Chapter Text
The Dreaming was positively boiling. Lucienne had long since discarded her heavy coat, going so far as to roll up her shirt sleeves – she’d be damned if she was seen sweating, even if it meant forgoing some of her usual formality. But between the humidity and her nerves, she was fighting a losing battle. Anxiety pounded a steady beat in her chest, each step bringing her closer to the throne room. Closer to what was sure to be quite an uncomfortable conversation.
It had been an age since the weather in the Dreaming had been this volatile. An age since Lord Morpheus had fallen in love. Considering the consequences of the last time (not to mention the times before that), she shouldn’t have been surprised that he needed a bit of a push.
Needlessly adjusting her glasses, Lucienne continued through the library. Only Matthew had as much contact with the Dream Lord as she did. And, considering that the raven would most likely start the conversation by telling their king to “go get laid,” the task, naturally, fell to her.
Or it would have, had she not felt a sudden change in the air: fiery lust lowering to simmering anger within seconds. Wanting to contain the potential fallout of whatever Morpheus had just seen (and questioning her sanity as she did so), Lucienne only hesitated a second before entering. Her steps barely faltered as she saw their guest prowling towards the King of Dreams, smile feral as they beheld the wild look in his eyes.
Well. Nothing like a little deus ex-machina to avoid an uncomfortable conversation. Or, Lucienne supposed, deus ex-Desire.
“Hello, brother,” Desire purred.
“Desire.” The word was more warning than greeting. “To what do I owe this intrusion?”
They waved a hand through the thick air. “You have to ask?”
“Tread carefully, sibling.” Darkness spread in Dream’s eyes, creating voids where there had once been galaxies.
“Please, Dream,” Desire scoffed, producing a black fan out of nowhere. “It’s like you don’t even know me.” Fanning themselves, they continued, “Besides, I’m coming on behalf of your realm as much as for my own ends.”
Their brother leaned forward. “What would you know of my realm?”
“For starters, I know you’re roasting them in here. Come now,” they appealed to his librarian, who desired nothing more than time alone with her books and the knowledge that her king was safe – utterly boring. “I know you can back me up on this.”
Lucienne bowed her head in deference – a non-answer – but Desire just gestured to her rolled up sleeves and said, “I rest my case.”
“You are not one of my subjects and therefore, I would ask you not to presume to speak for them.”
“Fine,” Desire relented. “I’ll speak for myself, then. Or,” they added, eyes glittering, “for your dear Hob.”
The temperature in the room plummeted. Desire could almost hear the collective sigh of relief across the Dreaming. Morpheus’s voice was icy as he said, “What of him.”
“He burns for you, brother,” Desire replied. “You burn for him. I am simply asking that you put us all out of our misery and take him to bed.”
“You dare-”
“Yes, yes, I dare; we’ve been over this a million times,” they interrupted with a roll of their eyes. “What I want to know is why you won’t act on it.”
Dream paused to consider his reply, visibly uncomfortable. “You know as well as I what became of my last…entanglements.”
“Ah, so you are just being obtuse.” Ignoring their brother’s glare, Desire continued. “And here I thought you were trying to punish me for the whole vortex thing – if you were, by the way, I’ll admit it was working. The two of you are driving me crazy.” Desire suppressed a smile as the temperature climbed parallel to Dream’s anger.
“This conversation is-”
“You know that doesn’t work on me,” Desire sighed, prompting a sudden flare of heat as they interrupted Dream for a second time. “But fine; I’ve stated my case. Just think about it: you might think I deserve punishing. But does poor Hob?”
It was rare for Morpheus, Dream of the Endless, to be summoned in a dream. Few humans knew of his existence to call upon him in his realm. In fact, more cats knew about their king than humans – humans, who had worshipped gods and royalty in turn and who now turned their so-called influencers into idols.
So, when he felt the pull of Hob’s subconscious not a week after their belated meeting at the New Inn, Dream was curious, to say the least. They had parted on good terms, a refreshing change from 1889. Hob had called out to him in dreams then, too, the Dreaming awash in cacophonous storms for weeks in reflection of his mood. This summons went as ignored as those had, although for different reasons: Rose Walker was growing stronger. The Corinthian’s body count was rising. Hob Gadling would have to wait.
