#unsoulmates au

[just-j-really]

"I just don't get it," Hob says, for the fifth or sixth or possibly twentieth time that night, glancing over the rim of his cup at Will, who's sitting on the other side of the room, cuddling with his soulmate in an armchair that's really too small for the both of them. "Why everyone's so hung up on soulmates."

It's all anyone's been able to talk about tonight- and sure, that's fair, it is Will and Ann's engagement party, but Hob has overheard the phrases 'oh you're so lucky you found each other so young' and 'why did you wait this long?' far too many times for one night. Will and Ann met as toddlers; they've never had another option and Hob cannot fathom why everyone seems to think that's a good thing.

Case in point, even his little group of Unmatched friends react to his statement with varying degrees of exasperation.

Hob is just sober enough to be aware he should probably shut up, and drunk enough that he keeps talking anyway. "I mean, I've seen 'soulmates'," he says. "My parents were soulmates, both my siblings met theirs, half of my friends are paired off by now. It's not like I don't know how soulmates work. Soulmates are..." he takes a moment, gathers his thoughts, and even though he's not entirely sure what he's about to say, the moment the word leaves his mouth he knows it's exactly right, "Stupid."

His friends laugh uncomfortably. "You're an idiot," Andrew says, not unkindly.

But Hob's on a roll now, an argument that's been simmering in his chest for years spilling out of him, the exhilaration of speaking making the words come easily. "You literally don't have to stay with your soulmate. No one has to! Everyone just goes along with it because everybody else does. But not me. I've made up my mind," he says, setting his cup down and straightening his shoulders. He's been bullshitting a bit but he means this, knows down to his bones that this is something worth staking his life on. "I'm going to meet someone perfect who isn't my soulmate, and I'll marry them instead."

He feels like he should do something solemn to mark this occasion. Stand up on a table, maybe.

Instead, most of his friends laugh at him again. "Hobs, that's the literal definition of your soulmate. Someone who's perfect for you," Gwen points out. The laughter is teasing, and Gwen's tone is more reassuring than anything else, but still, Hob finds himself frustrated.

"But there's so much more out there. So many people to fall in love with," he insists. "Shouldn't I know who's perfect for me better than anyone?"

And his friends tease him for somehow being sappily romantic in his opposition to sappy romance, and he laughs along with them and points out that his perfect person will be more understanding than them, for sure. And he's genuinely a bit hurt, but Gwen bumps his shoulder apologetically and he thinks that destiny has nothing on these friends he's made on purpose, who know him well enough for these unspoken gestures. And there's movement in the corner of his eye.

Hob looks up.

The most gorgeous man alive is standing in front of him. He's tall- probably taller than Hob, even- pale and willowy, with a mess of soft-looking black hair. His eyes are a deep blue Hob didn't think existed in real life until this moment. He looks like the slightly magical prince in a fairy tale got loose in the real world and decided to become a goth. He's perfect.

"Did I hear you say," the man asks, his voice soft and deep all at once, resonant in a way that Hob's never heard before, "you have no intention of meeting your soulmate?"

Not if he's you, Hob thinks, I take it all back if he's you.

Despite what many of his friends will argue, he is capable of not voicing every thought that comes into his head, if only under extreme circumstances, so he offers the stranger his best grin and says, "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"You'll need to tell me how that works out, then," the man replies.

"Don't encourage him!" Andrew calls from the other side of their little cluster.

The man- flinches, just a little. Hob probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been staring at him, but Hob's universe just gained a new center, so he is and he does.

"Hey," he says, catching the man's eyes, "Don't mind him, he's just boring. You really want to know how it goes, finding someone who isn't my soulmate?"

"I do," the man says, seriously, like he genuinely thinks Hob's quest is worth his full attention. It leaves Hob feeling warm, almost giddy.

"Perfect," Hob says, and then, because he's never known when to quit, "Let me give you my number, so I can update you?"

The man nods, a teasing little smirk appearing on his face, as though he and Hob already know each other perfectly, and this is a shared, ancient joke between the two of them. His fingers brush Hob's as he passes over his phone.

Nothing happens. There's no spark, no splash of color on Hob's skin marking where this stranger's fingers first dragged over his.

They are, definitively, not soulmates.

And Hob knows for certain that he's right.

[Part Two]

[just-j-really]

Concept that grabbed me and wouldn't let me go:

Dreamling soulmate AU, only they're not soulmates.

I have ideas for the canon timeline, but for the sake of argument, let's go with a modern AU. Dream and Hob aren't friends, exactly, but they're in the same friend circle, so they see each other fairly often. And one night, Dream's been dragged out drinking with some friends, and he overhears a very drunk Hob saying that soulmates are stupid, HE'S not going to go along with it, he'll fall in love with whoever he wants! So Dream (a hopeless romantic) makes some sort of bet with him, that when he finds his soulmate he'll be blissfully happy with her.

