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Physical therapy au part 7. (abuse cw)
--
Dream wakes to find his face still smushed against Hob’s chest, and freezes, expecting an instinctive rush of panic at being suddenly so close to another person.
But it doesn’t come. He still only feels… relaxed. Hob is warm against him, still asleep, his arm wrapped loosely around Dream’s shoulders. And it’s… good? It’s nice. To wake up and feel calm. To not feel as though he needs to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible.
Hob stirs beside him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Surprise flashes across his face as he turns to look at Dream, but it quickly softens. “Hey, you.”
“Hello.”
Hob pets Dream’s hair, pushing it behind his ear, even though his own, longer hair is far more disheveled. “Sleep alright?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even dream. It was welcome, he needed the peace.
Hob kisses him lightly on the lips. “Good. You want coffee? Tea? Breakfast?”
Dream considers him blearily, then shakes his head in amusement. “Do you usually bound up out of bed with such immediate enthusiasm and zest for life?”
Hob bites his lower lip in thought. “Um. Sometimes?”
“Then you will have to forgive the fact that it takes me significantly longer to become alive again in the morning.”
Though Dream also has not had much reason to want to get out of bed, not until lately.
Hob laughs. “Alright. You sort yourself out. I’ll get something started.”
He gives Dream another light kiss, and ruffles his hair, then rolls out of bed and heads off with a truly unreasonable amount of vim. Dream just smiles to himself as he lays back in bed.
It will be good to have a few minutes to think. Or perhaps he’ll just go back to sleep for a while. He doesn’t think Hob will be upset. And what a relieving feeling that is.
Once Hob’s put coffee on and gotten out ingredients for breakfast, he finds himself turning to Dream’s painting, propped on top of the bookshelf. It’s so beautiful. So charming. Of course Hob wants to hang it on his wall. It might embarrass Dream a little bit, but he will know how much Hob appreciates this painting.
He’s not great at waiting, and he has time to kill while Dream's getting ready—hopefully a lot of time, the poor thing looks like he needs more beauty sleep—so he grabs his toolkit and goes about finding a spot on the wall to hang the painting. He's found a decently-placed stud behind the drywall and is about to start hammering a few nails in--he's not using some flimsy method and risking the painting falling--when the bedroom door opens. Not long after, he hears Dream come out into the hall.
"Hob?" he calls. "Do you have any--"
He freezes in the entryway.
Hob turns to face him properly. "Hm? Any what?"
But Dream is standing stock still, every muscle in his body frozen, staring at him.
Hob looks between him and the painting, which is now leaning against the wall at his feet. Is he that bothered by Hob hanging the painting? He doesn't actually have to put it up, he just thought--
But. No. Dream is staring at him.
"Something the matter?" Hob asks, walking over to him. Maybe he's regretting staying over, maybe he wasn't ready--
Dream goes, impossibly, more tense, freezing like he might be able to go invisible if he just doesn't move. Like a prey animal.
Hob's properly starting to panic now, and still doesn't know what he's done, but he raises his hands in surrender.
Dream finally unlocks, but not to explain or come towards him. No, his gaze darts from Hob's face to his hands and then he bolts, scrambles backwards and disappears into Hob's bedroom, door slamming shut behind him.
Heart pattering, still having no idea he's done, Hob lets his hands fall--
--and realizes he's still holding that hammer.
He drops it with a start. That-- that must have done it, mustn't it? It’s the only thing he can think of.
But... why?
He goes over to the bedroom door and knocks softly. "...Dream?"
No response.
He knocks again, louder. "Dream?"
No reply, but he can hear Dream’s shaky breathing, like he’s sitting with his back against the door.
Hob sits down on the floor, leaning his head against the door. His heart squeezes with guilt for upsetting Dream, even if logically he knows that he didn't do anything wrong, just caught him at a bad angle that he didn't know was there.
At least he stayed by the door. He could have run into the bathroom or gone as far away from Hob as possible but he didn’t. That’s something.
“Dream,” he calls, knocks lightly on the door to show he’s still there. “Just breathe, sweetheart, it’s alright, yeah?”
This isn’t his area, he’s a physical therapist, not a mental health one. But he’s trying his best.
