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Dream never thought of himself as touch starved.
He never craved to hold another's hand or to caress someone's face. He doesn't go for kisses on the cheek or fingers running through unruly hair. They're not unwelcome — far from it, of course — but they're not acts he yearns for.
130 years of imprisonment changes a lot of things.
It started out very subtle. Casual brushes of fingers against skin. Hob was naturally a very touchy person but was significantly less so around Dream. It used to not bother him before. There is no use in shaking hands with a medieval peasant with delusions of grandeur nor a nobleman who no longer dreams because he believes he's achieved all of them.
But now it bothers him to a greater degree. So much so that he doesn't know what to do with it.
He wants Hob to reach across the table, hold his hand, and idly stroke his thumb across his skin. He wants Hob to ruffle his hair – mess it up to his liking. He especially wants Hob to open his arms and let Dream fall into his embrace, his ear pressed against a strong and sturdy chest to hear the gentle thud of the immortal's eternal heartbeat.
He might go insane with this need. His little sister's realm isn't too far ahead the longer he lingers on the inches of space between Hob's hand and his own.
And how unbecoming of an Endless to ask for something so trivial, so unbelievably human as physical affection. What kind of king is he to be wary of demanding such a thing? He doesn't need to be touched. He doesn't need to be held. He survived 130 years without it. He can survive 130 years more.
Alas, but only 130 seconds passed before Hob noticed the excruciating grimace on Dream's face.
"Dream?" Hob asked, tilting his head a bit to catch his friend's eye. Dream met his gaze immediately, almost pathetically so. "You alright there?"
What is he supposed to say? Dream has thought of every thought that has entered a being's mind. And yet he comes up with nothing to say to Hob Gadling's innocent curiosity.
"I am... conflicted." Is the best he could say. It's not exactly an all-encompassing turn of phrase but it gives a general gist of his current turmoil. Hob hummed, taking a sip from his beer before leaning a little closer across the table. Dream feels a gentle flame ignite within his cheeks at the proximity.
"You've been awfully fidgety the whole time." Hob gestured lightly to Dream's hand that was tapping an inconsistent rhythm on the table. Noticeably, Hob doesn't move his own hand away. Dream inches his fingers a little closer. "Hope you're not too bored hanging around me."
"You could never bore me," Dream said without hesitation. For that is perpetually true. Hob Gadling has been many things in his lifetimes — none of which have ever been truly boring.
"That's a relief." Hob's shoulder's relaxed, his smile warm and familiar. Like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold winter's night. "What's on your mind? Care to share a little bit of that collective unconscious with me?"
"If I were to share a small fraction of what resides within me, even your decades of soldiering would be in vain."
"First time for everything," Hob shrugged and Dream resisted the urge to purse his lips in the way that Hob has deemed as pouting. "I enjoy learning things about you, however long that takes me."
"If you were to learn that I had done atrocities beyond even what your human mind could muster, would you still sit across from me in this very inn without batting an eye?"
Dream is very much aware that this is a defense mechanism. Build the walls up one by one and no one would dare break through them. Remind them that he is not just the King of Dreams but also the ruler and sole creator of all Nightmares. He sits upon a tall and imposing tower – one window, no doors – so that no one would try to rescue him.
Oh, but how foolish of Dream to forget that Hob Gadling was once a knight. And if tasked to seek out the lonely prince of stories, he takes out a quill and writes a chapter even after the tale ends. For that's just who Hob Gadling is – endless in his own way. Boundless and free from running out of time. A wellspring of wonder through every turn of the century.
Therefore, why would it be such a fuss to ask for a hug?
"I waited for you," Hob said, his voice soft and almost distant. "Thirty years I waited for you. Built a damn pub just to make sure your lanky arse wouldn't stray too far. You could have been a serial killer, a demon, or hell, the bloody reincarnation of Christ Jesus himself and I wouldn't have given a fuck. I'd wait for you again, over and over."
Then Hob leaned forward again, their fingers now just barely brushing against each other. If Dream didn't know any better, he'd say he saw stars in Hob Gadling's eyes. But he knows it's because they only reflect the constellations that are within Dream's.
"Did you really think that I cared for you so little that I'd drop you for not being perfect?" Hob smiled ruefully. "You're talking to the world's biggest fuck-up here, Dream. I know a thing or two about mistakes."
Dream looked at Hob – really looked at him. Not for the first time since their reunion did Dream quietly thank his sister for sparing Hob her gift. For it's in immortality did Hob gain wisdom. It's in having all the time in the world did Hob bring forth the best of humanity – a kindness that Dream rarely allows for himself. For ancient rules forbid him to indulge, to chase, to crave.
But what are rules if not made to find loopholes in them? If Hob said he's made mistakes, Dream knows he's made many more. And yet here he sits, across from Hob in a little corner they've deemed their own.
"Then I will not make this mistake any longer," Dream held Hob's gaze, steadfast and true, and turned his hand palm facing up. Hob, with only a slight moment's hesitation rested his own hand on top of Dream's. Dream's fingers wrapped delicately around Hob and the immortal squeezed – quick but reassuring.