After that, whenever they run into each other at other's friends' events Dream will ask Hob if he's met his soulmate (Eleanor, according to the messy handwriting on Hob's arm), and Hob will be like "Nope! But I've got a job at this weird startup!" and then talk at him for three hours. The bet goes from a bet they're taking seriously to an excuse to talk to each other to a Weird Bit that's an essential part of their friendship.

And they are, genuinely, friends at this point, which is why it's such a betrayal for Dream when Hob answers his joking "found your soulmate yet?" with a quiet, "I think I might have. He's been asking me that question for like a year now."

Dream does not take this well. He believes in soulmates, wholeheartedly. He can't figure out a single interpretation of Hob's declaration that doesn't leave him feeling used: best-case scenario Hob legit believes what he's saying (but is still using Dream in this obviously doomed experiment of his), worst-case scenario Hob's noticed that Dream is attracted to him (even if that will never ever go any further than meaningless attraction because they are not soulmates) and is deliberately trying to take advantage of him to prove his point.

They argue. Dream storms off.

Somewhere in here, Dream has a relationship with his Actual Literal Soulmate, Alianora. It is extremely Messy, and she breaks it off because they may be soulmates but clearly this is not working. She's not the first person ever to end things with their soulmate, but it's extremely rare, and the fallout is shit-awful for both of them because everyone in their lives is trying to figure out whose fault it was, never mind that the answer was "nobody's- they met under really awful circumstances and the specific cocktail of that and the pressure, both internal and external, they were under to Be Perfectly Happy Together Forever just. Poisoned their relationship and they didn't deal with it until it exploded and by then it was too late."

Eventually, Dream and Hob resolve their argument, complete with an inn-building-equivalent Big Gesture from Hob. Their relationship goes back to the way it was, mostly, except that Dream is undeniably aware that Hob is sad and pining after Dream and trying to hide it from him. And Hob being sad is Basically the Worst Thing That Could Possibly Happen.

Dream is... more aware of the implications of that thought than he'd like to be.

And once he's noticed that it's really, really hard not to notice how gorgeous Hob is when he smiles, the way his heart flutters whenever Hob calls him a nickname or makes sure to grab Dream a coffee when he gets one for himself, the fact that he'd be perfectly happy sitting and listening to Hob talk for hours...

And things are different now. Dream's soulmate doesn't want him, he's not betraying her if he starts a doomed relationship with someone else. Hob will be happy. The only person getting hurt here will be Dream, when Hob inevitably meets his soulmate. He's setting himself up to get hurt, yes, but at least he'll get to be happy with Hob before that.

So one night he very tentatively asks if Hob still meant what he said, about Dream being his soulmate. Hob's like "Crap I thought I was hiding it I'm so sorry I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

Dream's like "You are not actually that subtle. But I'm. Glad. You still feel that way."

It takes Hob a few seconds and a fairly terrible emotional rollercoaster to figure out what Dream meant by that, and Dream is not good about clarifying. But when he does he asks Dream on a date, and Dream agrees, and before he knows what's hit him Hob's moved in with him and is very cautiously hinting around about engagement rings and he can't possibly be in love with Hob, right? Whatever's between them is too easy, too natural, too much like they added romance to their existing friendship and somehow it worked perfectly and-

Oh. Shit.

And just when Dream realizes he's invested- not just invested, committed, this was Absolutely Not how the story's supposed to go and it's terrifying but he desperately wants it anyway- just when he's got something to lose-

Hob meets Eleanor.

And almost immediately asks if Dream would mind him explaining things to her one-on-one, since he thinks it would go more smoothly that way. Dream says he doesn't, and braces himself. It's not that he thinks Hob is lying to him. He 100% trusts that Hob has made this meeting to turn Eleanor down.

He's just also 100% certain that the moment Hob has a conversation with his soulmate he'll realize just how important a soulmate is, that Dream was right and that next to the person he's destined for, Dream means nothing to him.

When Hob gets back from the meeting he's happier than Dream's seen him in months, maybe ever, and Dream braces himself.

But the first thing Hob does after closing the door is kiss Dream, for several minutes.

And the second thing he does is excitedly tell Dream, "It went really well! She said I'm not worth it!"

And Dream's like "...what."

And Hob explains that he'd told Eleanor that he was very sorry, but he already had a soulmate, and she'd been upset but essentially told him "Yeah fine, if you're this adamant about not wanting a soulmate it is not at all worth it for me to pursue anything," with a grudging sort of understanding.

And Dream's like "...what."

And they go back and forth for a bit until finally Dream's like "But she's your SOULMATE. You're not even going to TRY to have something with your soulmate in order to stay with a man who is so bad at romance his soulmate left him."

And Hob's like "I've been saying for years now that you're my perfect other half, soulmates and destiny be damned, and I meant it. You're perfect, and I'm not letting you go for anything."

And Dream... still can't entirely believe in an undying non-soulmate romance the way Hob does. But he wants to, and he trusts Hob enough to try. And several years later they're married, maybe talking about kids, and in some mundane little domestic moment Dream realizes he does entirely believe in this now, in a way that snuck up on him gradually.

And he tells Hob he's won the bet.

[just-j-really]

Unsoulmates AU, part two!

Part one is here.

Hob isn't exactly expecting to run into his not-soulmate again. The man doesn't text him after Will's engagement party, not even to provide his name, and after a week of valiantly staring at his phone and willing it to buzz Hob is forced to admit that maybe he hadn't been serious.

It stings. For once it would have been nice to have someone realize he means it when he says that soulmates are bullshit.

But he's too busy to dwell on it, much. He has sets to build and an anxiety-inducing new job to get used to and about seventeen different hobbies he's accidentally abandoning.

He's at a party with some of Will's Strange Art Friends, digging through the top shelf of Will's absurdly tall cabinets, when a deep, familiar voice asks, "What are you doing?"

"Banditry," Hob says cheerfully, once he's finished not concussing himself on the cabinet door in shock. "Will promised me he'd bought some of 'those gross licorice things only I like' but he was really unclear about where they are." The cabinet he'd been rummaging in is clearly not the place, being full of expired soda and electrical tape, so Hob closes the door and leans over to the next one. "Did you come in here for snacks, too?" he asks, when there's no response from behind him.

"No," his not-soulmate replies, blandly. "I was hoping for a moment alone." His tone clearly implies that Hob's presence is ruining his evening, and Hob should either leave the room or cease to exist immediately.

"Ah," Hob replies. It stings, again, even though that's utterly absurd and he barely even knows this man. "I'll be gone in a sec," he adds, because he'll be damned if some asshole sabotages his Snack Quest, "just let me find my licorice."

The man- Hob should really get his name if they're going to keep running into each other like this- sighs loudly, but doesn't make any sort of verbal objection to Hob's continued presence. Hob ignores him, and resumes his Quest.

It takes three minutes of stony silence, but Hob eventually uncovers the licorice in a bowl on top of the fridge, which is not even close to being 'in one of the cabinets', Will. He's about to retreat from the kitchen with his prize, when the man says, "You actually do know Will," in a tone of utter confusion.

"Yeah," Hob says, slowly turning to face him. The man is sitting sprawled on the counter, his bearing almost regal except for the part where he's staring at Hob like Hob is a dog who unexpectedly started doing calculus.

"How???" the man finally asks. Hob can hear the extra question marks in his voice, even if his tone stays even.

"Used to date his archenemy," Hob says, with a shrug. "We stayed friends after Kit moved."

If anything, this seems to confuse the man further. "Or we became friends after Kit moved, anyway," Hob adds, possessed by a desperate need not so much to fill the silence as to keep voicing his thoughts. "Up until that point I'd wanted to support my boyfriend and all, but then he left and I wanted to keep building sets so I started to work with Will instead."

"You. What?"

"I volunteered to help build sets at that little theater Will used to work at," Hob says. "That was how I met both of them, actually. But then Kit and I started dating and that doesn't actually matter to what you were asking, does it?"

To Hob's utter bafflement, his not-soulmate nods at him to continue. Again, 'regal' is the only word for the gesture, even though he's sitting on a grimy counter in the nasty, yellowish lighting of Will's kitchen.

So Hob makes himself comfortable against the fridge and starts again, detailing the entire stupid saga of Kit-and-Will-and-Hob-making-the-whole-thing-much-worse-in-an-attempt-to-be-a-supportive-boyfriend. And at some point he swerves off into just talking about Kit-and-Hob, which is nice, because most of his friends were there for Kit-and-Hob, and don't find his sappy reminiscing terribly interesting.

And somehow that loops all the way around to how he was technically working for the government at that point, which, of all things, was the root cause of him getting on speaking terms with Will again. That and Kit moving, although it is really weird talking to Kit now because he can't avoid talking about the fact that he's accidentally befriended Kit's mortal enemy-

"You're still in touch with him?" Hob's not-soulmate asks softly.

Hob turns to fully look at him and regrets it immediately. Over the course of his ramblings, he'd moved from the fridge to the counter next to his not-soulmate, so that he could sit down and also easily share his licorice.

This means that his face is much closer to his not-soulmate's than he'd expected it to be, and for a moment he's lost in the blue of the man's eyes, the open intensity of his gaze.

"Oh. Uh, yeah," he says, when he's managed to remember the question. "The breakup was..." he trails off, looking for a word, and finally settles on, "amicable?"

His not-soulmate gives him that little 'go on' nod again. And Hob knows- he knows- that he should get some higher standards, but the quickest way to his heart is, and always has been, prompting him to keep talking, and he can feel himself falling as surely as he can feel the blush overtaking his face.

So he tips his head toward his not-soulmate, so that he can keep his voice low and still be heard above the crowd in the next room, and says, "Faustus got picked up. And like half of the filming was going to be overseas, but I couldn't leave London, at least not right then." His not-soulmate gives a look that isn't so much 'confused' as 'entirely uncomprehending,' so Hob adds, "I'd messed up my knee real bad." He gives the offending kneecap a hard tap and immediately regrets it. "Long story. I spent most of that summer in doctor's offices. And hospitals. So. 'Quit your job to travel with your boyfriend for a few months' was not really an option, for me. And he didn't want to do long-distance. So we broke up."

"Your soulmate left you alone, in pain, because he 'didn't want to do long-distance'?" Hob's not-soulmate asks. There’s something raw, close to pity but more tender, in his face, which makes Hob feel unbelievably guilty for laughing at the question.

"Oh, god, no," he says, with an expressive wave of his hand. "Kit wasn't my- No. Met his soulmate while he was filming Faustus, actually, otherwise we might have-" And then Hob shuts that sentence down, hard, because the breakup itself doesn't hurt as much as that part.

"Anyway," he says, and is about to ask if his not-soulmate wants to hear the story of how he busted his knee, it's pretty funny, actually-

"But if he wasn't your soulmate-" his not-soulmate asks, leaning toward Hob.

There hadn't been much space between them in the first place, is the thing. And now Hob's not-soulmate is leaning even closer, staring at him like an entomologist studying a particularly fascinating insect, and leaving Hob with exactly two options: tilt his head up, just a bit, and kiss him, or succumb to gravity and fall backwards into the sink.

"Hey, Hobs, I just realized-" Will says, walking into the room. He proceeds to choke on his own tongue, while Hob's not-soulmate jerks away from Hob like he's on fire, and Hob gracefully avoids the sink by falling off the counter entirely.

Will is the first to regain his composure. "Oh. Morpheus," he says, nervously, "I thought you left."

Hob looks sharply up at- at Morpheus, apparently, biting back a litany of questions. It makes sense that his aloof, mysterious stranger is the same aloof, mysterious stranger that Will credits for editing his first successful play to the point that it was a success. But with the way Will talks about Morpheus he'd been half-expecting a deity.

"I did not," Morpheus says. He's back to looking bored and regal, not a hair out of its artfully disheveled place, which is just rude given that Hob is still in a heap on the floor.

"Well if you're planning to stick around," Will says, "I'd been meaning to ask you about Midsummer-"

Morpheus' eyes light up, and he slides off the counter and sweeps out of the room, Hob clutching his candy in both hands to stop himself from physically reaching out to say, No, wait.

Will, at least, lingers for long enough to mouth, "Sorry," and shrug, before following him.

"What the fuck was that?" Hob asks aloud, when he's left alone with his bruised dignity.

The cabinets have no response.

He's not sure what he's expecting after that, but it certainly isn't for Morpheus to text him, Would you like to meet for coffee? the next day.

Of course Hob says yes.

He's smarter about it, this time. Makes sure he's seated in the café, with a double espresso and a plan, by the time Morpheus comes in. He doesn't even ask so what the fuck was that when Morpheus sits down next to him, no matter how much he wants to.

Instead, he says, "Why did you ask me to come here?" with all the frustration he'd felt the exact moment he'd hauled himself off of Will's kitchen floor, knee protesting viciously, trying to make sense of Morpheus, who'd willingly listened to him talk for close to an hour and then left without bothering to say goodbye. It's a step above what the fuck was that, but not by much.

"Because I'm interested," Morpheus says, his voice low.

"In. Me?" Hob asks.

"In your experience," Morpheus says, with more exasperation than Hob thinks is really fair for someone who just said he was 'interested' while staring at Hob's lips. "I want to know what it's like. Dating without looking for your soulmate."

Ah, Hob thinks. At least that makes sense. He's aware that avoiding his soulmate makes him an anomaly- sure, actually Waiting For Your Soulmate is less common these days than it used to be; plenty enough people are willing to have casual relationships in the meantime, but even then in the meantime is an implicit part of the equation.

He can accept it, if Morpheus' 'interest' in him is purely curiosity, as long as he knows where they stand.

And, to be honest, the fact that Morpheus is curious at all is... gratifying. Most people aren't even that.

So Hob downs his drink, grins at Morpheus, and proclaims, "It's fucking brilliant."

[Part Three]

[just-j-really]

Unsoulmates, part three!

[Part One] [Part Two]

It becomes a tradition, after that. Morpheus and Hob will meet, at a cafe or a pub or completely by chance (their friend groups, it turns out, are bizarrely interconnected), and Morpheus will ask Hob if he's found his soulmate yet, and Hob will say no.

Their first few meetings, Hob makes a genuine effort to try and explain. To talk about the people he never would have met, the love he'd have missed out on, (the life he'd have missed out on), had he just sat around waiting for his soulmate to find him. About how freeing it is to get to know someone outside of those horrible soulmate-matching dates where you shake twenty people's hands in a row and move on when nothing happens.

Morpheus seems entirely baffled by it. Not just Hob's approach, but the rest, too, soulmate-matching organizations and the goddamn nightmare that is dating apps and that brief moment of panic when the other person tries to grab your arm on the first date. Hob is almost as curious about Morpheus' experience of soulmates as Morpheus is about his, but Morpheus shies away from even the blandest questions about his relationship status, so Hob is left to wonder- if Morpheus met his soulmate young, like Will did, so he's never lived with the pressure to find the One. If he believes that Destiny will bring his soulmate to him when it's time, and it's not his place to go looking. If he's cautious, gets to know a person on their own terms before touching them and finding out if they're a Match.

Hob would think that last one were the answer- Morpheus holds himself apart from other people, avoiding physical contact at all costs- were it not for the deliberate brush of Morpheus' fingers against his palm the night they'd met. At first he's terribly aware of where that mark would be, but it's easy enough to let the crush he'd been nursing fade to the background. Morpheus' interest in him is so clearly just academic curiosity, it'd be silly to dwell on it.

And even though the novelty of being listened to, if not fully understood, eventually wears off, Morpheus' curiosity is still heartwarming, and Hob, as a person, is not given to running out of things to talk about. And Morpheus proves shockingly eager to listen to him ramble about playing Hades and argue with him about what qualifies a good adaptation of a book.

It's nice. Settling. To be around him, in a way Hob doesn't know he's ever felt with anyone else.

Their fifth meeting, Hob spends the entire time gushing about Audrey, Audrey whose sister had introduced her to Hob because neither of them are terribly anxious to find their soulmate, Audrey who throws herself into helping Hob find the earbuds he lost at her house with the same fervor she applies to med school exams, Audrey whose laugh might be the most beautiful sound he's ever heard...

The look of- disgust? despair? anger? On Morpheus' face when Hob finishes that little tangent would almost be funny if it weren't so insulting.

Their meetings peter off after that. Not intentionally. But Hob will admit that his every waking thought becomes- slightly consumed, by Audrey, from the moment she looks at him sideways to make a terrible pun about roses. And even after Hob's found room in his head for other things, Morpheus is impossibly busy with some project he's working on with Will.

And suddenly it's been almost four months and they've barely spoken and Hob's rushing into a fancy bakery three minutes before they close, when he notices a familiar black coat at the back of the line. He takes a moment to straighten his jacket- this place is fancy fancy, polished in a way that makes him feel too poor to afford the oxygen inside the building- before he sneaks into line behind Morpheus.

Morpheus glances back at him and freezes, as though he'd planned to commit Bakery Robbery and Hob is now a witness.

"Hey," Hob says, grinning a bit too widely, in the vague hope that he can make them both forget the past months of awkwardness if he's just cheerful enough. "How's the playwriting going?"

Morpheus stares at him for a short eternity, then says, "Frustrating." It's the end of the sentence, but not the conversation. Hob knows he remembers that distinction.

He waits a moment, in case there's more that Morpheus wants to say. The line shuffles slowly forward- Hob really shouldn't have come here right after work, there are six people in line in front of Morpheus and only one incredibly stressed employee behind the counter.

"How is. Audrey?" Morpheus asks, uncertainly, just when Hob is beginning to think he should say something else.

Hob's fairly certain the smile on his face is answer enough to that question. "She's great. It's been. Great," he says, conscious of the fact that no matter how much he wants to wax poetic, Morpheus probably doesn't want to hear it. "She's actually- I'm going to meet her parents, this weekend," he adds, and once he's said the words aloud, it's hard not to bounce in place with sheer giddiness- he's going to meet her family! As her boyfriend! "That's why I'm here, actually. I wanted to bring something nice but the last time I tried to bake I set my kitchen on fire, so..." He shrugs, and nods at the counter.

"You really are in love with her," Morpheus says. That look is back on his face, that intense, almost visceral shade of pity. If anything it's stronger than the last time Hob saw it.

Hob, frankly, would prefer disgust. Or confusion, or scorn. I know what I'm getting myself into, he wants to say. I thought you understood that part, at least.

"Of course I am," he says instead, and the words only sound a little hollow. "Soulmates are stupid."

Another eternity passes. Morpheus makes a tiny move toward Hob, and for a brief, foolish moment Hob thinks he's going to kiss him on the forehead, as though he were a brother-in-arms dying on the battlefield.

"Then. Enjoy your dinner," Morpheus says, and turns back around.

And that's the end of the conversation.

The line keeps shuffling forward. Morpheus stares into the middle distance like a statue of some folkloric king. The woman in front of him shoots Hob several pointedly disgusted looks, and Hob- broods. Turns the question over and over again in his mind- Why is it so hard to understand that she doesn't need to be my soulmate? She's already perfect. I love her.

He doesn't ask. He doesn't get an answer.

And three weeks later, Audrey bumps into her soulmate at a concert, and he realizes she hadn't understood, either.

[just-j-really]

Unsolumates, part five:

Masterpost

“Have you found your person yet?” Morpheus asks. “Your- not your soulmate?”

It’s been a little over two months, since Hob and Audrey broke up. Somehow ‘getting dinner with Morpheus just after’ had turned into ‘additional drinks’ had turned into ‘brunch, a few days later,’ and now Hob doesn’t think a week has passed since the breakup that he hasn’t seen Morpheus, at least briefly. Morpheus has carefully avoided the subject of soulmates, of romance entirely, for the entire nine weeks, and Hob is a little ashamed and a lot grateful.

They aren’t… whatever they were, before. Hob still isn’t sure if ‘whatever’ was ‘experiment and mad scientist.’ He’s doesn’t really care, though, because whether or not he used to be Morpheus’ monster, he doesn’t think he is anymore. Not after two months of regular, friendly pleasantries and coaxing Morpheus into talking about the play he’s working on and Morpheus listening to him wax poetic about his new flat and its in-unit laundry and actual decent heat.

So it feels perfectly easy to say, “Haven’t really been looking for ‘em,” even if it aches a little. Morpheus looks a little startled by the admission, so Hob adds, “Morpheus. I just spent fifteen minutes explaining what I had for breakfast yesterday, I would have mentioned if I were seeing someone.”

In his defense, it had been a good breakfast. A breakfast worthy of fifteen minutes of conversation. He might have to steal Gwen’s soulmate solely to get her pancake recipe.

Morpheus stares at the table, twisting one cuff of his coat in his opposite hand. “But you’re certain,” he says to the table. If he were anyone else Hob would say he sounds hesitant. “You will look for them. Eventually.”

This means something to him, Hob realizes. Something more than research, or mad science, more than curiosity. Means something on a future-altering bone-deep soul-defining level.

The thought drops into Hob’s mind, like a dead bird dropped into his lap by a pet cat that genuinely thinks it’s being generous, that Morpheus’ soulmate may be dead. It would explain the coat, which he hasn’t taken off even though the White Horse is boilingly warm tonight. Would explain why Hob’s only ever seen him in sleeves that go down to, often past, his wrists. Scarred-over soulmarks don’t look terribly different from ordinary scars, at least not at a quick glance, which means that any suspiciously soulmark-shaped scar tends to draw prying glances and effusive pity, and people with actual soulmark scars do their best to hide them.

It would explain a lot about Morpheus, actually, from the distant intensity with which he’d approached the whole soulmate thing to his complete ignorance of how even normal dating works to the delicate way Will had gone about inviting him to his wedding, asking if Hob thought he was overstepping at least six times in the process.

And oh, god, Hob’s been staring at Morpheus’ arms like an asshole, hasn’t he? He consciously draws his eyes away from Morpheus’ sleeves, which means he ends up looking into his eyes instead. His eyes are so blue, a shade Hob isn’t sure how to describe as anything other than ‘pretty,’ somehow light and intense and warm all at once.

Mesmerizing, maybe. Hypnotic.

The truly off-putting combination of the disarming blue of Morpheus’ eyes and Hob’s own scramble not to think about dead soulmates is, possibly, why he says, “I’ll make you a bet,” before his brain has caught up with his mouth, or even finished trying to come up with synonyms for ‘blue.’

“Hmm?” Morpheus asks. His expression is cool, but there’s a teasing glint in those ultramarine eyes that goads Hob on.

“That you can keep asking me that, as long as you want, and one day the answer will be ‘yes, and we’re very happy together.’” Hob finishes off his drink, sets his glass down with just enough force to punctuate the challenge. “I’ll even stake something on it. You could shave my head.”

“Why would I want to shave your head?” Morpheus asks. His expression is still entirely bland, but his eyes- azure- are dancing.

“That’s not the point,” Hob informs him, leaning in. He might be a bit too enthusiastic about the idea, but he’s a little giddy for no specific reason, just a good day and good company. “The point is that I don’t want you to, and I’m still willing to bet on it because I’m going to win.”

“Fine,” Morpheus says, rolling his eyes, “I’ll take the bet.”

Hob can see right through him, though. More to the point, he can see the way Morpheus is biting at his lower lip, completely ineffectively hiding a smile, and he’s powerless not to smile back.

At first, Hob thinks Morpheus is going to take this bet as seriously as their initial Whatever That Was. The first thing out of his mouth, the next time he and Hob meet for drinks, is so have you met your person yet? And Hob says not yet, and Morpheus asks if that means he’s won, and Hob informs him that a ‘not yet’ is not a ‘no’ and also did Morpheus expect him to find the love of his life within a week? He is not the lead in one of Will’s plays, why would he do that.

For someone who looked so smug when he asked Hob if he’d won the bet, Morpheus looks- almost equally satisfied when he learns Hob hasn’t experienced a whirlwind six day long romance.

But he lets it drop, after that, and they fall back into their new-old pattern, and all is right with the world.

“You know I nearly drowned once?” Hob asks.

In hindsight, it’s not a thing he should have asked while leaning out over a large pond because he swears that’s an ancient, sunken paddleboat in the middle of it and he wants a better look. Morpheus grabs him by the shoulder and yanks him backwards almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, as though past near-drownings make Hob more susceptible to a watery grave.

“In a wave pool, yes,” Morpheus says, steering Hob away from the water’s edge. They’d been on their way to a museum, but Morpheus, for unknowable and mysterious reasons, had decided they should detour through this park on the way.

“Oh, no, after that,” Hob says, still craning his neck for a look at the sunken maybe-paddleboat. “I was like- sixteen? Got stuck under a boat when it flipped.” They reach the gravel path leading away from the water, and Morpheus lets Hob’s arm drop with noticeable reluctance.

“Just how many times have you nearly drowned?” Morpheus asks, as they trudge back toward the main path through the park.

“Uh. Two?” Hob replies. “The wave pool doesn’t count.”

“The fact that you think that is not reassuring,” Morpheus informs him, and will not budge on the issue no matter how much Hob tried to convince him that it doesn’t count as drowning as long as no one calls an ambulance.

The argument lasts them the rest of the way through the park, on a meandering route that doubles back on itself at least six times, across city streets to the museum, and through the queue for tickets. At that point Hob concedes. Not because he is wrong. He is not wrong, the other times didn’t count, but he has accepted the reality that he cannot possibly convince Morpheus of this fact.

Besides, the lure of keeping up a stupid argument shrivels and dies the moment Morpheus directs them out of the lobby area, past signs for the Theater Through the Ages exhibit, his eyes practically glowing with excitement. Hob doesn’t know what could have withstood the thrall of watching Morpheus stare at an old manuscript, a soft smile on his face. He wants to see Morpheus look this happy every day. He wants to be the reason for it.

He wants to soak in that expression for as long as he can, and that one he manages, trailing Morpheus through the exhibit like a lost puppy, absorbing exactly nothing of the room they’re in or the helpful signage or the contents of the cases. The windows could look out on the surface of Venus and there could be a sea monster in the corner giving directions and Hob would be none the wiser.

It takes Morpheus a while- Hob’s not keeping track of a stupid thing like time- to stop being dazzled by the exhibits and notice that Hob is dazzled for other reasons, but when he does he- crumples, just a little.

“You’re bored of this,” he says, as though this is an established fact Hob’s been politely not mentioning this whole time.

“No!” Hob says, “I’m not bored at all, just-” and then, thankfully, his mouth grinds to a halt before it can say any of the things his brain wants to. “A little lost?” he finally mumbles, once he’s managed to shove aside oh god please smile at me again and or climb me like a tree and actually have a conscious thought.

If nothing else, ‘lost’ has the benefit of being true, if not The Truth.

“Oh,” Morpheus says, somehow crumpling even further. A nauseous wave of self-loathing washes over Hob, for causing the light in Morpheus’ eyes to shrivel in on itself, he should have said all the stuff about oh god please smile at me again because at least that would be better than this-

“What��s that one about?” Hob says, a half step too loud, pointing at the nearest old book in a glass case.

He is, in hindsight, extremely lucky that he managed to point at a display and not a fire extinguisher.

Morpheus looks startled- Hob isn’t sure if that’s due to the words themselves, or just the volume- but turns to the case, Hob mirroring him, and begins to explain that it’s one of the few surviving volumes of a medieval playwright’s work. The explanation is stilted at first, Morpheus glancing over at Hob every few seconds as though expecting him to have turned away in disgust, but the smile slowly creeps back onto his face as Hob nods along, occasionally nudging at him to explain more.

It's Hob’s accomplishment of the year, maybe, coaxing that smile back to life, and he hangs onto Morpheus’ words like they’re oxygen as they meander through the rest of the exhibit.

The why of it all doesn’t phase him for the next several hours, because he doesn’t have time for intense self-examination. Not with Morpheus’ presence turning his mind into a dizzy slush, like his brain is made up of sunshine and honeybees and a persistent, thrumming notice me notice me notice me. Not with Morpheus failing to look aggrieved as they wander through a gallery of paintings, Hob critiquing each of them based on the presence of action and interesting animals.

Not when Morpheus grabs them each a drink at the museum café, giving Hob the chance to sneakily buy him a magnet from the gift shop, not when he looks so surprised when Hob hands him the little gift bag.

It’s only when they part ways that Hob catches himself smiling at his coffee cup, and the name Murphy in scratchy handwriting on the sleeve.

Well, shit, he thinks.

It had been easy, before, to let the tiny crush he’d been nursing wither and die. But now Morpheus is feeding it, refusing to let Hob pay for his own coffee and listening to him make stupid jokes about art history, and it has, accordingly, roared back to life, made itself comfortable in Hob’s heart.

[just-j-really]

Unsoulmates part four (a new hope)

Masterpost

Hob texts Morpheus two days after he and Audrey break up, because he's got two tickets to a ballet and absolutely no use for them anymore. He'd offered them to Gwen, first, but her girlfriend (her soulmate, actually, her soulmate she'd met at a Ren Faire in a moment out of a fairytale, complete with a kiss-print soulmark on the back of her hand) has even less interest in ballet than Hob does. And he knows bringing it up to any of his other friends will only get him concerned questions about why he keeps doing this to himself, wouldn't he be happier if he stopped actively avoiding his One True Love.

So offering them to Morpheus, who hasn't spoken to him in a month but probably won't do that, is the best option by default.

Shockingly, Morpheus replies. He even offers to meet Hob at the White Horse, a pub they'd frequented back when they were still sort of talking, to pick up the tickets.

Even more shockingly, Morpheus is already at a table when Hob arrives at the pub four nights later, like he's planning to sit and talk with Hob. Like before.

Hob is not entirely sure how he feels about that, but he's also running on maybe three hours of sleep, and the chair next to Morpheus looks extremely inviting, so he lets himself topple into it.

"If you ask me how I'm doing I'm going to get up and leave," he warns Morpheus, leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. He might just take a nap here. It's been impossible to fall asleep, these past few days, without the warmth of someone else in bed with him. And it's so easy, lying there with the tangible reminder of how alone he is, to let his thoughts spiral into why didn't she stay why didn't she even consider it wasn't it worth it?

But here, with the warmth and the noise of people around him and this unbelievably comfortable armchair, an uneasy half-doze starts to overtake him. He's drifting, wondering where in the world Morpheus found an armchair, when a soft tapping noise drags him back to reality.

When he opens his eyes, Morpheus is sliding a beer across the table to him. He doesn't say anything, just looks at Hob levelly, and Hob thinks that's why, why he opens his mouth to say thanks, what comes out instead is a cracking, "Do you know what it's like, having people congratulate you for having your heart ripped out?"

His voice sounds even worse than he feels.

Morpheus inclines his head at Hob in that familiar little nod; go on, I'm listening.

It's a small kindness, but it still makes Hob feel like his chest is cracking in half.

"Everyone acts like it's fine. Like it's a good thing. 'Yeah it hurts now but at least you'll stop wasting your life, at least now you'll find the person you were meant for.'"

He takes a breath. Takes a drink. "Nevermind that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her."

And then the whole story is spilling out of him, in an out-of-order slurry: the moment it happened- Audrey gesturing wildly as they ducked through the concert crowd, hand in hand; her stunned little gasp as her arm bumped another emphatic gesture-er; they way he'd stood there, confused, still holding Audrey's hand, while she and her soulmate stared longingly into each other's eyes.

The way she'd yes-anded even his stupidest bits, the way they'd had their own shared language of in-jokes, the way conversations with her were a dance and she always knew the next step.

The way, within a week, she'd scrubbed herself out of his life entirely, like she needed to fake her death to start her new life with The One.

"And- and I knew marriage wasn't happening, right?" he finds himself saying, some time and several drinks later. "Fuckin nobody marries their not-soulmate, which is STUPID. It's so stupid, remind me to tell you how stupid it is. But I thought. I thought we- I thought there was something. Something good. I thought maybe we could last."

The sentence gets much too wobbly at the end, and Hob swipes a hand roughly over his eyes.

"What did you want, then?" Morpheus asks.

Hob glares at him.

"If not marriage," Morpheus says, as though clarity were the problem there. He seems... sincere, though. Like he's actually asking the question, not trying to nudge Hob into an epiphany about the futility of his life goals. Hob's heard the second thing enough to know what it sounds like. And Morpheus has that- look, on his face. The Hob-is-an-insect look, but not. It's... it's like if that look were kinder, more genuine. More vulnerable.

So for what may be the first time, when asked that question, Hob actually considers his answer before responding. "I dunno what I wanted," he says. "I just want- I want someone to choose me. Not have me forced on them."

Morpheus stares at him. Studies him. As though the secret of life itself has somehow been hidden in Hob's face.

Hob stares back, pinned. Entranced. A little confused.

"You know," he says, after a moment, "I'm not actually a bug."

Morpheus sighs. "Come on," he says, "Let's get you home."

Despite Hob's insistence that he is fine, really, just a little tipsy and a lot heartsick and sleep deprived, Morpheus does walk him home.

Hob only remembers the tickets when they reach his building, and only then someone had stuck a sticker of a dancer to the back of a lamppost. "Here," he says, rooting around in his jacket pocket until he finds the envelope, and handing it over, "At least someone will get use out of them."

Morpheus stares at the envelope like he's never seen one before.

When he looks up at Hob, his eyes are glistening with tears. "Are you," he asks, quietly. He pauses for a long time, long enough that Hob starts to wonder if he'd handed over the wrong envelope, and then wonder what deeply tragic envelopes he could possibly have been carrying around.

"Are you going to look for your soulmate now?" Morpheus asks. His voice is as even, almost soothing, as ever.

He's looking at Hob as though the wrong answer will be his death sentence.

"Are you kidding me?" Hob asks. Despite everything, he finds himself grinning. "Never. The love of my life is out there, somewhere, I'm not going to discount them for something stupid like soulmates."

Morpheus smiles.

Truly smiles, for the first time that Hob has seen. It's a lovely expression, soft, hesitant, but so genuinely, contagiously delighted. And Hob knows, with the same bone-deep certainty as his disbelief in soulmates, that he'd protect that smile at all costs.

"Also," he says, because there's not much protection he can offer right not but there is always the shining, thrilling possibility of coaxing another smile out of Morpheus tonight, "I'm starving. Do you want to get dinner?"

[just-j-really]

Unsoulmates, the masterpost

The "Dreamling soulmate AU, but Hob and Dream aren't soulmates" verse, in order:

The Original Idea (semi-spoilery?)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6 (coming soon to own on video and dvd)