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elysiarte · 9 months

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[Enlightenment] Chapter 2: Boundaries

Chapter 1: Realizations

Dream goes to The New Inn in 2022 and is met with a polite but distant Hob.

CW: angst

In the wake of The White Horse Tavern closing not even after a year after his and his Stranger's centennial meeting, Hob decides that he should just stop trying.

It has been made clear to him that no one wants to be his friend just for the sake of being friends, and so he does the sensible thing and stops inserting himself needlessly into other people's lives.

He starts to categorize people based on how he knows them: co-workers, bosses, students, small business owners he buys his food from...

But never friends.

It's freeing.

He doesn't have to be anything to anyone anymore. He can fulfill his duties without expecting something foolish like friendship in return. It's a somewhat lonely existence, but it's a better one compared to the way he did things before.

And besides, he has been alone for as long as he can remember. Even before he became immortal, and even before his entire family died of the plague, he has always been alone.

Why didn't he see it before?

Hob as a child wanted to have friends too. But he was too him, and so his playmates always 'forget' to look for him every time he plays hide and seek with them.

It's funny, looking back on it now. He thought he was just so good at hiding that no one found him.

And so he stayed hidden. Past sunset, past curfew, past midnight, and until the sun rises again, child Hob sits alone in his hiding place, waiting for someone to find him.

No one does. And no one comes looking for him either.

His parents had far more important worries than wondering where one of their many children is, like actually finding enough food to feed them all.

For all Hob knew, they were thankful when he doesn't go home. One less mouth to feed and all. For all he knew, they had been the ones to tell his playmates not to go looking for him.

Six hundred year old Hob pities himself as a child. He should not have tried so hard. All he did was waste his time.

Winter of 1991 is when Hob realizes that he does not blame his Stranger for leaving as he did at all.

He must have been at the end of his patience with Hob, and Hob callously telling him that he thinks he's lonely would have been the straw that broke the camel's back.

Looking back on it, he deserved his Stranger's angry reaction.

What does Hob know about his life? For all he knows, his Stranger could have friends and family waiting for him to arrive as soon as he concludes his centennial meetings with Hob.

In fact, they were probably the ones who dared him into making Hob immortal, so they would get endless entertainment out of him.

Hob waxing poetic about chimneys? Amazing. He's such a hilarious little fool. Venison pasties being the best thing ever? Classic peasant Hob, only now he's masquerading as a lord.

It's fine. Hob knows he can be unintentionally funny sometimes.

But now that his Stranger has obviously and very definitively moved on, Hob hopes that wherever he is right now, he has already gotten himself another Shaxberd.

If he has, and Hob is certain that he has, then he is happy for him. For them.

He hopes that whoever his Stranger's new immortal is, they'll take care of him as he deserves, and tell him better stories that would survive through the ages, like Shaxberd's did.

He hopes he meets them someday. Not to be friends, of course. But just to thank them for taking care of his Stranger when Hob had been too incompetent to even have a meaningful conversation with him.

The old barkeep from 1989 builds the New Inn in the year 2000, just a stone throw's away from the White Horse Tavern, and Hob invests in it.

He has too much money now. And while he's adamant in keeping himself apart from other people, he still likes helping those in need.

He gives to charities, supports worthwhile endeavors, and funds the schooling of the kids who have aged out of orphanages. Sometimes he even helps them get their first jobs if they need it. Those he helps occasionally end up taking part-time jobs in The New Inn, and they never know that they were serving the person who funded their college education.

It's fine. Hob doesn't mind being anonymous. He would rather be anonymous nowadays, anyway. Just plain old Mr. Gadling with his plain looks and his plain life, studying to become a professor of history.

Maybe one day, far off into the future, he would manage to atone for what he has done during his years as a slaver.

He knows he never would, but he tries his best anyway.

The old barkeep dies in 2016 and wills Hob (who has remained anonymous) The New Inn.

Hob has no wish to deal with the minutiae of running an inn, however, and so he promotes a couple of folks to run the Inn for him, and gets them to hire more helpers if they need it.

He doesn't know whose idea it was to spray paint the sign in front of The White Horse Tavern pointing to the New Inn, or who keeps repainting it, but he lets it slide. Business is business, after all, and if it gets the inn more customers, then who is Hob to complain?

Most of the regular customers are locals who have been getting pints from the old tavern, but tourists also come by, and students from the nearby university where Hob teaches frequent the Inn as well. The tourists come for the good food, the students come for the free wifi, and Hob welcomes them all.

He arranges all of the customers neatly into their own categories (student here for the wifi, office worker here for lunch, food blogger, artist looking for a quiet spot, Thursday Game Night LARPers) and ignores the numbers occasionally slipped his way with free drinks.