“Not going to hurt you,” he goes on. He knows Dream knows that, but he clearly doesn’t remember it now. “I promise. You’re safe. It’s alright.”
He still doesn’t get a response, so he stays where he is. Speaks softly to him through the door. Maybe it’ll help. He wishes he just knew the right thing to say, but it’s not that easy. Maybe one day he will just know.
For now, he just keeps talking.
--
Dream runs. He runs and runs, tripping over himself. He-- he can't feel his hand-- no, that isn't right, he can feel it, but it's tingly and wrong and his fingers are all twisted and won't listen to him and each movement is a scream of pain pain pain all the way up his arm, and--
Why would he do that? Why would he--?
He's out on the street. When did he get here? He doesn't remember leaving, only the rush of adrenaline and panic that had propelled him-- his heart is still pounding-- the certainty that no matter how much his lover had argued and justified look I'm sorry, that was too far, but you get it don't you? you get why I had to? that Dream was about to get his head bashed in next-- he had dropped the hammer but Dream could no longer see his hands without it--
Dream, don't be stupid-- no, you can't leave-- hands on him-- no, he's free now, he's walking, he has his phone in his pocket but he can't reach it because his only usable hand is clutching his art portfolio, he doesn't want to look at the mangled wreck of the other one.
He has his art. Most of it. Some of it. Whatever had been stored in easy reach. He had recent pieces still drying he'd had to leave behind. He'd only had a moment to grab things and run, the briefest of moments when his once-lover had hesitated with regret over what he'd done.
He doesn't know where he's meant to go now.
"Dream, honey..."
Death's voice. Had he gone to her flat? He doesn't remember. But no, this is the hospital waiting room--he doesn't remember how he got here. Perhaps his sister brought him. His hand is agony, but it's not even bleeding. Shouldn't it be bleeding?
Wait. Where is his art portfolio?
He spins around in his chair, but he doesn't see it-- he can't-- this is the only thing he has-- "Death, where--?"
"Shh, relax, we left your things at my flat, remember?"
He doesn't. He doesn't remember. He doesn’t remember getting here. He only remembers the pain. The fear. The threat, the—
“Dream, love, can you hear me?”
Death’s voice again? But no, she’s gone, and he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the door, and that’s Hob talking on the other side.
Hob.
He looks at his hand, flexes his fingers, curls it into a fist. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s been months. His hand is healed now. Partly thanks to Hob.
“Dream?” Hob calls again.
Finally, Dream finds his voice. "Please don't come in."
He needs— he needs to compose himself, he doesn’t want to be seen like this—
“Not coming in,” Hob promises.
Dream pauses. Is that what he wants? Or is it what he used to want?
He swipes the tears away, moves away from the door, and reaches up to open it.
Hob is sitting on the floor, also right by the door. He looks at Dream with wide eyes, then moves forward tentatively. When Dream doesn’t move away, Hob pulls him into a hug.
Dream sobs, pressing his face into Hob’s shoulder. The tears he’d tried to quell come flooding back.
“Shhh,” Hob soothes, stroking his hair. “It’s okay, love. I have you.”
“I am being ridiculous,” Dream whispers.
“Nah. You’re alright. Don’t worry about it.” He kisses the side of Dream’s head. “Promise you. It’s okay.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Dream says, still quiet. He’s not certain if he’s convincing himself, or if he’s trying to convince Hob that he isn’t afraid of him.
“I won’t,” Hob agrees.
“I know that,” Dream says.
“I know. I know. You're okay.” He squeezes Dream tight, rocks him lightly. “Do you want to get up? I don't know about you, but my ass is suffering sitting on the floor. And you haven’t even gotten to have breakfast or anything.”
Dream manages a small laugh. “No. And I'm sure whatever you made is delicious."
"Didn't finish it yet. Can still be fresh. Come on."
He helps Dream up, and Dream clings to his side, feeling wobbly. He stays stuck against Hob as he cooks, feeling excessively clingy, but unable to help himself. He watches Hob's hands, now blessedly hammer-free. He wonders if Hob would have taken the hammer to his ex-boyfriend's head had he been there in that moment. He doesn't know if that's a healthy fantasy to indulge in. But it tastes delicious.
He's still thinking about it when Hob sits him down and makes him eat some eggs and toast. It's only once he's finished that Hob asks, "What happened?"
