Good Horses

by cuubism

Summary:

Reaching his limit with his repressive family life, Dream sneaks out of the house and meets a very strange boy. One whose companionship and untamed ways encourage Dream to reach for his own freedom--even if it has a cost.

[A human AU with a twist]

Chapter 1

A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip.
But we are not good horses.
--"Reverence", Sarah Manguso

🌌

In retrospect, it was fitting that the first time Dream met Hob, he was breaking a rule.

It hadn’t been easy. Dream did not like to lie, and wasn’t very good at it besides. And breaking rules made him nervous. Broken rules carried consequences. But he’d needed to get out of the house, just for a moment. To clear his head. And just going for a walk was not a good enough reason to leave the house when he could be doing something more productive. Something better. Make some use of yourself, Dream. You do little enough as it is.

So Dream had crafted a little story of extra studying, extra work, and managed to slip out. Dream did not always tell the truth, could not, but usually he lived in the shadows left by omission. The outward lie was bitter on the back of his tongue.

But he’d been freed. And now he was wandering. He did not often get the chance to wander, untended, unobserved. Making his unsteady way down the winding road leading out of the estate, and then into town, where he’d never really walked before. It was just getting late, almost sunset on a Thursday evening, and the streets were fairly quiet, only a handful of people about. And Dream wandered, not quite knowing what to do with himself but enjoying the quiet in his head.

Possibly meandering about on his own was a bad idea. Possibly he’d be hit by a car or attacked by a madman. He didn’t think he much cared.

And that was when he met Hob. That first dip of his toes into freedom.

He was sitting on a bench in the park, watching the small scattering of pigeons pecking for seeds by the fountain. Dream had always liked birds, but it wasn’t often he had the chance to sit and just watch them. He studied their patterns, mentally tracking the shapes they traversed, their mathematical lines. He should have brought his sketchbook. It would have been nice to work from live subjects, for once.

He was deep in his thoughts, in the calming trickle of the fountain and the repetitive paths of the birds, when another boy about his age plopped down on the bench beside him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so depressed while feeding birds.”

The birds had fluttered up in disarray at the sudden motion, but settled down again quickly. Dream looked at the other boy askance, irritated at his rare peace being interrupted.

“Do you often speak with people who are busy feeding birds?” he asked, unable to keep the annoyance from his tone.

“Only when they’re broody and mysterious,” said the boy. He wasn’t wearing a school uniform, but he must have been in Sixth Form, like Dream. Dream was still wearing his school shirt and trousers, for his own part, though he’d thrown his favorite black jumper on over it, in deference to the chill.

Everything about this boy was looser, really, from his longish brown hair, to his jeans and t-shirt. It made Dream feel very uptight in comparison, which was not a fact about himself he needed reinforced. He already knew it.

“Do you often come and feed birds?” the boy asked.

“I am not feeding them,” Dream said. “They are eating what was there.”

“Just spying on them, then,” said the boy teasingly. Dream did not know what to do about being teased with what seemed like lightheartedness rather than mockery, and so didn’t respond.

“Seriously,” said the boy. “Are you okay?”

Then Dream did look at his face properly. He had very kind, very genuine eyes, was the first thing Dream noticed. It was not something he noticed about a lot of people. Perhaps it was not something a lot of people possessed.

Then the boy smiled at him, a soft, kind smile. It transformed his whole face from something merely pleasant to something lovely.

“Is that why you have come over?”

The boy shrugged. “You looked sad and alone. I’ve been sad and alone before, so I don’t think anyone else should.”

Dream bristled. “I am not sad and alone.”

“Just alone, then?”

Dream’s mouth popped open in affront, and then shut. Then he said, “Are you always so familiar and impertinent with strangers?”

“‘Familiar and impertinent,’” echoed the boy, with a laugh. “Sure. Are you always so snooty and aristocratic?”

“Yes,” said Dream, and he laughed louder.

“Honest though.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Hob.”

Dream nearly said, What kind of name is Hob? but swiftly realized the hypocrisy. Gingerly, he took Hob’s hand. “…Dream.”

“What kind of name is Dream?” said Hob, and Dream sighed. “And you really don’t have to shake my hand like a king deigning to touch the peasants. I’m not diseased.”

“I don’t like to touch people,” Dream said, taking his hand back. “Peasant or otherwise.”

“Peasant or otherwise,” Hob echoed. He didn’t seem offended. He was smiling.

“Are you here because you felt I should be taught a lesson? Is that it?”

“Nah. I just get bored easily.” Hob turned to watch the pigeons again, tapping his fingers restlessly against the bench. “I was out and about. You looked interesting. You wanna go for a walk?”

“…Why?” But Dream knew why. He had learned it as he’d wandered the streets, freed for the first time.

Hob shrugged. “Just to do it.”

Dream had stepped out of his comfort zone once today already. He supposed he could do so again. If Hob turned out to be an adolescent serial killer at least the end of his life would hold intrigue. “Very well.”

Hob grinned, so bright it struck some deep, static bell in Dream’s chest and set it ringing. “Come on.”

So they walked. Hob seemed to know his way down every street in town. Knew all the shops, and the alleyways, and about half the people they passed—restaurant owners just starting to bring chairs inside for the night, and old ladies gossiping in their front gardens, and even a gaggle of little kids, playing football in the street—Hob waved to them as they passed. Perhaps he didn’t truly know them, perhaps he was just friendly like that—either way, Dream watched with awe and some trepidation. He could not imagine such a life.

“Where do you live, anyway?” Hob asked, hands tucked in his pockets now. “Did you just spring up out of nowhere? Never saw you at school.”

“Not very far,” Dream said. He was uncertain exactly how far he’d walked; he frequently lost track of time in that way, though he was fairly certain he could at least find his way back. “I do not get into town much. Or. Ever.”

“Sheltered,” Hob said, with equanimity. Dream wanted to bristle, but it was true. His parents certainly liked to make sure their children grew up in a particular environment. Though Dream had to admit to himself that even if he had grown up in the center of town, gone to different schools, in a different family—he would not be like Hob. He would not have been playing games with other children in the street, or making spontaneous acquaintances of strange young men in parks. He did not know how to be like that, gregarious, welcoming, unselfconscious. Nature, and nurture. No set of different life circumstances could fix Dream’s fundamental nature.

He was well-aware that he had ‘missed out’ on most essential youthful experiences. Even Desire, coiled up in the same gilding as Dream, made no hesitation in reminding him what he hadn’t done.

“And you are what, then?” Dream asked. “Feral and wild?”

“Yeah, I live in the woods and eat bugs and stuff,” Hob said, with faux seriousness and a shrug as if this was totally normal.

“I would have thought squirrels better nutrition,” Dream said, realizing belatedly that this was an odd response, but Hob absolutely lit up with playfulness. Dream wondered, in a flash of surprising camaraderie, if people often shot down his stranger conversation topics too, or refused to engage. It happened to Dream himself frequently, although he usually came at his odd interests with utter seriousness, instead of play.

“No, squirrels are too hard to catch,” Hob said. “And there’s so little meat? Actually, if you do want to survive in the woods, fish are your best bet, and then plants, but you have to be real careful with mushrooms—”

Thus followed a several minute lecture on the specifics of wilderness survival, which Dream listened to with fascination. Hob was an engaging lecturer, an engaging storyteller, and it was rare that Dream got to simply listen to someone speak on what interested them, with no expectation of interjecting, of making small talk. Why was he spending his time at his family’s social events clumsily tripping through inane discussions of who was hosting so-and-so and how polo was this season—conversations truly more about interpersonal politics and tact and other things Dream fared poorly at than they were about content—when he could have been listening to a verbal dissection of edible insects? Something he knew little about, admittedly, but Hob seemed to know enough about it for the both of them.

“—and so that’s why you have to—” Hob was saying, and then broke off, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’m totally running over you. You don’t care about this.”

“I was enjoying it,” Dream admitted, and Hob’s face softened in surprise. “However, I’m extremely dubious about your claim that crickets could possibly taste good, in any form.”

“Only when candied,” Hob said, and Dream was unsure if he was joking. He waited for Hob to poke at him for not knowing. It didn’t come. “Take it you’re not a fan of insects, then?”

“Not especially. I like spiders,” he admitted, “though they are not technically insects.”

“You like spiders?” said Hob incredulously.

“I’m also partial to birds, especially corvids, as well as cats,” Dream said.

“Oh, so all the Halloween animals,” said Hob with an understanding nod. “Yeah, that fits the all-black aesthetic.”

Dream surprised himself by laughing. Just a quick, breathy laugh, but more than usually passed his lips. Hob smiled in response.

“What d’you like about spiders, then?” he asked, bumping Dream with his shoulder.

“They are quiet. And precise. I recall being a child—” he was unsure why he was telling this story, but Hob seemed encouraging— “and one summer. When I spent a lot of time in my room. There was a spider that started to spin its web in the eaves outside my bedroom window. An orb weaver. I felt I should be afraid of it but… I wasn’t. It was outside the glass, anyway. Their webs are… quite beautiful. Very delicate and detailed. I find them very artistic. I don’t know if you know, but they spin new webs every night. In the daytime they tuck their silk away again for the next night. It seems exhausting, but, it’s what they must do to eat.”

This was the most Dream had spoken without being compelled to in… weeks, if not longer. Hob just nodded, gesturing him to go on.

“Sometimes,” Dream said, thinking back to those lonely and silent summer days, “I’d watch my spider spin for hours when I had nothing else to occupy myself with. I think perhaps I grew too invested.” There had been moments when he felt he had no friend in this world at all—but he had his spider. Even if it did not know he existed. “I began to shut the shades because I knew that if Mother or Father—or anyone else—saw a bug near the house they would knock the web down or kill it, never mind that it was doing no harm to anybody.”

