all that important to him, until he reflected. And again. And once more.
Oh. Oh.
He took off his apron, folded it mess-side in, and set it on the counter. As he did this, he said, “I appreciate you putting yourself through this, for me. Truly.”
“It’s for me, too,” Hob said. “I want to meet them.”
Dream turned back toward Hob and leaned his hands on the counter, only to see Hob, staring at Dream’s chest, mouth slightly open. “Christ,” he said. “You were cooking in that?”
Dream shifted uncomfortably and looked down at himself, unable to find anything unusual. “Yes?” It was, to Dream’s eyes, a black V-neck shirt, nothing terribly remarkable about it. Hob’s reaction was strange.
Hob took a step toward him, effectively pinning Dream against the counter. “It’s transparent,” he said.
“I believe translucent would be more accurate,” Dream said, his throat drying as Hob’s dark eyes swept over his collarbones.
“And so tight it’s obscene,” Hob muttered hoarsely. He ran a finger along the length of the v-neck.
Dream shivered. “I could not have worn a more normal shirt,” Dream said, matching Hob’s tone. “This is a you problem.”
“Damn right,” Hob said, and kissed him.
Hob and Dream made it deep enough into the kiss that Dream began to forget, just a little, about the dinner party, until the sound of a throat-clearing from the kitchen door made him remember. Dream and Hob broke apart with a start to see Desire, leaning against the door jamb, smirking at them. They were wearing a cat suit with a plunging neck that put the deepness of Dream’s V-neck to shame.
“Our sister sent me to help with the food,” they said, laying a finger against their chin.
“Oh, right,” Hob mumbled with a wince. “I forgot to tell you something. Your family’s here.”
“Right,” Dream said a little roughly, before he swallowed. “Erm, Desire, may I present Robert Gadling. Hob, this is my sibling, Desire.”
“Pleasure,” Hob said, a little pink.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Desire purred, a wicked grin spreading across their face. Dream could see the whirring calculations as they looked between Hob and him. Then they said faux-innocently, “Shall I start with the tossed salad?”
“Yes,” Dream said curtly, ignoring their insinuations. He resisted the urge to chuck the salad bowl at their head and instead passed it to them quite placidly, along with the serving utensils. With a wink, they disappeared.
“Good first impression, do you think?” Hob asked.
Dream buried his head in Hob’s chest to muffle a dry chuckle. “Add it to the long list of things I’ll be teased about for years to come.”
“You’ll get through it – I’ll be here,” Hob reminded him lightly.
His chest suffused with warmth, Dream kissed him again.
“OI,” Death yelled from the next room. “STOP SNOGGING AND BRING OUT THE REST OF THE FOOD ALREADY!”
“Are you certain you want to meet them?” Dream asked. “We could escape out the back. Change our names. Move to Australia.”
“I shudder to think what fifteen minutes under the Australian sun would do to you.” Hob grabbed the potatoes with a potholder in each hand. “I’m sure. Come on.”
Dream grabbed the green beans and the bread, and followed him out of the kitchen.
They ran into Desire and Aponoia on their way to the living room. Dream did as good an introduction as he could while they were both carrying hot dishes, and Aponoia took their drink orders. In the living room, Death was lighting four votives along the length of the table. The silver lighter in her hand had an ankh etched into the side.
“For our relations who aren’t with us, either by death or are otherwise absent,” Dream explained quietly to Hob. “Our parents, our cousin, and Uncle Destiny.”
Hob nodded solemnly, and he waited for Death to finish lighting the candles before he set down the potatoes at one end of the table. He went back to the kitchen for another dish.
“How long until Del gets here?” Dream asked, realizing that they might need to take the food back to the kitchen to keep warm.
“She’s here. She went to spend a penny,” Death said. “Apparently, she’s responsible for Desire and Aponoia being here so promptly, too.”
“She showed up to my home in a taxi,” Desire said superciliously, as they came into the room and set the bread basket and butter on the table. “Said if I wasn’t ready in ten minutes, she’d burn my collection of Jimmy Choos.”
“Wouldn’t she need to break into your home, in order to do that?” Death asked.
“Del’s ways are strange and mysterious,” Desire said archly. “I didn’t want to risk it.”
“There was no need to threaten my personal possessions,” Aponoia said, “as I had been ready for an hour when she showed up.”