He has no need for one night stands, and would rather not create a new category for them. He's found, over the years, that he likes having his own space, with no one bothering him, and he will not let anyone disrupt the peaceful home he has managed to build for himself.

If he wants to be pleasured, then he has his own hands, and online shopping sites to buy sex toys from.

He likes it better, he thinks. Being the master of his own pleasure and not needing to make the effort of pleasing anyone else. If he wants to go to sleep right after cumming, then he can. No more need for pillow talk or immediate clean up. And if he wakes in the middle of the night and wants to pleasure himself more, then who is there to stop him?

He might miss the words of praise given by his past bedmates, but he can easily conjure up similar words in his mind, in a variety of voices, making themselves repeat the same words over and over again without feeling guilty or needy, and he does not feel bereft.

He's already had enough of people. And no good ever comes from having lovers, especially if it's only him that loves and his feelings are never requited.

In 2022, when Hob sees his Old Stranger again, he smiles.

It's nice to see a familiar face once in a while. Just last week, he saw his neighbors from the 1960s selecting vegetables in the farmers' market. They are still together and looking as in love as they had been when they were younger. Hob avoided them because he doesn't want to be recognized and asked uncomfortable questions, but he's happy that the two of them could legally get married now.

"You're early," Hob tells his Stranger. Were he still hoping that the two of them could be friends, he would have said something stupid like, 'You're late,' and then his Stranger would get pissed off all over again, and it would just make Hob tired in the long run.

"Early?" His Stranger asks. He takes his seat in front of Hob. He looks skinnier than usual. Hob raises his hand so one of the waitresses would come over.

"Yeah, for 2089," Hob says. To the waitress, he says, "Hey, Dani, can I get a fry up, please? And a glass of fruit juice."

Hob is ordering for his Stranger not because they're friends, but because he looks like he needs it. He would have done the same for any homeless person he saw on the street.

And if his Stranger doesn't eat it before leaving, then Hob will. Hob doesn't order two plates because what would be the use of that? He knows his Stranger would be turned off at the sight of him eating. He has before, in 1589, so Hob knows not to do it again.

Dani the waitress, one of the kids he put through college, nods and goes to tell the cook to prepare the meal.

When Hob looks back at his Stranger, he is looking at Hob oddly.

"What?"

"I am not early for 2089, Hob," he says. "I am late for 1989. I meant to come, but was unable to." A pause, and the tiniest bowing of his head. "I apologize."

Were Hob still thinking they could be friends, he would have asked about what happened to make him miss their meeting. But he knows it's not any of his business, and he'd hate for his Stranger to leave without eating.

"Oh, it's fine," Hob says. He has already put his Stranger into the 'old customer from the old tavern' category, and it's never any of his business to ask about the customers' personal lives. He would help, if they ask, but he won't go out of his way to be an irritating person and pester them to let him help them. "Water under the bridge and all. How have you been?"

There, see? Hob can be polite without being friendly.

"I'm fine," his Stranger says. There was a brief pause before he answered. Hob noticed, but he ignores it. Hob from before would have obsessed about that tiny pause, but not this Hob. This one has learned his lesson.

"That's good," Hob says, smiling. "Listen, I ordered for you, but it's alright if you don't eat it. I'll just take it to-go and eat it for dinner. No pressure at all."

"I will eat it," his Stranger says.

Hob smiles wider. "Wonderful. It will take about 5 to 10 minutes before the food arrives."

Niceties out of the way, Hob resumes checking his students' papers. It's so nice to not make an effort at conversation. It had opened up his time for other more important matters. He wishes his Stranger had taught him that. Or maybe he was meant to learn by observation.

Ah, well. Hob has always been slow on the uptake.

"Hob."

He marks where he is on his student's essay with a finger and looks up. "Yes, Stranger?"

His Stranger visibly hesitates for a moment before he says, "My name is Dream. Dream of the Endless."

Dream of the Endless.

After 600 years, Hob finally gets a name.

He thought he'd be ecstatic. So over the moon with joy that he would jump to his feet and let out an exuberant laugh at finally knowing.

Instead he feels nothing.

He doesn't know what an Endless is, but it sounds pretty important and very much none of his business. He takes the information his Stranger provides him, and says with a smile reserved for new acquaintances, "Hello, Dream of the Endless. Pleasure to put a name to the face."

Hob asks nothing else, and says nothing else. He waits a couple of seconds for his Stranger, Dream, to say something else if he wants, but when nothing comes, Hob goes back to checking his students' papers.

Midway through reading another essay, Dream asks, "Have you been well this past century?"

"Hm?" Hob marks a student's wrong answer. "Oh, well enough, I suppose. Two world wars, moon landing, the internet...but otherwise it's the same old life. And yes, before you ask, I still wish to live."

His 1489 self would have been so excited to talk about the moon landing and the internet. He would have made powerpoint presentations, bought memorbilia to show off, and be such a nuisance that he'd get kicked out of the Inn.

This Hob knows better than to make all that effort, however, and so he doesn't elaborate. It's just like seeing someone reading a newspaper on the Tube, reading the headlines, and exclaiming, 'Did that really happen?' And the person reading the newspaper saying, 'Yeah. World's fucked nowadays,' and the conversation would end there.

"The moon landing?"

"Yeah," Hob says. "Americans went to the moon and planted their county's flag there in 1969. You can read all about it on the internet if you want. Too much history for me to summarize."

"I am not familiar with the internet."

Hob blinks at that. "Oh." He doesn't ask where Dream has been to not be familiar with the internet. For all he knows, Dream's new storyteller friend is from another planet. "Well..."

Then, quite unexpectedly, Dream says, "Will you explain it to me?"

Hob scratches his neck and looks at the dozen or so papers he has yet to check. "I suppose?" It wasn't in his plans to explain the internet to a supernatural entity, but for the sake of their centuries old deal, Hob supposes he can spare the time. "If you're sure?"

Dream nods, and so Hob starts talking.

Dream eats his food as promised, and when he polished that one off and still looked hungry, Hob orders another dish. And then another. And then another. He always waits for Dream to finish his meal before ordering again, in case he gets full midway through a plate.

Dream does not volunteer information about his sudden hunger for mortal food, and so Hob does not press him. Dani, thankfully, is the quiet sort who just does her job well and doesn't stick her nose where it doesn't belong.

For this reason, she is one of Hob's favorite employees, being smarter than Hob himself when he was her age.

As Dream eats, Hob explains the internet to him like how he would explain the internet to a time traveler from the 1800s.

Dream listens to him raptly. It's a little unnerving how focused he was. 1589 Hob would have loved to have him as his audience. 2022 Hob is just a bit weirded out, especially when he notices Dream's shoulders relax against the seat's backrest, like he's listening to his favorite radio station, at ease in his own home.

When Hob finishes explaining, Dream (surprisingly) has follow-up questions, and so Hob answers them too.

(He had to ask for water so he could soothe his throat after a lot of talking.)

If Dream doesn't ask, then Hob doesn't explain. It's that simple. He volunteers no information about his life, and certainly no personal anecdotes to accompany his explanations, because they're not close enough for that.

More than a couple of hours pass, and Hob starts gathering his things and packing up. It will be a while before The New Inn closes, but Hob still has laundry to do, papers to check, and plants to water. He tells Dream that it has been good seeing him and walks out of the Inn.

Dream follows him.

"Hob."

"Yeah?"

"I wish to bid you good night."

Dream...has been weird today. He has never bid good night to Hob before. Not even a goodbye, come to think of it. "Oh," Hob says, feeling wrong-footed. "Sure. Good night. Take care going back home."

He doesn't ask if their next meeting will be in 2089 or in 2122. Dream will show up whenever he wants to show up. Hob isn't going to wait for him. It's even only a coincidence that Hob went to the Inn on this date.

In fact, he hadn't even known that today was June 7th. He only saw the date when he looked something up on his phone for clarification.

"I was hoping we could meet again," Dream says, when Hob says nothing else and was turning to leave. "Perhaps same time next week?"

Hob mentally reviews his calendar. "Sorry, I have a whole day of lectures and a practical exam to conduct then."

Dream is not deterred. "May I ask when you will be free, then?"

Hob scratches his cheek. "I mean, I guess I'll be free on Friday, just after 5 PM?"

"Then I will see you," Dream says. "Here. On our table."

His statement makes Hob laugh. "There's no our table, Dream. But sure, I'll see you." He turns away and walks the short distance to his house.

He is sure that Dream will not show. But it doesn't matter, because Hob is gonna go to the Inn on that date and time to buy dinner anyway. Dream could decide to surprise him and show up outside of their centennial meetings, but it wouldn't affect his schedule at all.

Dream watches Hob walk away, and his heart breaks.

Is this what Hob felt when Dream walked away from him in 1889?

No. He must have felt worse.

Dream had walked away in anger, after saying words that he has regretted ever since they left his lips, leaving Hob uncertain if they'll ever meet again.

Hob had walked away just now after agreeing to meet with him.

But his manner is distant. Has been distant, throughout the day. He doesn't care if he sees Dream again. If Dream does not show up at the appointed time next week, he would stay and have dinner on his own. But he would not question Dream's absence. He would just put it down as yet another instant of Dream blowing him off again, like he did last time.

Dream should be pleased.

This is what he wanted, isnt it? For the two of them to be no closer than casual acquaintances? Because Dream had been too prideful to consider being friends with a mortal.

And now Hob is granting him his wish. He had taken Dream's words to heart and is now holding himself distant from him.

Just as Dream realizes too late that he doesn't want that after all.