He trailed off, then, still thinking back. Surely Hob would think he was stupid, for still remembering, still fixating on something so small. But Hob only said, “So what happened to the spider, then? Did someone find out?”

“Only because of me.” A critical mistake, to ever trust Desire—but he had been young then, and thought they were still friends. Dream sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. “I showed my sibling a drawing I had done of it. They wanted to see the real spider, so I showed them. I suppose they saw it as an opportunity to gain Mother’s favor, which was hard to come by—” Dream still recalled their simpering young voice, Mummy, Dream’s playing with buuuugggs—“and of course she didn’t want spiders on her house. So she had our gardener knock it down, though I’d begged her not to.” That was the last time Dream had begged for anything from his mother. He had learned his lesson about its futility and would not make himself so pathetic again.

“Jesus.” Hob sounded disturbed. “That’s… horrible.”

Indeed it was no lighthearted story, though most people thought it a silly one. Not Dream, though. “However,” he added, and now a tiny smile tugged at his lips, “our gardener—his name was Gilbert—came to find me the next night. It turned out he hadn’t killed the spider as Mother wanted, but actually moved her to a far corner of the garden. He showed me.” Dream had held back from crying in front of Mother or especially in front of Desire, but he had cried and cried then, that night in the garden.

When Hob was silent for several moments, Dream realized that this was not, perhaps, the answer that he had wanted when asking such as simple question as why do you like spiders, and also that telling him such a strange and ridiculous story when they had just met was, as Desire would say, weird and off-putting, Dream, and that Hob would certainly not care for his company any longer.

But all Hob said, when he finally spoke, was, “I’m glad he saved your spider.” And he sounded sincere about it.

“I never saw it again after that night, it disappeared into the garden. But I didn’t mind, I only wanted to know that it was still out there and hadn’t been—” he broke off before he could say something even more self-centered and melodramatic, something like, hadn’t been killed for the crime of being near me.

“Yeah,” said Hob quietly, as if he knew, almost, what Dream had been going to say. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Does what?”

“Your mum being…. mean like that?”

Dream had never thought it was… mean, exactly. Rather, he had always assumed that it was simply that his feelings on the matter hadn’t factored into the decision at all. Like he didn’t exist.

But Hob, an outside observer, saw it as mean. If he was right, that meant that Mother’s decision-making had been at least partly driven by hurting Dream’s feelings. Intentionally. Dream did not know what to do with that.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “I suppose.”

Hob bit his lip. “That’s tough.”

Dream did not know if he should ask about Hob’s own parents. The conversation seemed to have taken too negative a turn already. He did not want this to be how Hob thought of him. Indeed, he realized, with surprise, that he did wish Hob to think of him. He did not want them to go their separate ways and never see each other again, and this was such a rare feeling to have about another person, especially one he had met so haphazardly, that he stopped dead in the street.

Hob rubbed at his ear. He did that a lot, Dream noticed, those restless gestures, especially now that they had stopped walking. “I should get back before my own mum gets worried. Told her I’d be back around dinner,” he said, and Dream’s heart sank, though he had to admit that it was getting quite dark. Then Hob said, “Gimme your phone?”

Heart spiking with hope again that Hob was going to give him his phone number, and that this implied he wished to see Dream again, Dream unlocked his phone and handed it to him. He hoped Hob did not realize what an act of trust that was for him.

Hob put his contact info in and handed it back. “‘Case you want to get out of your enclosure again,” he said with a cheeky grin. It was a joke, but he could not have known how accurate it felt to Dream’s circumstances.

Dream put his phone back into his pocket carefully. “I will text you. Thank you, Hob. For your company.”

“Thanks for letting me ramble at you.” Hob’s smile was almost bashful now. How could he possibly be grateful for Dream’s company?

Their walking had taken them in a big loop, and they were just about back at the park where they’d started. Dream was fairly certain their respective walks home would take them in opposite directions. But he was hopeful that he might speak with Hob again. An outcome he could not possibly have predicted when Hob first plopped down on the park bench beside him.

Dream offered him as much of a smile as he could manage and, before he could do something stupid like follow Hob home like a stray cat, turned and walked away. He didn’t turn back to watch Hob leave, though he knew he must have done so.

When he got home, it was properly dark out. It had taken him longer to walk all the way back to the estate than he’d anticipated, he had not been properly paying attention when he left. He went inside, alight with nerves, but his father was not there and the only reprimand he received from his mother was a critical eye and a light warning, “You’re back late, Dream. Don’t make me worry about what you’re up to,” nothing more. So he crept quietly up to his room.

Once there, he sat down at his desk chair and took out his phone. He stared at Hob’s number, frozen with sudden uncertainty. He reminded himself that if he was utterly wrong about everything he would never see Hob again anyway. So he texted Hob.

Hello, it is Dream.

Dream wondered if he would have to wait, but Hob texted back with the same rapidity with which he seemed to do everything.

Glad u got back safe :] thought i mighta sent you into the woods alone to be eaten alive

To be eaten by which woodland creatures precisely? Squirrels? Trout?

Kelpie’ll get ya. You’d follow one I just know it

Those are only in Scotland.

Oh yeah? You’ve done a census have you?

Dream realized he was grinning at his phone, and forced himself to neutralize such a feral expression. It was never wise to get too invested in anything too quickly. Except that they had only just met, and he already felt more comfortable talking to Hob than he did with people he had known for years.

Perhaps I myself am a kelpie. You have fallen into my snare.

Tough luck on letting your prey get away then :) you must have liked me too much to eat me

I expect to be hungrier tomorrow.

I’ll just have to feed you something else then

Is that a promise?

Did Hob truly wish to see him again? Or was he only playing? Could he have enjoyed their unexpected meeting as much as Dream had? He waited in nervous anticipation until Hob responded.

Come find me in the park this weekend?

Dream bounced in his seat, then remembered himself and caught it again. Settling down, he replied:

Any time? Are you simply always in the park?

Yup :)

Dream doubted that was strictly true, but it was certainly true that Hob was out and about more than he was. Hob’s life was… strange. He did not yet know what to make of it.

I will find you, Dream wrote back. Truthfully it was uncertain whether he would be let out without a ‘good reason’. But he would manage it somehow. He must.

Setting his phone aside, forcing himself not to text Hob unending inane things or be pathetically desperate for his company, he pulled out his sketchbook instead. At last he began sketching the birds he had seen in the park. Their soft, rounded heads and stubby legs. The conglomerated patterns of their movement. How they’d fluttered up at Hob’s arrival.

He sketched Hob’s face, as best he could from memory. The soft fall of his hair. The upturned corner of his mouth when he was thinking. He wondered if Hob would let him sketch him in person. It seemed wrong to depict him still, unmoving. But maybe Dream could capture a bit of his energy if he was physically there.

He was getting ahead of himself again.

He sketched the kelpie Hob had mentioned. Elongated legs dripping with river water, mane tangled with reeds, looking back over its shoulder for the lured prey that surely followed it into the water. Intelligent eye. Mouth just this side of too long.

It was closer to the types of drawings he usually did, as he rarely had anything new to sketch live. Usually he drew fantastical creatures, myths and stories, relying on his imagination and the occasional anatomical reference text. It was comforting, to think of such things beyond mortal ken being out in the woods somewhere. Even if their inclination was towards eating children, at least in the stories, Dream still liked to think of such magic and horrors being real.

By the time he finished the drawing, it was very late indeed. He hadn’t eaten dinner, and was hungry, but he didn’t dare slip downstairs to find something. Instead he closed his sketchbook and slipped it carefully back into its spot in the drawer. Changed, and got into bed with a book, but found himself staring at Hob’s texts on his phone instead of reading.

It was not for Dream to have such friends. Outside of school, outside of his parents’ purview, just for himself. But he wanted it. He had had it for but a moment, but he wanted it.

He locked his phone and tucked it under his pillow. As long as he kept it a secret, he just might be able to keep it.

🌌

Chapter 2

🌌

Dream did not have to linger long in the park, that Saturday night, before Hob appeared, bounding from seemingly nowhere to sit beside Dream on the bench again. There were no birds, at this hour, so Dream was just watching the steadily rising moon, and the streetlights blinking on.

Again, he’d lied to get out. Fabricated some acceptable form of social event, university networking, and escaped. The lies roiled in him. He knew he would be found out. His mother had already been suspicious, for Dream did not usually do social events willingly, but ultimately had let it go, perhaps in the hope that Dream was finally becoming normal. He would be found out, eventually. He would just have to enjoy it while it lasted.

“I promised you food,” Hob said, and dropped a takeaway container of chips in his lap. Dream barely caught it before it could fall.

But he hadn’t eaten dinner, again, so it took him barely a second to start tearing into them while Hob chuckled at his side.

“Don’t choke yourself, Dream, Jesus. You’d think you don’t get fed at your fancy estate.”

“You would be surprised,” Dream said, between mouthfuls of chips.

Hob plucked one from the container and chewed on it thoughtfully. It was just on the edge of cold, this night, and he had a fleece-collared jacket on over his familiar t-shirt. Dream was starting to regret his own meager black jumper.

“I have something else for you,” Hob said. “Hold out your hand?”

Dream did so, and Hob placed something in his palm. At first Dream thought Hob had given him a live bug, but realized swiftly that while it was sharp it was not moving. It was, in fact, a metal spider, barely the size of a pound coin. Its legs were folded metal wiring, its round body more wire twisted together, tiny jaws protruding from one end, and eight tiny eyes made of translucent red beads barely the size of a pinhead.

“Did you make this?” he asked, touching lightly at the fold of each sharp leg.

“Uh-huh,” said Hob, rocking back in his seat. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you losing your spider. Even if it did technically get away in the end.”