“Bully for you,” Desire said.
Hob came in with the pot roast and set it at the center of the table. This was lucky, as a second later a streak of yellow, green, and pink hair sideswiped him and slammed so hard into Dream that he staggered back. Del threw her arms around Dream’s middle and sobbed loudly into his shirt.
“My sister?” he said, alarmed. “Are you quite well?”
Whatever she said was incomprehensible between the sobbing and his shirt muffling the sound.
“Try again, Del,” Death said, moving around the table and placing a hand on Del’s shoulder.
She lifted her head up and glared at Dream. “You hung them up,” she said with reproach.
Dream hadn’t the foggiest what she was talking about, but he hadn’t seen Del this upset in some time. “I’m – sorry?”
“The paintings I gave you. You hung them up. In your hall.” Her eyes were still shining with furious unshed tears.
“Yes,” Dream said slowly. “You gave them to me – what, a year ago? Two? Were they…” He looked at Hob, who was staring at Del with concern. “Was I not supposed to?”
Del’s mouth fell open. “You like them?” she asked.
Dream hadn’t actually thought about whether or not he liked the paintings. He’d hung them in his hallway because Del had painted them, and it seemed like the right place for them to be. “Er, yes. I suppose I must do,” he said.
“You never said anything,” she accused, her expression stony.
Dream put his arms around her then, his limbs feeling overlarge and awkward. He hoped she was comfortable. “I’m sorry, Del. I should have said,” he told her. “I like them a great deal.”
“Really?” Del sniffled into his shirt.
“He does,” Hob said, and Del whipped her head around to look at him. “He stares at them sometimes, when he’s working. Sits in the hallway and absorbs them. I’ve been wondering if there’s a way to get them safely to Chicago, actually.”
Del whipped her head back around to ask Dream, “Is that true?”
Upon reflection, he had sat in the hallway and done that on more than one occasion. “Yes.”
She hugged him extraordinarily tightly. She was very strong, for being so little. “I can make you more. Ship them to Chicago,” she said. Then she added quietly, “If you want.”
“I would,” he said, a little strangled from her grip around his waist. “Thank you.”
He looked up over Del’s head. There was a gleam of pride in Death’s eyes as she folded her arms to look at them both.
“Could we eat now?” Desire bit out.
“Fuck’s sake, Desire,” Death said, chagrined.
“’s alright,” Del said, pulling away from Dream. She pressed her palms underneath her eyes to wipe her tears away, carelessly smudging her makeup. “’m good.”
“Come here,” said Aponoia, pulling a tissue from her pocket and moistening it with her tongue. Del squirmed a little under her ministrations as Aponoia cleaned up the worst of the eyeliner smears.
Once that task was done, they each picked up their plate and piled them high with hot food. Death sat at the head of the table and Del sat across from her. Hob and Dream sat on one side of the table, their backs to the shelves, and Aponoia and Desire sat on the other side, facing the shelves.
“I’m really glad we were able to do this,” Death said, as she picked up her fork. They all followed her lead.
“Next time,” Aponoia said, “we’ll have to visit Chicago, to return the favor.”
“That sounds incredibly tedious,” Desire said. “And besides – why should we have to make the journey to Chicago? Just because Dream is so desperate to avoid all of his exes, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”
That was a fairly weak jibe, as far as Dream was concerned. Not only was it untrue, but it didn’t make much sense. Which Death proved when she said, “What exactly do you think I’m doing in Chicago then? Am I also avoiding Dream’s exes?”
“I gave up trying to understand your whims a long time ago, sister,” Desire said. They were unfazed by their opening salvo not succeeding. “Do you think it’s risky, Dream? To have your current love in the same city as your past loves? If they met and compared notes, what sort of similarities do you think they would come up with?”
“Calliope and I did commiserate about Dream’s tendency to use ‘hmm’ to cover all manner of sins,” Hob said, neatly spearing a potato with his fork, serene and unbothered. “And we debated whether getting him a cat bed so he could lay on the floor in the sun would be practical. She says hello, by the way,” he directed the last part to Dream.
“Tell us about yourself, Robert,” Aponoia said, redirecting the conversation. “All Del would tell us is that seeing you made her want to go to an aquarium, which we were not sure how to interpret.”
