Chapter Text
It's only a few days later, and well past the time Hob should be sleeping, when Dream appears again. Lucifer's threat hangs heavy over The Dreaming, and Dream is not weak, but the exhaustion he feels is bone deep. His capture, the vortex, Calliope, and now a war he knows he'll have no choice but to fight.
His thoughts are a jumble. He can't sit still, can't focus. He is so tired.
"I hope you know I'm here for you, too. If you ever need a soft place."
It's Hob's voice that repeats itself over and over again in Dream's head. He wants, so strongly that he finds himself at the foot of Hob's bed before he can think better of it.
Hob startles at the first hint of noise. He grabs for something under his pillow, and sits up fast when he realizes the space there is empty. Dream can see the fear that mars his face even in the dark, the split second Hob spends forgetting that he is no longer a peasant or a wandering beggar, that there is no danger in sleep when he will wake every morning to the comfort of his own bed.
Dream waits. He watches the way Hob's bare chest heaves with too quick breaths, the way his expression shifts. The fear for himself changes so quickly to concern when he realizes Dream is the one standing there.
"You're early."
What a thing to say, when Dream has woken him from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. Dream has not thought of what explanation he might give for his presence, but the truth feels somehow easier than any lie.
"I need," Dream admits. "A soft place."
Hob is pulling the blankets back before Dream has even finished speaking, motioning for him to come closer.
"Of course," Hob replies, like this is a request he's long been waiting for. His voice is rough, his hair an untamed mess. There is an indent on one side of his face where his pillow has pressed too long against skin. He is so painfully human, and something in Dream's chest feels cracked open at the sight of him. "You're okay?"
"Yes."
It's a lie. Dream sits on the edge of the bed, feels the warmth of the sheets under his hands where Hob had been laying only moments ago. He thinks, foolishly, that he'd like to be wrapped up in that warmth. That he might hide there until he feels less on the verge of something catastrophic.
There is silence for a long moment, nothing but the sound of Hob's steps as he moves about the room. There is no sign of Olive, and Dream wants to ask, but can't string the words together quickly enough.
"Dream?" Hob is standing in front of him now, worry creasing his brow. He reaches out, but his hand only hovers over Dream's arm.
"No. I—I am not."
I am not okay, is what he can't bring himself to say. There is only so much one can take.
"Hey, it's fine. Let's get you comfortable."
Hob is so careful with him, every touch projected ahead of time like he wants to give Dream the option to refuse. He pushes at Dream's coat, and Dream doesn't fight it, lets Hob maneuver him like a doll until he's free of the offending fabric. Hob folds it afterward, slow as if he's holding something fragile, and sets it on the dresser.
"Shoes off next," Hob says, and Dream hardly has the chance to move before Hob is kneeling down to work on his boots. His long hair falls into his face, half hiding the furrow of concentration as he tugs at each lace. Dream reaches out, tucks a loose strand behind Hob's ear, and Hob smiles groggily up at him.
It would take only a thought for Dream to make the boots disappear, but he revels in Hob's touch instead. He feels grounded by it, his mind quieting from a chorus of riotous voices to a background hum.
There's a long pause once Dream's shoes are set aside. Hob looks up at him again, one of his hands still lightly gripping Dream's ankle. "Do you know what you want?"
Dream thinks of their time together only a few days before, the daydreams Hob had unknowingly shared. Dream had tried to ignore them, but he'd only found himself coveting them instead, tucking each one away like a treasure to be admired later.
"You imagined your arms around me."
Hob's expression is an easy one to decipher. His eyes are squinted in dawning realization, his brow pinched, and he looks like he's reevaluating every interaction they've had in the last several months for all the times he may have let his mind wander. "Didn't know you could see all that."
"You dream of caring for me."
"I do," Hob says, and there is no embarrassment. Even in the dark, Dream can see that Hob's face is no more flushed now than it was from sleep. "If you'd let me."
A century ago, Dream knows he would have bristled at the idea. Now it's the very thought that drew him to Hob's bedroom in the first place, an ache so strong that he feels it like a throbbing pain.
"Please," Dream says, and maybe he is weak, an endless being reduced to begging for scraps of human attention.
Hob looks surprised at Dream's answer for only the span of a few seconds before he stands up again. He moves to the front of the bed, readjusting pillows against the headboard until there's a soft place for Dream to lean back against.
"Come on up here," he says, and Dream allows himself to be ordered.
He sinks against the wall of pillows, letting his feet dip in under the warmth of Hob's covers. He expects Hob to follow him, to take up his own space again on the other side of the bed. Instead, Hob turns away and starts rummaging through a laundry basket.
Dream frowns. "What are you doing?"
"I'm looking for a shirt."
"No."
"No?"
Dream doesn't repeat himself, and Hob looks too bleary-eyed to argue. The bed dips when Hob sits down again, and Dream waits. He feels as wound as a coiled spring, watching Hob carefully pull the blankets up over them both like he has all the time in the world.
"I'm flying a bit blind here," Hob admits, voice gone quiet now that they're only a centimeter's width apart. He turns, and Dream feels compelled to follow suit, both of them readjusting until they're facing each other. Dream can feel the heat of Hob's bare skin as they lay side by side, the puff of breath against his cheek. "Tell me if I make you uncomfortable."
Dream wants to argue, to say that Hob would not get so far even if he tried, but he only gets as far as opening his mouth to speak before Hob reaches for him.
It's instinct that causes Dream to go stiff in Hob's startlingly warm arms, overwhelmed by the feeling of being held for the first time in a countless number of centuries. Hob's hands soothe him, draw nonsense patterns along his spine over the fabric of his plain black t-shirt, and the tension slowly drains.