Dream marveled at the tiny, intricate sculpture. It was beautiful. He could not remember the last time someone had given him something so… personal. Just because he had mentioned something he cared about.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured, and carefully closed it in his hand, chest tight. “Thank you.”

Hob smiled to himself, pleased. He had a very appealing smile.

Dream tucked the spider carefully into his pocket and continued eating the chips. Hob occasionally took one, but didn’t seem particularly hungry, or at least decided to leave the food to Dream. When Dream had devoured all the chips—far too quickly, if he was honest with himself—Hob stood and held out his hand.

“You wanna go for a walk?”

Dream had expected this this time, and stood. He had been brought around quite well to the appeal of walking after his last escape. He turned towards the street they had gone down last time, but Hob gestured him another way.

“Wanna show you a different path,” he explained. “Since it seems like you never get out.”

He led Dream a different way out of the park, down an alley between houses and out onto a dirt path that seemed to lead into the fields outside of town. Possibly following someone he still barely knew out into the wilderness was a bad idea, but Dream had already decided that he trusted Hob, or at least that he did not care if Hob decided to murder him.

So he followed.

 

As it turned out, it was just a walking path through the fields, past occasional small copses of trees, not secretly a road into Faerie or whatever Dream’s paranoid and fantastical mind might have conjured.

It wasn’t even completely wilderness—they passed farms and houses, sheep and horses in paddocks, wandered alongside trimmed hedgerows and through well-oiled gates. But it was strange to be out in the fields, especially at night. The moon shone high above through the clouds, casting an eerie silver light over the grasses and trees. In the middle distance Dream could see the lights of nearby houses, but beyond that was darkness.

It was strange, but also freeing. Nobody was out here, not at this hour. Just him and Hob and the night insects, the livestock grazing in their pastures, and the wild nocturnal animals that presumably prowled in the nearby forest, foxes and the like. Dream almost hoped to see one.

“I like how quiet it is out here at night,” Hob said, walking slowly with his hands in his pockets.

“Me, too,” said Dream, though it was a new love for him, just kindled in this darkness. Hob cast him a smile.

They passed another field of grazing horses, the farmhouse visible on the far side of the fencing. The horses looked up as they passed, eyes glowing silver in the moonlight. One that was near the fence stretched its head over to them, huffing. Dream knew horses, had taken riding lessons once upon a time—one of the few activities pushed by his parents that he had actually enjoyed—and stroked his palm down the horse’s long nose as they passed. It lipped at him, looking for treats.

“Do you like horses?” Hob asked, stopping beside him.

“Yes,” said Dream. There were few animals he would say he didn’t like, though he had little opportunity to interact with most. And he did like horses, their silly antics, their quiet pride.

“Me too,” said Hob.

The horse turned to look at him, ears pricked at attention. It didn’t poke out its nose at him, but it stayed focused on him, blowing out a hard breath. Hob gave it a little wave, and then gestured Dream on.

“Do you spend a lot of time wandering out here?” Dream asked as they walked. He was getting especially cold now, with the sun properly set, but he didn’t want to turn around. He just tucked his hands deeper in his trouser pockets. The sharp legs of the spider Hob had made him poked at his fingers.

“Oh, yeah,” said Hob, and led him down a narrow, winding side trail through some trees. Dream picked his way carefully over exposed roots and stones, brushing branches out of his way. Here between the trees it smelled of wet leaves and soil, so different from the sharp floral scent of his mother’s garden. Wilder. Running water burbled somewhere in the trees. “I don’t really like to be inside. It’s way more interesting out here. Watch your step, it gets steep.”

He jumped down off a small ledge, landing beside a narrow stream, now visible through the widening tree cover. He held out a hand to Dream, and Dream took it, clambering down much less elegantly beside him. Hob’s hand was warm in his own, and he was reluctant to let go.

“Are you cold?” Hob asked as he sat on a wide, flat rock beside the stream. Reluctantly, Dream nodded, hoping Hob wouldn’t press for them to head back, but Hob merely shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around Dream’s shoulders, popping the collar so it covered his neck. The interior was fleece-lined, and warmed by Hob’s body, and Dream pulled it tighter around himself with hesitant fingers. Hob was only in a t-shirt now, but didn’t seem bothered by the cold.

“Why are you so kind to me?” Dream asked quietly, barely audible even to himself over the running water. He watched the way the stream parted over rocks and fallen logs instead of looking at Hob, took in the clean water scent, and the squish of the mud under his shoes.

“Why not?” said Hob.

Dream shrugged. In his experience, people weren’t just kind because they felt like it.

“Besides, I like you,” said Hob. “Even if it seems like you haven’t left the house in your entire life.”

Dream’s lips tipped up in a half-smile. Hob was hardly wrong.

“I like you as well,” he said. “Though I think you are strange.”

Hob laughed. “Not wrong. But only if you admit that you’re strange, too.”

Dream knew this well already.

“Why haven’t you left the house?” Hob asked, turning to him, elbows on his knees. “Just don’t want to?”

Dream suspected that Hob meant this in a somewhat metaphorical sense. A question as to why Dream hadn’t really experienced life, as opposed to why he hadn’t physically left his home, which he obviously did.

“My parents are particular,” Dream said. That was one word for it. “Mother, especially, does not trust us to conduct ourselves appropriately without her supervision. She is… very concerned with reputation.”

“No kidding,” said Hob, frowning. “Well, good for you to get out, then.”

Dream was uncertain of this. He had managed thus far because he knew how to operate within the boundaries of rules. Even so, he often hit unexpected walls. Suddenly blasting through these locked doors… it could not possibly end well for him.

“It is peaceful out here,” he said. No yelling or sharp voices. No doors slamming. Only leaves rustling in the wind, the burble of the stream. Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hooted, calling the night.

“Yeah,” said Hob, leaning back on his hands. “I like this spot. Been coming out to these woods since I was a kid.” The chill wind ruffled his hair. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back. Moonlight fell through the leaves in a dappled pattern over his face. This space seemed so natural to him, while Dream still felt out of place, no matter that he was enjoying being here, and especially being with Hob. He could not help but feel that this tiny taste of freedom was only temporary, and soon it would all be stripped from him again.

They sat in silence for several long minutes. Dream tried not to think about having to return. He did not want to go back to his house, he wanted to stay here, by the river with Hob. He tried to put it out of his mind. But he was not so good at putting worries out of his mind.

“Dream,” whispered Hob, just as Dream had closed his eyes, resolving to let the night sink into him as best he could. He tapped Dream’s arm. “Look. But shhh.”

Dream opened his eyes and looked where Hob was pointing.

On the opposite riverbank, right by the tree line, a fox was prowling. It was so careful and quiet in the dark that Dream might not ever have spotted it if Hob hadn’t pointed it out. Its red coat faded into the dark underbrush, its trotting footsteps silent in the fallen leaves, bushy tail bouncing with the movement.

Dream watched, fascinated. It was beautiful. Sleek and clever, assured in its prowling. The fox trotted far enough along the riverbank that it was directly across from them, and then stopped. Turned to look. Its eye caught the moonlight. Dream didn’t breathe at all as it watched them.

The fox fixed its gaze on them for several long seconds, absolutely still. Then it bounded away into the underbrush.

Dream pressed his hands to his mouth, holding back a smile. When he finally tore his eyes away from the darkness the fox had vanished into, he found Hob looking at him, a smile tugging at his lips.

“What?” Dream asked.

“You’re smiling,” said Hob. So Dream hadn’t been so successful at hiding it. But perhaps he did not have to, when it was only Hob here. “It’s cute.”

Cute. Dream’s mouth popped open, and then shut again. “It is—” he started indignantly, on instinct, and then stopped. Because the quick flush that had come to him at Hob’s words wasn’t the flash of hurt and indignation he was used to from criticism or backhanded compliments. The feeling was sweeter. Foreign. He was blushing, he could feel the heat at the tips of his ears. “…not,” he finished lamely, ducking his head.

“Is so,” Hob said. He chucked Dream on the cheek, and Dream stilled, staring at him, breath caught. Hob’s touch was brief, but fond, and Dream touched his own cheek in its absence.

Finally he looked away, back at the water. Feeling jittery and nervous but also good. He felt… wanted. Hob had only known him for such a short time, and yet Dream felt like his company was wanted here. And that was so rarely the case.

“When were you sad and alone?” he asked, and Hob laughed, startled. “You said,” Dream explained hastily, “when we met.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Hob said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oof. Who says I’m not still? At least a little bit.”

“But—” Dream bit his lip, stymied. “But you are…” Outgoing. Likable. Easy.

“Sometimes you’re just a bit alone,” Hob said, scuffing the heel of his shoe against the rock they were sitting on, “for reasons outside your control. Isn’t that the way?”

“…In my experience,” Dream agreed, deflating. He had hoped— he did not know what he’d hoped. That Hob had some secret? He had already determined that even under different circumstances, he would not have been like Hob. Not even his surface-level gregariousness and apparent ease of being. He did not know what he had possibly been hoping for.

“It’s okay, though,” Hob said. “Means I get more time out here by myself. Or—” he nudged Dream’s arm “—with new company.”

Dream gave him a small, strained smile. “I suppose.”

He was used to being alone. It was both comforting and disturbing that Hob might feel the same. Perhaps there was no true way out of it, other than to try to seize these small friendships when they miraculously arose. Like this one, this strange connection with Hob.

He did not know much about Hob, he realized. But when he sat beside him, he did feel less alone.

“I have enjoyed your company,” he admitted, and, tentatively, took Hob’s hand.

Hob’s smile was bright as the sunrise. He squeezed Dream’s hand. The warmth of his strong grip grounded Dream as much as drawing did. He hadn’t ever thought he would find something else like that. The cool night air, and the weight of Hob’s jacket on his shoulders, the bubbling stream, and Hob’s hand in his—what he felt… was peace. Such a rare, fleeting feeling.

