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“I'll tell you what,” Hob says as he walks out into the rain, following in the footsteps of the furious Stranger. “I'll be here in a hundred years' time. If you're here then too, it'll be because we're friends. No other reason, right?”
He is almost yelling, half to make himself heard over the rain as his Stranger stalks away, getting further and further away by the second, and half because he’s angry. No, that’s not quite right. Hurt? Confused? Scared that he’s fucked things up beyond repair? Yeah. That’s it.
The Stranger disappears around a corner without so much as a glance back at Hob.
“Fսck!”
The tone of his voice changes to desperation as he stops trying to catch up with his fr— With the Stranger. He’s gone, and he won’t come back for another century, and perhaps not even then, now that Hob has gone and cocked everything up by daring to think that the nameless man might want a friend as much as he does. Well done, Hob. Good job. This is just grand.
He groans and hides his face in his hands.
Hob opens his eyes.
He’s lying in bed in the small room he’s renting for the night at the White Horse tavern. How queer. He doesn’t recall lying down in it.
Then he remembers the events of… yesterday? Was it yesterday that he met his Stranger? Then why doesn’t he remember doing anything after running after him in the rain? A glimmer of hope ignites in his heart. Is it possible that he just took a nap and dreamt of the catastrophic meeting? Though, if it was a dream, it felt frighteningly real.
He gets out of bed and looks down at himself. He’s wearing the same clothes as he had on in the maybe-dream. He wouldn’t have gone to bed for the night without undressing, so that speaks for a nap. Unless he was spectacularly drunk, that is, but he feels no trace of a hangover.
Looking through the window, he can tell that it’s evening, a bit dark already, but not late enough that the Stranger wouldn’t have time to still show up — if it is still the seventh of June, that is. A familiar melody, sung rather badly, floats up from a nearby street.
“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”
Didn’t he hear that song in his dream? Curious… Then again, it sounds like it’s Lushing Lou singing, and he must have heard her sing that ditty a hundred times while loitering around the tavern, looking for men to pick up. Not so strange to hear the song again, when he thinks about it.
He forgets all about the song when he spots a familiar figure walking along the street, towards the passage leading to the tavern where Lou must be hiding from the rain. The man is tall and thin and dressed in black. His Stranger. So it was a dream, then.
Hob sighs in relief and vows never to nap in the afternoon again. It only results in bad dreams and disorientation. He smiles as he hurries out of his room, determined to save his friend from the clutches of Lou. He doesn’t want anything to sour the Stranger’s mood, lest his dream comes true and he leaves in real life too.
“—hunting for rabbits again, Fri— Ouf!”
Hob walks straight into a couple of guests in the corridor outside his room, almost knocking them over.
“Pardon!” he says, not slowing down as he heads for the stairs.
“Watch where you’re going, mate!” he hears one of the men call after him, but he’s already heading down to the ground floor.
Lou is already trying to sell her services to the Stranger when Hob approaches them, apparently not very successfully, judging by her sudden switch to insults.
“Lou!”
She turns around to face Hob, and he fishes a coin out of his pocket and tosses it to her.
“Get yourself a drink.”
He doesn’t pay much attention to her as she mutters, “Maybe just the one,” and hurries off towards the tavern. He’s busy studying his friend.
Wasn’t he wearing those clothes in Hob’s dream? Hm. Probably just a coincidence. The cut of his coat is very much in fashion right now, so it’s not strange that he’d be wearing something like it, and he always wears black, why wouldn’t he in Hob’s dreams?
“Sorry about Lushing Lou,” he says and tips his head in the direction of the tavern. The Stranger’s clothes seem to be keeping him dry enough, but Hob left his coat inside and would rather like to get out of the rain.
“Hello, Hob,” is his friend’s only response as they walk towards the tavern.
Hob smiles and rummages through his pockets for a cigar. It’s nice to hear his old nickname again. Deep down, he’s always preferred it to his never-ending stream of aliases, and even to just plain Robert, if he’s being honest.
“Lushing Lou. Is that what they call her?” the Stranger asks a while later, after they’ve settled at a table.
“Well, in here they call her ‘the Hospital’.”
“Why?”
“Because she's in them a great deal, and because she's sent so many men into them.” Hob feels a little funny as he says that, like he’s said it before. “No idea what her real name is,” he continues, but a little voice in the back of his mind whispers, Louise Baldwin.
“Louise Baldwin,” the Stranger says, casual as you like. Hob blinks. “Her father was in the British army. Her cousin raped, impregnated, and deserted her when she was just a child.”
Hob gapes at his friend. He’s not just wondering how on earth the Stranger can know all that — how the fuck did Hob know it? None of the words came as a surprise to him, though he couldn’t have told you any of it beforehand if you’d asked.
“You are staring.”
Hob shakes himself out of it. “Sorry, I just had the strangest déjà vu.” His friend raises an eyebrow, and Hob adds, “It’s a thing this philosopher bloke told me about a couple of years back. I met him in France and— Never mind. How do you know all that?”
How did I?
“Your cup is empty. You need more wine.”
His friend is obviously dodging the question, and part of Hob wants to press on, but he can’t shake this unsettling feeling that this has all happened before. In his dream? Has he gone and become a psychic somehow? No, that French fellow had said something about your brain only making you think you’ve experienced something before. It’s just his mind playing tricks on him.
Nevertheless, the sensation is disturbing enough that he sits back in his chair and signals for a refill of his wine, taking a big swig of it as soon as his glass is full again. He can’t help frowning as he searches for what to say next. God, he’s thrown off his balance by this thing, whatever it is.
“How has the past century treated you?” the Stranger asks, saving the distracted Hob from coming up with something.
“Exceedingly well. I’m still in shipping. Different cargo.” He sighs and has another drink. “You were right, last time. Of course you were. I was too greedy to admit to myself that the whole thing was fucking barbaric. I put some money into lobbying against the practice, after that, then sent a hefty sum overseas to support the Yankees when they started fighting over it.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
There’s something in his friend’s expression that Hob isn’t sure he’s seen before. He looks like… he’s proud of Hob? It makes him uncomfortable.
“Yeah, well. Doesn’t change what I did, does it? And I’m still a greedy prick, same as ever. Always will be.”
He forces a smile and winks, trying to turn the self deprecation into a joke. He hasn’t had enough wine to turn maudlin just yet.
“I think perhaps you have changed.” The unsettling pride is still there in his friend’s eyes.
“I dunno. I may have learnt a bit from my mistakes.” He exhales a bit shakily, both due to the memories of his past missteps and the fact that the spooky feeling of familiarity is suddenly back. “But, uh... Doesn't seem to stop me from making them.”
His friend huffs in response, not a laugh, but as close to it as Hob’s ever heard from him. Even that feels oddly familiar.
Christ, will his mind not let him have a normal conversation without making him believe it’s all happened before? To make matters worse, he’s having a hard time differentiating between the dream and the feeling of déjà vu. Which one is it that’s screwing with his head this time?
Perhaps he should test it, if only to convince himself that he’s imagining things. What was it that happened in the dream? He’d said something stupid, and his friend had run away. But surely he wouldn’t do that in real life?
“I think it’s you that’s changed.”
Yeah, that was what he said in the dream, and his friend had responded with—
“How so?”
Hob hesitates. The almost-smile on the Stranger’s face has turned into cold neutrality, a warning glint in his eyes. What should he do? Say what he said in his dream? Risk ruining the night in real life too? Ah, for fuck’s sake, Hob, it was just a stupid dream. He had been planning on saying something like this anyway, and he’s not about to let superstitious paranoia stop him from speaking his mind.
“I think I know why we still meet here, century after century. It's not because you want to see whether or not I'm ready to seek death. I don't think I'll ever seek death. By now, you know that about me. So, I think you're here for something else.”
His friend’s expression has turned impossibly colder, and Hob feels a chill run down his spine as the man says, “And what might that be?”
Are those tears in his eyes? Uh oh. Perhaps he should have listened to his dream, but it’s too late now, the words are welling out of him.
“Friendship. I think you're lonely.”
The Stranger’s jaw clenches, and when he speaks, his voice is even lower than usual, almost trembling with fury.
“You dare…”
Oh, Christ but that’s uncanny. Hob remembers this from his dream. This voice, this look, these words. He’s gone and done it. His friend is going to leave, for real.
“I’m sorry! Don’t—”
“You dare suggest one such as I might need your companionship?”
Hob gets to his feet, proactively. “I did, but—”
The Stranger rises too. “Then I shall take my leave of you and prove you wrong!”
Hob’s hand shoots out, gripping his friend’s wrist to keep him there, to make him listen, to… To ask what the fuck’s going on, because these are the exact words from his dream. But the Stranger wrenches his arm free from Hob’s grip with superhuman strength.
“Do not touch me, human.”
Then he turns on his heel and stalks out of the tavern, leaving Hob in shock for a few seconds before he collects himself enough to rush out in pursuit despite a sinking feeling in his stomach that tells him that there’s no use. He won’t come back.
“Oi!” he shouts after the rapidly retreating figure, hardly noticing the rain as he steps outside. “Stop!”
His friend — well, not actually friend, as he’s made abundantly clear — does not stop.
“What in the name of the Almighty and the whole bloody angelical host is happeni—”
Hob opens his eyes.
What the fuck? He’s lying in bed again, back in the room at the tavern. He jumps to his feet, feeling his hair and his clothes for raindrops, but he’s dry as bone. From the window he hears a badly carried tune.
“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”
He looks out of the window and sees a man approaching the tavern, thin and dressed in black. What?
He turns and walks out of the door.
“— she says, ‘Are you hunting for rabbits again, Friar?’”
The two men at the other end of the corridor burst into laughter behind Hob, who wastes no time in going downstairs, heading straight for the door.
He stops there, looking out into the rain at the two figures standing in the passageway across the street. That’s his Stranger, all right. Wearing the same clothes he’s seen twice now. Hob’s head is spinning, trying to keep up with what’s happening.
A thought hits him. “Louise Baldwin!” he calls, and the shorter figure turns to look back at him.
He waves her over, and the Stranger follows close behind as she walks up to Hob.
“What? Can’t you see I’m workin’? Who told you me surname, anyway?”
He stares at her for a moment before muttering, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“What?”
Hob shakes his head and digs through his pockets for a coin. The memory of what the Stranger said happened to her in her youth surfaces in his mind, and he pulls out a couple more, handing the money to her.
“Have a drink. On me. Get something to eat too, why don’t you? You’re skin and bone, child.”
She peers up at him, looking like she’s trying to figure out the catch, but she quickly pockets the money.
“Cheers, Rob.”
Louise disappears into the tavern, and Hob is left with the Stranger, who has been standing in the rain, silently watching the exchange.
“Hello, Hob,” he says as Hob’s focus shifts to him. Hob doesn’t answer immediately, and the Stranger frowns. “Are you well? You look pale.”
“I— I don’t know.” He shakes his head, as if he could rid himself from his confusion that way. “Let’s go sit down.”
He says nothing as they walk through the tavern, heading for the same table they’ve sat at twice already. He watches the Stranger take off his hat and shrug out of his coat in silence, but when the man sits down, he can’t help but ask what’s on his mind.
“Have you… done something to me?”
The Stranger frowns. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I…” Hob doesn’t know how to even begin to explain. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
He keeps squinting at the Stranger, looking him over as if he could get some answers if he just watched the man long enough.
“You are staring.”
“Sorry,” he says slowly. He doesn’t stop staring.
The Stranger is beginning to look uneasy in a way Hob hasn’t seen him before.
“How has the past century treated you?”
Hob laughs, a little maniacal. “I think I’m going insane.”
That’s putting it mildly. Things aren’t repeating themselves exactly as last time, but they are, undoubtedly repeating. What the bloody fucking fuck?
“Pardon?”
“I need a drink.”
Hob jumps to his feet and heads straight for the bar, leaving the Stranger behind at the table. Hob orders two tumblers of whiskey, only to down them both in quick succession. He winces against the sting of the alcohol, but raps a knuckle against the bar to signal for another. The Stranger joins him at the bar.
“You are acting passing strange, Hob Gadling.”
Hob turns his head to the Stranger. “Am I, now? You know, I’m not sure if it’s me or the world that’s gone mad.” He picks up the third glass served to him, taking a sip this time rather than chugging it.
“And you speak in riddles. It is unlike you.”
“Is it? How would you know? You don’t actually know me, and I certainly don’t know you. We’re not friends, as you’d be the first to remind me.”
Hob is feeling a little hysterical, to be honest. He can’t quite wrap his head around what’s going on. This day has already happened twice before, he’s sure of it now. It wasn’t a dream the first time, nor the second, and here he is, talking to the Stranger for a third time in just a couple of hours. And the man is acting like they haven’t seen each other since 1789, like he has no idea that he has entered the bar thrice today.
“No. I suppose we are not,” the Stranger says, and Hob must actually be going crazy, because he imagines that there’s a bit of disappointment in his not-friend’s voice.
If he’s offended by the suggestion that they could be friends, yet disappointed to hear that they’re not, then what the fuck does he want? He can’t have it both ways.
Hob rubs his eyes, then downs the third drink. If this day repeats for a fourth time, he’s walking straight to the nearest lunatic asylum, he thinks, and orders some ale to chase the whiskey that’s already warming his stomach pleasantly.
“Do you want anything to drink?” he asks the Stranger, as an afterthought.
“No. You appear to be drinking enough for the both of us.” The man’s lips curl in distaste. “I must say your manners have taken a turn for the worse.”
“Oh, well, I’m having what you might call a fucking day and a half. I’m sorry my courtesy isn’t up to snuff,” Hob snaps, harsher than he meant, but quite beyond caring at this point.
“Then perhaps you will be better company next century. Good night, Hob.”
The Stranger puts his hat on and walks out the door. Hob doesn’t follow him, even if his instincts are screaming at him to do just that. If he’s actually insane, and the day won’t repeat again after this, at least the Stranger didn’t run out the door crying this time around. He’s obviously displeased with Hob, but at least not furious.
Hob picks up the pint of ale, touching his lips to the rim—
Hob opens his eyes.
He does not rise from his bed, which he's lying in — again. Instead, he stares at the ceiling, listening to the faint song rising from the street. There are cracks in the old, wooden beams, and a spiderweb in the corner.
“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons. I gave him what he didn't like, and stole his silver spoons.”
There are footsteps outside his door, and a muffled voice says, “— abbits again, Friar?’” followed by the sound of two men laughing.
Perhaps he should go check himself into Bedlam. Perhaps he is going mental. But, then again, the stories he hears of how people are treated in places like that… Not to mention having to hide his immortality while institutionalised… No, it's not actually an option, but he's starting to think that's where he belongs.
Unless this is all one very long and elaborate lucid dream, or there’s something supernatural going on. That feels like the three options, really. Lunacy, dream, or magic. All things he knows very little about. Christ, this is making his head hurt.
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Just lying here won't do him any good. He'd better get down there before the Stranger wonders where he is and leaves without seeing him at all.
On his way downstairs, he contemplates how to approach this. Should he ask the Stranger what’s going on? The man doesn’t seem to even notice that something’s wrong.
There’s a small part of him that considers just saying nothing. It’s tempting to try to simply have a nice evening that doesn’t result in the Stranger storming away for a fourth time. He gets to see his frie— Strang—
Oh, bugger not being friends. He’ll bloody well call him friend if he wants to. He gets to see his friend so seldom. Would it be so bad to use whatever the fuck is going on to just enjoy the company for a turn or two? To wait a bit before finding out what is happening to him?
Still, he’s the only supernatural entity Hob knows, and if there is sorcery afoot, then he’ll be the most likely person to know anything about it. Fuck, as far as Hob knows, he’s the one causing it for some ineffable reason. Perhaps to teach Hob a lesson in impudence or something.
He has not quite made up his mind on what to do when he descends the stairs and finds that his friend is already sat down at the table, waiting for him. He nods at Hob as he walks up to the table and takes a seat.
“Hello, Hob.”
“Hello, Stranger.”
“You see me as a stranger, still?”
His friend seems more amused than offended by the term, which is fortunate for Hob. It would be a personal record to scare him off in less than ten seconds.
“No, ‘course not. I just don’t know what else to call you. You’ve not given me a name, after all.”
Hob smiles, trying not to sound accusatory. Maybe this is what he should be using this unexpected opportunity for — needling information out of the tight-lipped man.
“No, I suppose I have not.” The corner of his friend’s mouth twitches slightly upwards.
“To be fair to you, it seems we get interrupted whenever I do ask the question.” Hob rests his elbows on the table and leans forward slightly. “Were you going to tell me? Last time, before that Lady Johanna barged in?”
“Perhaps,” his friend asks, enigmatically.
“Will you tell me now?”
His friend hesitates, but the question doesn’t seem to have soured his mood too badly, so Hob dares to press on, just a little.
“I’ve called you my Stranger in my head for five hundred years now. Would be nice to have some variety — for the sake of my sanity, you know.”
His sanity went out the window several iterations of this evening ago, but his friend doesn’t need to know that right now. He looks to be fighting some sort of inner battle at the moment, presumably to decide whether he’s going to remain the same cryptic bastard as ever, or if he’s actually going to reveal something about himself for once.
“Morpheus,” he replies after some deliberation. “You may call me Morpheus.”
Hob can’t stop a huge smile from spreading across his face. He hadn’t actually expected to get an answer this easily after all these years. The question of what he is, remains, but one thing at a time.
“Well, Morpheus. Nice to meet you. I’m Hob Gadling, as you know, but nowadays people usually call me Robert Grant.”
“Charmed, I am sure.” Another twitch of his lip. “You are staying here?” his friend asks after a moment, tilting his head slightly to indicate the stairs Hob had descended.
“Only for the evening. I actually don’t live too far away. I’m here all the time, these days, just didn't fancy catching a cab too late at night. There are murderers about, you know.”
“From whom I am sure you have much to fear.”
Was that a joke? Has his friend ever made a joke before?
“Yeah, well. Paid good money for this weskit. Would be a shame to get stabbed through it.”
Hob winks, and the St— Morpheus does another one of those little huffs that aren’t quite laughs, but aren’t not laughs either. This is going well. Perhaps he won’t leave this time.
Hob blinks as he realises he had forgotten his queer predicament for a second there, too caught up in the euphoria of finally squeezing a name out of his friend. Morpheus must have noticed his face fall, because he quirks an eyebrow.
“Something wrong?”
Hob opens his mouth, then hesitates. There’s a selfish part of him that wants to just let this conversation play out, to have a lovely evening with his reluctant friend — for once uninterrupted by cocky playwrights, threatening noblewomen, or Hob putting his foot in his mouth. But an overwhelming part of Hob is quite frankly disturbed by what’s happening to him, and would like some answers.
“Yes, actually. I don’t— I’m not sure how to explain it.” He takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “You don’t… feel like something’s wrong? With this evening, I mean?”
Morpheus frowns. “Whatever do you mean?”
“That’s just it. You’ve already looked at me just like that and said those words, no more than an hour ago.”
Hob is doing his best to keep calm, but he can hear a faint note of hysteria creep into his voice, nonetheless.
“I was not here an hour ago.”
“Oh, but you were. You’ve been here four times tonight.”
“You speak in riddles.”
Hob shakes his head. “You’ve told me that, too.” He leans back in his chair and runs a hand through his hair. “Look, I have no idea why, or how, but this evening is repeating itself. Four times, now, you’ve entered this tavern and spoken to me, and thrice you’ve left. I keep waking up in my bed upstairs, only to hear Lushing Lou singing from the street, and a couple of blokes tell this god-awful joke, over and over and over. Then I go downstairs, and we sit down at this table, the same one every time.”
“Lushing Lou, is that what they call her?”
Hob sighs. “You’ve asked me that as well. Can’t help but feel you’re focusing on the wrong details here, mate. What the fuck is going on, Morpheus? Have I been cursed? Am I dreaming?”
Morpheus studies him in silence for a while. “You are not dreaming. I assure you, this is not my doing.”
What is that supposed to mean? Hob wants to ask, but his friend continues talking.
“If you are speaking true, these are troubling tidings.”
“Of course I’m telling the truth! Why would I lie about something this bizarre?”
“Why, indeed.” Morpheus rises from his chair. “Worry not. I shall investigate the matter. I will return shortly.” With a nod to Hob, he sets off towards the exit.
“I— All right.” Hob remains seated, watching his friend leave again. At least this time he’s not cross with Hob.
He exhales wearily as Morpheus disappears out the door. Will this even work, or will he just wake up again in a few seconds? Well. He’s about to find o—
Hob opens his eyes.
He’s lying in the goddamn, blasted bed again. Or course he is.
“The first I met a cornet was in a regiment of dragoons…”
“Oh, shut up, Lou!” he groans and covers his ears with his hands.
Fuck’s sake. All right. New attempt.
He gets out of bed and walks out the door.
“—says, ‘Are you hunting for rabbi—”
“Quit it with that joke, will you? It’s bloody ancient, and not that funny,” Hob barks at the men in the corridor.
“Oi, what’s your fucking problem?”
Hob doesn’t listen to them. He just heads downstairs and sits down at what’s quickly becoming their table, waiting for Morpheus. He can’t be bothered going out into the rain just to save his friend from speaking to Lou for a few more seconds than necessary.
“Hello, Hob,” Morpheus says as he approaches the table.
Hob gives him a forced smile. He’s getting a bit tired.
“Hi. Again.”
“Again?” his friend asks, sitting down.
Hob sighs, and explains once more.
“I see…” Morpheus rises from his chair. “Worry not. I shall investigate—”
Hob shoots up from his chair. “No! Don’t go!”
His tone must have been too commanding for Morpheus’ liking, because his expression hardens, and he says, “Do not presume to tell me what to do,” and turns on his heel, walking out.
“Great. Fine. Knock yourself out. I’ll see you in a seco—”
Hob doesn’t open his eyes.
He can’t be fucking arsed to face the by now very familiar sight of the ceiling over the bed in his rented room. He has it more or less memorised by now. The cracked wood of the beams, the spiderweb in the corner. He’s tired of it. He’s tired in general, actually. Time may be resetting itself for everyone else, but, for Hob, it’s been hours.
He sits up and tries not to listen to the song coming in through the window, or the voices of the joking men in the corridor. He needs to think.
There seems to be a pattern to the madness that is this never-ending evening. Morpheus comes in, they talk, he leaves, Hob wakes up. The reset appears to be tied to Morpheus leaving, not to how much time has passed.
So what? Is he supposed to just keep his friend in the tavern forever to break out of this? Is he supposed to do anything at all? What is causing this? Is there some capricious god watching him that he’s meant to appease somehow? What if he leaves? Can he just go? Not meet with Morpheus at all? Would that break the pattern?
He rises. It’s worth a try. He has a million questions, and this experiment will at least answer one of them.
Morpheus should be entering the tavern about now, so Hob doesn’t take the main stairs down to the ground floor, instead opting for the narrow staircase that leads directly out to the back yard, for use for guests seeking to use the shithouse in the middle of the night.
The evening is turning into night as darkness falls over London along with the steady trickle of the rain. Though it’s a Friday night, the weather seems to have chased everyone inside, save a magpie sitting on top of a lamppost, peering down at him. Hob should have brought his coat, but for all he knows, he’ll just wake up in bed the moment he’s out of sight of the tavern, so what’s a bit of rain?
He doesn’t. Huh. All right. Best keep going, test the limits a bit. Perhaps things will reset if he gets too far away, or when Morpheus tires of waiting for him at the tavern and leaves. Or, just maybe, this is such a disruption of the order of things that time will just go on as it’s supposed to, and he can go about his life again.
There’s a small twinge in his heart at the thought of actually getting out this way. If tonight doesn’t repeat after this, Morpheus will think Hob stood him up, and he doesn’t know how to contact him come morning to explain that he didn’t. What if he won’t show up in 1989, thinking that Hob doesn’t want to continue with their arrangement? What if he rescinds the immortality?
Hob shivers, and it has nothing to do with the rain. Fuck, he doesn’t want either of those things. But this has to end, this ain’t no way to live, anyway. If tomorrow finally comes, he’ll just have to do his best to track down Morpheus and explain. He has a name now, that’s a start.
He’s too engrossed in his thoughts as he weaves through the labyrinth of badly lit streets and alleys to pay attention to where he’s heading, nor does he notice the shadows huddling in a doorway until it’s too late. Two men step out into the rain in front of him, and when he stops and glances behind him, there’s a third figure.
“Hullo, mate. Nice evening, innit?” one of the men in front of him says.
The glint of a knife in his hand does not escape Hob. Perfect. Incredible. Just what he needed to cheer him up after all of this. Exactly when did Lady Luck abandon him?
“Not particularly,” he sighs.
“Well, you could make ours better if you hand over any money you happen to have on you,” the second man says.
This is hardly his first mugging. He lives in London, after all, and he’s learned by now that the easiest way to deal with muggers is just giving them what they want and running in the other direction. He’s wealthy enough that he can afford not fighting over what little part of his fortune he carries in his wallet.
Hob puts his hands in his pockets and blanches. There are only the few coins he’s given to Lou a few times now. His actual wallet is in his coat, back at the tavern.
“Sorry, gents. Seems this is all I have on me.”
He tosses the handful of coins to the men in front of him. If there wasn’t a man behind him as well, this would be the point where he ran.
“That’s what they all say. Fancy bloke like you’s got to have a fat wallet hidden somewhere.”
“Left my coat at home,” Hob says, shrugging.
“Mind if I check?” The first man lunges forward, knife drawn.
So that’s how it’s going to be, is it? Hob steps out of the way with ease, earning himself a split second to make a decision. Try to run, fight, or just let them kill him and trust that him “dying” will reset the evening and bring him back to the tavern?
It’s no decision at all, really. He’s getting rather pissed off at his general situation, and he could frankly use the outlet for his frustration that these nice gentlemen have so kindly provided him with. Just ‘cause he’s trying to be a better man these days doesn’t mean he’s a nice one. Certainly not nice enough to put up with the very real pain of getting murdered, even if he knows it’s only temporary.
Having made his decision in a fraction of a second, he brings his knee up into the man’s stomach, using the forward momentum of his body against him to make the impact that much more forceful. The man gasps and stumbles as he gets the breath knocked out of him, and Hob takes the chance to wrest the knife out of his hand and throw it over the brick wall blocking his escape route to one side.
The less knives involved in this, the better. He’s not looking to actually kill these men. He was desperate enough to try his hand at mugging at one point in his life too (after having been a literal bandit, come to think of it). He gets it. Doesn’t mean he won’t defend himself non-lethally though.
He spins out of the way of the second man’s knife, tripping him with a well-positioned leg in the process. Dodging a punch from the third bloke, he brings his fist up to collide with the jaw of the first man, who has recovered enough to try to grapple him from behind.
He hasn’t fought like this in ages. It’s exhilarating, to be quite honest. Gets his blood pumping, allows him to forget the fucked-up last couple of hours he’s had. He lets himself get lost in the rhythm in it, thinking only of tactics, the next couple of moves ahead, how to hit where it will hurt but won’t permanently debilitate.
He manages to get rid of all the knives with only a small scratch to the back of his hand to show for it. One of the men shortly takes off running with what Hob hopes is a wrist that isn’t broken but merely sprained. The next one gives up after Hob sends him shoulder-first into the brick wall, his arm hanging limply by his side. Dislocated, most like. Ouch.
He twirls around to deal with the last one, but before he has a chance to, the man falls to the ground, completely limp. Hob is confused for all of a second, before he realises that there’s a newcomer at the scene. A thin man in dark clothes who is putting a pouch back into his coat pocket. So much for his experiment.
“How’d you find me?” he pants, running a hand through his rain-drenched hair.
“Jessamy saw you leave the tavern.”
“Jessamy?”
“My raven.” Morpheus nods to a black and white bird watching them from atop the wall. “Thank you, Jessamy. You may leave us.”
The bird takes flight and disappears into the night. It must have been the same magpie — well, raven, apparently — that he saw earlier. So his friend can talk to birds, then. Sure, fuck it. Why not?
“Right. Well. You needn’t have come to my defence, I had it in hand.” He winks at Morpheus.
“Clearly.”
The man is actually smiling this time, but it’s not a comforting smile. It looks almost hungry, and when he walks closer to Hob, he thinks his eyes look darker than usual, though that might just be the dim light. Hob swallows.
“So what did you do to the poor bugger this time? Show him more ghosts?”
He looks down at the man at his feet. He seems to be fast asleep, breathing evenly, eyes closed, facial features relaxed. Not at all like Lady Johanna. It looks like there’s a thin layer of sand stuck to the rain-wet skin around his eyes. The magical dust he used on Constantine the last time, then, presumably from that pouch in his coat. The fight has left him in an analytical mindset, taking in every detail that might be relevant.
When he looks up, Morpheus is very close to him. Close enough that he almost takes an instinctive step back, but he holds his ground.
“He is dreaming of better times. The man is haunted by enough ghosts that I thought it unnecessary to add to them.”
“Right.” Hob licks his lips nervously, and Morpheus’ gaze falls to watch the sweep of his tongue.
“You are a very able fighter, yet you were not fighting to kill.”
“No. As you said, this lot must’ve had their share of troubles. They may have jumped me, but I’m not about to add dying to their list of predicaments.”
His friend is still staring at his lips, and Hob tugs on his earlobe, a tad uncomfortable. He’s never seen Morpheus behave like this, and he doesn’t know quite what to make of it. Actually, that’s not completely true. He feels like he’s seen that hungry look in his eyes before. Last time Hob dispatched some ruffians in front of him, in fact. It resembles nothing so much as lust, but it can’t be… Can it?
“You are hurt.” Morpheus’ eyes have moved to Hob’s hand.
“What?” He looks down at the appendage in question, noticing the scrape from the knife along a few bruised knuckles. “This? But a scratch. ‘S not even bleeding anymore.”
Morpheus keeps surprising him. He grabs Hob’s hand gingerly and says, “Nevertheless, allow me.”
He pulls a handkerchief from somewhere — black, of course — and starts bandaging the wound. Hob just stares at him, flabbergasted. This is the first time Morpheus has actually touched him — voluntarily, that is. There was Hob’s foolish attempt to make him stay by grabbing his wrist, but he’s not sure that counts as having even happened after so many resets between then and now.
It feels surreal, that the man who had — or hadn’t, depending on how you look at it — stormed out in tearful fury and told Hob not to touch him not long ago, now stands here, tenderly wrapping Hob’s hand. He’s a fucking mystery, self-contradictory as all hell, and oh so very close.
Hob can’t breathe. At this distance, he can count the long, dark lashes of Morpheus’ eyes, can confirm that yes, there is the barest hint of kohl around them, making them even more striking. Fuck, they’re pretty. Just like the rest of him. But then, Hob has known that Morpheus is an attractive man for five centuries. He’s not blind, nor indifferent to the beauty of men.
He has been able to keep a lid on that attraction for just as long, but with Hob’s blood still rushing from the high of the fight, standing close enough to his friend that he can feel his breath ghosting over his face, more or less holding hands… Well. It’s making it very hard not to do anything stupid.
“There.”
Morpheus finishes the bandage by tying a knot and tucking in the ends of the handkerchief. He doesn’t let go of Hob’s hand.
“There…” Hob whispers.
Morpheus takes a step closer, forcing Hob to stagger backward a little so as not to lose his balance. Then another step. And another, and another, until Hob is backed into the wall of the dark side alley, an awning shielding them from the worst of the rain. Morpheus’ expression is as hungry as ever, almost predatory, like he’s a fox stalking a juicy rabbit. Hob’s heart is beating quick enough to fit that description as he is crowded against the damp bricks, their bodies pressed together.
“Tell me that you do not want this,” Morpheus says in a voice as low as to almost be a growl, half asking a question and half commanding.
Hob’s head is spinning, and he can’t tear his eyes from Morpheus’ mouth. Of fucking course he wants this, even after the way the man has acted during the past iterations of the night. He’s just baffled that Morpheus wants it too. By all accounts, this is the last thing his friend should want from him. He doesn’t even want to be friends, for Christ’s sake!
“And make a liar of myself?” Hob breathes. “No, I don’t think so.”
He’s sure Morpheus must feel the truth of Hob’s feelings on the matter straining against the fabric of his trousers where their bodies are making contact. He is as aroused as he is confused. Immensely, that is.
Morpheus surges in and captures Hob’s lips in a forceful kiss that is just this side of too hard, all teeth and tongue. Hob opens up for him immediately, bewildered but enthusiastic. He whines desperately against Morpheus’ lips when the man rolls his hips against Hob’s.
Even through all of the layers of clothing, Hob can feel the matching arousal rub up against his thigh. Bloody hell, he must really have a thing for watching Hob fight people. There’s no other reasonable explanation — not that he’s sure he’d count that as reasonable either, but who’s complaining?
Morpheus’ hands move to the front of Hob’s trousers, and before he knows it, his cock is exposed to the cool summer air, pale fingers wrapped around it. He gasps and fumbles his way beneath the layers of Morpheus’ coat, searching for his fly. Hob’s fingers are not quite as deft with the buttons as those of his friend, but he manages to free Morpheus’ erection from the confines of his trousers in the end, finally, finally, getting his non-bandaged hand on the soft skin of the firm member.
From there on out, Hob is lost in the sensation of Morpheus’ hand working its way up and down his shaft, with Hob giving as good as he gets. Morpheus’ is kissing him like he needs it more than air, which might be true. What does Hob know about the physical needs of non-human supernatural entities, or whatever it is that he is? He’s far from an authority. For example, he’d never have guessed that one such as Morpheus would even be caught dead rutting like a teenager with a human in a dirty back alley, but here they are.
It’s rough, carnal, raw, and graceless — all attributes opposite those he usually associates with his friend — yet it’s perfect, and Hob finds himself tethering on the edge of orgasm far too quickly for his liking under the nimble hands of Morpheus.
When he comes, his cries are muffled against Morpheus’ lips, and the man swallows them down greedily until Hob has to tear himself away to suck in a breath.
“Please,” he pants, “Let me— My mouth…”
He’s having a hard time stringing words together, such is his overwhelming desire to be allowed to get his lips around Morpheus’ cock, but his friend seems to understand well enough, because he turns them around so that it’s his back against the wall, and then shoves Hob down to his knees.