After his stupid pride hurt Hob in 1889, after his lonely imprisonment when his most constant thought, the only one that gave him hope, is the memory of Hob's beautiful smile, and of seeing it again once he gets free...

He wants Hob to look at him how he has always looked at him before today. With friendship, and perhaps with something more. Except that might not be possible anymore.

Dream doesn't know what to do. He fucked up the one good thing in his life, and made Hob believe that he is nothing, when all along, he has been everything to Dream.

#im crying so hard rn #im typing throuh tears 😭😭😭#haven't read anything THIS devastating in a while #nd the writing is so good 😭💗#dreamling #im sending some BIGG and warm hugs your way OP #it gets better :)

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elysiarte · 9 months

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100 Years of Drowning/ (So What's a Few More?)

This was the first fic I started for this fandom and now a million years later it's done and I Do Not Like It. But I worked on it for ages and it's finished and so I am going to subject all of you to it. As a treat.

AO3

~~~~~

The first problem is obvious.

“You are aware,” Dream drawls, “that I can simply become clean if I will it.”

“Yes, I am well aware of your vast powers of convenience,” Hob rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress the fond smile on his face.

The summer heat had permeated the apartment, the open window of the bedroom only occasionally offering a brief breeze. Hob and Dream had been enjoying a lazy weekend together, sometimes sitting in silence together, sometimes laughing at an absurd show or movie, sometimes running their hands and mouths across each others’ skin. When they had awoken, Hob had almost immediately begun complaining about the layer of sweat on his body, the way the sheets stuck to his skin and his hair matted on his forehead. The complaints soon turned to mischievous coaxing, trying to tug Dream out of the bed with him.

“But showers are nice,” he continued arguing, “Even nicer when they’re shared,” he wiggled his eyebrows, and a huff of laughter escaped Dream despite himself.

Still. Some things are. Hard. Since Fawney Rig.

It used to be easier, giving himself to Hob like this.

Which is not to say it was ever really easy.

When Dream had reunited with Hob at the New Inn, he knew he owed Hob a great deal. Repentance, repayment, remorse. He wanted to be someone worthy of the friendship Hob offered so freely, despite Dream’s past behavior.

He did not want to tell him what had happened to him. It felt too raw, too fresh, too vulnerable. And he had given so little to Hob over the years, it felt wrong that the first thing Dream gave him should be a burden. But Hob deserved to know that he had not been abandoned out of anger, or pride. He deserved to know he had been missed.

“I would have come,” Dream states, soft and low, for Hob’s ears only.

Hob frowned, “Pardon?”

When he had first arrived, Dream had felt the closest to relaxed he had in ages, Hob’s smile easing some of the tension from his frame. Now, though, he braces himself. Straightens in his seat until his whole body is rigid and still, like a child awaiting chastisement.

“In 1989. I would have come to you, had I been able. I was. Not able.” He forces himself to meet Hob’s eyes, “I was. Captured. This is the soonest I could come. Forgive me.”

Hob had already forgiven him when he thought he kept him waiting on purpose. Now, he looks at the being across from him and sees so clearly that he has been hurt. It is just as clear that he is waiting for Hob to hurt him, too.

He places his hand on the table in invitation, and asks only one question that day, “Are you alright, my Stranger?”

Dream doesn’t answer.

Instead he lets out a sigh, allowing himself to relax however minutely, and gives Hob a small smile, “You may call me Dream. I have many names, but that is. The one I am most fond of.”

Hob had beamed at him, eyes alight with joy as he whispered, “Dream…” with reverence. They spoke long into the night, and somewhere along the way, Dream allowed himself to slip his hand into Hob’s, and Hob squeezed his fingers gently and invited him to visit whenever he wanted. And Dream wanted.

So they became proper friends, and then they became more, and Dream never elaborated on the details of his imprisonment and Hob never asked and it was. Fine.

It was mostly fine.

Sure, sometimes Hob touched him and it felt like his insides were being tugged in twelve different directions. He wanted to lean closer, and he wanted to run away, and he was burning and freezing and crumbling like fragile ruins. His beloved was tugging at his shirt, and he blinked and his cloak was being removed and he was too weak to move, and he blinked and Hob was laying him back on his bed, and he blinked and rough hands were tossing him into a glass prison, and he blinked, and he blinked, and he blinked-

But. In the winter he could hide beneath the sheets. And that was enough.

Now, uncomfortable warmth invades the days and nights, and Hob kicked the sheets to the floor, and Dream would not dare to deny Hob even the smallest of things, even if the same air which warms Hob freezes Dream deep in his bones. It feels fragile, this thing between them. Unbalanced. Always there is a scale in the corner of Dream’s eye, one side tipped heavily under the weight of his sins, his flaws, his every failure, and he cannot bear to add any more.

So he lets Hob toss his shields to the floor, and clings to distraction. Distracting Hob with kisses and touches so he doesn't notice Dream trembling and distracting himself with his desperation to be a good lover to make up for all the years of being a bad friend.

He owes Hob that much.

He owes Hob more.

That is why he sighs now, forcing a small smile in response to Hob's wide grin as he takes his offered hand and is tugged towards the bathroom. He cannot deny him anything.