They were able to continue in this vein for some time, as Hob told them briefly about his life and his work and how he and Dream had met. Then Death asked Aponoia about how work was going, and they were able to discuss the strain on the medical systems that still hadn’t recovered from COVID, and some of the other emerging trends they were starting to see as a result. There was a lull in conversation, and from the triumphant look on Desire’s face, Dream needed to brace himself.
“Del,” Desire said. “Wasn’t it nice of Dream to hang up your paintings in his hallway?”
Del looked at Desire, unimpressed. “I wouldn’t call it nice, because I feel like that word has some really negative connotations, like, being nice to someone isn’t the same as being kind to someone, and also I don’t feel like nice really describes the action, so maybe if there’s a word for that feeling when you are surprised and touched by someone’s actions who you didn’t used to expect things like that from, but now it’s been enough of a pattern that maybe now you shouldn’t feel so surprised by that, and, erm.” She glanced back at Dream. “I forgot where I was going with that, but I feel like about seventeen minutes ago I said I was happy he did it. So, does that answer your question?”
“Aponoia,” Desire drawled, their tone cloyingly sweet. “Did Dream ever display anything of yours?”
“Yes,” Aponoia said. She pointed without looking at the ink drawing of rat anatomy sitting on the shelf, amongst the books. “Gave him that five years ago. Thought it went with the whole goth interior design thing he has going on.”
“Isn’t that nice,” they said. And then their expression shifted into something jagged and raw. “The fuck,” they muttered, before their mouth snapped closed. They made an expression like they’d swallowed something unpleasant.
Aponoia said, “Are you alright?” and went to lay a hand against their arm.
Desire sprang out of their chair. “I’m gasping for a cigarette,” they said, and strode briskly out, yanking the door to the back garden open and slamming it violently behind them.
Death sighed and went to stand.
“Give them a minute,” Aponoia said quietly.
“No.” Del was looking at Dream. Her eyes were still red-rimmed from her earlier crying jag, but her mouth was a firm line. “Dream should go.”
Dream stiffened. “I’m quite certain they would want anyone but,” he said.
“You’re probably right,” Del admitted. “But you should still go.”
Dream looked around the table. Everyone was staring at him, waiting to see what he would do. He didn’t see any other option, and so even though it seemed like an ill-formed plan, he stood and made his way to the back garden.
It was unseasonably warm, so he didn’t bother with a coat. Desire hadn’t turned on the fairy lights strung overhead, so all he could see was the glowing ember of their cigarette. Desire was lounging in a deck chair, legs kicked out and neatly crossed in front of them.
“Have you come to check on me?” they said. “How sentimental.”
“It wouldn’t be a family dinner if one of us didn’t end up storming out,” he said, which came out more honest and less quippy than he intended.
“I didn’t storm out,” they said shortly. “I needed a cigarette.”
“Alright,” Dream agreed cordially. He sat in the chair next to Desire, more than an arm’s length away, but close enough that he could see the details of their expression clearly.
“These dinners are barely tolerable once a year,” they said, taking a drag. “Why you felt the need to organize a second one is beyond me.”
“They’re important to our older sister,” Dream responded.
“Can’t imagine why,” Desire said.
He shrugged. “I suppose she values family togetherness,” he said.
“Not highly enough to live here, though,” Desire sniped.
“She had a good opportunity, in Chicago,” he reminded them.
“Don’t be dense, Dream,” Desire said. “Death could be anywhere, work anywhere. She moved there, before you did, for a good opportunity, but don’t pretend that’s the reason she stayed there.”
“She likes the city,” he said evenly. “And she likes her work there.”
“And I’m sure her favorite sibling spending the majority of his time there has nothing to do with it.” Desire rolled their eyes.
He cocked his head. “Does it truly bother you, my sibling? That we live so far apart?”
“No,” Desire said. They took another drag. “Just think it’s a bit rich. That the siblings who moved to another country want to talk about family togetherness.”
The implication that Desire might care that Death and Dream lived far apart from the rest of them was unexpected. Desire, since childhood, had always treated familial engagements with utter disdain. “Desire–”
Desire interrupted him. “You still have my closing night gift from Hedwig.”
When Hedwig closed, Desire had given him a box onto which they’d wood-burned the “Origin of Love” Janus face, made whole. Inside the box, they had collected all of the guitar picks they’d used over the run of the show. It was still sitting on the shelves in the living room.