When they finally made their way back to the trail towards home, Hob let go of his hand. Dream wished he wouldn’t, but to ask for more felt like stealing. Still, it was calming to walk side-by-side through the trees, across the fields, past the paddocks with the horses and the underbrush holding all manner of creatures. He was sad to reach town, sadder to know it meant an imminent return to his family’s estate, with its perfect edges and manicured gardens. The twisted branches of the forest felt like a much safer place.

When they reached their meeting place in the park, Dream took off Hob’s jacket, immediately starting to shiver, and offered it to him.

“You can keep it,” Hob said, then gave Dream a cheeky grin. “Give it back to me next time.”

“I had better not,” Dream said, with chagrin. There would be questions. And he did not want to talk about Hob with his family. They would only ruin things. Or force him to stop leaving his house entirely.

“Alright.” Hob took his jacket back and put it back on. He studied Dream for a second, brow pinched, as if considering something. And Dream really did not want to go home, he wanted to stay here with Hob, even if that meant just being here in the middle of the street, and—

Hob hugged him.

Dream went still on reflex, like a prey animal in the gaze of a wolf. Then melted into him. Wrapped his arms around Hob’s back, let himself lean into him. It was so easy to want to be around Hob. Too easy. He shouldn’t let himself lean on something that could be ruined. That he could ruin.

But. He wanted it. And there were so few things that he wanted nowadays, especially ones that felt even tangentially within reach.

“Take care of yourself, Dream,” Hob said, as he pulled away and released him.

Dream studied his face, memorizing this moment. “You, too.” He savored the taste of Hob’s name. “Hob.”

 

Returning home, this time, was worse. Dream had tasted peace, had tasted freedom, and burgeoning friendship, and stepping back onto his family’s estate felt like willingly returning himself to prison.

He had never thought of it quite like that before. Home had been… normal to him. Its rules, its frictions, they restrained him but they had become familiar walls. Now... he had tasted the night air in the forest, and Hob’s conversation, and the stern stone walls of the house felt so much taller and sturdier than before.

He slunk inside, rubbing his arms from the cold, wishing he still had Hob’s jacket.

He didn’t make it past the kitchen. It was later than he’d realized, almost ten p.m. — he’d spent much longer with Hob than he’d thought, though the time had passed quickly — and his mother was waiting for him, face set in a furious scowl.

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” she demanded.

Suddenly, Dream was so tired. It was strange to feel that, instead of fear, when faced with his mother’s anger. “What?”

“I will not tolerate lying, Dream,” she said, voice harsh. “Pretending to be at society events and then not showing up? What could you have possibly been doing instead?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dream muttered with a petulance he usually didn’t show to her. He had tasted the freedom of being with Hob, and being pulled back from it was now more frustrating than depressing. Even if it was expected.

“Don’t talk back,” she snapped, and Dream flinched. Mother sighed as if truly wounded by him. “You’ve always caused so much trouble for me. Don’t you know how much stress you cause? Can’t you just do what you’re meant to?”

Dream did not generally cause trouble, he preferred to keep to himself and not draw attention. He suspected she meant the fact that he was not naturally good at the things that she wanted him to be good at. Things like socializing at events, and making friends—the right kind of friends, anyway, the right kind of friendships—and making their family look good. Dream was too awkward, too bad at connecting with most people, to manage any of that. Even his attempts at friendships at school were not with good enough people, and usually ended up being dashed as a result. It was for the better, his almost-friends did not need to be subjected to his family anyway.

Dream just wanted to be left alone to do his art and spend time with the vanishingly few people he was capable of befriending, but this was not good enough.

“Apparently not,” he said, and turned to leave. “I have school assignments, Mother. I am going upstairs.”

She grabbed his arm and yanked him back. “Don’t walk away from me, Dream.” Dream didn’t bother pulling away, though he winced from the pressure, and eventually she released his arm. “I don’t know what has possibly gotten into you lately.”

I do not know either, thought Dream. It only hurt more, to feel this way. To feel nothing but resignation was surely better, better than having a sliver of hope cutting his palms.

“You’ve become such a disappointment,” she said. This, at least, did not hurt. Dream knew it already. “Sneaking out. Impulsive behavior. Don’t make me ground you.”

For the amount that Dream left the house as it was, being grounded would make little difference at all. Except that it would make it even harder to go meet Hob.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” she demanded.

Dream gritted his teeth. “I am sorry, Mother,” he said, flatly.

“You certainly will be if your father finds out,” she warned, then turned back to her work, finally dismissing him.

Dream shuddered. A worse threat than grounding, that.

His hint of a good mood successfully dashed, he finally crept away to his room. Didn’t bother to change before crawling under the covers of his bed, cloaked in blankets and darkness, his favorite way to be. He could still smell the woods on his jumper.

He unlocked his phone, and scrolled through his text thread with Hob. He didn’t text again, he would become such a bother if he kept it up too often. But rereading the texts made him smile.

And eventually, he fell asleep like that, still with his head under the covers.

🌌

Chapter 3

🌌

The next time, Dream crept away to meet Hob right after school.

This was easier, in some ways. He could pretend he had a legitimate reason for staying later at school, and arouse less suspicion. On the other hand, he had far less time with Hob before he had to be back on school grounds for his parents’ driver to pick him up. An hour and a half, maybe.

So short a time they had known each other, and already he was counting minutes like they were precious gems. Always greedy for more.

So greedy, in fact, that he retreated back within the walls of his parents’ rules. Stepping out even so far as to find Hob at night had already put everything at risk. He would not do something obvious and risky like that with Hob again, even if he wanted to. He could not, or risk losing him entirely.

“We have not much time,” he told Hob with chagrin, when they met in what Dream had started to think of as their park.

“Too busy for me?” Hob said, with a cheeky grin.

“No,” said Dream, “I meant—”

Hob held up a hand. “I’m joking. It’s okay. You don’t owe me all your time, Dream. We just met.”

“I am glad… you understand,” said Dream. He didn’t know if Hob truly did. If he had someone at home who would react so aggressively should he do something they didn’t approve of. He had said once that his mother would worry about him, but it had seemed fond, not oppressive.

“Just wanted to take a walk anyway,” said Hob, and gestured for him to follow.

They went down the same narrow path as before, out into the fields, but this time Hob didn’t take him all the way down to the river. It would have taken too long. They just wandered on the dirt track, past the roads and open paddocks, not far from town.

“Is that what you do all the time?” asked Dream. “Just wander about?”

“And get into trouble,” said Hob. “And see what cool stuff I can find. Check it out!”

He lunged in front of Dream. Dream flinched back at the sudden movement, but Hob wasn’t going for him. He snatched something up from the muddy track, showing it to Dream. “Ha! Look! Isn’t he cool?”

A fat toad peered up at him from Hob’s palm, translucent eyelids blinking sluggishly. It did not seem overly perturbed to have been stolen from its rest by Hob.

“Hello,” Dream said to it solemnly, and Hob grinned.

“You can touch him. I swear it won’t bother him too much. You ever seen a toad before?”

Dream rolled his eyes. “I may live a painfully sheltered life, but I am not from Mars. Yes, I have seen toads before.”

“You ever picked one up though?”

Had he? Perhaps when he was a small child. Mother had never liked her kids to play in the mud. It might ruin their nice clothes, or look undignified.

“Think fast!” said Hob, and Dream barely got his hands up in time before Hob was dropping the toad into them.

It croaked in what sounded like annoyance, but settled quietly in his palms, webbed feet splayed for balance. Dream ran a tentative, light finger over its bumpy back. The toad croaked again.

“You have annoyed him,” Dream said. “He does not wish to be callously tossed about. I believe he was rather looking forward to finding some grubs, and now two strange aliens are bothering him.”

“Oh, you know his whole life story, huh?” He was still watching Dream with a smile, though. “Nah. He’ll live. I’ll put him back in a sec. I think it’s more important that people get to see them. It’s not so easy to want to plow over a stream to make a housing development when you’ve met the guys who already live there.” He tapped the toad on the head fondly.

“Is that your mission, then?” Dream asked. “To protect wildlife?”

Hob shrugged. “It’s not not my mission.” He took the toad back from Dream, and put it down in the mud by the side of the road. It hopped away into the brush with what Dream felt distinctly was an air of dismissal. “It’s self-serving, anyway. I like being out here, I wouldn’t want it to get destroyed.”

“That is admirable,” Dream told him. The more time he spent in the woods with Hob, the more he hoped Hob would succeed in protecting it. The small patch he’d deemed under his purview, anyway.

Hob tugged on his ear, a gesture that felt self-effacing. “Maybe. Really it’s just… dunno where I’d go if the woods all got bulldozed.”

Dream frowned. “Presumably back to your house, depressing though that eventuality may be.”

Hob only shrugged again.

“Are you in school still?” Dream asked, as they started walking again. He had a hard time imagining Hob in a classroom. Not to mention that he seemed to always be outside, which was hardly compatible with college.

“Nah,” said Hob, and for the first time his shoulders inched up in what seemed like a hint of embarrassment. “Left as soon as I could, pretty much.”

“You needn’t be embarrassed about it,” Dream said, and Hob looked at him askance, surprised Dream had picked up on it.

“Just get the sense you’re at a fancy college and you get perfect marks and all,” Hob said, shoving his hands in his pockets. His cheeks tinted with a light blush. “Don’t want you to think I’m… I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you are anything,” Dream said, and Hob chuckled. “Though you are not wrong about the ‘fancy college’, I suppose.”

“And the perfect marks?” Hob teased, grinning. “Don’t be bashful.”

“Yes,” Dream conceded. He did like school, in fact. He just didn’t like the particular school his parents had forced him to enroll in. He doubted university would go any better. He wanted to study art, and he could only imagine how his parents would feel about that.