Dream still has not told Hob the entire story of what happened, so of course Hob does not know what he inadvertently set off. It feels shameful to say. He should not be afraid of Hob. Isn't. Nor should he let himself be caught by old memories.
Nevertheless, he clears his throat, and relays in halting detail the story of that day. It still frightens him to think about. His home then had never exactly been a comforting or peaceful space but he had never been hurt. And then a switch had flipped and everything changed.
When he's finished, Hob looks ill. Runs his hand stressfully through his hair, looking over at where the painting is propped against the wall. "I figured it must have been the hammer but I didn't know why," he says--mostly to himself, Dream thinks.
Then he takes Dream's hands on the table. "That's one of the worst things I've ever heard, I'm so sorry."
Dream looks down at their joined hands. "It's in the past." It's not, though. Not really.
"Even so." He kisses Dream's hands, clasps them tight. Then pulls him to his feet. "Come on. We'll watch some TV or something, decompress. Unless you wanted to talk about it more right now?"
Dream is too tired for any more talking at the moment. Telling that wretched tale has taken everything out of him. "Not particularly."
So Hob just leads him over to the couch. On the way, he stops and sets the painting back on top of the shelf. Dream wouldn't be surprised if Hob waited until he was gone before trying to hang it up again. The thought puts a lump in his throat.
He lies down on the couch and lays his head in Hob's lap, and doesn't pay any attention to the movie Hob puts on as background noise. He's exhausted, and thinks he might go back to sleep--but after several minutes of Hob petting his hair, he finds himself tearing up again instead.
He hasn't cried much, since. It always felt like that would mean accepting the full reality of the situation. Now, he can't help it, but it feels... not good, quite, but perhaps... relieving. Perhaps he's allowed to be upset about it. For so long he had felt like it was all his fault, like he should have known something something terrible would happen, should have picked up on it. But perhaps he's allowed to feel hurt regardless of whether he could have done something better.
Hob doesn't say anything, just lets him cry, stroking his hair. This isn't particularly how Dream wanted this date to go. He was hoping it would be nice and normal. But he'd rather be sad with Hob than be alone.
As long as Hob just lets him stay here, then perhaps it will be alright.
--
Hob doesn't pay much attention to the film, he's too focused on Dream. He keeps methodically stroking his hair, thinking. He feels sick over everything Dream's told him. He's wishing he hit Dream's ex with a bat instead of just punching him. It probably wouldn't have been the smartest move, but it's tempting anyway.
When the movie's almost finished, and Dream seems to have calmed down, he finally manages to ask the question that's been stuck in his head since Dream told the story of fleeing his home.
“Dream?” he says. “How much of your things were you actually able to take with you when you left your old flat?”
Dream turns to look up at him. He's still lying across Hob's lap. “Not very much. The clothes I was wearing. My phone and wallet—fortunately, for replacing all of that would have been nightmarish. And I grabbed my art portfolio as well.”
“Nothing else?”
Dream shakes his head. “I still have my keys, assuming he has not changed the locks, but I have not been back. Most of it is replaceable, anyway.”
Most of it, Hob thinks. Except things like gifts, and sentimental items, and documents. And his art.
“Is some of your art still there?”
Hesitantly, Dream nods. “Works in progress. Larger pieces that I could not carry. And sketchbooks, and the like.” He pauses, then says more firmly, as if convincing himself. “It is not worth going back.”
It might not be worth going back for Dream. But Hob’s not afraid of his piece of shit ex.
He’s getting the fucking art.
#rb
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Sandman Cover Project #69—Marc Hempel
"The Sandman Cover Project": What would the covers have looked like if created by the issue artists instead of Dave McKean?
I will gradually add all illustrations via the tag “Sandman Cover Project”.
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cuubism · 10 hours
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Cuddles🥰
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Art by Eldar Akmanaev
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Freedom
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Dream’s wings By Mindy Lee
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cuubism · 21 hours
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Physical therapy au part 7. (abuse cw)
--
Dream wakes to find his face still smushed against Hob’s chest, and freezes, expecting an instinctive rush of panic at being suddenly so close to another person.