“Yes,” he said.
Desire stared at him for a long moment, calculating. Then they uncrossed and re-crossed their legs. “I’m surprised you kept anything of mine,” they said idly. “After Killala.”
“It seemed childish to destroy it,” Dream said. “And I didn’t have anything to replace it with.”
He winced, because that was just the sort of honesty that the kindness he was attempting to cultivate was supposed to curtail, but Desire let out a bark of laughter. “Far be it for despising me to disrupt the precious aesthetics of your shelves.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t–”
They sat up quickly, aggressively leaning toward Dream. “Don’t fucking apologize,” they said savagely. “You and I have never apologized to each other, and I don’t see why we should start now.”
Desire’s face was contorted into rage. Dream tried to stay calm. “My sibling–”
“Stop,” they snarled. “I don’t need you to be nice to be. I need you to shed your pretentious, holier-than-thou exoskeleton and be honest with me. And yourself.”
Loath as he was to admit it, he was not following the thread of Desire’s words. His fingers itched for a cigarette. “About what?” Dream asked, some of his exasperation showing through.
Desire took a drag. “That you don’t like me. And it’s okay. I don’t like you either. We don’t have to fucking like each other. We just have to see each other once a year, at most, and not murder each other in the process. Whatever armor of courtesy and mea culpas you’re wrapping yourself in, you don’t need to do it on my account. I get it for Del, she’s just a kid, but not for me.”
It rankled, to be so misunderstood. “Desire, that isn’t what–”
“Not for me,” they said, pointing the cigarette so close to Dream’s face that he jerked back. “Do you understand?” They took another drag and leaned back in the chair. “The thing I fucking hate about you, other than your pride and your inability to ask for help and also your inability to admit when you’re wrong, is when you’re lying to yourself about what you want. Do you want to be friends with me, Dream? Or do you only want to do and say whatever you need to, to get through this dinner unscathed?”
“Did it ever occur to you,” Dream said through gritted teeth. “That I might not be doing any of this shit for you?”
Desire snorted delicately. “Sure, Dream. Let me guess – you’re doing it all for your beloved Hob Gadling.”
Dream didn’t respond immediately. He stood and wandered two steps into the garden. He crossed his arms and kept his back to Desire. “Perhaps at first,” he admitted. Something about speaking it to the darkness made it easier to say. “It certainly started that way. But now it’s indistinguishable from who I am.” He turned until he could see Desire in his peripheral vision. “I kept the box,” he said, “because I enjoyed the work we did together. I thought the end product was rather good. And it helps me remember how I liked you a lot more before you slept with Killala.”
Desire sneered. “I suppose you’d like me to apologize? ‘Oh Dream,’” they simpered. “‘Can you ever forgive me, I was so wrong, how can I ever make it up to you?’”
“There is no means by which you could word your apology in a fashion I would accept,” Dream said. “Because I know you aren’t sorry.”
“You’re right,” they said flatly. “I’m not.” They rearranged themselves in the chair so their legs draped artfully over the arm. “And what do you care for Killala, anyway? By my count, you’ve had two relationships since then that I imagine you consider fulfilling, and only one of them has ended apocalyptically thus far.” They took a drag and exhaled smoke through their nose, before giving a dismissive flick of their fingers. “Don’t tell me you still harbor feelings for her.”
“It’s not about Killala, Desire,” he said. “It never has been.”
“I know, Dream.” They rolled their eyes. “I hurt your precious pride.”
Dream’s chest was heavy. It felt like conceding, like failing, to admit anything to Desire. And yet, if his prior statement held true, he wasn’t doing this for them. “It wasn’t my pride you hurt, Desire. Or, perhaps,” he amended, “not only my pride.” He turned fully to face them. “I don’t like you because you don’t care that you hurt me, profoundly.” Something flickered in Desire’s golden eyes. Dream continued. “I understand you did not mean to, but you did. And your refusal to acknowledge that injury to me damaged our relationship more thoroughly than your dalliances with Killala.”
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he saw Desire be uncertain. They lit another cigarette. “Then why bother?” they asked. “Why not cut me out and be done with it.”