"Just say the word," Hob whispered. A tone so reassuring and unwavering in its devotion to Dream that it ignites a spark of light where darkness once purveyed ruin in Dream's mind. "Whatever you want and I'll follow."
Dream allows himself to finally smile, the galaxies in his irises dancing, reflected in Hob's own.
"I'd like to follow you," Dream squeezed Hob's hand back. "Back to your home."
He's been here before.
The dreams of an immortal who's seen anything and everything are an enigma to all but Dream himself. But his bedroom is exceedingly ordinary yet boasts only slightly about a few of the finer things Hob likes to indulge in.
There's a sunset lamp casting a warm glow around the room on the bedside table and fairy lights strewn across the walls in haphazard patterns. Books of no particular category line the shelf on the opposite wall. The closet doors are decorated with vintage band posters, stamps, and stickers from all around the world. A cork board rests adjacent to the bookshelf, filled with miscellaneous polaroid photos and post-it notes from past and current students.
There's a sense of chaos in the way Hob decorates his bedroom. But also just his own unique brand of Hob.
Dream loves Hob's bedroom.
It's the bedroom of a proper dreamer.
It's perfect for what he requested of the immortal, who just came out of the shower, his hair a little damp, and already in comfortable looking sleepwear. Dream allowed himself to eye Hob up and down. He always appreciates a man who knows how to get ready for bed.
"Don't tell me you're gonna cuddle me dressed like that?" Hob gestured towards Dream's outfit with an amused tilt of his head. "Does the king of dreams never wear jammies?"
Dream looked down at his clothes with a furrowed brow. "Are these not comfortable enough?"
"To cuddle in?" Hob snorted, already opening up his closet and digging through his clothes. "Although that coat looks lovely on you, I think the experience will feel much better in looser and softer clothes."
"I suppose I could change..." Dream shifted a bit as Hob continued to search through his closet. "May I make a request?"
Hob stopped rummaging through his drawers. "Sure. Anything."
"Could I..." Dream swallowed slowly. "Could I wear the orange sweater you wore last month?"
Dream remembers that sweater quite vividly. It was paired with a smart pair of brown checkered slacks and boots. Hob's hair was half- up and tied in a loose bun and he was talking about weaponry throughout the centuries to wide-eyed freshmen. The Dreaming was tinted with an orange sparkling haze for a couple days after that day.
Hob blinked at him, pleasantly surprised by the request.
"I think that one might be in my hamper," Hob said slowly, eyeing Dream for any change in reaction. "You mind if I dig it out?"
"I don't mind at all." It will smell even more like Hob. That sounds more like an improvement to him.
The hitch in Hob's breathing was barely noticeable but Dream smiled all the same. As Hob rushed to to get the aforementioned orange sweater from his laundry basket, Dream removed his coat and shoes. He fashioned himself a pair of checkered pajama pants similar to Hob's just in time for the man to come running back.
"Doesn't smell very good," Hob said in between catching his breath. "I think it's still wearable though."
Dream stepped forward and ran his hand across the fabric gently. He looked up at Hob again. "It's perfect, thank you."
Putting on the sweater proved to be almost overwhelming for Dream. Hob's scent was powerful but deeply comforting. And as he slips his arms through the larger sleeves, it already felt like the beginning of a hug.
In no time, Hob takes his hand and leads him to the bed. It's still awfully hesitant but even Dream was hesitant in following. He asked for this. He asked Hob to do this for him. There was no time to feel embarrassed now.
And then Hob sat down, pulled Dream to stand between his legs, hands on his waist, and looked up at him as if he had witnessed the beginnings of a star learning to burn bright.
Dream was a king.
Yet it was only here, in Hob's wrinkled orange sweater and checkered pajama pants, did Dream finally understand what someone's true and honest worship was supposed to feel like.
"You okay?" Hob asked – no judgement, no pity. Only a pure and genuine curiosity that has Dream bringing his hand up to card through Hob's hair. Hob leans into it instinctively, as if they've been doing this for centuries.
"More than okay," Dream whispered, his thumb gently stroking Hob's cheekbone because he can. "Are you?"
Hob smiled cheekily. "I've had worse days."
Then they laid down, Hob's arms wrapped around Dream securely, like a babe in a swaddle. Hob held him like he was crushing Dream's soul back into his body. In this position, Dream could finally listen to Hob's heartbeat. His hands clutched Hob's shirt, his breath coming out in shaky little gasps. Hob continued to hold him, run his hands through Dream's hair, and hum a tune forgotten from centuries past. A lullaby.
Dream hooked his leg over Hob's, combining their bodies even closer together. Hob chuckled, mumbling a little "You're like a koala bear." as he placed a soft kiss to Dream's forehead. Dream placed the lightest kiss on Hob's chest, right where the man's heart beats against his ear — a thank you that words couldn't convey.
Dream never thought of himself as touch starved.
But to deny himself the chance to be held exactly like this?
Dream decided to starve no more.