"There's a love. I've got you."
Dream can feel the words as much as he can hear them, the rumble of Hob's chest against his own with how close they're pressed together. There's a pit in his stomach, a lump in his throat, emotion seeping out at the first sign of his careful guard coming down. Dream wants to say that he has many names, but he finds himself enjoying the new ones Hob has granted him. Best friend only days before, and now love. Each one is said with such obvious affection that Dream hungers for more, so deeply that he fears admitting it out loud might only scare Hob away.
They lay in silence after that, for longer than Dream will care to admit later. Hob holds him until cold glass shatters in his mind's eye, until Desire's smirk softens around the edges, and Richard Madoc's name fades back into much-earned obscurity.
Eventually, when Dream feels like every carefully imagined bone in his body has turned to liquid, Hob pulls back. He does not go far, only leaves enough space between them to make out Dream's face in the dark. "Better?"
"Yes," is all Dream can manage to say, loathe to make the effort for more.
Hob smiles. It's a syrupy thing, eyes half-lidded like he'd drift off again if Dream weren't there to keep him awake. "My arm's falling asleep."
"I should leave and allow you your rest."
"Only if I get to visit with you on the other side," Hob says, and Dream wants to say yes, even knowing the impossibility of it.
"Now would not be safe."
Dream expects Hob to press, to ask the endless number of questions his curiosity always leaves him prone to. Instead, he manages as much of a shrug as is possible with his arms still wrapped tightly around Dream's middle. "Well, in that case, I guess I'll sleep when I'm dead."
Dream should argue. He should leave, and warn Hob before he does that he may miss their future meetings. He should not allow Hob to lean back against the sheets and pull Dream with him, shouldn't find himself enamored with the downy softness of Hob's pillows or the way his own body so easily tucks in against Hob's side.
It's a distraction, the feeling of Hob's bare chest under his fingertips. Dream had not meant for his hand to fall there, but now that it has, he finds it hard to pull away. Hob's skin is imperfect, a litany of textures that Dream has never thought to mimic on his own Waking form. Dream searches without thinking, fingers dragging through the smattering of hair until he finds the smooth patch of raised skin between two ribs.
A hot coal, Hob had said. Dream traces the outline of the long-healed burn, taken with the feeling of it just as he had been the first time. Only now Hob is sober and not so prone to distraction. He's staring, watching Dream's face with rapt attention. Dream looks up, and the warmth he finds in Hob's brown eyes tugs at a part of him he's carefully locked away.
"Bit of a rat's nest, isn't it?" Hob asks, his hand swiping through the mess of hair falling over Dream's forehead. It reminds Dream of a time long ago, laying with his head in Calliope's lap as her fingers combed through hair much longer than it is now.
"I would not be so quick to throw stones."
Hob laughs and Dream can feel the vibration of it under his fingertips, the steady thump of Hob's heartbeat afterward. "Hey, I keep this mop for a reason. Makes it easier when I come back as my long-lost cousin thirty years from now, sporting a clean shave and a buzz cut."
Dream allows himself to picture it, and his lip immediately curls in distaste. Hob looks like it's taking every bit of his self-control not to laugh a second time.
"Didn't realize you had such strong opinions about my grooming habits."
"I do not," Dream says, though he's quickly finding out that he does.
"King of Fibs and Lies, is what you are."
The narrowing of Dream's eyes feels like answer enough, too distracted by the way Hob's hand hovers awkwardly near his face again to form a proper response. Dream can all but see the internal war Hob is waging, afraid to touch despite Dream very much wanting him to.
"You may," Dream says. "If that is what you wish."
Dream can feel it, the tension in Hob's shoulders melting away as his fingers almost immediately find their place in Dream's hair again. Dream has to fight not to close his eyes, and a soft hum escapes his mouth before he can stop it.
"Like that a lot, don't you?" Hob asks, the tone of his voice some mix of smugness and awe. He continues to pet through the strands of Dreams' hair, blunt nails dragging lightly along his scalp.
It feels like something dangerous, even more so when Hob's hand finds a snag and the pull sends a jolt of something like pleasure up the base of Dream's spine. His own fingers dig in against Hob's chest in retaliation, scrape through the hair there, and Hob's only answer is a sharp intake of breath.
There is an urge Dream has then, to continue pushing, to bury his face in the crook of Hob's neck. He thinks he would like to feel the stubble there, the coarseness of it against his own skin. He wants to press his mouth to Hob's jaw, and knows with sudden clarity that Hob would allow him to, would not push him away.
When he thinks back on it later, Dream will remember that it was not a sudden realization. His feelings for Hob Gadling, after all the time he has spent trying to fight them, have simply grown into something too obvious to ignore. It is not the kind of love he has experienced before, quick and devastating heat akin to the roaring of a house fire. This is a slow build, like water in one of Hob's tea kettles, brought to a boil over time until the contents threaten to spill over.
Dream should be alarmed, he thinks. He should be hit with the immediate urge to leave. Instead, he burrows closer against the warmth of Hob's body, waits until Hob's heartbeat returns to the steady rhythm it had been before.
Hob's fingers eventually stop carding through Dream's hair. His breath eventually slows as he drifts off to sleep, but still, Dream does not leave.
It's not until the first rays of sunlight peak through the bedroom window, until the risk of Hob waking again is too great, that Dream finally returns home. He is met with a warm breeze. The flowers, wilting before he'd left, bloom again in a mix of brilliant colors. The path forward is still unclear, but Dream knows there's an important conversation to be had in one month's time and he endeavors not to be late.