He put his hands in his pockets. “Because I can’t imagine that I, at one time or another, haven’t unconsciously done the same to you.” He looked past Desire at the warm glowing light emanating from the living room. “We are family. At some point, we decided that our shared history was important enough to occasionally, temporarily, disregard the harm we’ve done one another.”
Desire looked at him for a long moment. Then they held out their cigarette to him. Dream pinched it from their fingers and took a long, satisfying drag. He’d pay for this later, when the cravings returned tenfold, but for now, bliss. He took another pull from the cigarette before taking a seat. He handed it back to Desire, who took a drag.
“I still don’t like you,” they said, and passed the cigarette back to Dream.
“I don’t think that’s a prerequisite for familial bonds,” Dream said dryly.
Desire did not contradict him, which was as close as they came to acknowledging this point.
The two siblings proceeded in silence for a long time, passing the cigarette back and forth in the dark, smoking it down to the filter. Desire stubbed it out in the ashtray Dream still kept on the table, even though he’d quit smoking ages ago.
“We should go back in,” Desire said. “Before Death comes out here and makes us hug it out.”
“The horror,” he said mildly, and they smirked.
Desire stood and stretched out their limbs. “Hob seems lovelier than you deserve,” they said.
“He is,” Dream said honestly.
“Oh gross. Get that look off your face,” they said. “I’m trying to insult you.”
“Consider me insulted.” He threw two fingers up as he went back inside and didn’t turn back to see Desire’s reaction.
Their siblings and Hob fell silent when they re-entered and sat down.
Death’s eyes darted between them. “Everything alright?” she asked.
“’s wonderful,” Desire slurred, leaning back in their chair. “Dream finally agreed to direct me in a production of Evita.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Dream said lightly. Death looked ready to intervene, but Dream continued without heat. “As if I would subject myself to Andrew Lloyd Webber for any amount of time.”
“Evita is the only Lord Andy offering worth anything,” Desire pointed out.
Hob threw Dream an affectionate look before holding up a finger. “Counterpoint: Jesus Christ Superstar,” he said.
Desire wrinkled their nose. “Poor Dream,” they said, shaking their head derisively. “To be dating someone with such poor taste!”
“Could be worse,” Aponoia said. “Could be Cats.” Her expression toward Dream had softened to lukewarm, now she knew Desire was okay.
“‘Skimbleshanks’ fucking slaps, I don’t care what anyone says,” Del said incomprehensibly.
“I’m not sure if the person who spent the summer of 2010 listening to Sunset Boulevard on repeat is the best judge of what ‘slaps’ or not,” Desire said, although it lacked bite.
“I know what I’m about,” Del said, not apologizing in the least.
Hob was looking between Desire, Del, and Aponoia with a growing sense of astonishment. “Dream,” he said. “Were you ever going to tell me that your entire family is obsessed with Andrew Lloyd Webber? Or was I just supposed to find that out at a family dinner by myself?”
“I object to the word ‘obsessed,’” Aponoia said.
“And I object to the word ‘entire,’” Death said.
“Our dear mother, may she rest in peace, gave us that gift,” Desire explained to Hob. “Frankly, I could have done without knowing anything about Starlight Express, but I was not consulted.”
“Did you know it’s still running in Germany?” Aponoia said.
“Wait – really?” Hob asked.
“I wouldn’t lie about that,” Aponoia said, honestly. She looked startled and a little pleased when Hob laughed in response.
“In the whole canon of musical theatre,” Dream broke in. “There are better works we could be discussing.”
“Snob,” Desire scoffed. “Aren’t you known as No-Musicals Morpheus for a reason?”
Dream shrugged. “I’ve encountered very few that have much to offer the form, but that doesn’t mean there are none.”
“Such as?” Aponoia asked, taking a bite of bread.
“Excluding Sondheim,” Hob said quickly.
“Ooh, you play dirty,” Desire said. “I like it.” They tilted their chin up at Dream. “Go on then – give us the list.”
Dream glowered at Hob, who smiled cheekily in response.
“You can’t leave your assertion dangling without evidence,” Aponoia said.
“Half of me wants to know,” Del said dreamily. “And half of me is thinking how Sunset Boulevard would be better if Norma didn’t sing that final reprise.”
“I refuse to answer,” Dream said, “as I fear whatever I choose will be held against me.”