~~~

The second problem is more unexpected.

Dream has never been in this particular room, never having had any need to. He can recognize that the room's design is meant to be fancy and luxurious, more modern than the rest of Hob's home. There are sleek metal furnishings, granite countertops, large, decadent towels, and the obvious focal point being the shower. Dream's eyes fixate on it; on the large, wide shower head arched within one wall of gently patterned tile and three walls of smooth, clean glass.

It's a different shape.

It's a different shape, and Dream clings to that fact with his fingernails.

Hob is chattering about something, and it feels muffled and far away (like listening through glass) but Dream catalogs all the things that make this place different from where his mind is slipping. First and foremost, Hob is here. Hob is here. His voice, while still distant to Dream's mind, is still a comfort, the soothing tenor washing over him. He slips a little farther, like he always does, when it comes time to disrobe (cold, exposed, eyes on him like an object, like a tool, like a toy-), but as they enter the shower he entwines his fingers with Hob's, a feeling so different from his century of isolation that it steadies him just a little.

He closes his eyes so he doesn't have to see the glass door shut. The water helps, too, cooling to Hob and warming to Dream, and with his eyes closed he can pretend they are standing in the rain together. A gentle hand runs through his hair, wetting the wild strands, and he can feel Hob smirking, "See? It's nice, isn't it?"

Dream hums noncommittally, keeping his head tilted down as he focuses on Hob's fingers. It is nice, he thinks, especially when Hob leans in to kiss him with a smiling mouth. Dream loves Hob’s smile, loves the way it tastes against his lips. Sighing, he runs his hands up Hob’s front, carding his fingers through the damp hair there before winding his arms around his neck and pressing their chests together. There is so much sensation. The smooth glide of Hob’s hands as they run down Dream’s back to cup his arse, the wet hairs at the nape of Hob’s neck and how they tangle around Dream’s fingers, the way water drips down their faces and eases the slide of their lips together.

It’s nice. The cascade of water blankets them, and Dream thinks he can do this. Hob’s hand ghosts around his hips, his skin cool when he takes Dream’s cock in a gentle grip, and Dream lets out a shuddering sigh of relief at having managed to not ruin Hob's peaceful morning.

And then he is pressed back against the glass.

Hob’s hands are still on him, gentle and soft, and his lips are warm against his own, but all Dream can feel is cold cold cold against the bare skin of his back and he’s been here before, been here for so long, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. There is a Shepard Tone in his head (in his chest, in the Dreaming), drowning out the sound of water and he thinks he would rather ruin Hob’s morning than stay here but no matter how hard he tries his jaw feels locked in place.

Words do have power. That is true. And that is certainly a part of the reason why Dream has always kept his words so close to his chest, always considered his speech so carefully. It is also one of the lies he tells himself when he thinks about his imprisonment. In between berating himself for allowing his capture, Dream spent an equal amount of time trying very hard to lie to himself about why he stayed silent in Fawney Rig; his pride, his safety, his seething rage and grief over Jessamy.

But the truth is a weight in the hollow of his throat and the truth is this: a part of him was certain that if he opened his mouth, all he would do is scream.

He feels that way now, too.

The sphere ran out of air early in his imprisonment, so he wonders whether he would have even been able to make a sound had he wanted to. There is air here now, surrounded by glass with Hob in front of him, but his chest does not expand, his lungs tightening in his chest because he desperately does not want to scream. His teeth grind together (don’t scream, don’t scream, nobody will hear, nobody will care-) when suddenly the points of contact, Hob’s hands and lips, the fragile anchors keeping Dream halfway connected to the here and now, pull away. And he is left alone with the glass.

It's not like falling, exactly. It feels like folding. Crumpling. The glass warping behind him, curling around him until his spine is arched, unable to stretch or straighten. His eyes snap open, searching for comfort, for safety, for Hob, but all he finds is his own reflection between spiked iron scaffolding. It's cold, freezing, and he can't shiver, he can't, can't let them see him weak and hurting, but he can't help the way his body huddles around itself, desperate in equal parts to hide and to warm himself.

A part of him knows he is not here. But he is, he is, he's here, he's always here, did he ever really escape? Where is his anger, where is his rage, why does he only ever remember the pain and the fear? The light shines on him, denied even darkness to hide, and he thinks there is blood and feathers on the glass, he thinks there is a cane striking in front of his face, he thinks there are eyes on him every moment and he closes his own in desperation.

