Work Text:
It’s another foggy day in London, another dreary workday for Hob. He loves his job, really, but all the grant writing and department meetings and emails put a damper on the energy he can put into teaching. He’s sat at his desk, staring out the window into the fog. He can hardly see the tree nestled beside the building. Hob tries to come up with a professional way to say some choice words to a request to be on yet another committee, wishing he could pull a dagger on them like the old days. He sighs and starts to think about home.
Where the office is cold, the home he shares with Dream is warm not only in temperature but in spirit. The flat is littered with signs of two. Two coat hooks, two mugs left on the kitchen table, two rumpled spots in the bed they forget to make. Before Dream, the flat was lonely. Too big for someone on their own. But Dream fills in all the empty spaces in their home and in his heart. He didn’t think it could be this easy, loving someone this way. To let them see all sides of you, even the darkest parts you keep hidden until you’re backed into a corner and snarling.
But Dream had seen him at his worst long before their relationship began. He tries not to think about the 17th century often, but still the sense memory remains. Even then, Dream cared for him. When their meeting was over, he had left Hob a pouch of coins. Now, when Hob wakes in the night shivering and hungry, Dream reminds him where he is and fixes him a snack. It had taken them centuries to admit their feelings but now that they’re out there, each man knows there’s no one else for him.
Hob wishes he was curled up on the couch with Dream, where they spend most nights cuddling and talking. Hob makes them tea, which Dream now has strong opinions about. He’ll wrap his arms around Dream and kiss him gently. They spend hours just touching each other, kissing each other, enjoying each other’s company with no expectation of doing anything more. Sometimes, when Hob’s yawns become too frequent, Dream will read to Hob, his smooth baritone lulling him to sleep and keeping him from waking when he is carried to bed.
The fog always brings with it a sense of wist, though there’s not much sense in being wistful when Dream will be there when Hob gets home. He glances at the clock. 4:00 PM.
Screw it, he thinks. I want to be with my Dream.
He packs his laptop bag and tosses his coat on, heading down the stairs with speed he rarely uses now that he leads a more sedentary lifestyle. When he pushes open the door, he nearly runs into someone.
“Hello, Hob.” Dream wraps his arms around Hob, catching his fall and pulling him into a hug.
Hob looks up at him, smiling. “Hey love, was just thinking about you.”
“So I heard. Now shall I whisk you back home to do everything you daydreamed about?”
Hob pretends to think. “Hmm… I suppose if you must,” and leans up to kiss Dream as a swirl of sand takes them away.