But it doesn’t come. He still only feels… relaxed. Hob is warm against him, still asleep, his arm wrapped loosely around Dream’s shoulders. And it’s… good? It’s nice. To wake up and feel calm. To not feel as though he needs to remove himself from the situation as quickly as possible.
Hob stirs beside him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Surprise flashes across his face as he turns to look at Dream, but it quickly softens. “Hey, you.”
“Hello.”
Hob pets Dream’s hair, pushing it behind his ear, even though his own, longer hair is far more disheveled. “Sleep alright?”
“Yes.” He didn’t even dream. It was welcome, he needed the peace.
Hob kisses him lightly on the lips. “Good. You want coffee? Tea? Breakfast?”
Dream considers him blearily, then shakes his head in amusement. “Do you usually bound up out of bed with such immediate enthusiasm and zest for life?”
Hob bites his lower lip in thought. “Um. Sometimes?”
“Then you will have to forgive the fact that it takes me significantly longer to become alive again in the morning.”
Though Dream also has not had much reason to want to get out of bed, not until lately.
Hob laughs. “Alright. You sort yourself out. I’ll get something started.”
He gives Dream another light kiss, and ruffles his hair, then rolls out of bed and heads off with a truly unreasonable amount of vim. Dream just smiles to himself as he lays back in bed.
It will be good to have a few minutes to think. Or perhaps he’ll just go back to sleep for a while. He doesn’t think Hob will be upset. And what a relieving feeling that is.
Once Hob’s put coffee on and gotten out ingredients for breakfast, he finds himself turning to Dream’s painting, propped on top of the bookshelf. It’s so beautiful. So charming. Of course Hob wants to hang it on his wall. It might embarrass Dream a little bit, but he will know how much Hob appreciates this painting.
He’s not great at waiting, and he has time to kill while Dream's getting ready—hopefully a lot of time, the poor thing looks like he needs more beauty sleep—so he grabs his toolkit and goes about finding a spot on the wall to hang the painting. He's found a decently-placed stud behind the drywall and is about to start hammering a few nails in--he's not using some flimsy method and risking the painting falling--when the bedroom door opens. Not long after, he hears Dream come out into the hall.
"Hob?" he calls. "Do you have any--"
He freezes in the entryway.
Hob turns to face him properly. "Hm? Any what?"
But Dream is standing stock still, every muscle in his body frozen, staring at him.
Hob looks between him and the painting, which is now leaning against the wall at his feet. Is he that bothered by Hob hanging the painting? He doesn't actually have to put it up, he just thought--
But. No. Dream is staring at him.
"Something the matter?" Hob asks, walking over to him. Maybe he's regretting staying over, maybe he wasn't ready--
Dream goes, impossibly, more tense, freezing like he might be able to go invisible if he just doesn't move. Like a prey animal.
Hob's properly starting to panic now, and still doesn't know what he's done, but he raises his hands in surrender.
Dream finally unlocks, but not to explain or come towards him. No, his gaze darts from Hob's face to his hands and then he bolts, scrambles backwards and disappears into Hob's bedroom, door slamming shut behind him.
Heart pattering, still having no idea he's done, Hob lets his hands fall--
--and realizes he's still holding that hammer.
He drops it with a start. That-- that must have done it, mustn't it? It’s the only thing he can think of.
But... why?
He goes over to the bedroom door and knocks softly. "...Dream?"
No response.
He knocks again, louder. "Dream?"
No reply, but he can hear Dream’s shaky breathing, like he’s sitting with his back against the door.
Hob sits down on the floor, leaning his head against the door. His heart squeezes with guilt for upsetting Dream, even if logically he knows that he didn't do anything wrong, just caught him at a bad angle that he didn't know was there.
At least he stayed by the door. He could have run into the bathroom or gone as far away from Hob as possible but he didn’t. That’s something.
“Dream,” he calls, knocks lightly on the door to show he’s still there. “Just breathe, sweetheart, it’s alright, yeah?”
This isn’t his area, he’s a physical therapist, not a mental health one. But he’s trying his best.
“Not going to hurt you,” he goes on. He knows Dream knows that, but he clearly doesn’t remember it now. “I promise. You’re safe. It’s alright.”
He still doesn’t get a response, so he stays where he is. Speaks softly to him through the door. Maybe it’ll help. He wishes he just knew the right thing to say, but it’s not that easy. Maybe one day he will just know.