“A cop out, if ever I heard one,” Desire said.
Dream looked at Desire; he felt, for the first time in years, a frisson of energy between them. Unbidden, a fully realized image of them in a white waistcoat and fitted black trousers sprang into his mind. He saw them lit in blues and pinks and violets, reflecting off the sharp angles of their face, their anxiety covered by stubborn fearlessness smoothed over by bravado, their smile like a twist of a knife.
Desire was looking back at him, startled. “I know that face,” they said.
“Hmm,” he said, unable to suppress the corner of his mouth turning up, a shadow of a smile. He imagined a found space turned into a cabaret, fully immersive, with audience members at round tables, servers and cast members costumed alike, modern dress but stylized, scenes performed all around them, onstage and at nearby tables and near the backstage area. Erasing the line between the house and the stage, not allowing the audience to separate themselves from the action, from the volatile political situation brewing and escalating all around them. He thought of the show ending with a raid, law enforcement smashing up the set and arresting actors, leaving only Desire to bid the audience adieu.
“Dream,” they cajoled. “Come on.”
It wouldn’t do to tell them before he was ready. But maybe…once it had had longer to cook inside his brain…
“That’s it,” they said, playing at accusatory. “Reconciliation suspended until you tell me what just popped into your head.”
“All in good time, my sibling,” he said. He could already hear their voice purring, ‘Fremde. Étranger. Stranger.’
Desire kept smiling. “I’m not going to leave this alone,” they said.
“I would expect nothing less,” he said.
Death’s eyes were shining as she looked between them. She gave a wet laugh. “You are all,” she said, “utterly asinine.”
Desire smirked. “Asinine, dear sister?” they said. “Need I remind you who begged whose parents to take her to the West End to see Phantom?”
Death was glaring at Desire murderously. “I was six,” Death said.
“That doesn’t make it better,” Desire answered sweetly.
Death let out a pained noise and buried her head in her hands. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”
“We agreed to no such thing, my sister,” Aponoia said.
“We did agree not to bring up the cape,” Desire said, biting their lip mischievously. “Oh. Oops.”
“Do I even want to know?” Hob asked Dream, sotto voce.
Dream shook his head and mimed zipping his lips shut.
“Level with me, sister,” Desire said. “You saw Love Never Dies, right?”
“I don’t even know what that is, but I suppose I should be insulted,” Death said, her head still in her hands. She turned her head to peer up at Hob. “I haven’t listened to Phantom in years, and yet–”
“It will never, never leave you,” Desire intoned.
“It’s there,” Del said, waggling her fingers around. “Inside your mind.”
Desire continued ribbing Death about harboring a secret love of The Phantom of the Opera. Hob slung an arm over the back of Dream’s chair, and Dream felt Hob’s warm breath on his neck.
“Seems to be going well,” Hob said quietly into his ear. “Think we defeated the curse of family dinners?”
“I think it all depends whether Del and Desire begin reenacting the whole of Phantom from memory,” Dream murmured back. Hob chuckled, and kissed Dream’s temple.
Theatre was ephemeral. Productions opened and closed, and once closed they evaporated, like the mists of early dawn. If any of the magic of the artistry remained, it was merely in the memories of those who saw it: the audience member who sat in the dark and allowed themselves to believe that a person could change, that strangers could meet and fall in love, that there was something to be learned from tragedy. But most importantly, they allowed themselves to believe that stories were vital, as necessary to living as breathing. That even stories that were hard to tell or difficult to hear should be told.
Like theatre, this evening in Dream’s home was ephemeral. It would not, could not, should not last forever. The food would be consumed, the candles would burn down, time would draw late, and the evening would end. It was temporary, which made it all the more precious. And so – Dream leaned in to Hob’s chest, let out a satisfied sigh, and let the warm sensation of loving and being loved wash over him. Because that, he thought, was a story worth telling.
“The life of a play begins and ends in the moment of performance. This is where author, actors and directors express all they have to say. If the event has a future, this can only lie in the memories of those who were present and who retained a trace in their hearts. This is the only place for our Dream. No form nor interpretation is for ever. A form has to become fixed for a short time, then it has to go. As the world changes, there will and must be new and totally unpredictable Dreams.”
―Peter Brook, The Quality of Mercy: Reflections on Shakespeare, regarding his production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream