sweet devotion, gentle hope

by winterbuckyy

Summary:

When a strange woman sometime in the 17th century tells Hob he's a High Priest, it doesn't take him all that long to figure out which God he serves - what else could his Stranger be but a God? That settled, he spends the next decades making sure their temple (the White Horse) is perfect, that his God knows Hob is devoted.

So when his Stranger doesn't show up for their 1989 meeting, Hob doesn't take it laying down. Instead, he uses all the knowledge he collected over the years to summon his God into his temple - thus, saving Dream from Burgess, albeit unknowingly.

What follows is a series of adventures as Hob joins Dream on his quest to find his tools. They may even discover something new about their relationship on the way.

 

or high priest hob accidentally saves dream from the fishbowl and together they gather dream's tools, while falling into a relationship + bamf dream

Notes:

aria threw out a random prompt as a joke, but it actually stuck and then grew - grew so much a second chapter had to happen. so here it is, a very fun to write and a bit different story of how hob saved dream from the fishbowl

enjoy!

Chapter 1

It’s raining again, and Hob huddles closer to the wall, trying to shield himself from the cold downpour. It doesn’t really work, it never does, but it’s the thought that counts, and it’s the faint clearing of the sky he can see at the horizon that makes him feel better.

At this point waiting for a better day is all Hob has left, desperately trying to hang on, even though he can’t die, not until 1689, until the Stranger asks. And even then, he’s not sure what his answer will be, since his life is terrible, and Hob wants to sob, but there’s a part of him that always wants to keep going, that pushes him further and further into the future, meeting each day with steel in his heart.

It’s a day like any other when you’re a beggar - scrapping for food, avoiding carriages and horses, trying not to get stabbed - sure, Hob can’t die, but he’s weakened now and he’s not sure how far he’d be able to run if his immortality was discovered.

“Most curious,” a woman’s voice says suddenly, making Hob jump.

His instincts kick in, and he reaches for a weapon he keeps staches at his waist. He may be weak, but he’s not defenceless, never again. But this woman doesn’t seem like a threat - dark-haired, with kind eyes, standing in the rain as if unbothered by it. She’s strange, in the same way that Hob is, and his heart jumps.

“Pardon?” he asks, for not many stop to talk to a beggar, especially not during a downpour.

“Where is you god, High Priest? It’s not often one sees someone in such a state…”

Hob frowns. “Apologies, but I think you must’ve mistaken me for someone, I’m no priest, just a simple man.”

She laughs, cocking her head to the side. “Why, you are anything but just a man. Aren’t you leaning against the wall of your temple, High Priest? Did your god abandon you?”

“I have no idea what on earth are you talking about, fair lady,” he admits.

“I’m no lady,” she grunts with a smile. “And tell me, is there no one in your life that could be…more than they pretend to be? It is not often gods hide, but it is not our place to question them, is it?”

Hob glances at the ground for a second, stunned and thrown out of balance, and when he looks up, the woman is gone as if she was never there in the first place. He’d think she was just a hallucination brought by starvation and sleep deprivation, if not for a warm, pink shawl draped over his dirty shoulders, shielding him from the rain.

And it’s a curious encounter that sticks with him, but Hob is surviving and survival doesn’t leave space for pointless wonderings about the bigger thing, mystical gods and vanishing women. He pushes the meeting from his brain, and it only comes back in 1689, when he’s sitting in front of his stranger, drowning in his eyes.

There’s some hidden kindness in his gaze now, something almost like worry, and Hob realises with a start that his Stranger cares, in his own strange way. The Stranger cares, for he feeds Hob, gives him a pouch of coins and a room for a few days, so that he at least has a warm bed to sleep in. And that’s when the questions start to tickle in.

Hob is a peasant from the 14th century, but he’s a well-educated man by now, so with an incentive of figuring out that encounter from almost 50 years ago, he manages to push himself through. He’s skilled in many things, and trade always came easily to Hob, so it only takes him 3 years to manage a comfortable flat in London, with some savings already on his new name.

Finally, he can start digging.

It’s not easy by any means, but Hob is used to hardships, and he’s determined now, If what that woman told him is true, he’s a High Priest, and his Stranger is his god - and to be fair, it’s a notion Hob considered before, right after a demon and a vampire. There’s just something about the man, something powerful and otherworldly, and Hob isn’t surprised to find out he's a god of all things.

He’s not the most approachable one, but he has the capacity for kindness. He's the only one who truly knows Hob.

The books are scarce in information, especially since the Church forbids all pagan mentions, and High Priests do come from pagan beliefs, but Hob still remembers his past, he knows where to dig. In the end, it takes him 10 years to finally find something that could be considered trustworthy in the slightest, and he reads the slim book at least 4 times.

Much of the information is contradictory, but Hob extrapolates what he can - every God has High Priests or Priestesses, every God has some form of a temple, a place of regular worship, and every god represents something meaningful to their worshippers.

In a weird way, it does fit.

There’s the White Horse, the place where they meet every 100 years for Hob to give his offering - stories of his life, his experiences and wonders, and in return, his Stranger offers immortality. Hob is the only one who seems to regularly pay attention to his Stranger (at least as far as he knows), and well…be as it might, his Stranger does represent something important to Hob.

Hope.

It may be funny, since his Stranger is so prickly and sceptical, so dark and brooding, but in Hob's eyes, he’s hope. Hope, when the days turn dark and old ghosts threaten to pull him under, when his belly is twisting in hunger and every day seems like torture. When Hob’s will to live isn’t enough, it’s the thought, the hope, of meeting his Stranger that keeps him going.

His Stranger, God of Hope. How ironic.

Not much changes with that revelation, as they only meet once every 100 years, but Hob makes sure to sometimes…think of his Stranger, with a fond memory, or while drinking particularly good wine. Sometimes he even spills it on the ground where he stands, in respect and some form of prayer, though Hob isn't religious,

Life goes by, because it always does, and Hob grasps it with both hands, trying everything he can. And as 1789 looms closer, he can feel in his heart that he’s not doing something that his Stranger approves of. Their meeting, finally, only confirms that, and Hob winces under the weight of his disapproval.

And when Lady Constantine comes with her goons and demands, Hob jumps to his Stranger’s defence, both because he cares, and because he is the High Priest and it's his job. His God can handle himself, clearly, but Hob has always been a protector at heart.

“I will see you again, right?” he asks just as they’re about to part, clenching his fist. “This didn’t…spook you?”

His Stranger almost smiles, and Hob’s insides melt - it should be forbidden for a man to be this stunning, this breathtaking, especially a man so brooding and peculiar.

“It shall take more than one incident for me to abandon our arrangement, Hob Gadling,” his Stranger assures. “This is, after all, a special place, and you are a special person.”

Hob ducks his head to hide his blush, heart hammering. This is the first time his Stranger has been so free with words and praise, and the assurance settles into his bones like a well-loved blanket. Hob knows his Stranger won’t outright confirm his thoughts, but this is as good as that.

Hob really is his High Priest. 

That knowledge keeps him proud and happy for the next 100 years. Hob amasses a bigger collection of information and books on the subject, finally buys the White Horse, and starts making sure it’s sturdy and good, replacing the flooring, polishing the walls - only the best for his Stranger.

Many things Hob does with his own hands, a fond smile on his face as he narrates his actions, hoping that maybe, just maybe, his Stranger is listening, with a ghost of a fond smile on his lips. The inn looks better with his efforts, and people come flocking in, Hob watching from the sidelines most of the time. It’s not a lonely life, since there’s so much to see and experience, and he always has his Stranger, his Hope, waiting for him in 1889, as always.

Hob can’t explain it, but his Stranger draws him in, makes his heart pound and his palms sweat, and it’s wonderful and thrilling and scary, and he’s a High Priest with a responsibility of keeping the temple intact and proper. He doesn’t think his Stranger minds the variety of people that visit it, even those who are rejected by society - the man always seemed unconventional in the most wonderful (and annoying) ways.

He welcomes strangers in, two men discretely holding hands, a woman with her thin lips painted red to make her look more feminine (as she has not been blessed with the right body), those who are both and neither, those who are different. Hob is different too, and his Stranger takes the crown on that, mysterious and well-dressed, otherworldly in the middle of the same tavern, just more flea-ridden and crowded.

And then Hob makes a mistake.

Admittedly, he may have gotten too comfortable in his role, too presumptuous. Or maybe Hob looks at his Stranger, his Hope, and he knows, for he sees himself when the days turn dark and it’s hard to get up from the bed. There’s a part of him that fits with a part of his Stranger, one that the man guards so carefully, one that Hob catches glimpses of purely because of his familiarity with it.

He slips up, reveals too much, pushes too hard, and he’s left standing in the rain, watching as his God disappears into the darkness. The lights in the White Horse him, as if feeling that their God left them, and Hob curses, throwing his hat to the ground, fists clenched tightly.

“Fuck,” he growls, forcing anger to the surface so that he does not cry. “Stupid.”

He’s not sure who he's calling stupid - himself or his Stranger, but Hob has a feeling they’re just a couple of fools. He leans against a dirty wall, letting the cold rain wash his anger and grief away, and just breathes for a second, his heart hammering. This is not the end, it can’t be, because his Stranger is his Hope, and Hob needs him, needs that hope, that push sometimes.

It’s not the end, but the years that follow are tough.

Hob doesn’t give up, because he never does, and there’s always more to explore, to see, but it takes him 4 years before he toasts for his Stranger again, his heart now more settled. It hurts, of course it does, but Hob is too old to hold grudges, and what High Priest holds a grudge against his own God?

He continues to work on the White Horse, updating it to keep up with the times, adding little things that remind him of his Stranger - dark curtains here and there, dark wood for the tables, stained glass here and there (for some reason the image of his Stranger backlit by the stained glass windows won’t leave Hob’s mind). He continues to build up a temple for his God, patiently waiting for the meeting time to come.

And then his Stranger doesn’t show up.

Hob waits, and then waits some more, and then spills his voes (prayers) to the barman, clenching the glass in his hands. Something is tugging at his heart, like grief and despair and determination, and he huffs before slamming the drink down and heading out. 

The night is cold and fresh, and Hob allows his legs to take him away from his car, away from the White Horse, from the place where his God didn’t show up, apparently determined to prove something to Hob, even after 100 years. It’s sad and infuriating, and Hob wants to scream and cry at the same time, so he ends up in a liqueur store, buying two bottles of whiskey.

It’s not the best idea, but Hob’s not known for those, so he wanders around some more, before plopping down on a lonely bench by the Thames, and opening the bottle. It burns on the way it, but no more than the fire in his heart, the nausea in his stomach. It hurts, it hurts so damn much because Hob dedicated so many years of his life, centuries of it, towards keeping the White Horse in good condition, he made sure to be a good Hugh Priest, as much as he could, and-

His Stranger didn’t show up.

Hob groans and drinks some more, squeezing his eyes shut.

“You fucking bastard,” he snarls. “I hope-”

He hopes. Gods damn it all the way to hell, Hob hopes still, because he doesn’t know how not to hope, how to just give up, even when it hurts. He drinks some more, until the bottle in his hand is almost empty, the amber liquid glimmering in the moonlight.

“You should be here,” Hob mutters, slurring words. “You’d fucking hate this whiskey, it sucks.”

Hob finishes it, and reaches for the second bottle (his tolerance is insanely high these days), opening it easily and taking a long swing. It doesn’t burn this time, and he sags on his seat, resting his elbows on his knees.

The water is black in the moonlight, and there’s an ache in his heart, and Hob is so so angry, but a part of him still hopes, still forgives, the same way it forgave his Stranger for walking out 100 years before.

“Here’s to you, old Stranger,” he whispers, tilting the bottle until the whiskey hits the sand of the river shores. “Wherever you are.”

This time, when Hob takes a long swing, warmth spreads in his chest and he sighs, relaxing. He tilts his head back, and it’s almost like he can hear a raven’s cry - there’s always a raven in the Tower, after all.

There’s always a raven on someone’s shoulder as well, or there should be.

He’s not exactly sure what pulls him up, but a thought strikes Hob, and his eyes snap open. There is a thing he can do, after all, one last desperate cry in this wretched night, one last bastion of hope.

It’s stupid, but sometimes it’s the stupidest ideas that end up working.

The way back to the White Horse passes in a daze, and Hob knows he’s really drunk now, but nothing happens, as if the universe itself wants him to reach his goal. The door is closed, but Hob has keys to the backdoor, since he is technically the owner, and he walks up the stairs shakily, until he reaches his goal.

There are 2 connected rooms that Hob always keeps for himself, locked and protected so that no one can get in, unless they break through the door. He doesn’t keep anything incriminating there, but they’re…special. They have what it takes (hopefully) to do what Hob wants to do.

It took Hob decades to find the manuscripts he’s opening, and he’s still not sure if it really works. But he’s drunk, angry, and desperate, and there’s something in his chest chanting ‘do it do it do it’, growing louder with every second. Hob has never been good at resisting such temptations, so he drinks some more whiskey and sets down to draw.

He’s drunk, he knows that much, and yet his lines are clear and perfect, as if someone is guiding his hand, the circle done in less than 2 minutes. The rest is easy, though Hob’s heart is galloping and his stomach is twisting in knots - what he’s doing is monumentally stupid, but there’s hope.

Maybe, just maybe, Hob will be able to summon his God to the temple.

There’s no proof this will actually work, but Hob doesn’t let it stop him. He pours the rest of the whiskey into the circle, breaks the bottle and uses a sharp shard to cut a long line on his palm. The alcohol stings when Hob smears the blood all over the circle, but he grits his teeth and just thinks about his Stranger.

His eyes, so clear and bright and mysterious, always grabbing Hob’s attention. His skin, perfectly pale no matter what, contrasting with his dark silky hair and black clothes. His smiles, so rare and small, yet more precious than all the gems in the world. And finally, the hope that he brings into Hob’s life, the hope of a meeting, the light in the darkest moments when just Hob isn’t enough to make himself keep going.

There's tugging in his belly, and the cut stings more, and Hob swears it’s as if lightning is gathering in the small room, making everything shake. Through it all, he’s steady and sure, his heart finally slowing down, the alcohol almost evaporating from his blood.

Because of all of this, Hob is perfectly present and sober when something pops, his ears ring, and a naked body falls into the circle with a thump, furious glowing eyes immediately snapping up to meet Hob’s.

It worked.

Hob doesn’t know what to do, his hands shaking, heart hammering again, but then instinct kicks in and he’s throwing a thin blanket around his Stranger’s bare shoulders, smearing the circle open. He takes a few steps back, allows the other man to get up, those eyes still pinned on him, full of anger and distrust.

“Robert Gadling,” he says, and his voice is rough, as if he hasn’t spoken in months, and fuck, that may as well be true Hob is realising.

“Old Stranger,” Hob whispers, shocked. “It…worked.”

The Stranger cocks his head to the side, and for a second, the air crackles with energy, as if the man is angry and preparing to blow up at him, but then he takes a good look around them, at the blood dripping from Hob’s palm, the smeared remnants of the summoning circle…

“So it did,” his Stranger whispers. “Do you know what you did, Hob Gadling?”

“I summoned my God to his temple,” Hob replies easily. “It’s my right as a High Priest, right?”

The other man smiles gently, something mysterious in his eyes. “It is.”

It’s the first time they’re outright confirming this, and Hob doesn’t know what to do. His Stranger, his God is standing here in front of him, covered in one of Hob’s old blankets, a haunted look in his eyes for all he’s smiling.

Something terrible must’ve happened.

“My friend,” Hob starts, hands trembling with the strength of keeping them by his sides, “how can I help?”

“You already did,” he whispers, eyes full of wonder now. “You have no idea how much you helped.”

Hob ducks his head and blushes, trying not to fidget. The last time they saw each other his Stranger stormed out on him because Hob dared to say he was lonely, but now… Now, his Stranger’s eyes are filled with strange warmth and kindness, almost awe, and he’s not running away, just standing there.

Completely naked under the blanket.

He yelps and scrambles to look around. “Clothes! You need clothes!”

His Stranger chuckles quietly, a sound that seems to shock both of them, and they stare at each other in wonder for a second, his Stranger’s eyes warm still, if a bit haunted.

“They won’t be necessary, Hob,” he says gently. “There is…much I have to do, now that I’m free, and I have a place to return to, rather urgently, but-”

“Don’t leave,” tears through Hob’s lips uncontrollably. “I mean-”

He doesn’t want to cause the other man to run away again, not after only just now getting him back, but it seems like something changed, as his Stranger is just standing there, head cocked to the side.

“You don’t look good,” Hob whispers. “I don’t want you to get more hurt.”

“It’ll only be better now, Hob, all thanks to you,” his Stranger soothes, coming a bit closer. “I shall return to my Kingdom, my realm, as is my duty - it’s a long overdue visit.”

“Come back then. You missed a meeting.”

“I did,” his Stranger agrees. “And I shall return, for we have a lot to talk about, Hob Gadling. You have no idea of the magnitude of what you did. Thank you, my friend.”

Between one blink and the next, his Stranger is gone, leaving only some sand and a messy summoning circle, Hob just standing there, shocked and elated and worried, all at once. His Stranger was here, Hob did manage to summon him. His Stranger called Hob his friend.

He’s not sure how, but Hob ends up sprawled on his old couch, the mess on the floor left alone for the night, as the day’s events and the alcohol catch up with him. He wakes up with a familiar blanket draped over his shoulders, now smelling faintly of ozone and ash. He smiles.

There is some residual fear, that his Stranger disappeared and will never return, but only 2 days later there’s a knock at his door, and Hob almost drops his book when he opens it - his Stranger is standing there, now dressed all in black, tight black jeans and an oversized jacket, strangely fashionable.

“Hello,” the other man says, his lips quirking up into a smile. “I believe I promised you something, my friend.”

“You did,” Hob says breathlessly. “Please, come in.”

His Stranger looks much better than he had when Hob saw him last time, but he’s visibly weaker - if Gods can even be weaker, if they can lose weight. His Stranger seems like that, thinner and more hesitant than before, and Hob hates it with passion. The other man should always be confident and strong, always smug as if laughing internally at a joke only he gets.

Though, maybe this time, Hob will finally be in on the joke as well.

“This is…a rather long story, I’m afraid,” his Stranger says once they’re sat in Hob’s living room, each nursing a glass of red wine.

“All I have is time, my friend.”

“Dream,” the man says. “Call me Dream, for this is my truest name.”

“Truest,” Hob echoes. “You have others?”

His heart is hammering now, his vision swimming a bit. After so many years, he finally has a name. And it’s Dream of all things, of course, it’s Dream. It makes perfect sense, for the other man is like a daydream and a nightmare, mysterious and bold, sometimes cruel, but overall kind, deep inside. His Dream.

“I have been called many things over the years. Morpheus, Oneiros, the Prince of Stories, King of Dreams… But Dream is the one I prefer, only given to those close to me.”

Hob swallows. He understands the unspoken weight of the words - Dream is allowing Hob in, not only confirming their friendship but allowing Hob even closer. It’s doing terrible things to his heart, his poor beaten heart that still yearns for the unattainable.

“Dream then,” he says, noticing how Dream smiles at the sound of his name from Hob's lips. “Nice to finally have a name to go with the face. I’ve been calling you ‘m-the Stranger’ those last few centuries.”

They both pretend he didn’t stumble over his words there, didn’t almost say what he clearly desires, in those deepest, most hidden moments. But Dream doesn't give him the mercy of overlooking another thing.

“And recently ‘my God’, correct?”

Hob shrugs sheepishly. “It was as plausible as any other thing. Though, to be honest, I didn’t put you down as the God of Dreams.”

“I’m no God, Hob Gadling, but now I am quite curious what I was the God of, in your eyes.”

He shakes his head with a smile. “That’s just for me to know, for now, okay, old friend? A man has to keep some secrets.”

Dream cocks his head to the side, hair falling into his eyes charmingly. He’s so effortlessly elegant here, so at home and relaxed, in a way Hob hasn’t seen ever before. Whatever happened in those 100 years, whatever Dream went through, it certainly did change something important in him. As much as Hob hates the idea of his stranger suffering, he’s glad to see the difference.

He’s more approachable now.

“How about I tell you some of my secrets, and you shall share yours?”

“Now that, my friend, is more like it,” Hob says with a smile.

The tale that Dream shares sends a shiver down Hob’s spine, and he has to get up to wave his sword around a few times, his blood boiling at the thought of someone caging this magnificent creature down, keeping him prisoner for so so long…

There’s a cool hand covering his, and Hob almost yerks away on instinct, only to pause when he looks up. Dream is standing in front of him, his palm laying on Hob’s where it’s griping the sword, gently lowering it down. Dream’s hands are pale and slender, with long thin fingers - the hands of an artist, a pianist even. Precious, and looking so strange resting on Hob’s weathered, cracked palms, rough from centuries of work. And yet, they fit together.

“I am quite honored you’re so moved on my behalf, Hob, but you must calm yourself down, for now. I can promise you something…better later.”

Hob frowns, but obediently puts the sword on the table, falling back down onto the armchair and finishing his wine. Dream just looks at him, but allows Hob to top off his glass as well, one bottle already empty. And they’re only beginning.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he interrupts somewhere 2 glasses later, leaning closer to Dream. “He stole your tools and then lost them?”

“So it seems,” Dream admits. “It is not ideal, as I will have to look for them in the Waking World, but they’re essential in rebuilding the Dreaming and getting me back to full strength. There are many things to fix, many stray Nightmares to catch…”

“The Corinthian, yeah,” Hob hums. “He’s sure one special Nightmare.”

“He was my masterpiece, but now…after so long, I can see why he turned out the way he did. A flawed master can only create flawed creations, can he not?”

There’s an edge of self-deprecation in Dream’s voice, and Hob frowns.

“We’re all flawed, my friends, even whatever the Endless are, apparently. I’d argue that the longer you live, the more fucked up you are.”

“How wise, Hob Gadling,” Dream muses. “Based on your own experiences?”

Hob shrugs. “That’s all I have, don’t I?”

“Now you have me as well.”

He hides his blush by drinking more wine, and Dream allows him that, going back to his story. It seems to be cathartic to Dream, sharing what happened during his imprisonment, and before that, how his sibling's function (or don’t), how the Dreaming works…

“I really want to storm that blasted estate,” Hob growls. “Isn’t he still trying to summon you?”

“Not that I can tell,” Dream says slowly. “Though his son wasn’t…he was a coward, yes, but he wasn’t that greedy, or at least not as much as his father was. I think he is…glad that I’m out of that cage.”

“A coward, yes,” Hob snarls. “I wish to-”

“I know,” his friend soothes. “He will pay for his crimes, for they impacted not only me, but humanity as a whole. The Sleeping Sickness struck many, and the Dreaming is in disarray. Much work needs to be done to bring it back to its former glory.”

“You’re gonna do it,” he says confidently. “Besides, you have me, right?”

Dream raises an eyebrow. “You wish to help?”

“Of course! I dragged you out of that damned cage, which is great, but this is far from the end. I may not be some Endless being, but-”

“You are so much more special than that, Hob Gadling,” Dream finishes. “I do not wish to endanger you, and I do not know where this journey may lead us.”

Hob allows his impulsiveness to shine through, and reaches out to grab Dream’s hand. The other man stiffens, just for a second, before relaxing and looking at Hob with those shining, otherworldly eyes.

“I wish to help you, my God,” Hob whispers, his voice dripping with fondness before he forcibly reels it in. “Besides, I watched you walk away once, I’m not allowing it again, mister.”

There’s awe on Dream’s face, as if he doesn’t know how to deal with this, with Hob’s devotion and determination, with having a friend (or more, maybe more, just not now). Hob holds firm, allowing the truth to shine in his eyes - he’s not ashamed of himself, not anymore, and Dream suffered way too much, all alone, for him to now show him everything.

Dream may not know it, but he’s loved, and Hob will do his best to remind him of that, one day at a time. Starting with retrieving the sand.

Chapter 2

Notes:

thank you so much for all the wonderful comments 💜 as you can see, i finished chapter 2 quite fast AND i realised i want a 3rd chapter that'll be just fluff (it's already written)

enjoy!

“It doesn’t even hurt,” Hob mumbles when Dream grasps his hand delicately, brushing his fingers over the bruised knuckles. “Fucker deserved more.”

“And he did get more,” Dream reminds him patiently, both ancient and young. “You may not understand this, but my punishment for him was more than fitting.”

“I know.” Hob deflates. “But I wish I could…”

“Hurt him more? I know. However, I am not there to hurt, just to punish. And the stab wound will take a while to heal.”

Hob smirks in satisfaction. He couldn’t help himself and ended up stabbing the man in the stomach - not a lethal wound, but one that would fester and hurt for a long time, always reminding the man what he’s done. Just as Dream said, he doesn’t quite understand how the other man punished him, but Hob knows that his God can be cruel and brutal, and he doesn’t doubt that the punishment was fitting for the crime.

“You almost killed him,” Dream muses. “Had I known that, I would’ve-”

“I wanted to come,” Hob interrupts. “And I’m glad I did.”

Dream cocks his head to the side. “Did that bring you some satisfaction?”

“No. But it was a form of justice, and as your High Priest, it’s my right to seek it on your behalf,” Hob insists.

The other man hums, and under his touch, the bruises on his hands disappear. Hob really did almost beat Alex Burgess to death, plummeting him for every year and second that Dream spent in that despicable glass cage, and even now he can still feel the rage burning low in him. The fact that Dream set fire to the interior of the mansion helps, and they stand there together, watching it burn.

“Was it enough?”

“Nothing will ever be enough,” Dream says quietly. “But this is what I can have, and I am satisfied with it.”

Hob nods and gently lays a hand on the other’s shoulder. Dream tenses, as he’s bound to do, but relaxes the longer Hob’s hand stays there. The fire is thorough but not dangerous to the outside world, and they only disappear in a swirl of sand when there’s nothing left of the once menacing mansion.

No one left to remember what had been done to Dream, since Hob doubts the guards will retain any of their memory, and Alex Burgess is lost to the world. No one but Hob and Dream.

“What now?” Hob asks as soon as they’re back in his flat, nursing a cup of tea.

“I need to locate my tools,” Dream says softly. “And I shall have to ask the Fates for help, as I do not know where they could be - Alex Burgess had no information to give us.”

“The Fates…” Hob breathes. “Sounds dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than whatever wild goose chase they shall send us on,” Dream jokes. “The Fates are not known for their straightforwardness, I’m afraid.”

Hob shrugs. “Do what you need to do, but come back when you have the information. I won’t be left behind, and you know I have means of summoning you now.”

Dream laughs, standing up. Sand starts swirling around him, and his eyes are glowing.

“Trust me, I shall never forget it.”

In the end, Hob only has to wait a day for his friend, his God, to return. There’s a grim look on his face, and Hob frowns.

“Bad news?”

“Not something I wished to hear, but information nonetheless. I know who to ask for an answer, though I suspect it won’t be easy.”

Hob smiles widely. “This is what makes it exciting.”

Dream chuckles. “I’m glad this is amusing you…”

There’s no offence in his words, and Hob grabs his shoulders when the sand swirls around them, revealing a dark street of some suburbs - nothing special, nothing Hob would take note of. Still, Dream takes a few steps up the stairs and confidently knocks at the door, posture straight.

Hob stands close to the other man, pressing their shoulders and sides together in a show of support, and they both twitch when the door opens. An older woman stands in it, frowning at them.

“It’s a tad late for visits, isn't it?” she snaps, and Hob winces.

“Apologies,” he says before his friend can start talking - Dream is not the best at being polite. “We heard that you may know the location of a particular…object that’s very important to us.”

She straightens, and her eyes seem to be drawn to Dream. Hob has no idea if she's anything other than a normal human, but Dream isn’t tensing, so he takes it easy.

“A pouch of sand,” his God says smoothly. “One that no one could open, no matter how hard they tried.”

The woman sighs, grief coloring her eyes. “I know of it,” she admits easily, as if saying this takes a huge load off of her shoulders. “It was a cursed thing, that pouch, and I regret the day I took it.”

“You gave it away, didn’t you?” Dream asks.

“Of course!” she snaps. “It was a cursed thing that stretched my years beyond those of my husband! I watched him waste away…”

Hob winces, more than familiar with that. “We’re sorry for your grief, madam,” he says soothingly. “We just wish to locate it, so that it’ll never hurt anyone again.”

She stares at them with clear, green eyes, forever tainted by grief that should’ve never happened. Finally, her shoulders relax and she nods.

“A wealthy woman bought it from me, paying enough it set me up for life. Miss Patricia Byrne was her name, filthy rich and very desperate. Though it’d make her dreams come true!” she scoffs. “Oh, the naivety of the youth.”

Hob watches Dream observe the woman, his eyes warmer than usual.

“Your husband died thinking of you,” he says finally. “Of the night you said ‘yes’ - he kept dreaming about it. It was the happiest moment of his life, and he was smiling when he passed away.”

There are tears in the woman’s eyes, and Hob’s hand slides down to hold Dream’s, tangling their fingers together. The other man doesn’t seem to be bothered by the audience and squeezes back, the woman’s gaze drawn to them. She smiles bitterly and nods.

“You got what you wanted,” she says eventually. “And you gave something back. Go and save that poor dearie from my fate, will ya? No one else should suffer.”

Dream nods, but they keep standing in front of the door even as it closes. Hob sighs, leaning more against the other man, closing his eyes for a second. He knows how it feels, watching everyone you love pass away while you stay the same, forever young.

There’s a squeeze to his hand, and Hob opens his eyes to meet Dream’s gaze, warm and understanding.

“It does not get any easier, does it?” his friend asks.

“Not really,” Hob admits sheepishly. “But it’s always worth it.”

“So it is.”

By now, Hob is used to travelling by sand, but he still has to use Dream to stabilise himself when they materialise in a living room - clearly that of someone very wealthy, with precious furniture and soft rugs. There are two people sleeping on the couch - a woman with long red hair, dressed richly, probably Miss Byrne herself, and her companion, who also turns out to be a woman, with fair skin and blonde hair.

“Ah,” Hob whispers.

Dream tugs him closer, and they stand like that, just watching. The world is still not kind to those who prefer their own gender, and Hob wants to protect those women, wants to bring them to the White Horse and tell them it’ll get easier, it’ll be okay.

However, it’s not why they’re here, so he allows Dream to tug him away, into a dark hallway.

“I can feel it’s close, so please try to stay in the present. I do not know how strong the influence will be,” Dream warns.

And Hob can feel it, tendrils of something trying to tug him into a fantasy, but there’s no need - all of his daydreams are walking right by his side, their hands brushing from time to time. Hob’s eyes are wide when he takes in the sight of the small pouch so unassuming but the cause of such grief, resting innocently on a pedestal.

Dream sighs, carefully pulling it closer, opening it with gentle fingers. The sand slides between his fingers, and Hob smiles, transported back to that night in 1789, seeing his Stranger’s power for the first time - not that he needed that show.

“We are done here,” Dream says, already reaching for his sand when Hob's hand stops him.

“Wait,” he says. “Can we- How far are we from London?”

His friend cocks his head to the side. “I believe it’s 42 miles to London from this estate.”

“Okay,” Hob breathes. “Can I leave a note? Just…I know what they feel, all alone and different, and I don’t want to-”

“You may,” Dream allows. “I know what they dream about and I believe it would be…soothing for them, to know they have a place to go to.”

Hob sends his friend a wide smile, and they nick a free page and a pencil from a table in the hallway. He knows how much of a change this is for Dream, to actually care about others that way. Hob may not know much about his beloved Stranger, but he's good at reading people, and he’s more perceptive than most think.

This Dream makes Hob even more proud to be his High Priest.

“We can go,” he whispers after putting the note on the table by the couch the women are sleeping on. “I hope they come.”

Dream’s chuckle is like sand. “I believe they will. After all, doesn’t everyone wish for companionship?”

Hob laughs when the world disappears around them, and they end that night over a glass of good whiskey, Hob recounting the night he summoned Dream to the White Horse. His friend promises that he’ll get back to Hob as soon as he knows where the rest of his tools are, and Hob sleeps easily, dreaming of a future he wishes to see.

A visit to Hell of all places is not in that future, but beggars can’t be choosers, and Hob is determined to stick by his friend.

“You are not leaving me here,” he protests for the 4th time. “I said I’ll go and I’m fucking going, Dream.”

Dream huffs. “You are surprisingly frustrating for a human.”

“And you’re surprisingly bitchy for an Endless, so we’re both astonished here,” Hob snaps back. “Now get us to that damned Hell, or gods help me, Dream-”

The world dissolves into nothing, only to form back into a desolate land - just sand and nothingness as far as Hob can see, an impressive castle looming on the horizon. He hisses, already feeling his bones want to crawl out of his skin, but persists.

And then promptly chokes on his spit when he glances at Dream and sees what he’s wearing.

“Something the matter, Hob?” Dream asks smugly, raising an eyebrow.

Hob is sure that his friend knows exactly what’s the matter, but they both pretend not to know for now. It all doesn’t negate the fact that Dream is wearing some form of armour now, with a long dress flowing around his legs, leather and steel wrapped around his chest and shoulders.

It’s the first time Hob sees him like that, and he’s hit with the longing to see Dream in proper armour. He used to be a knight, back in the day, and he knows how uncomfortable that armour got, but he needs to see his friend in it, preferably black and sleek, something befitting of his style. He’d look gorgeous.

He flushes lightly when his eyes finally meet Dream’s but the other man doesn’t seem angry - if anything, he’s intrigued, his eyes bright and bottomless.

“This shall not be an easy journey,” Dream warns.

“I don’t do easy,” Hob replies. “Lead the way.”

The wasteland stretches almost impossibly far, and Hob feels as if they’ve been walking for hours. His legs don’t hurt and he doesn’t get thirsty, even with the dry sand blowing in his face from time to time, but there’s this deep ache in his chest. Though, he suspects, a human in Hell will always feel out of place.

“Do you know who has it?”

“No,” Dream replies. “But Lucifer Morningstar shall see me anyway, as I am the ruler of my Kingdom, weaker though I am now.”

“Is Lucifer more powerful than you?” Hob asks, honestly curious.

Dream scoffs. “By far, especially now. But they shall hear me out, if only because they are curious.”

Hob hums and they continue on, passing by skeletons and old battlefields, the huge castle looming over them as they get closer. Dream pauses before the gateway, and everything in Hob shivers, as if it can tell how wrong everything is, how unnatural. From where he’s standing, he can see that Dream isn’t as confident as he likes to pretend to be, probably for Hob’s benefit.

His shoulders are drawn back, lips pressed together in a frown, and his eyes remind Hob of that night when he first summoned his old Stranger, haunted and angry at the same time, a deep fear underlining everything. 

Hob takes a deep breath, and then leans closer to the other man, pressing their sides together. They’re off-height, so he can easily lean in until his lips brush against Dream’s ear, his heart galloping from nerves and excitement.

“By the way,” he murmurs, for Dream’s ears only. “You were my God of Hope, when I first realised, and you still are now.”

He can feel how Dream tenses under his hand, but then there are loud steps and Hob pulls away, their faces falling into masks as a huge being towers over them, his voice grating and unpleasant, causing Hob’s palms to sweat.

In spite of Hob’s greatest fears, they are let in, but the journey to the heart of the castle is just as hard as the precious one was, and Hob digs deep into himself, into that place he reached while summoning Dream, and just holds on, resisting all influences of Hell.

He will not make Dream regret bringing him here.

Lucifer Morningstar is the most stunning being Hob has ever seen, while also not holding a candle to Dream’s otherworldly beauty. Their wings are as impressive as their blonde, almost cherubic, hair, and it’s easy to see how they were Lightbringer before, God’s most beloved child. Hob is steadfastly refusing to think about the theology of this whole thing too much, he likes his sanity as it is.

As much as Hob doubts, Lucifer doesn’t try to trick them - the demon, however, does, choosing his Lord as his champion, both of them smirking in Dream’s face. Hob doesn’t allow his worry to show on his face, standing still and steady by Dream’s side, their arms brushing.

“How curious of you, Lord Morpheus,” Lucifer croons. “Did you not bring your human here to be your champion?”

“I have never needed a champion, Morningstar,” Dream replies. “And I still do not. Let us proceed.”

The Devil disappears for a while, and they’re led up, so that the whole of Hell can watch this duel. Hob has no idea what it’s going to look like, but he’s nervous and excited, scared and impatient at the same time - it’s so beyond his imagination to think about what two extremely powerful beings could do to fight, especially for something as important as Dream’s helmet. He’s just a human witnessing beings that are more than gods duel.

Lucifer returns wearing an all-black armour, towering over Dream easily, though his friend straightens his shoulders, as if unconcerned with the whole affair. Hob presses himself against a wall, and his gaze catches Dream’s - he knows it’s a sign of respect that his old friend doesn’t demand Hob to leave. He nods.

Then, the demon who has Dream’s helmet steps forward, addressing the crowd waiting outside.

“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. Today for your entertainment and delectation, a formal challenge. The challenger is Dream. Once the Master of the Realm of Sleep. As the challenged, I've selected my champion, Ruler of Hell, Lucifer Morningstar... to represent me in a contest of skill, confidence and transformation. The oldest game.”

The oldest game.

Hob watches with wide eyes as Lucifer begins, their voice calm and sweet, like chocolate, like poison. He’s startled when Dream’s response causes the Devil to stumble, as if the arrow did actually hit them. When Dream's neck and jaw cover in black veins, and scratches appear on Lucifer’s face, Hob understands - a game of imagination, where they bring it to reality.

A fight to the death.

He squeezes his hands into fists and just stands witness, aware that he could lose his friend, his God, his love, in this. Dream himself said that Lucifer is far more powerful than him, especially now, and they are in Hell, in their territory. 

When Dream slides to the ground, Hob’s heart breaks, but he stands there, grinding his teeth, his eyes trained on the other man. He knows better than to interrupt a duel, even when it feels like his chest is being torn apart by fear and grief, his blood boiling and heart hammering. When his eyes catch Dream’s, the Endless stares at him in wonder for a second, and Hob allows his face to go slack with affection. He looks like a love-struck fool now, but it hardly matters when it causes the other man to rise.

“I am Hope,” he says, his eyes fierce again when he faces Lucifer, fearlessly staring at them.

“Hope,” they echo.

“Well, Lightbringer? It's your move. What is it that kills hope?”

Hob can recognise a taunt when he hears it, and it’s clear that Lucifer does as well, for he almost snaps at the demon to give Dream his helm back. He dares to step a bit closer, hovering around Dream, and his friend nods at him, though there’s a deep tiredness in his eyes.

Hob wants to hug him.

“Thank you, Lightbringer. The Ruler of Hell is honourable, indeed. I will not forget this,” Dream says with a nod, but Lucifer isn’t done.

“Honourable? You joke, surely. Look out there, Morpheus. The billion Lords of Hell stand arrayed about you. Tell us. Why should we let you leave? Helmet or no, you have no power here. After all... What power have dreams in Hell?”

“You say I have no power here. Perhaps you speak truly. But to say dreams have no power in Hell…” Dream trails off, and Hob shudders, feeling a wave of energy go through the air. “Tell me, Lucifer Morningstar, what power would Hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream... of Heaven?”

He gasps when the Lightbringer’s eyes well up with tears, and it’s hard to listen to what they say later, allowing Dream to put a hand on Hob's lower back to lead him out. They’re silent, but not quite so tense on their way out, and no one dares to stop them, most demons turning their heads away, almost escaping Dream’s gaze.

“You did it,” Hob whispers when they’re back where they entered, the wind whipping Dream’s dress harshly. 

“We did it, Hob Gadling,” Dream corrects softly. He stares into Hob’s eyes, and his knees weaken at the look in them - almost tender awe, almost more than just friendly affection. “You have no idea how your words decided the fate of this duel.”

Hob swallows, and his smile is brittle, but proud. “I just told you the truth.”

A cool hand grasps Hob’s chin, and he gasps when Dream forces him to look up, meeting the other’s eyes. They’re completely black now, with lights shining in them like galaxies, like stars. Hob is breathless just looking into them, and Dream’s small smile only adds to the devastation.

“For a duelist to truly use their strengths in the oldest game, they need to believe it, they need to envision it, Hob. And had it not been for you, I do not know if I would’ve envisioned myself as hope.”

It feels like some haze takes over him, and Hob’s hands move without his permission, cupping Dream’s face, pulling him closer. He hears his friend make a soft sound, but he swallows it with his lips, kissing the other man soundly, but passionately, even though his hands are shaking.

For a brief second, nothing happens, and Hob almost cries in despair, but then Dream comes alive under his hands, one arm wrapping around Hob’s waist to pull him closer, kiss him deeper. His tongue is cool and soft, and Hob opens up without hesitation, angling the other’s face to deepen the kiss more, feel his warmth pressed against his chest, his hips.

When Dream tries to pull away, Hob chases him with his lips, and that actually causes the man to chuckle. He returns the kiss easily, and Hob gets lost in it, his head almost swimming in delight and adoration, feeling as if Dream’s arm around him is the only thing keeping him chained to the ground.

The cold hellish wind is still whipping against them, and Hob has to force himself to stay still when Dream pulls away again. His God looks stunning, a subtle flush on his royal cheekbones, his lips puffy and red, eyes shining.

“That doesn’t strike me like the right place for that,” Dream says, voice hoarse.

Hob shrugs with a smile, feeling lighter than he had felt in centuries.

“You’re a God of Hope in Hell,” Hob murmurs, “I say anything is possible.”

Dream’s smile is soft and fragile, and Hob wants to cup it in his hands and protect it forever. He can’t, however, and Dream’s eyes tell him they have to move, so Hob reluctantly steps away, watching Dream out on the helmet. It immediately makes him look more dangerous, scarier, but all Hob sees is his God, his beloved friend - it doesn’t change anything.

He fearlessly slides his hand into Dream’s when the man’s head turns to him, and the sand starts swirling around him when they disappear. The world is dark and damp when they materialise somewhere, and Hob gasps when he sees the faint red glow coming from the opposite wall.

They’re standing in some magazine, old and cluttered, and Dream is heading towards the shelf where the red glow is coming from and Hob follows a few steps behind - he doesn’t know the effects the ruby will have on him, and Dream warned him about it.

It’s only because of that he’s prepared to catch Dream when he’s thrown back, both of them grunting as they hit the opposite wall. Hob’s back aches, but he clutches Dream in his arms, both of them a bit shocked.

“What…” Dream breathes, confused.

“I’m gonna assume that should not have happened,” Hob says dryly, still not letting Dream go.

“It does not recognise me as its master,” Dream hums.

He pulls away gently, but still brings Hob forward, and they observe the ruby from a few feet away - Hob clearly remembers what it looked like before, during every one of their meetings, and something is different now.

“Whoever had it, changed it,” his friend says, both admiration and hatred in his voice. “It’s…refusing to let me hold it.”

Hob huffs. All this work, a trip to Hell of all places, and a ruby is what defeats them? It sounds ridiculous, and Hob refuses to give up now. Dream’s eyes are troubled when he looks at it, the helmet now off, and the red light reflects in them, almost making them glow.

Well…

Dream’s tools are useful, and Hob knows they make him more powerful, but they’re not the source of his power - Dream said multiple times that he’s the personification of a concept, that his power comes from when the universe itself did not exist, that he’s Endless, more than any god. And those are his tools, that he had to have created, since no one else could, as dreams are nightmares are his domain.

Hob knows his impulse control can be a bit lacking, but even he’s surprised when he makes a mad dash for the ruby, grabs the whole box, and smashes it into the ground. Dream gasps and the ruby cracks into millions of small pieces, exploding with a shower of red light, and then Hob’s standing somewhere, emptiness surrounding him. There’s sand around his ankles, and he frowns, looking down.

The sand is white, and it seems to be falling down from what he’s standing on. Who he’s standing on.

Giant, familiar eyes gaze at him, and Hob’s mouth opens in awe when he takes in Dream. Huge, standing in a field of empty darkness, his pale skin glowing, his lips pulled into a small smile.

“I forgot how much of myself I poured into the ruby,” Dream says, and his voice echoes, rumbles all around him.

Hob just stands there, head craned up to look at this eternal being, and his heart is beating fast, like a bird wanting to be set free.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, words escaping him before he can catch them.

Dream almost startles, but his hand doesn’t move an inch, leaving Hob standing there confidently. Those bottomless eyes soften, and Hob almost swoons when the small smile on Dream’s face spreads to form something much wider, more loving.

“I can’t seem to stop thanking you, Hob Gadling,” his God says softly. “It is all because of you that we are even here.”

Hob ducks his head with a shrug. “I just want to help.”

“One day you shall realise just how much you helped,” Dream replies. “Thank you for that gift, my High Priest, my friend.”

My love goes unsaid, but Hob feels as if he hears it anyway, somewhere between the grains of sand slipping from Dream’s palm, swirling around them in a familiar pattern.

Notes:

please let me know what you thought - the comments feed the soul lmao, and the starving author

as i mentioned, there'll be a chapter 3 which is just pure domestic fluff because they (and we) deserve it. so keep an eye out at that

as always, love ya and see ya next time ✨🌑

Chapter 3

Notes:

finally we're at the last chapter! thank you SO much for everyone who commented and left kudos, i'm so happy you enjoyed this story so much. i hope the last chapter brings you joy as well

huge thanks to my beta, as always 💜

enjoy!

He’s woken up by soft kisses trailing down his naked spine, only stopping when they encounter the sheets that pool at his waist. Hob smiles lazily and hugs a pillow tighter to his chest, not opening his eyes yet - he can feel that the sun is hitting them directly, and he’s far too sleepy for that.

“‘s too early,” he mumbles.

Dream replies with a deep chuckle that still sends shivers down Hob’s spine, and a familiar shirtless body presses against his back, arms wrapped around his waist. He smiles, leaning into the touch.

It’s been such a long road to get Dream used to human touch, but Hob’s proud and honored to have been the one who led his lover through it, one gentle hug at a time. With every kiss, every touch, it became easier and easier, and now Hob has one clingy lover.

He adores it.

“Your classes start in less than 2 hours,” Dream whispers, lips brushing against his ear.

“They’ll be glad if I cancel.”

His lover laughs. “Undeniably,” he agrees. “But you will regret it later, when you shall need to make up those lost lectures at the end of the semester.”

Hob groans, aware that Dream is right, but feeling very contrary at the moment. His lover, his God, pulls Hob closer to himself, pulling his face away from the pillow in the process, and he leans his head on Dream’s shoulder, enjoying the kisses that the other man lays on his neck. They’re featherlight, but Hob can feel the sting of marks and hickeys that undoubtedly adorn his neck.

“Dream,” he grumbles. “It’s too hot for a turtleneck, I told you to be careful.”

He can feel his lover shrug, lips probably pulled into an infuriating smirk.

“And I chose not to heed that warning. You are far too irresistible, my beloved.”

Hob’s face colors a bright red. “Compliments won’t get you out of this one,” he says, rather unconvincingly.

“Won’t they? I feel like they will,” Dream teases. “I may be Endless, but even we are susceptible to otherworldly beauty, I’m afraid.”

He’s pulling a pillow to his face before he can think about it, trying to hide the furious blush that’s spreading there. Hob was sure that he got rid of the ability to blush around the end of 17th century, but his lovely Stranger can always prove him wrong, and he continues to do so.

“You’re terrible,” he says flatly.

“Terribly distracting?” Dream offers.

Hob just has to turn around in his arms at that, breath momentarily stolen by his God’s beauty - eyes almost sky-blue thanks to the sunlight, face lightly flushed, lips spread in a wide smile. He looks almost nothing like that haunted, angry man that Hob inadvertently pulled into the summoning circle, nothing like the man that met him every 100 years.

He’s even more gorgeous now, though far more human.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” he notices fondly, cupping Dream’s face in his hand, gently brushing his cheekbone.

Dream leans into the touch easily, courtesy of decades spent together at this point, but Hob's heart jumps in delight the way it always does. Somehow, through the years, Hob still feels like he’s just a fool freshly in love, excited by every show of affection and kind world. He hopes it never passes.

“It’s rather hard to be in a bad mood in your presence, Hob Gadling,” Dream drawls. “I’ve been told you’re like sunshine in human form.”

Hob thinks back to his first professions, to the blood he spilt, the people (sometimes innocents) he killed, to that cursed ‘business’ he participated in around the end of the 17th century…

He’s nothing like sunshine, too full of dark spots and shadows, parts of him forever stained by blood, parts of him made of rage and desperation to survive. Hob’s selfish sometimes, he’s determined, but too stubborn, and he’s a slow learner, but he’s definitely not sunshine.

A gentle kiss to his cheekbone pills Hob out of his head, and he opens his eyes to look at Dream whose face is set in understanding.

“I can’t say I disagree,” he murmurs. “Sometimes too hot and quite irritating, and sometimes lacking expected warmth, you are rather like sunshine.”

“I’m far from perfect,” he scoffs.

His lover nods. “That is true. But was it not you that told me, not that long ago, that the older we are the more flawed we become? And you, my love, are not the young man you once were.”

Hob snorts and hides his face in Dream’s neck, the other’s arms wrapping around him soundly, encompassing him in safety and protection. Somehow, Dream’s unconventional method of support really helps - it’s good that his lover doesn’t see him as perfect, that he can notice all of Hob’s dark parts and flaws.

He does, after all, do the same to Dream, to his God.

“I found that hope is rarely the perfect dainty thing people visualise,” Hob says after a while. “Hope is born out of stubbornness, most of the time, and it’s far from gentle.”

“Hope does not need to be gentle, Hob, as long as love is,” Dream replies. “That is more than enough.”

He has to lay there for a few minutes after that, just basking in Dream’s love and words, humming when his lover’s hands brush down his back, tracing ancient letters and confessions no one will ever decipher.

“I’m afraid you need to get up now,” Dream finally declares. “You dislike being late.”

Hob snorts. “I hate it, yeah, but Danielle hates it even more and she’s just looking for a reason to sack me.”

“Jealousy does not suit her,” is what his lover says. “But it is a rather human emotion.”

He glances at Dream from the corner of his eye, momentarily distracted by his simple beauty - messy bed-hair, hickeys on his shoulders and neck, red sheets pooling at his lap as he sits up, lit by the sunlight. He’s so unbelievably lucky.

“Hob,” Dream says, and there’s smug laughter in his voice. “Clothes.”

“Yes, clothes,” he murmurs, finally digging out his turtleneck from the wardrobe.

It’s a pleasant, warm shade of yellow, and it matches the gentle brown of his pants, and Hob is struck by the contrast when Dream comes to stand next to him in front of the mirror, now back to his black jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, one of Hob’s bracelets on his wrist.

“We sure make a pretty picture, darlin’,” he drawls, wrapping an arm around the other man.

Dream rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling, even as he drags Hob to the kitchen.

“I find it both strange and amusing that now I’m the one making sure you hurry up and get everything done,” Dream says in the kitchen. “It wasn’t that long ago when our roles were reversed.”

Hob chuckles, thinking back to those first few years after 1989, when they were figuring out how to exist together, how to be together while still remaining who they were. Dream, after all, couldn’t drop his duties, nor did he want to, and Hob had a separate life outside of being a High Priest. It definitely wasn’t all smooth sailing, but he’s happy where they are now.

“I got lazy in this century,” he explains. “It’s a good thing you don’t actually need to sleep, or I’d be late more often than not.”

Dream smiles smugly, eyes trained on Hob’s neck. It’s covered now, but he can feel the sting of those hickeys, and he shivers at the reminder of being in the Dreaming the previous night, of what they’ve done… Having someone as creative and powerful as Dream for a partner sure did come with many advantages.

“Will you walk me to the uni?”

“I’m afraid not, I promised Lucienne I will return as fast as possible,” Dream says, a bit regretful.

He comes to stand in front of Hob, and they trade a few slow kisses in his sun-lit kitchen, Hob’s arms wrapping around his lover, his Hope, his everything. It’s lazy and familiar, and he desperately wants to push Dream against a counter, but they both have to go, unfortunately.

“You’re entirely too seductive, Hob Gadling,” Dream whispers against his kiss-swollen lips, right before disappearing.

Hob eyes the small amount of sand on his kitchen floor and decides he doesn’t want to deal with it now. The day goes as normal, though he does get a few pointed looks and hidden chuckles when he stretches his neck and the hickeys peek out, but Hob’s used to it - Dream is a very possessive man, and he really doesn’t mind being marked.

There’s someone waiting for him on the windowsill of his office when he drops by, and Hob smiles, opening the window.

“Hi, Matthew,” he greets the raven. “Dream sent you?”

“Boss wants to tell you that you have a reservation at that fancy Italian place you like, at 6 pm today,” Matthew says, exasperation almost radiating off of him. “I swear, he needs a fucking phone or something, I’m not a messenger pigeon!”

“Good luck trying to convince him, I’ve been trying for 12 years now,” Hob snorts. “He’s stubborn as hell when he wants to be.”

Matthew looks at him, admiration and surprise in his black eyes. “I keep forgetting ya and the boss are like, fucking or something. Wild that he’s getting laid.”

Hob rolls his eyes. “The correct term here would be ‘relationship’, Matthew. We’re in a relationship, we’ve been for over 30 years now.”

The raven makes a shocked squeak. “And he didn’t tell me!”

He shrugs with a small smile. “You’re new.”

Matthew has been Dream’s raven for barely a few weeks, and there’s a lot he still doesn’t know about the Endless, not that Hob’s surprised. It came as a shock that Lucienne managed to convince Dream to accept another raven, as the man has stubbornly resisted for 30 years. Though, after Jessamy, Hob wasn’t really surprised.

“And you’re apparently not new,” Matthew says, suspicion in his voice.

“Oh, so far from new,” Hob laughs. “But sorry, gotta run, bright minds to teach and all of that.”

He’s out of the room before Matthew can ask him any more questions. It’s not that Hob is secretive or doesn’t want to share, but he doesn’t particularly trust the students not to barge in or listen in - they’re chaotic little buggers, and he doesn’t need his long life story spilt to the public.

Matthew hovers around the university for a while, but Hob focuses on teaching, and when he’s finally free at 5 pm, the raven is gone. Instead, there’s a note on his desk written in Dream’s flowy cursive, and Hob smiles when he sees it.

 

I shall pick you up at 5:40 pm, darling.

 

So many years together and Dream is still the same dramatic, endearing bastard Hob pulled into the White Horse in 1989. So many things changed, and many stayed the same, and this is exactly how Hob likes it.

He takes the tube back, and smiles when he sees the New Inn - the White Horse is not far away, waiting to be demolished, and some part of Hpb aches for it, but a bigger part is happy about the new place. The White Horse was such a crucial part of their journey, the place where they met, the safe harbour Dream was pulled to from his captivity, the place where Hob finally heard all of the secrets spilling from his God’s mouth. It’s the first Temple of Dream, Hob’s God of Hope.

The New Inn is a clean state, a tabula rasa for them to dress up as they wish. It’s the temple that Hob build with his own hands (figuratively, as it’s not the 14th century anymore), the one that they decorated together, Dream taking to sitting on his shoulder in raven form as Hob painted the walls. They chose the decorations together, getting Dream used to public places in the process, and it’s very dear to Hob’s heart.

It’s home.

Hob changes the pants into black ones, throwing on a loose casual jacket as well, putting on the necklace Dream gave him, the one that reminds Hob of his eyes. And at 5:40 pm exactly, the front door opens.

He smiles when he sees his lover, holding a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand. They contrast starkly with his all-black, elegant attire - the long-sleeve changed into a dress shirt adorned with silver thread, a fashionable jacket on top of that.

“What a gentleman,” Hob teases, coming up to kiss his lover silly.

They sway together, and Dream pulls him closer, safe and sound in their home, a space they share as much as they share the Dreaming. 

“I learned from you, my beloved,” Dream whispers. “They shall not wilt until you wish it.”

Hob glances at the sunflowers, not missing the poetic irony - here he is, an immortal man holding immortal flowers.

“A gift from your sister?” he asks, heading to the kitchen for a vase.

“She’s quite taken with you,” Dream confirms. “Still wishes to meet you, but I always decline for if I allow her, the rest of my siblings will follow.”

He frowns and the air turns sour for a second - it’s been 30 years since Dream found out about Desire’s plan, and it’s as contained as it can be, but it still hurts his lover, Hob knows. 

“I’ll gladly wait to meet Lady Death,” Hob says in an attempt to distract Dream. “I have, after all, so much to live for.”

Dream rolls his eyes but offers him his arm, firmly leading him outside.

“Right now it’s our reservation at Mason’s,” he says. “I know you were craving it lately.”

“Really? How?”

“It was rather hard to miss as you kept complaining about it for the last 4 days,” is Dream’s dry response. “And what kind of partner I’d be if I didn’t do my best to keep you happy?”

“Oh, you keep me plenty happy,” Hob whispers against Dream’s ear. “But I'll never say no to good food, they just don’t make it the way they did in the 20th century, you know?”

Dream very clearly does know, but he allows Hob to chatter away anyway, a fond smile on his face. This continues during dinner, as they sit and eat one of the best pasta dishes Hob has ever tasted. Even Dream eats a bit, though he does it mostly for Hob’s comfort (and some pleasure, though Hob is yet to make the man admit that fact), and they share a bottle of wine.

It’s a pleasant evening, one of their date nights that they like to spring up on each other, just to keep it a bit interesting, a bit exciting. The Waking World is not Dream’s preferred realm, but he makes an effort, for both of their sakes.

“We definitely need to come here more often,” Hob says, rubbing his belly.

Dream gives him an amused look from above his wineglass. “You always say this, and then refuse to order when I suggest it, citing that it’s a ‘special occasion place.”

Hob rolls his eyes. “You just need to order it anyway, when I get like that, since every day with you is a special occasion.”

He enjoys how this makes Dream blush a tiny bit, the man hiding his pleased smile in his wine. It’s not often that he manages to surprise and flatter Dream like that - not very shocking, considering that he’s the personification of the collective unconsciousness of humanity. Dream is very creative.

“A slow walk home?” Hob offers when they finally get out of the restaurant, well after 8 pm.

Dream wraps an arm around his waist without a word, and they just walk, wandering onto the shores of the Thames on the way. Hob smiles widely when he sees the bench he sat on, over 30 years ago on that fateful night.

“There’s something poetic in coming here every few weeks with you,” he says, leaning his cheek on Dream’s shoulder. “Do you think something from the outside pushed me to try and summon you?”

His lover hums. “The human mind is a wonderfully complex place, capable of coming up with astonishing ideas, even if they’re usually deemed impossible. While it’s no entirely out of the question that someone, like Destiny or even the Fates, pushed you to summon me, I would lean more into the theory that it was all you. It usually is.”

Hob hums, snuggling closer to his God. He knows now that Dream is no god, but a part of him will always look at the man and see Hope, that elusive, but ever-present thing that kept pushing him through the darkest times. The Endless don’t have High Priests, Hob has been informed, but Dream never asked Hob to stop referring to himself as such. If anything, he encourages it, eyes shining with affection whenever they look at the New Inn.

“Will you join me in dreams today, love?” Hob asks when he’s done with his shower, seeing Dream lounging on the bed.

“It will be you who’s joining me tonight,” Dream replies. “I have some guests to receive, and you shall make a fine companion, I think. Would you?”

Hob hears the unspoken question, and simply slides into his lover’s arms, resting his head over Dream’s heart.

“It’d be my honour to join you,” he whispers.

Dream tilts his face up for a kiss and Hob lets himself get lost in it, the slick pleasure of the other’s mouth, the strong but careful arms pulling him closer. He rests against the other man easily, melting into him, and they keep kissing until Hob is too sleepy to even respond.

He can feel the other man pulling him closer, and he nestles into him, humming when Dream gently scratches his scalp, pets his hair. It’s easy to fall asleep, and when Hob opens his eyes, Dream is sitting on his throne, the stained glass behind him showing a pair of brown eyes - he tries not to blush.

“Ready?” his lover asks, rising from his seat, dressed in a robe that looks like the night sky.

“Born ready,” Hob replies, sliding his arm into the crook of Dream’s elbow, also dressed richly - almost like a King in his own right.

Together, they greet the delegation.

Notes:

please let me know if you enjoyed and leave a few comments - it's the last chapter and i'd love to know your thoughts. again, thank you for reading, this was a delightful story to write, and im really glad i did it

i'll be back with more 'dream with kids' series + i have a lil merlin au planned, mayhaps...

as always, love ya and see ya next time!

Notes:

please let me know if you enjoyed - comments feed the starving author!

a second chapter will have much more interactions and actual action (i played myself writing this), i promise you that, but for now... many plans, we shall see what comes out of them. comments make me write more, just saying...

as always, love ya and see ya next time ✨🌑