He doesn't want to be here.

He doesn't want to be here anymore.

Suddenly there is a sensation, something his mind can't quite hold on to. Hands on his arms- his own? No, too gentle, Dream's own hands have never been this gentle against his own skin. There's something like movement, and he's cold, he's cold, he's cold, there's water on his face, is he crying? They'll use that against him and he will have failed even more than he already has-

Warm. There is something warm around him, covering him, hiding his form from cruel eyes and that's new, that's different, that's not something that fits in this place.

It's a terrifying task, but Dream opens his eyes. He nearly sobs in relief (or maybe he actually does) at the realization that he's literally anywhere other than that basement. It takes him a moment to actually identify where he is, the room unfamiliar, but as Hob Gadling takes shape in front of him he remembers through context, though how he got here, specifically, is still a mystery.

Dream finds himself huddled on the tile floor, wet hair sticking to his face uncomfortably. There is a long, fluffy robe draped around him, and Hob is kneeling on the floor in front of him, hands braced on his biceps. He is outside of the shower.

But when he turns his head he sees his reflection in the glass and cries.

Hob's eyes widen in panic as Dream sobs, "Hey, it's okay, you're okay-"

"Please."

The word is barely choked out, a soft, grating rasp that sounds like it hurts Dream to say almost as much as it hurts Hob to hear. He's never heard Dream beg before, and it lances something in Hob's chest and he feels tears begin to trail down his own face and his chest is too tight with grief to explain that Dream doesn't need to beg, never needs to beg, Hob would give him anything, would give him everything.

Dream's face is tucked down against his knees, "Please, I'm sorry, please, please take me away from here, let me out, let me out-"

For a moment he’s not sure who he’s talking to, thinks that the Burgess family has finally broken him, and then Hob is bundling him into his arms, tucking the Endless being against his chest and carrying him from the room.

There is a tight thread of anxiety in Hob’s voice, but he still manages to speak soft and gentle as even as he stumbles into the hallway, "Okay, where can I take you? Outside? Somewhere else? Can you take us to the Dreaming or-"

Just being away from the glass lets Dream breathe easier, his mind having less of a struggle holding on to his surroundings, and he realizes that Hob doesn't know what 'here' Dream asked to be taken away from.

"Your room," his voice is thready and weak but Hob complies immediately, placing Dream gently onto the bed before sitting in front of him. A full-body shudder wracks Dream’s slender frame, and he can’t help but curl into himself. A part of him wonders if he is making it worse for himself, keeping himself huddled and folded like he was in the too-small sphere, if it would help to stretch like he was unable to do for over a century. But he can’t. Can’t bring himself to reveal himself, to show the little bit of softness still clinging to his visible bones. He wants to be safe. He wants to be hidden.

“Dream…”

He jolts a bit at the voice, his thoughts scattered like broken glass (glass glass glass) until he had forgotten Hob sitting in front of him.

Hob swallows thickly, “Dream,” he starts again, “are you… can… can I touch you? Can I hug you?”

Even after all these years, Hob’s kindness still surprised him sometimes. When Dream was off kilter (when he was scared, when he was hurting, when he was weak-) he couldn’t help but expect Hob to respond with anger, or cruelty. Dream expected a shark gnashing teeth at blood in the water, but only ever found a medic in the minefield.

Dream nodded, his entire body a plea he couldn’t speak. Hob sighed in relief, finally able to give in to his desperate desire, wrapping his arms around Dream’s huddled form, tucking his head beneath his chin and kissing the damp black strands. He felt Dream shiver, and he let one hand come up to cup his neck as the other stroked up and down his back, feeling his fingers catch on the knobs of his spine even through the robe.

The hold pressed the soft fabric more firmly against Dream’s skin, a softness that was absent for a hundred and six years, and Hob radiates warmth. The rise and fall of his chest unconsciously prompts Dream’s to do the same, shakily inhaling and exhaling if only to remind himself that he can. After a few minutes Hob begins speaking, gentle comforting words, “You’re alright, you’re safe, I’m here, I’m right here, Love,” a murmur that Dream felt as much as heard, pressing himself impossibly closer.

Slowly, the world begins to solidify around him, becoming aware of the world outside his own body. He notices that Hob is shirtless, and there is a towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist, but his hair is still soaked, the sheets beneath them growing damp. The lights are off in the bedroom, but it is still fairly bright from the open windows, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. Everything around him is soft, and warm, and everything that he doesn’t deserve and he ruined it.