For now, he just keeps talking.
--
Dream runs. He runs and runs, tripping over himself. He-- he can't feel his hand-- no, that isn't right, he can feel it, but it's tingly and wrong and his fingers are all twisted and won't listen to him and each movement is a scream of pain pain pain all the way up his arm, and--
Why would he do that? Why would he--?
He's out on the street. When did he get here? He doesn't remember leaving, only the rush of adrenaline and panic that had propelled him-- his heart is still pounding-- the certainty that no matter how much his lover had argued and justified look I'm sorry, that was too far, but you get it don't you? you get why I had to? that Dream was about to get his head bashed in next-- he had dropped the hammer but Dream could no longer see his hands without it--
Dream, don't be stupid-- no, you can't leave-- hands on him-- no, he's free now, he's walking, he has his phone in his pocket but he can't reach it because his only usable hand is clutching his art portfolio, he doesn't want to look at the mangled wreck of the other one.
He has his art. Most of it. Some of it. Whatever had been stored in easy reach. He had recent pieces still drying he'd had to leave behind. He'd only had a moment to grab things and run, the briefest of moments when his once-lover had hesitated with regret over what he'd done.
He doesn't know where he's meant to go now.
"Dream, honey..."
Death's voice. Had he gone to her flat? He doesn't remember. But no, this is the hospital waiting room--he doesn't remember how he got here. Perhaps his sister brought him. His hand is agony, but it's not even bleeding. Shouldn't it be bleeding?
Wait. Where is his art portfolio?
He spins around in his chair, but he doesn't see it-- he can't-- this is the only thing he has-- "Death, where--?"
"Shh, relax, we left your things at my flat, remember?"
He doesn't. He doesn't remember. He doesn’t remember getting here. He only remembers the pain. The fear. The threat, the—
“Dream, love, can you hear me?”
Death’s voice again? But no, she’s gone, and he’s sitting on the floor, his back to the door, and that’s Hob talking on the other side.
Hob.
He looks at his hand, flexes his fingers, curls it into a fist. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s been months. His hand is healed now. Partly thanks to Hob.
“Dream?” Hob calls again.
Finally, Dream finds his voice. "Please don't come in."
He needs— he needs to compose himself, he doesn’t want to be seen like this—
“Not coming in,” Hob promises.
Dream pauses. Is that what he wants? Or is it what he used to want?
He swipes the tears away, moves away from the door, and reaches up to open it.
Hob is sitting on the floor, also right by the door. He looks at Dream with wide eyes, then moves forward tentatively. When Dream doesn’t move away, Hob pulls him into a hug.
Dream sobs, pressing his face into Hob’s shoulder. The tears he’d tried to quell come flooding back.
“Shhh,” Hob soothes, stroking his hair. “It’s okay, love. I have you.”
“I am being ridiculous,” Dream whispers.
“Nah. You’re alright. Don’t worry about it.” He kisses the side of Dream’s head. “Promise you. It’s okay.”
“You won’t hurt me,” Dream says, still quiet. He’s not certain if he’s convincing himself, or if he’s trying to convince Hob that he isn’t afraid of him.
“I won’t,” Hob agrees.
“I know that,” Dream says.
“I know. I know. You're okay.” He squeezes Dream tight, rocks him lightly. “Do you want to get up? I don't know about you, but my ass is suffering sitting on the floor. And you haven’t even gotten to have breakfast or anything.”
Dream manages a small laugh. “No. And I'm sure whatever you made is delicious."
"Didn't finish it yet. Can still be fresh. Come on."
He helps Dream up, and Dream clings to his side, feeling wobbly. He stays stuck against Hob as he cooks, feeling excessively clingy, but unable to help himself. He watches Hob's hands, now blessedly hammer-free. He wonders if Hob would have taken the hammer to his ex-boyfriend's head had he been there in that moment. He doesn't know if that's a healthy fantasy to indulge in. But it tastes delicious.
He's still thinking about it when Hob sits him down and makes him eat some eggs and toast. It's only once he's finished that Hob asks, "What happened?"
Dream still has not told Hob the entire story of what happened, so of course Hob does not know what he inadvertently set off. It feels shameful to say. He should not be afraid of Hob. Isn't. Nor should he let himself be caught by old memories.