“It’s not that I don’t like learning stuff,” Hob said, though Dream hadn’t thought that. “I just don’t wanna sit there.”

“You do seem to know a great deal about the world around you,” Dream admitted. Hob knew so much about the forest and its creatures, about what it was like to be in the world, far more than Dream did.

“You learn by being in it,” Hob said.

Dream, too, was learning by being with Hob. Learning things about himself. Only the things he was learning about himself felt dangerous. Hob had taken his hand and led him to the deep pool of what he really wanted. But Dream could barely stand to look into it, never mind drink from it.

“I would like to be in it more,” he admitted, and Hob smiled. “But I do not know if it is wise.”

“I’d love to show it to you,” Hob said, and nudged his arm. “I think it is wise. I think it’s good for you.”

“I will defer to your judgment, then,” Dream said. He wanted Hob to be right. He wanted this to be safe and good. Only it hurt, too. The knowledge that he would most certainly inevitably lose it.

Perhaps all he could do was to cling to it while he could, and protect himself, as much as possible, from the aftermath.

“Come on, let’s go off the path,” Hob said, and took his hand, tugging him aside into the woods, where there seemed to be no cut trail.

“You will not get us lost, will you?” Dream asked.

“I know my way around.”

So Dream followed Hob. And soon enough they were deep enough in the woods that he could no longer see the road, could no longer see anything but trees. He stopped, leaf litter sliding under his feet, to look up.

Afternoon sun streamed in through the high branches of the trees, dappling his face. A light breeze ruffled the branches, but never reached Dream’s hair, down below. For a moment he closed his eyes, and just listened to the sound of it, the wind, the shushing of the leaves, bird calls and insect chatter. Took in the damp smell of mud and wet leaves and the clean wind.

It was… so peaceful. He had not realized how much his manicured environment had felt like a cage, until that moment.

When he opened his eyes, Hob was gazing at him with a smile that crinkled at the corners of his eyes. “Told you it was worth coming off the path,” he said.

“How far do you usually go?”

“I’ll show you.” Hob tugged him along again, grip tight and warm around Dream’s hand. Dream squeezed back, feeling light and free, and followed him.

 

He did not realize how much time passed until they stumbled free of the woods again, the trees ceding suddenly to fields and bridle paths, the town in sight. Unbeknownst to Dream, they’d circled around, and were near where they’d started.

The sight of the road shot a jolt of panic through him. He’d been so happy, letting Hob lead him through the trees, listening as Hob pointed out the insects and told him about each and every plant, regaled him with stories about England’s ancient old growth forests, now mostly gone. He liked listening to Hob talk. He liked that he did not have to talk, that no behavior was expected of him. Being with Hob was easy. He forgot everything else.

It all shattered when he reached the road again, heart lurching in his throat as he whipped out his phone to check the time.

Ten minutes. He let out a huge breath of relief. He still had ten minutes to get back to where he was pretending to be this afternoon. He would have to rush, but he would probably not be late, he would not be caught.

Hob was looking at him with concern when Dream shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I have to go,” Dream told him, with regret. “I’m sorry.”

“You could stay a little longer,” Hob suggested, “I’m sure it’s—”

“No!”

Hob’s eyes widened at his outburst. Dream tried to stop himself from twisting his hands together nervously, but was not entirely successful at stilling the movement.

“No,” he said again, quieter. “I. I will get in trouble.”

It sounded so stupid. A small child’s excuse.

“Hey, it won’t be so bad,” Hob said. The words weren’t meant dismissively, Dream didn’t think. Hob just didn’t get it.

“I have been breaking too many rules already,” Dream said, keeping his voice softer this time. It occurred to him, belatedly, that Hob hadn’t flinched. Dream had yelled at him, and Hob had been startled, but he hadn’t been afraid Dream would hurt him somehow. Dream, meanwhile, could not seem to stop himself from flinching, and flinching, and flinching.

He wished he did not have to go back. Let him stay in the woods, become part of the moss and loam, if only he didn’t have to go back.

“You can’t live your whole life by rules, Dream,” Hob said. His voice was gentle, but it made Dream’s frustration spike. Hob didn’t get it. The rules were the only thing that kept Dream safe. “Not if you want to be free.”

Free? Dream thought. There was no freedom for Dream. Even this, what he was eking out here on the margins of his life, was a privilege he hadn’t fathomed. Free?

And yet. Hob’s words caught at the base of his throat. And he knew them to be true.

“You do not understand,” he said. Except Hob wouldn’t understand, not unless Dream explained. And Dream did not want to explain.

“Tell me, then?” Hob said.

But Dream couldn’t. The words would not form.

Instead, he hugged Hob. Hob made a startled sound, perhaps surprised that Dream had initiated, but hugged him back. Dream pressed his nose into Hob’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of the woods on his shirt.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Dream—”

Dream pulled away reluctantly. “I— I must go, I will be late—”

“Okay,” Hob said, more gently this time. “I’ll see you next time?”

“Next time,” Dream agreed. And then forced himself to turn and hurry up the road before he could be drawn back.

He made it back to his ride just in time to avoid arousing suspicion. He left Hob at the edge of the woods.

 

Thankfully, there was no criticism waiting for Dream when he arrived home. No one suspected he had done anything untoward. Mother was out, and while Father was in the sitting room reading the paper, he did not so much as look up as Dream walked by to go upstairs to his room. Dream liked it better that way. Better not to be noticed.

Once he was upstairs, he finally felt his shoulders start to lose their tension. That aching, hanging feeling of trouble gradually slipped away. No one would know. No one had to know.

He could keep Hob a secret, keep him safe, for just a little longer.

He changed out of his school clothes, and curled up in bed, his sketchpad held close to his chest. He quickly lost himself in drawing his memories of the trees, how their shadows had dappled the ground, the thick underbrush that he sketched in blurry shapes, the meandering barely-there path through the deep woods. It was hard to capture the gravity of the place on paper, or the way the wet leaves felt under his shoes, or the loamy scent of the air. Still, he tried.

Then he sketched Hob again. He felt he captured Hob’s character better the second time around. His sunny, clever smile, and the light in his eyes. Hob looked right under the shade of the tress, out on the bridle paths, under the sun. Better, perhaps, that Hob did not want to go to a proper school, for Dream could not imagine him there, he could only imagine him out in the wilds.

Though perhaps that was only his own fantasizing. Only what he was making Hob into in his own mind.

He looked down at his picture. Hob was… so beautiful. Bold. Assured. Wild. His company had quickly become both a salve and an addiction for Dream. Being around Hob made Dream feel bold, too. And terrified. Terrified because he wanted to be bold. Because he wanted to break rules, and do what he wanted, because he wanted to be like Hob. Wild.

If he knew what was good for him he would never meet Hob again. It was destined to end only in disaster, this friendship; Dream would let himself be pulled from the careful, barely-safe path he’d been treading and everything would fall from under his feet. There was no safe path, not truly, but Dream had learned how to balance, how to turn and mold and hide, how to stay on the narrow, curated trail, and so avoid the worst of the danger. The worst of the damage. Hob wanted to drag him off the trail entirely. Hob was dangerous.

And Dream wanted him.

He wanted Hob to tell him all about the forest. He wanted Hob to hold his hand while they walked, and to keep hugging him. More than anything he wanted the way Hob made him feel, those flashing moments when he felt brave instead of scared. The fear always came back but sometimes when he was with Hob he felt brave enough to want.

He wanted to see Hob again. He needed to see Hob again.

Frightened at the thought, but excited too, he closed his sketchbook carefully over Hob’s picture, stashing it under his bed. Then he finally pulled out his schoolwork, though he doubted he would be finishing it with much focus today. He had other things he was thinking about.

Other, more important things he was hoping for.

🌌

Notes:

hob: i'm just gonna be cryptic and weird all the time, don't even worry about it 🫡
dream: same 🫡

Chapter 4

Notes:

i kind of forgot to update this for a while, oops

the first part of this chapter, i originally posted on tumblr as a one shot absolutely ages ago. the whole fic sprung from it

🌌

The next time they met, Hob took Dream to a new path through the woods, a wild one farther from the curated farmland, where sticks and rocks littered the trail and they had to brush low-hanging branches out of their way every few feet. Birds called deep in the trees. Insects rustled. The woods smelled wet and fresh and real in a way Mother’s perfect garden never did.

“Did you truly spend your childhood here?” Dream asked Hob as they walked.

Hob paused where he was picking up stones, presumably to chuck them at passing trees, cocking his head at Dream. “D’you mean living in the woods, like a feral animal? I thought we went over that.”

Dream sighed. "I meant playing in the woods."

Hob lurched upright again to catch up with where Dream was still walking on the path and, true to Dream's suppositions, hurled one of his scavenged stones off into the underbrush. It made a satisfying swish-thwack sound off in the distance. "Why's that so shocking to you? Kids love mud and frogs and stuff."

"You still love mud and frogs and 'stuff.'"

"Don't you?"

Dream looked up at the tree cover, and the watery rays of daylight filtering through the branches. He hadn’t been to this part of the forest yet. It was far enough away from any surrounding towns to still be dense and untamed, the underbrush thick and tangled, the path winding and poorly tended.

Not that Dream had been to any part of the forest much at all, not even the parts closer to home.

"I suppose. I can't say I have much experience with either."

Hob kicked aside some sticks that were blocking the path. He was always so active, so expressive. Dream was so used to clasping his hands that he didn't know what to do with them when no one was watching. “You can’t have stayed in the house all the time? You must have played outside a bit?"

"We have a garden," Dream told him. A very beautiful, very perfect garden. "It's very well-tended. I doubt mother would tolerate a frog."

"Should do," said Hob, sadly. "They're brilliant. So you've never been just out in the wild at all?"

"I have not run unattended through the forest like a squirrel, no."