Hob begins to pull away, and Dream has a moment of fractured panic, because Hob is leaving him because Hob is the only thing keeping him warm because he’s still naked and exposed because he’s still trapped somewhere because-

The rush of cold air against his damp skin hurts in a way he can barely grasp. He curls forward into the space Hob left behind, arms wrapped tight around his stomach, and he’s bracing to be thrown back into a glass prison. But before the cold has a chance to reach his bones, the warmth comes back. Hob works swiftly, frantic and determined, pulling the robe around Dream’s shoulders tighter across his body, covering his chest and hiding his skin. He tucks the soft fabric around Dream’s arms before tugging at the bed sheets to bundle them across Dream’s legs. Soon, only Dream’s face is exposed, and even that is obscured by the wet hair still dripping steadily.

Warm hands stroke up and down Dream's biceps, petting over fabric from shoulder to elbow, rubbing at where his fingers are still clenched tight around his middle. Now that Dream is covered, Hob presses closer, kissing the crown of his head, giving him another layer of shelter in the circle of his arms.

It comes as a surprise when Dream realizes he can breathe.

Hob is still afraid. The being in his arms feels so fragile, and he is lost and confused and so far out of his depth it's bordering on comical. But it seems like Dream is coming back to himself, his breath evening out and the shaking calming to intermediate shivers, and so Hob thinks maybe the worst has passed. Hob's own heartbeat is still frantic in his chest. When Dream had gone silent in his arms, when he had slid down the shower wall, when his face had twisted with fear and sorrow, panic had filled every corner of his body. He still felt like he was humming with it.

He's not sure how much time passes, but they both manage to slowly settle against each other, and when Dream finally leans back, their skin is mostly dry and their hair is damp, but no longer dripping. When Dream looks at him, he looks… defeated.

"I'm sorry."

Hob has never heard Dream's voice so small.

Dream won't meet his eyes, and he looks so afraid, so ashamed, so fractured. His face shutters, trying to put himself back together and hide all evidence of the cracks.

"I would ask for an opportunity to fix this." Dream's hands shake as he reaches out to stroke Hob's chest, his breath stuttering as the robe slips open.

There is no hesitation as Hob snatches the edges of the robe to pull them closed, folding Dream's arms back beneath the fabric and away from Hob's skin.

"Hey, hey," Hob's tone is gentle, even as his eyes widen with panic, "There's nothing to apologize for, nothing to fix." He tilts his head, trying to catch Dream's eye, "Talk to me. What's going on? What happened just now?"

Dream swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on the sheets pooled in his lap, "I was merely…" his voice was thin and weak, "merely reminded of something… unpleasant. I apologize for disrupting you."

Hob's brow furrows, taking a moment to turn Dream's words over in his head and puzzle together the things he hasn't said. "You had a flashback?"

In hindsight, that actually made sense. Sometimes Hob got caught up in the fact that Dream wasn’t technically human and forgot that it didn’t negate his humanity; he looked for supernatural explanations instead of seeing the obvious right in front of him. And Hob has been in enough wars to know what a flashback looks like. He considers everything that he has witnessed in the past fifteen minutes and feels like a fool for not seeing it immediately.

There are a dozen questions lining up behind his tongue. But Dream still won't look at him, is still trembling under his hands, is clenching his jaw so hard it looks painful. There are more important things than answers.

“...Would you like to get dressed?” he offers softly.

Dream’s breath hitches. For a long minute his lips part and press closed again and again, the words warring in his throat. But eventually, he closes his eyes and nods miserably, “Yes. Please.”

Hob nods, standing up and walking to the dresser, turning his back to give Dream a sense of privacy. There is a churning in his gut, his instinct telling him that Dream needs him to not look at him right now, despite everything they’ve done together. Little pieces are coming together in Hob’s mind, like arranging pieces of broken glass, sharp and cutting, pressing the edges together until he can see the shape of what was shattered. He thinks about how covering Dream with the robe in the bathroom was what finally brought him back to the present. He thinks about how draping fabric over his skin let Dream breathe easier.

Dressing quickly, throwing on the first loose sweats his fingers find, Hob takes a moment to go to the closet and finds a particular forest green hoodie, oversized and with fleece lining the interior. A human would get heat stroke wearing it in this weather, but Dream is not bound by earthly temperature like Hob is, and he knows that this is Dream’s favorite piece of clothing to steal.

When he turns around, Dream is still wrapped in the robe and sheet, but he has a long sleeve, high neck black shirt and jeans on beneath it, and his hair is dry. He looks more like himself, less curled up and trembling, his back straightening and his legs criss-crossed. Even breaths escape his lips, and he has pulled his stoic expression back together, though there is a shadow of shame that he cannot seem to cover completely.

Hob offers him the hoodie wordlessly, and Dream looks like he might start crying again. But he blinks it back as he accepts it, pushing the robe from his shoulders and wrapping himself in soft, thick fabric. When he zips it up to the neck, Hob catches him tucking his nose down to inhale the familiar scent. Hob climbs back onto the bed, sitting in front of Dream close enough for their knees to brush, and he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but it occurs to him that Dream could have easily vanished while his back was turned. But he didn’t. That’s got to count for something.