Nevertheless, he clears his throat, and relays in halting detail the story of that day. It still frightens him to think about. His home then had never exactly been a comforting or peaceful space but he had never been hurt. And then a switch had flipped and everything changed.
When he's finished, Hob looks ill. Runs his hand stressfully through his hair, looking over at where the painting is propped against the wall. "I figured it must have been the hammer but I didn't know why," he says--mostly to himself, Dream thinks.
Then he takes Dream's hands on the table. "That's one of the worst things I've ever heard, I'm so sorry."
Dream looks down at their joined hands. "It's in the past." It's not, though. Not really.
"Even so." He kisses Dream's hands, clasps them tight. Then pulls him to his feet. "Come on. We'll watch some TV or something, decompress. Unless you wanted to talk about it more right now?"
Dream is too tired for any more talking at the moment. Telling that wretched tale has taken everything out of him. "Not particularly."
So Hob just leads him over to the couch. On the way, he stops and sets the painting back on top of the shelf. Dream wouldn't be surprised if Hob waited until he was gone before trying to hang it up again. The thought puts a lump in his throat.
He lies down on the couch and lays his head in Hob's lap, and doesn't pay any attention to the movie Hob puts on as background noise. He's exhausted, and thinks he might go back to sleep--but after several minutes of Hob petting his hair, he finds himself tearing up again instead.
He hasn't cried much, since. It always felt like that would mean accepting the full reality of the situation. Now, he can't help it, but it feels... not good, quite, but perhaps... relieving. Perhaps he's allowed to be upset about it. For so long he had felt like it was all his fault, like he should have known something something terrible would happen, should have picked up on it. But perhaps he's allowed to feel hurt regardless of whether he could have done something better.
Hob doesn't say anything, just lets him cry, stroking his hair. This isn't particularly how Dream wanted this date to go. He was hoping it would be nice and normal. But he'd rather be sad with Hob than be alone.
As long as Hob just lets him stay here, then perhaps it will be alright.
--
Hob doesn't pay much attention to the film, he's too focused on Dream. He keeps methodically stroking his hair, thinking. He feels sick over everything Dream's told him. He's wishing he hit Dream's ex with a bat instead of just punching him. It probably wouldn't have been the smartest move, but it's tempting anyway.
When the movie's almost finished, and Dream seems to have calmed down, he finally manages to ask the question that's been stuck in his head since Dream told the story of fleeing his home.
“Dream?” he says. “How much of your things were you actually able to take with you when you left your old flat?”
Dream turns to look up at him. He's still lying across Hob's lap. “Not very much. The clothes I was wearing. My phone and wallet—fortunately, for replacing all of that would have been nightmarish. And I grabbed my art portfolio as well.”
“Nothing else?”
Dream shakes his head. “I still have my keys, assuming he has not changed the locks, but I have not been back. Most of it is replaceable, anyway.”
Most of it, Hob thinks. Except things like gifts, and sentimental items, and documents. And his art.
“Is some of your art still there?”
Hesitantly, Dream nods. “Works in progress. Larger pieces that I could not carry. And sketchbooks, and the like.” He pauses, then says more firmly, as if convincing himself. “It is not worth going back.”
It might not be worth going back for Dream. But Hob’s not afraid of his piece of shit ex.
He’s getting the fucking art.
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cuubism · 23 hours
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You need to draw and make art or else all the images will stay in your head and you'll get sick
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One of the best writing advice I have gotten in all the months I have been writing is "if you can't go anywhere from a sentence, the problem isn't in you, it's in the last sentence." and I'm mad because it works so well and barely anyone talks about it. If you're stuck at a line, go back. Backspace those last two lines and write it from another angle or take it to some other route. You're stuck because you thought up to that exact sentence and nothing after that. Well, delete that sentence, make your brain think because the dead end is gone. It has worked wonders for me for so long it's unreal
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I’ve been obsessed with this for like 20 straight hours now
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The High Cost of Living
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Morpheus ✨
Find this post on : Twitter | Instagram
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Tree Against a Yellow Background by Odilon Redon (1840 - 1916)
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Prince of dreams
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no writing workshop can help you improve your writing as much as this screenshot can
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