"Shame," said Hob, and then grabbed his hand. "No time like the present, then!"

And he took off down the path, dragging Dream along behind him. Hob was much faster than him, and certainly fitter too, and Dream nearly tripped and fell several times trying to keep up, but didn't let go of Hob's hand. His nice school loafers skidded on the wet leaves. His tie flapped along over his shoulder. Dream could not remember the last time he had been so out of breath, the last time his heart had beaten in his chest like so.

"Shit!" Hob yelled, and skidded to a stop.

Dream was not so fast, and quickly learned what had brought such an abrupt end to Hob's run. The path veered off sharply to the right above a steep embankment, and Dream's momentum carried him right over the edge, dragging Hob with him.

The next few moments were a tumble of dirt and leaves and flashes of sky, Hob's laughter, Dream's very unbecoming shriek. Then a splash, as they landed in the shallow brook at the bottom of the embankment.

Hob was still laughing as Dream pushed himself upright, took stock of himself. His trousers and the back of his blazer were drenched and mud-soaked, certainly ruined; his socks sloshed in his shoes; his tie was twisted and mangled around his neck. Hob looked no better, wet and muddy and with leaves stuck in his hair. Only on Hob, there was a natural ease to it, a sense that he would pick himself up with a grin and go on like that. Dream was certain he himself looked merely disheveled and ridiculous.

"You've discovered mud, good for you," Hob said, grinning at him. How could he still look so bright, with mud smeared over his forehead? "And there's a beetle in your hair."

Dream found it and plucked it out, moved to toss it away, as he might have done at home—but paused. Held it in his palm instead. Had he ever looked at them before? Its fine, intricate legs were really quite remarkable. Its shell iridescent and changing in the light. Its antennae waved at him. Just like his spider, it was so much more detailed when seen up close, a world unto itself worth peering into.

He put it down on the side of the brook, and when he looked back, found Hob gazing at him with an expression he could only interpret as fond.

"Beetles look good on you," he said, and this brought Dream back from the warm place he had started to slip to, there in the glow of Hob's attention, and to reality again.

"Mother will be furious," he said quietly, and hated himself for the smallness of his voice. Dream had never truly wished to be anyone other than himself, even when that self chafed and bled against its surroundings. But since meeting Hob, he'd begun to wish he could be in the world the way Hob was—unapologetic, exuberant, pushing back.

At first, Hob just looked fondly exasperated by Dream's constant unwillingness to ever break a rule. But he must have caught something in Dream's tone that he hadn't before, for he shifted closer, still in the water and getting even more soaked, expression creasing in concern.

"Hey." He laid a tentative hand on Dream's arm. "It'll be alright, yeah? It's just some clothes, in the end. I bet the dry cleaner's can even get it out."

Dream shook his head. It was not about the clothes. Material possessions were not the matter. No, Mother could buy a new uniform easily enough, but how dare one of her children be seen with a hair out of place, how dare Dream show up like this, put a foot wrong. Stumble? Fall? As if this weren't bad enough, Dream had also lied about where he was going, because there was no way he would have been allowed out of the house otherwise, and this was already a grave offense, and now there was proof.

It was always very unwise to anger either of Dream's parents.

Dream had told himself he would be bold, like Hob. Instead, he wanted to cry. But no matter what was waiting to come down upon his head, he was not going to cry. It was always unwise to cry. And he did not want Hob to think him even more pathetic than he doubtless already thought Dream was.

Dream steeled himself, clenching his hands in the river bottom for a long moment. The cold slip of the mud, the crunch of the rocks was surprisingly soothing. Then he let go, and let the river water wash the dirt away. "You are right, of course. Only. Mud."

"Only that," Hob agreed, smiling at him again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He would have lovely wrinkles there when he was older, Dream thought. Hob took his hand, and looked at his palm, perfectly smooth and clean again after the water had washed over it. "At least you weren't hurt in that tumble, yeah? That's what's most important."

For the moment, Dream let home wash away from him with the river water, and focused on his hand in Hob's. It felt like peace. "What's most important," he echoed. "Yes."

“Up you get.” Hob got to his feet in the water and pulled Dream up beside him. “Won’t do to have you catch cold.”

He did not seem cold himself, but Dream had to admit that his own wet clothes were already giving him a chill. It was more unpleasant out of the water than in. In either case, he would rather catch his death in the river than go home in this state. He smoothed his hands through his hair, trying to quell his trembling at the thought.

Fortunately, Hob interpreted his shaking as shivers from the cold. He helped Dream back up the embankment, untied Dream’s tie to let it hang loose over his shoulders and undid a few buttons on his wet shirt, too. His hands over Dream’s tacky, cold skin were gentle, and Dream found himself holding his breath until Hob had let him go.

Then they started off back towards town, damp and muddy.

“Didn’t mean to chuck you in the river,” Hob said with a light laugh as they walked. “Sorry.”

“Technically, I ‘chucked’ you in the river,” Dream said.

“I started it.”

“I enjoyed—” Dream started, but stopped before saying holding your hand. “Running.” This was also true; he did not do much of it, and to feel his heart pounding so alive in his chest had been exhilarating. “Though perhaps not the swim, so much.”

Hob laughed. “I’ll take you for a proper swim. On a warmer day.”

“I don’t swim,” said Dream.

“Don’t or can’t?”

Dream was fairly certain he may have been enrolled in swim lessons as a young child. Those, of course, were held in a heated indoor pool. “I don’t. Though I am not certain I would trust Year Two swimming lessons against a river, either.”

“I’ll take you to a safe spot.” Hob bumped their shoulders together. “Won’t let you get swept away in the current, promise.”

It seemed Dream was not getting out of this. At least he would be able to prepare, bring a change of clothes and not return home sopping wet.

“It’ll be fun,” Hob added.

“Fun,” Dream repeated, dubiously. He was apprehensive about the concept.

“You need more fun in your life,” Hob said.

Dream was even more apprehensive about that. “And you intend to create it?”

“Sure do!”

No matter how dangerous it felt, no matter the punishment that was surely waiting for him when he returned home, Dream could not help but put some trust in Hob. He wanted to trust Hob. He wanted to take Hob’s hand.

“Very well,” he agreed, tentatively. Heart thudding, he carefully linked their fingers together as they walked.

Hob’s beaming smile could have rivaled the sun. And Dream was glad that he had agreed.

 

Dream was still shivering when they reached town, and not only from anxiety this time. His damp clothes were freezing. Hob rubbed at his arms to try to warm him up, smiling ruefully.

“Sorry I haven’t a jumper for you or anything.”

“I will manage,” Dream said. Truthfully the cold was the least of his concerns. What awaited him at home, if he failed to slip in without being noticed, was far more frightening.

“Better go home and have a warm bath,” Hob told him, taking both of Dream’s hands in his and giving them a squeeze. Then, before Dream could respond to that, he leaned in and kissed Dream on the cheek.

Dream froze, more so than even from the cold. He did not know how to respond. But Hob didn’t seem to need him to. He just smiled, squeezing Dream’s hands again as he stepped back.

“Take care, Dream.”

 

Dream thought about it all the way back to his house, forgetting, temporarily, what awaited him. Hob had kissed his cheek. Did he mean it? Would he kiss Dream again? He kept touching his face where Hob’s lips had been. It had been just a light brush, but he could still feel it.

He wanted to revel in it. But as he walked up the drive, less damp now but still muddied and disheveled, that joy ceded to fear.

Perhaps, he thought, as he quietly opened the door, if he could sneak quickly upstairs without being seen, change before being summoned to dinner—

“Dream, sweetheart!”

His mother’s voice was kind, friendly. But it would not stay that way. She often seemed kind at first. Until he displeased her.

Dream walked slowly into the kitchen where his mother was sat at the island with her laptop and a glass of wine. She looked perfect as always, not a hint of smudged makeup, not a single wrinkle in her dress, despite it being the end of the day. Dream had often wondered if she was preternaturally disposed to perfection in a way he was expected to match up to but never could.

His mother turned to him—and her charming smile skidded off her face at the sight of him. Dream thought he probably looked even worse than he assumed, his crisp white school shirt soaked in mud, tie askew from where Hob had undone it, hair a mess where his mother would prefer it combed neatly.

“Dream,” she snapped, and Dream couldn’t help his flinch. Gone was the dispassion he’d managed last time he’d come home late from seeing Hob. He knew this was a far worse offense than being late.

“Mother,” he said, flatly.

“Don’t take that tone,” she said, sharper. Dream didn’t think he’d taken any tone in particular. “What have you done to yourself? Don’t you have any respect for all we provide for you? What if you were seen?”

“Perhaps I was in a terrible accident and nearly drowned,” Dream said, deadpan, but she wasn’t listening to him.

She took his shirt in her hands and turned him this way and that. “You look like one of those ruffian children who play in the street. It’s disgraceful, haven’t I raised you better? What if you were seen?” Her fretting was rising in volume. “How poorly you represent our family.”

“I apologize, Mother,” Dream said, rote. Anything to get out of the situation. Even if, he found with surprise, he didn’t mean the apology. The familiar shame wasn’t blooming under his ribs the way it normally would when she criticized him. Fear, yes, but not shame. That was… interesting.

‘One of those ruffian children,’ she said. Like Hob? Was that such a bad thing to be? Was it really so bad to trip and fall in the woods, if one at least tried to run? Wasn’t that better than sitting still and silent in a curated garden, never moving a step?

He didn’t say so, though. There was no arguing with his mother when she’d already decided.

“You apologize?” she said, tearing up. “You don’t love me at all.”

“For God’s sake would you quit with that RACKET,” Father yelled from the other room, and Dream flinched even as his mother stepped back, letting go of him roughly and smoothing her hands down over her dress in a nervous motion.