“Are you feeling better?”

Dream nods slowly, eyes darting up to search Hob’s face. “Yes. I apologize. I did not mean to…”

“Nothing to apologize for,” Reaching out, he takes one of Dream’s hands, the palms covered by hoodie sleeves, just the tips of his fingers touching Hob’s skin. “Do… do you know what triggered you?”

There is a long pause, a war happening behind Dream’s eyes, before he finally seems to deflate as he nods.

Wrapped in Hob’s sweatshirt, covered and safe with Hob holding his hand and speaking gently, Dream feels the words pool in his mouth like acid. He has been granted patience and comfort. The least he can do is tell the truth.

“I told you I was captured.”

Hob’s chest hurts, like he’s caving in under the weight of fear and sorrow. A selfish part of him wants to tell Dream to stop, please, he knows already that he doesn’t want to hear this.

He holds his hand tighter and says nothing.

Dream swallows, voice shaking as he finally, finally elaborates.

“They took my tools of office and. Stripped me. Left me bare. In order to ensure I did not escape their spell, I was then. Caged. In a sphere made of glass.”

Hob’s jaw clenches so hard he thinks he might break a tooth. It’s selfish. It’s so fucking selfish how much he doesn’t want to know this, how much he wishes he could go back to this morning before the weight of this terrible truth settled in his lungs. And he wants to scream, wants to shake Dream, because the truth hurts so much more now, now after so much time has passed, now when he can look back on their months together and think of how many times he has hurt Dream. How many times Dream has let him. Hob feels so angry, and so monstrous, and so, so selfish.

But.

But in the stretch of silence between them, Hob is reminded that the selfish part of him is miniscule compared to the part of him that loves Dream of the Endless. His selfishness cannot survive that love.

He makes a mental promise to allow himself a good long scream in a pillow later. Maybe a few punches against the drywall. Later.

“Okay.”

Dream’s head snaps up in surprise, and Hob realizes that Dream had been bracing for selfishness, and Hob thinks he might have died of heartbreak if not for his immortality.

“W-what?”

“I said okay,” Hob takes his other hand, stroking his thumbs across sharp, pale knuckles, “I-” He has to clear his throat, remind himself that he can scream later, “I definitely. Understand how you were triggered.” His screaming might be accompanied by a baseball bat in his bathroom.

Despite his best efforts, he can’t help but whisper weakly, “...Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did not wish to burden you.”

“It’s not a burden to not hurt you!” He’s so desperate for Dream to understand, he leans forward to cup Dream’s face in his hands, “I love you.”

Fresh tears well in Dream’s eyes, but he does not look away from Hob’s gaze, “I have given you so little.”

“You don’t need to give me anything at all. Especially not anything that hurts you. Dream,” He pressed their foreheads together, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dream lets his eyes fall closed, sighing, “I love you. And I have not been good to you in the past. I cannot deny you anything now.”

“Oh yes you can.”

Hob’s response is so quick, so light and fond that Dream lets out a soft breath of laughter before he can stop himself. When he opens his eyes, Hob is crying, but he is also grinning, “You’re stuck with my love, you’d never get rid of it so easily as just by saying no to me. I’ve loved you for six hundred years, even when you claim you weren’t good to me. I have no intention of stopping now.”

None of this makes sense. It doesn’t feel like the kind of love that could ever be directed at Dream. Ever be given to Dream. But Hob has never made a habit of lying, especially when it comes to his own feelings. Dream thinks it is a quality he should attempt to emulate.

So Dream admits, with a trembling voice, “I would prefer. To remain covered, when we make love. With clothes or bed sheets. Even when the weather is hot.”

Hob nods, smiling like Dream has given him something precious.

(Because he has).

“Okay. We can make that happen.”

Later, Hob will in fact scream into a pillow, and he doesn’t have a bat but he has a hammer that shatters his shower almost too efficiently to be satisfying. In the coming weeks he will renovate his flat, hauling in a claw foot tub and an expensive air conditioning system that he keeps blasting cold air at all hours regardless of his energy bill so that he can stay wrapped up and warm with his lover, listening to breaths that are so calm and even it makes him realize just how much they didn't used to be. Slowly, Dream will open up more about his boundaries, and his wounds, and Hob will kiss away the anxiety each time and make the space around them just a little more comfortable for him. They take a few steps back and a lot of steps forward.

Tonight, Hob turns the lights down low, and wraps Dream in blankets and then his arms, kissing the crown of his head, and takes comfort in discovering the new sound of Dream breathing deep and peaceful.

#mhmmm #delicious #this is so good!!#thank you for posting this op <3 #LOOOOVE THIS #dreamling #dreamling fic #the sandman

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