The cobblestones are hard, knobbly, wet, and dirty, making kneeling on them all but comfortable, but Hob doesn’t care. He’s taking Morpheus’ into his mouth, and that makes up for any and all discomfort. His member is long and slender, a perfect match for the rest of the man, and Hob sets to work on it like a starving man presented with a banquet. Morpheus’ hand finds its way into Hob’s hair, a dominating presence guiding his every move — the attitude hardly a surprise to Hob, nor unwelcome.
His friend isn’t a very vocal lover, even with his mouth no longer stopped by Hob’s lips, but, every now and then, Hob’s skillful tongue, well-practised at the art, manages to wring a gasp out of him here, a soft moan there… Hob will take whatever he can get, store every little sound away in his memory forever.
With a groan of pleasure the only warning, Morpheus’ hips snap forward, and Hob’s mouth is flooded with hot seed which he thirstily gulps down, working his friend’s cock through the aftershocks of his climax. Eventually, the hand in Hob’s hair tightens, and he is pulled off Morpheus’ softening prick.
“Hob…” his friend murmurs, looking down at Hob, relaxed and wrecked in a way that he never thought he’d get to hear.
He licks his lips and clears his throat, finding his voice again. “Christ, Morpheus… I—”
“What?”
Hob blinks. “What?” His brain is still playing catch-up with the present.
“How did you—”
Morpheus is suddenly tense again, and there’s a hint of steel in his eyes along with something that strangely enough resembles fear. He tucks himself away.
“This was a mistake.”
“What? No—”
“Goodbye, Hob.”
“No!”
Hob’s heart sinks like a stone in his chest. It’s happening again? Really? After what they just did? Why?!
He grasps desperately for the fabric of Morpheus’ trousers, the hem of his coat — anything he can hold onto to keep him there — but his friend has pulled that pouch out of his pocket, and the next thing he knows, Morpheus is engulfed in a whirlwind of sand. When the wind dies down, he’s gone — the only trace of him the grains of sand between Hob’s fingers where previously there had been fabric.
That’s new.
Hob racks his brain for what he did wrong this time, and, finally, the penny drops. He called him Morpheus. He hadn’t given Hob his name yet this time around. For fuck’s sa—
Hob opens his eyes.
He closes them again, then tugs a pillow from under his head and buries his face in it. It helps muffle his scream of frustration. And it prevents him from hearing Lou’s singing and the jokesters in the corridor.
Removing the pillow, Hob sighs wearily. He’s getting tired. Not physically, he’s restored to the exact condition he was in before all this started, as evidenced by the scratch on his hand being gone, along with Morpheus’ handkerchief. But mentally? He’s exhausted. It had been late in the evening even before all this, and now it’s been hours of this madness. He just wants to sleep, to rest, to be free of this fucking thing.
He’s not going downstairs. Not again. Not yet, anyway. He’s going to stay here, in bed, maybe even take a nap. Yes. That’s a good idea. Let Morpheus sit and wait for him down at their table. It’s no less than he deserves after leaving Hob on his knees in that alley. Hob hadn’t actually intended to hide anything from him, everything just happened so quickly that there was no time to say, “Oh, by the way, before you wank me off — you’ve told me your name, but you don’t remember that happening.”
It’s a testament to Hob’s exhaustion that he actually manages to fall asleep with all of the questions whirling in his head, but slept he must have, because when he opens his eyes again and lifts his head, he’s feeling groggy and disoriented, and there’s a man in his room who he didn’t hear come in. A tall, thin man with a black coat folded over his arm and a hat in his hand.
“Oh. Hi.” He lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Can’t get rid of you that easily, eh? How’d you find me?”
Morpheus frowns. “You were dreaming. Were you hiding from me?”
Perhaps his dazed state lets him think in a different manner than usual, because something slots into place in Hob’s mind, and he makes the connection that has been tauntingly just out of reach ever since he learned his friend’s name. Morpheus. Sand. Dreams.
He props himself up on his elbow and looks at Morpheus, suddenly wide awake.
“Are you the fucking Sandman?”
His friend cocks an eyebrow, and Hob thinks he sees a small smile play on his lips.
“You are! You’re Morpheus, the god of dreams, and sleep, and whatnot!”
“So, you figured it out.”
“You admit it? That I’m right?”
“In part. I am far older and more powerful than any god, but yes. I am he whom the Romans called Morpheus, and I do have dominion over dreams, and sleep, and whatnot. I am Dream of the Endless.”
There he goes again. Even when the evening is on seemingly endless repeat, his friend finds a way to surprise him every time. A name, a fumble in an alley, a joke… It’s really hard to hold a grudge when he flees Hob’s company, only to come back with something like this, the fickle, charming bastard.
Hob laughs and sits up properly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Dream, huh? That’s your real name?”
Hob thinks he might like that name more than Morpheus. They both suit him, but Dream feels right, somehow.
“One of them. Perhaps the truest.”
Given his reaction when Hob let slip his name back in that alley, Hob is surprised to hear his friend — Dream — give him this much extra information now. Even back at the tavern when he had explicitly asked for a name, Hob had been given just that, a name — one of many, apparently — and nothing more.
“Hang on,” he says, “Was this some kind of test? Have you been waiting five hundred years for me to figure it out on my own? Is that the reason for all your cryptic half-answers to my questions?”
Dream seems torn between amusement and mild affront. Luckily for Hob, the amusement seems to win out, and his friend sits down on the bed beside him, balancing on the very edge, very prim and proper.
“No. No test.”
“Then why?”
The question seems to stump Dream, and he hesitates for a long moment before saying, “I… suppose I did not think it relevant. We meet so that you may relate your experience, and that I might—” He pauses, and the word learn is unspoken, but Hob hears it, all the same. “Such is the nature of our arrangement.”
Hob weighs his next words carefully. Sure, they can have this conversation all over again, if Dream runs, but he’d rather not go through it all again if it can be avoided. Yet this is something he feels he needs to get off his chest.
“That may be the arrangement, sure, and from your perspective, it makes sense to keep it that way. But… I’m human, Dream. I wasn’t built for immortality—” Dream opens his mouth, and Hob hurries to add, “That doesn’t mean I don’t still want to live! I am still enjoying life, immensely, and I plan to do so indefinitely. What I’m saying is, we humans… We’re made to like constancy. Even the ones that enjoy spending their lives on the move. We meet people, and we latch on to them, so that even if we don’t have a place to call home, we might find one in the friends with whom we take the journey.”
Hob feels like he’s getting dangerously close to rambling, so he pauses to collect his thoughts. Thankfully, Dream doesn’t interrupt him.
“Look,” he continues, after a moment. “Our meetings, to you, may just be a one-way exchange of information. But to me? They’re the constant in this wondrous, ever-changing world that I have been lucky enough to get to experience far longer than most. I have to move around, to stay safe. And, unfortunately, I can’t take my friends with me when I do. I have to move on from them too. It’s against my nature to do so, and yet I keep on doing it.
“The fact that I have this place to return to once every century makes it that much more bearable to live the kind of life I do by necessity. This is home. And you’re part of that. More so than the building.