Father came into the kitchen. He didn’t storm in, or make much noise at all, but his presence was dominating nevertheless. The apathy Dream had tried to smooth over his feelings curled quickly back in favor of fear.

“Are you defying your mother?” his father demanded. Dream did not answer; there was no response that would be acceptable, that he knew. No way to defend himself.

Father stepped forward and cracked him across the face with the back of his hand. Dream reeled back, clutching his cheek. His mother gasped, but didn’t interfere. She never interfered. Dream was never sure if she approved, or if she was afraid of Father, but the result was the same.

“You’ll answer when spoken to,” Father snapped. He never quite yelled, but his voice boomed. Dream wished he didn’t have such an instinctive reaction to it. He wished he could just— what? He didn’t even know what he could do. Stand up for himself? He didn’t deserve to do that. He should just have done what he was supposed to. Then none of this would have happened.

“I am sorry,” he mumbled.

“If you were sorry, you would have made better choices,” said his father, but didn’t strike Dream again, for which Dream was pathetically grateful.

“You’re right,” said Dream, ducking his head. He just wanted to escape. “May I be excused?”

“Go,” said his father, pointing, and Dream left the kitchen, trying not to run.

Upstairs he stripped off his wet clothes and buried himself under his blankets, not even having the energy to take out his sketchbook. There was no point in sketching Hob, or the river or the beetle or anything else he had seen or done that day. It was all useless fantasies.

He didn’t know what he was playing at. Thinking he could be anything other than what he was cultivated to be. Thinking he could run in the forest like Hob, be casual, free? There was nothing casual or free about Dream. There was nothing allowed outside of this box. No point to thinking any differently.

He did not try to go downstairs to eat dinner, even though he was hungry after all the walking in the woods. He just stayed huddled up under his blanket. Tried to sleep.

It didn’t find him until late into the morning.

🌌

Notes:

sorry dream :/

Chapter 5

Notes:

just need you to understand that the weather patterns in this fic make absolutely no sense whatsoever. like, what season even is it? it's cold then warm then colder then warm enough to go swimming...? listen just roll with it okay 😂 the weather is whatever it needs to be for the scene to happen, don't overthink it

🌌

Dream’s jaw had bloomed with a bruise by morning. And so, though his heart kept tugging him otherwise, he did not try to meet Hob at all that week. He texted to say that he was ill. Besides the fact that it was too risky, that it was foolish, he did not want Hob to see the bruise. Hob could not see. Then he would know. Dream did not know what he would do if he knew, and he did not want to find out.

He borrowed some of Desire’s concealer to wear to school. For once, Desire didn’t even make a snarky remark at him, just handed him the bottle silently. For all the ways they’d hurt each other over the years, there were some wounds they didn’t prod.

Dream spent every hour of the week when he wasn’t at school lying in bed with the covers over his head. He barely took out his phone, worried his parents might suddenly decide they wanted to see what he was doing with it. He hid his sketchbook deep under his bed, leaving out an older one, filled only with innocuous drawings of birds and garden plants, on his desk as a decoy. Mother was busy all week, and Father rarely paid attention unless he was annoyed, so it was easy to avoid everyone. He spoke to no one.

He wanted to see Hob. He wanted to leave the house. He wanted to feel that agonizing sliver of freedom. But he was afraid. Of being in trouble again. And somehow, more so, of Hob knowing.

What would Hob do?

He was afraid to find out. He was always afraid. He didn’t think Hob would be afraid.

Eventually, the bruise on Dream’s face faded and he no longer had to wear Desire’s concealer to appear normal. He faced no more trouble from Mother or Father, presumably because he hadn’t stepped out of line. Gradually the fear that had gripped him began to abate as the incident slipped into the past. Surely, it would be repeated, but for now it was past.

Dream still wanted to see Hob.

Dream had never smoked, drank or done any other of a number of ‘adult’ things he knew other teenagers his age—including Desire, who mocked him for it constantly—had done. It had always been far too risky. But he imagined this was what it felt like to get hooked on such things. To know it was dangerous and destructive and still feel the pull. He felt Hob wedging cracks into the shaky foundation that held up his life. His control. And still he wanted like the painful tug of a hook dug into his chest.

Finally, a few days after the bruise had faded, he turned on his phone. He had barely looked at it since telling Hob he was ill. He had not wanted to get close to the temptation.

He had a few texts from Hob, stretching back over the last week.

Sorry you’re sick :( hope you’ll be feeling better soon.

Found a cool spider, thought it would cheer you up [img]

Dream are you okay?

Dream?

Dream looked at the texts with guilt. He had made Hob worry over him unnecessarily.

I am okay, he replied.

Hob’s reply came quickly, as usual. Good. Damn, you must have been pretty sick.

Yes, Dream said. I am better now.

Good :)

When we last met, you promised me swimming? Dream said, suddenly nervous again as he sent it, but didn’t take it back.

I did ;) you up for it? Looks warmer out this week.

Perhaps at night? He deliberated, chewing on his lower lip. Slipping out in the dead of night was risky. But perhaps less risky than passing right by his parents in the day. Especially if he was to return potentially wet or disheveled. Days are… hard for me right now.

He could just imagine Hob’s quizzical look at that. Alright. Nocturnal creature :) I’ll meet you at our usual spot? Midnight?

At our usual spot, Dream agreed, letting out a sigh that was equal parts relief and trepidation. Now he only had to manage to get out of the house in the middle of the night.

Not risky in the slightest.

 

Nevertheless, when night fell and the house was asleep, Dream found himself cracking open his window. He was lucky it opened wide enough for him to fit out. He slipped through, balancing on the trellis tacked to the wall, meant for roses to climb but bare for the moment. He closed the window behind him, leaving it open just a crack to let himself back in later.

He did not know what he was doing. He was not athletic enough for this. But he persisted, climbing carefully down the trellis, then slipping out through the garden to the drive. He knew the gate code, and was able to silently sneak out to the road and then lock it again.

Apparently, he was not a good child and even beating him could not make him stay in his place. As he was climbing out the window, down the rose trellis, the thought had been utterly terrifying.

But as he was walking down the road, finally out of view of the house, it was exhilarating. The moon was high and full, and the air was cool but not cold, clean against his skin, and for the first time in ages he felt unwatched. Like he could do anything, and nobody would take him to task for it. He didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t have to alter his behavior to be what they wanted. He only had to focus on walking. And think about Hob.

Hob was waiting for him on their bench at the park. He smiled when he saw Dream, pulling him into a hug.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he murmured, breath brushing Dream’s ear.

Dream felt a stab of guilt for lying to him about the nature of his ‘illness.’ But the relief at being in Hob’s presence was stronger. “I am okay,” he echoed.

“Shouldn’t have let you fall in the river that day, bet that’s how you caught your death,” Hob said, fretting, as they pulled apart. “I brought actual towels this time. And warmer clothes. Even though it’s warmer out tonight. If you’re still up for it.”

The last thing Dream wanted was for Hob to blame himself. “It was not your fault,” he said. “And I don’t regret going in the river.” He was surprised to find it was true. Even if he had been hit for it.

“Okay.” Hob picked up the bag he had on the bench, presumably towels, and then, as Dream had dreamed and wished he would, he took Dream’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Off we go, then.”

This time, Dream did not pay much attention to the woods, or the calls of the night creatures, or even the ground under his feet. He only noticed Hob’s hand in his. The warmth of his skin where Dream’s hands were perpetually cold. His solid grip as he led Dream through the forest. He would likely feel differently later, but in this moment, this felt very much worth the punishment, indeed.

They soon reached the river, and Hob led them along its banks until they reached a bend where the water slowed in a deep u shape and collected in a pool. There Hob put his bag down on the rocky banks and kicked off his shoes.

“If it’s too cold for you, it’s okay,” he said. “I mean, I think it’s refreshing, but that’s me.”

He seemed less sure of pushing Dream to have ‘fun’ now, worried for his well-being instead. Dream was determined that Hob need not worry over him. He only wanted to enjoy Hob’s company.

He took off his own shoes, and dipped a toe in the water. It was cold, but the air was warmer than the other day and so it was tolerable. Probably.

When he looked back up from the water, Hob was wearing only his boxer shorts.

Dream’s brain simply stopped and he stared at him for several long moments. Whatever he saw on his face made Hob laugh.

“Did you think I was going to swim in all my clothes?”

Dream had not, in fact, thought that far ahead. He had not considered this would involve seeing Hob barely clothed. He had not considered it at all, which now seemed a grave oversight.

His face was burning, but Hob only grinned. “You can keep your trousers on if you want,” he told Dream, “but I think you’ll regret it.”

With that, he jumped into the river.

Dream reached out belatedly to stop him, worried he would knock himself on a rock on the bottom, but Hob apparently knew the river well, and popped up a moment later no worse for wear. The water must have been deep.

Hob pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. Water dripped from his chin, streamed down his neck. The eddying river kissed his shoulders. Dream stared at him, feeling very warm. Perhaps the cold water would not be such a bad idea after all.

He took off his shirt, then, with some hesitation, his trousers. It would not do to drench them, or to have to walk home completely soaked. Or so he told himself was his reasoning.

Now clad only in his black underwear, he stepped carefully into the water. The current here at the riverbend was slow and easy, brushing against his skin rather than pushing and pulling. Hob watched, grinning, as Dream picked his way over the rocks and deeper into the water.

“It’s actually less cold if you just jump in,” he said.

Dream doubted that. He shivered as the water rose past his belly button. But he was determined. He wanted to make it out to where Hob was treading water. He would not turn back.

He took another step and—

—the riverbed dropped out from under his feet.

Dream flailed as his head went under, water rushing into his mouth at his first ill-advised, instinctive gasp for breath. All childhood swim lessons fled his mind, he tried wildly to kick and flailed his arms and—

—strong arms caught him and pulled him to the surface. Dream gasped for breath, coughing up water, even though it had been only seconds he’d been under.