“I won’t presume to suggest that this is true for you,” Not again, “But I am a human, with human needs, and one of those needs is friendship. I would like to be able to call what we have just that. I want you as my friend, and I won’t seek death if that’s not agreeable to you, but that’s what I’d like, if I had it my way. Which means I want to know you. Your name, what you do, who you are… Things friends know about each other. That’s why I keep asking, keep trying to figure you out.”
Dream is quiet for a long while after Hob finishes speaking, long enough that he starts to worry that he might have offended him even with words so carefully chosen.
“I suppose… It would not be wholly… disagreeable to let you call me friend.”
That’s just about the most meandering and evasive way to agree to friendship that Hob’s ever heard, but it’s a far cry from Dream running away in tears, so he’ll take it.
“Well then. Thank you, my friend.”
Hob grins, and Dream gives him a tentative smile in return — not much more than a twitch of the lips, but it’s definitely there.
“Shall we go downstairs?”
Hob is about to agree, when he realises that he once again lost sight of the whole stuck-in-a-fucking-Sisyphean-nightmare thing. Ah fuck. Well. Let’s try this one more time, then. It would be a shame to lose all this progress if Dream just left at the end of the night and everything reset again.
“Actually, there’s something I need to speak to you about first. And it’s a lot, so I would ask that you make me a promise before I explain it. You’ll see why in a minute.”
“What sort of a promise?” Dream asks with a slight frown.
Hob takes a deep breath. “That you won’t leave until I’m finished explaining.”
Dream’s frown deepens. “Why would I leave?”
“Just— Please. Promise?”
After a moment’s consideration, Dream nods. “Very well.”
“Right. So. Don’t ask me how, or why, but this evening is repeating itself. This is the seventh time we have met tonight, and I’m the only one who seems to remember any of it. It just goes round and round. You visit the tavern, we talk, you leave, I wake up in this bed. Over and over. Thought I was going crazy at first, but it’s real. I can’t figure out how to break the cycle. Tried leaving the tavern myself, but I ended up back here then too. I’m… I’m getting tired, Dream.”
“I see… Why have you not asked for my assistance?”
Dream once again surprises him by immediately accepting what he says, far quicker than last time.
“I have. Twice before. But in order to investigate, you left the tavern, and that’s how it restarts. The moment I’m alone, I wake up in this bed. That’s why I made you promise not to leave. Because if you do, we’ll have to have this conversation all over again, and I’d rather you remembered it, this time. You leave — every time, you leave — and I… I just wish you would stay. Please, just this once. Stay.”
Hob rubs his eyes, weary to the bone now that the excitement of finally figuring out who his friend is has mellowed.
“I… shall stay.”
Dream looks almost concerned, and Hob smiles wanly. “Thank you. So what do we do? How the fuck do we figure this out without you leaving the tavern to do whatever you were going to do?”
“I am not sure. I believe it would behove me to hear a more detailed account of each of these meetings. There may be clues you have overlooked.”
“How am I supposed to tell you about things I haven’t even noticed?”
“You could show me.”
“Show you?”
Dream nods, serious. “Allow me to enter your dreams, and I will be able to access your memories. Then I shall see for myself what has transpired.”
Hob hesitates. His first instinct is to refuse. There are things in his memories he’d rather keep on pretending didn’t happen. This new iteration of their meeting feels like a clean slate of sorts. To expose all of the mistakes he made before this… Then again, there are things Dream ought to know. Deserves to know, in fact, regardless of how he’ll react to learning of them. And Hob does want to put a stop to this madness.
“I— Are you sure? Because you won’t like most of what’s in there. And I mean really, truly, won’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say there’s a reason you left. Most of the times it was my fault. If we do this, you have to promise again that you won’t run away just because you get upset.”
Dream scoffs. “I do not run away from things. Nor do I let them upset me.”
Oh really? Seems like this will be a good learning experience in self-awareness for Dream.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Hob nods. “All right then. But first, I’d like to apologise for some of what you’re about to see. I… said some things I shouldn’t have. Made some mistakes. And I’ve learnt from them. So… Just keep that in mind, will you?”
Dream’s brow is furrowed in apprehensive confusion, but he says, “I shall.”
Hob takes a deep breath, trying to steady his sudden nerves. He only just got Dream to agree to some form of friendship. Learning what happened during their past six meetings may very well ruin that. But there’s no turning back now.
“Then let’s do this. You’re probably going to have to put me to sleep with that sand of yours. I don’t think I could fall asleep with you watching me.”
He lies down on the bed again, and Dream retrieves his pouch of sand from his coat pocket.
“Are you ready?”
“No. But fuck it. See you on the other side.”
“Then sleep, Hob Gadling.”
Dream blows a cloud of glittering sand Hob’s way, and the pout of his plump lips is the last sight Hob sees before darkness envelops him.
Hob opens his eyes.
He can’t have slept more than a few minutes, yet he feels like he’s been dreaming for days. He’s a bit disoriented and vaguely nauseous as he props himself up into a sitting position, leaning his back against the pillows and the headboard of the bed.
Dream is still there, but he’s standing by the door, his back turned to Hob. One of his hands is closed in a fist, resting against the doorpost.
“Not leaving, are you?” Hob says, carefully.
“No. I will not put you through that again.” His voice is calm, measured, but it’s tinted by some emotion Hob has a hard time identifying.
“Are you… All right?”
“Always,” Dream replies, but he does not turn around.
Liar, Hob thinks. Well, that’s to be expected. Hob hadn’t exactly prepared Dream for everything he was going to see in his memories. What they did last time around must’ve come as a bit of a shock. It certainly did for Hob. A pleasant, welcome shock, but a shock nonetheless.
“Any idea what’s going on, then?” Hob asks, eager to steer the subject in the direction of what’s happening to them rather than between them.
Dream straightens up and turns around. Whatever emotions he’s feeling are carefully hidden behind a mask of neutrality.
“There was a… presence. I could feel it throughout your memories, and even now it lingers. Let me just…”
Dream closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. Exhaling, he opens his eyes again, and Hob shudders. They have gone completely black with only star-like pinpricks of light where the pupils should be. He takes a look around the room, and whatever it is he sees appears to infuriate him.
Moving quicker than should be physically possible, he strides across the small room, hand outstretched, and, when he reaches the wall beside the window, there’s a loud thump like a body making impact with a firm surface.
“You!”
Hob is about to ask what’s going on, but in that moment, something — no, someone — materialises in the room, their neck trapped between Dream’s hand and the wall.
“Hello, dear brother. It seems you found me out.”
The person — man or woman, Hob’s not sure. Perhaps both, or neither — is tall and blonde, dressed in a perplexing mix of feminine and masculine clothing. The huge grin on their painted lips is incredibly unsettling.
Hob springs to his feet. “What the f— Who are you?”
“Oh, you know me well, Hob Gadling. Intimately, one might say.”
“Desire!” Dream growls, and the intruder (Desire?) chuckles.
“Calm down, I simply meant that he and I have had such a long and productive partnership over these past five centuries. Your pet human is just chock-full of desire, my darling brother — for life, for pleasure, for you.”
Dream just snarls and tightens his grip around their neck.
“Careful with those nails, Dream. Don’t want to break skin, do we?” they wheeze.
Dream’s expression doesn’t lessen in fury, but his grip lets up just a smidge.
“How did you—”
His gaze drops to their chest, and he lets go of their neck, only to clutch at something that hangs from a cord around it. He yanks at it hard enough that the cord breaks, and when he opens his hand, Hob can see a large stone resting on his palm. It resembles an opal, but the shimmering cloud patterns and specks of light within it move impossibly beneath the surface.
“Father gave you this?”
“Lent it to me. I asked for it under false pretences, naturally.”
“Will someone explain what in the ever-loving fuck is going on here?!” Hob exclaims, running a hand through his hair in lieu of punching a wall.
Dream closes his hand around the opal and tucks it away in a pocket.
“Yes, Desire. Explain yourself.”
Rubbing their neck, Desire laughs. “I don’t know what’s got you both in such a tizzy. It was just a bit of fun. If anything, I was helping you, brother.”
“How does subjecting Hob to this torture constitute helping me?”
“After your last meeting, a century ago, I was dying to see how this one would play out. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Dream. Of course I know what happened last time. You practically invited me over with that wave of desire you felt watching our friend here beat up those thugs. Who would have known that’s what gets you going. Well, I would, of course.”
“Desire.” Dream’s venomous tone carries an unsubtle warning and he glances quickly at Hob, as if he hadn’t already figured that much out on his own.
“Anyway. I thought I’d tag along for this meeting. I had a feeling you would cock it up, and you did. Spectacularly so, I must say. Lucky for you, I had daddy dearest lend me the tools needed to let you try again. And again, and again. It was never Hob who needed to learn from his mistakes, it was you.”
“And how the fuck was he supposed to do that when I was the only one who could remember anything?” Hob asks, anger rising in his chest like hot air.
“Well, if I had done it to my brother, he would have found me out much too quickly. And he did get the memories in the end, didn’t he? I’d say it all worked out rather well, though I must admit I had hoped to get to double digits before being found out.”
“If you are quite finished,” Dream snaps, “I would like you to remove yourself from our presence, post-haste, with the reminder that if I were not forbidden from spilling family blood, your punishment for disturbing me and mine would have been severe.”
Dream using the word mine like that makes Hob’s heart beat a little faster, but his fury still dominates his senses.
“Luckily, I can do whatever I bloody well want,” he says, and promptly headbutts Desire in the nose.
It’s like slamming his head into a tree, and Hob should probably have guessed that trying to cause damage to a being like that would be rather more difficult than hurting a human. Still, he feels something in Desire’s nose crunch at the impact, and when he withdraws, he can see a thin trickle of blood escaping one of their nostrils.
“Ow, what the hell?! Are you going to let a human do that to your favourite sibling, Dream?”
Desire brings a hand to their nose, looking almost surprised when it comes away stained red.
“Sixth favourite, and even that is debatable. Now leave.”
“Fine! Lovely meeting you, Hob. You really must give me head again some time.”
And with that perplexing sentence, they’re gone.
Hob sits down heavily on the bed and rubs his forehead.
“I think I have a concussion.”
“Quite likely. That was incredibly foolhardy of you.”
“That may be true, but it was also very satisfying.”
“Yes, it was rather.”
Concussion notwithstanding, Hob is sure he’s not imagining the smile spreading over Dream’s face as he looks down at him.
“So it’s over, then? Time will stop resetting now?”
“Desire no longer has the means to affect the passage of time.”
Dream pats the pocket that contains the opal.
“That thing? What is it?”
“A very powerful artefact belonging to our father.”
“Your father being…?”
“The anthropomorphic personification of time.”
“Of course.”
Hob almost has to stifle a laugh. If someone had told him five hundred years ago that this would be his life, he’d have recommended them to the nearest exorcist.
“Speaking of which,” Dream says, picking up his coat and putting on his hat, “I shall visit my father at once to return his property. Desire must have told him a pretty tale to make him grant them a loan such as this. He does not usually interfere in or pay attention to our lives.”
“So, you’re leaving?”
Dream hesitates, near imperceptibly, before saying, “I must.”
Hob forces a smile. “Just as long as it doesn’t mean I’ll wake up to Lou singing out of tune. And I’d kill not to have to hear that awful joke again.”
The corner of Dream’s mouth twitches. “No. Time is no longer out of joint.”
Hob ignores the Shakespeare quote and says, “I guess I’ll see you in 1989 then. Shall we say around noon, this time?”
“Very well. Until then.”
“Until then, my friend.”
Hob raises a hand in farewell. It feels almost surreal to think that it’s truly over, that he will have to wait a century to see Dream again.
Dream nods and goes to open the door to the corridor, but he pauses, his hand on the doorknob.
“Even after all that,” Dream says, looking back at Hob over his shoulder, “You would call me friend?”
“Yes. If you’d let me.”
“Not… lover?”
Hob’s heart skips a beat, and he stares at Dream. “I… I wasn’t sure that was still on the table.”
“Nor am I. Time will tell, I suppose.”
And then he walks out the door, leaving Hob gaping like a fish on the bed.
He gets to his feet, debating whether to chase after Dream and do… something. Kiss him? Tell him that yes, he’d like to call him both friend and lover, if he were allowed? Ask to see him earlier than a hundred years from now? He’s not sure, and so he remains standing still in the middle of the room, eyes fixed on the door as if Dream might walk back through it at any moment.
Even so, he’s startled when it opens, and Dream actually does walk back in. Without breaking stride, he pushes Hob up against the wall, cradles his cheeks in his hands, and kisses him. After a split second of surprise, Hob opens up to his tongue and fists his hands in the fabric of Dream’s coat, kissing back hungrily and pulling the man close.
Dream’s hands move into Hob’s hair as he licks into his mouth, tugging slightly as he makes every effort to devour Hob. He pushes a knee between Hob’s legs and rolls their hips together, making Hob gasp against his mouth.
After what might have been seconds or minutes — Hob really isn’t sure — Dream pulls back slightly, dragging a hand down Hob’s cheek and brushing a thumb over his kiss-swollen lips.
“Your memory related only the visual experience. I decided I ought to augment that before I left,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“I— Sure…” Hob replies, breathless.
“I will see you in a century.”
“I’ll count the days.”
Dream smirks. “Fare you well, Hob Gadling.”
“Goodbye, Dream…”
Dream blinks out of existence, and Hob is left alone again.
Leaning his head back against the wall, he tries to catch his breath. He touches his fingers to his lips gingerly, still feeling the phantom touch of Dream’s mouth on them.
A laugh bubbles up within him, and he lets it spill out over his tingling lips. That… That was… That was Dream. The constant surprise in Hob’s life. As he laughs, he’s torn between the residual urge to strangle Desire and the impulse to send them a thank-you card for inadvertently making sure this night ended in a kiss rather than tears.
Christ, 1989 can’t come soon enough.