Hob’s arms were around him. He was treading water to hold them both up. He laughed against Dream’s ear, but not cruelly. “Easy. Sorry, should have warned you that it dropped off there.”

Dream should have surmised that it dropped off, considering how Hob had leapt in and was treading water while waiting for Dream. Clearly, it was too deep to stand.

“I suppose I am not so good at swimming,” he admitted, wheezing, and Hob laughed again.

“No kidding. You’re alright, though. Here.” He carefully let Dream go, but stayed close as Dream got his bearings in the water. It was only then that Dream grasped he’d been chest-to-chest with Hob, their bare legs brushing as Hob held him up. He mourned the fact that he couldn’t appreciate it while it was happening.

He managed to get his wits about him, and was soon floating without feeling like he was about to drown. Hob floated across from him, eminently more comfortable but still smiling at Dream. Not mocking. Kind. Fond.

“Nice, isn’t it?” he said.

It was nice, now that Dream had gotten his bearings. The water was no longer so cold now that his body was acclimating, and though his wet hair was plastered to his face he was not uncomfortable. The river current caressed him, rather than buffeting him about. And it was nice to be… weightless. To just let the water hold him up.

“Yes,” he said. He tipped his head back, looking up at the dark crown of trees far above them, the moon spilling light down over the water. When he looked back, Hob was still gazing at him, a light smile on his face. The moonlight caught his features in contrast, made bright streaks in his hair, cast shadows against his strong nose and brow and put a glint in his eyes that was almost too bright. Dream loved how Hob looked in the sun, but under the moon he was just as handsome, almost strange and ethereal.

He was so very handsome. Dream had always thought so, but now in the warm night, it caught him under his ribs, tightened his throat, settled light and feathery in his stomach. He felt very strange, like he never had before. He swallowed hard, feeling suddenly very dehydrated despite all the water around him.

“Dream?” Hob said, swimming closer. “Not still afraid you’ll drown, are you?”

Not in that way.

Dream had never felt he possessed much courage. But Hob made him feel brave.

He leaned in and kissed Hob.

He nearly drowned himself again doing it, for he forgot how to use his limbs once Hob’s lips touched his. His lips were warm and soft, where Dream’s were often bitten to the point of bleeding, and when Hob’s lips curled into a smile, when his mouth opened under Dream’s, wet and hot, Dream forgot to hold himself up and nearly went under the water again.

Hob caught him, laughing, treading water to keep them both upright. Dream held onto him, and found himself nose-to-nose with Hob, so close his eyes could barely focus on him. His heart hammered under his ribs. He definitely did not feel cold now.

Even so close, he felt the weight of Hob’s gaze. And Hob hadn’t pulled away from him, which was good. It was definitely good. And he felt Hob was about to say something.

Instead Hob kissed him back.

It was messy, and river water kept sloshing up over their cheeks, Hob still holding Dream up under the water as he couldn’t seem to get his limbs in order. But it was good. It felt right. Dream never much wanted anybody to touch him, but he wanted Hob to touch him. He liked how Hob’s arms felt around his waist, how Hob’s mouth felt on his, and when Hob pulled away, Dream chased him, already feeling deprived, and leaned his cheek against Hob’s. Breathless, and clinging, but Hob didn’t move away.

Hob drifted them over back to where it was just shallow enough to stand. Dream felt the rocks under his toes, and finally stood under his own power with some relief. Hob ran his fingers carefully through Dream’s tangled, wet hair. Dream shivered from head to toe at the touch.

“Hey,” Hob said, when he finally pulled away far enough to see Dream, lips tugging up in a smile.

“Hello,” Dream said. He already wanted to kiss Hob again, just being close to him, but he restrained himself.

“I liked that,” Hob said, fully grinning now.

“As did I.”

“Figured. You ever kiss somebody before?”

Dream shook his head. Hob didn’t say whether he had or not, and Dream was curious but didn’t press. He assumed Hob didn’t have anyone else he was wanting to kiss now, else he would have said.

“Nice?”

Dream huffed. “Now you are just making fun of me.”

“No, never.” He cradled Dream’s cheek in his hand, which effectively stalled any of Dream’s protests. His eyes tracked over Dream’s face, half-lidded. “You’re really gorgeous, have I said?”

“You’ve called me cute,” Dream said, wrinkling his nose.

Hob laughed. Dream did love the ringing sound of his laughter. It came so much more easily to Hob than it did to him. “That, too.”

Dream did not know what he was meant to do now. He had kissed Hob on impulse. He had not thought beyond that, to how he could possibly have Hob, given everything. Everything had felt so simple when they were kissing. Now it all felt so much more complicated.

“Come on, your lips are turning blue,” Hob said, and led him out of the water. Dream was feeling cold now that they were no longer moving, and colder still as the air hit his wet skin. He shivered, goosebumps rising.

On the shore, Hob bundled him in a fluffy towel, using another to scrub through his hair, drying it in messy clumps. Dream held very still as he was close, not wanting to interrupt the moment. Hob’s breath brushed over his face.

Afterwards Dream wrapped the towel around his waist, not wanting to put his trousers back on until his underwear had dried a little, and put on his shirt to banish the chill. It clung anyway, in his damp hair and his hands, which were often cold besides, but before it could set in Hob was handing him a jumper.

“Told you I brought you warmer clothes,” he said.

A lump in his throat, Dream pulled on the jumper. It was warm and smelled of Hob’s skin. He burrowed his nose in it as he sat down on the rocky riverbank, Hob sitting beside him in just a towel wrapped around his waist. He did not seem cold, shirtless though he was, though he’d made an effort at towel-drying his hair.

Before Dream could say anything or question what he was meant to do now, Hob held out his hand between them. Dream took it with relief. Hob’s natural warmth traveled into his body and his hands no longer felt so cold.

It all felt easier, too, when they were touching.

“I wanted to kiss you properly for ages,” Hob admitted with a nervous laugh, looking out over the water. “Hadn’t yet worked up the nerve.”

“I do not know how I found the nerve to do it,” Dream admitted, and Hob laughed again, not so nervous this time.

“I’m glad you did. Don’t drown yourself in the process, though.”

“I think swimming may be a lost cause for me,” Dream sighed.

“Nah. I’ll just come with you and make sure you don’t drown.”

Dream hesitated, deliberating, and then moved closer to Hob and leaned against him. Tipped his head onto Hob’s shoulder. Hob wrapped an arm around his waist.

It was nice like that. Being close to him. He felt secure and free all at once.

“Hob?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what to do now.”

“Me neither, honestly,” Hob said. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

He was always so much more assured than Dream was that things would work out. It was comforting even if Dream struggled to believe it. It was hard to believe he could have this. What he wanted.

“I want this,” he said quietly. Then, with greater strength, “I want this.”

“Me too, love.”

Love. Dream liked the sound of Hob calling him that.

They sat there for some time, drying off. Dream was still cold, but Hob’s body against his was warm, so he did not mind. He watched the eddying swirls of the river, visible in the moonlight. For once he was not so nervous about returning home. He thought that, even if he was caught, even if he was punished, it might be worth it to have this. To have Hob.

Eventually, they had to head back. They put on the rest of their clothes, and Hob led him back out of the forest, hand clasped in his the whole time. When they reached their usual meeting place, where they would part ways, Hob didn’t ask for his jumper back, and Dream was too selfish to offer it. It was risky to wear it home, but as long as he snuck in, he could hide it before anyone saw. He didn’t want to give it up. Not yet.

Hob hugged him goodbye, as usual. But this time, he also kissed him. A long, soft kiss, but it left Dream reeling. Wanting. He touched his lips when Hob pulled away.

Dream would be utterly sleep-deprived tomorrow, but he did not care. For the whole walk back to his home his heart felt bright and hot and happy. He was happy.

He still felt it as he climbed quietly back into his bedroom, fortunately unnoticed. He felt it as he changed into pajama bottoms and crawled into bed, still wrapped in Hob’s jumper. He buried his nose in the scent of Hob, pulling the blankets over his head to trap it in.

It was worth it, he thought. Worth getting hit. Worth the fear of sneaking out. Worth the threat of worse.

It was worth it all.

🌌

Notes:

time spent swimming: 2 min
time spent thinking about kissing hob: 17 hours

Chapter 6

Notes:

I can't freaking count. there's actually 9 chapters
and this one is very short bc i like it as its own little packaged... thing. artistic license ~
and also to convey time passing

🌌

He was not caught.

And so he snuck out again.

And again.

He met Hob by the woods at night, and Hob brought him to waterfalls and mossy clearings and dark caves they had to explore by torchlight. Hob seemed to know everything about the forest, and showed him all of it, all the wild plants and animals and secret fey places that still grew in the modern day. It was getting too late in the season to swim, but they would sit by the river and look out over the water, and Dream found so much peace in that place, Hob’s hand in his, the water rushing by. Sometimes they would lie side-by-side in the grass. Sometimes Dream would sit in Hob’s lap and kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

Dream was terribly and irrevocably in love with Hob. He would never recover. Sometimes he wished to flee to the seashore and drown himself in the ocean to extinguish the fire in his heart before it burned him alive. Because it would. Something this good was not for him to keep. It would be found out, and it would end, it would be taken from him, like so much else was.

He didn’t care.

He was terrified and for once it didn’t stop him.

He wanted to love Hob. And not as some belated act of rebellion or self-destruction. He did not want to love Hob with the feral gripping hold of someone who had little else so kind in his life. He wanted to love Hob because he loved Hob, because Hob was quick and clever and knew everything about every creature in the forest, because he was restless and interesting and handsome and delighted in making Dream smile.

It would end horribly. It would pull his life out from under him.

He loved Hob anyway.

🌌