Dream wondered, in the few free moments he had, whether it was wise to visit Hob’s dreams. But then he was forced to destroy his greatest creation. His sibling almost manipulated him into killing family. A nightmare became a dream. He promised Lucienne that they were entering a new age, and he wanted to keep that promise.
He and Hob had both changed in their one hundred and thirty-three years apart. Hob had finally settled into his immortality, no longer a product of his time to a fault. Gone was the Hob who chased after everything new without a thought for the consequences. In his place was a Hob who had learned from those consequences and wished to pass on this wisdom to others.
This new Hob was a far cry from the filthy, over-confident peasant Dream had mocked in 1389. “We’ve known each other for six centuries now,” 2021-Hob had said, nothing more than a casual fact. “We’ve survived our first fight.” So, when he asked, “Do you think I could leave with a name this time?” Morpheus gave him two.
Dream was still processing Desire’s betrayal. The last time he’d felt this off-kilter, he had gone to see Death, and Death had sent him to Hob. As he once again sensed Hob dreaming of him, he decided to skip the middleman and go straight to the source. Surely, with naught but a name and the briefest description of Dream’s function, Hob was curious. And, safe in the comfort of his own realm, Dream was prepared to satisfy that curiosity.
When he arrived in Hob’s dreamscape, however, Morpheus was shocked to find himself already there. Or, he amended, a crude sketch created by Hob’s dreaming mind. Some details, such as the quirk of his mouth and the texture of his coat, held as much detail as his Waking form did. But this dream-Dream was fuzzy and unformed at the edges, his legs dissolving into nothingness as Hob’s attention faded.
Hob held the fake Dream in his arms, dancing a minuet to…the collective unconscious of humanity informed Dream that “Call Me Maybe” played softly in the background. Hob’s sixteenth-century attire completed the image, an amalgamation of different periods that only an immortal mind could conjure. Dream felt his lips curve upwards even as the song grated in his ears.
His smile waned as the dream changed, cutting “Call Me Maybe” short. Hob’s version of Morpheus threw his head back, lips parted as Hob buried his face in his neck. It wasn’t until dream-Dream’s coat melted away, spindly legs sprouting from his torso to wrap around Hob’s hips, that Dream realized what he was seeing. Where they had once twirled around each other in an eighteenth-century ballroom, now they writhed on a bed that had appeared out of nowhere and yet, by dream logic, had always been there.
Dream watched his friend of centuries thrust into an imagined version of himself, watched that imagined self dig his fingernails into Hob’s back. It was only when Morpheus tried to swallow and found his mouth rather dry – a useless, human response – that he realized what he was doing. Some dreams were best left unobserved. He took a hasty step back, using the movement to propel himself out of Hob’s dream.
Back in the throne room, the Dreaming’s temperature rose at an alarming rate. Heat lightning – a sign of his growing panic – crackled through the air. He’d never entertained such thoughts, such feelings towards Hob. Never imagined what they might look like together, what it might feel like to have Hob’s lips on his neck, Hob’s hands on his body. What it might be like to be taken by Hob Gadling. And now…Dream found that he could easily imagine these things. Found that he…wanted them. Oh, how he wanted.
An impossible bead of sweat trickled down the length of his spine, and Dream realized these thoughts were not exactly private. One of the disadvantages to both being and ruling the Dreaming, he supposed. Chiding himself, Morpheus thought of a cool breeze to fan his realm back to a more manageable temperature. He hoped his subjects would not think too much of his temporary lapse.
Over the next couple of weeks, Hob dreamed of him no less than six times. Dream could not comment on the content of those dreams, for he refused to heed the call. Even if the witnessed dream was the only one of its kind, the damage was done: any time he sensed himself in Hob’s subconscious, he could only think of The Dream. With each dream, his curiosity increased. With each dream, his lust increased.
By the time Desire requested an audience, the temperature in the Dreaming was growing unbearable. He granted his sibling entry in desperation for a distraction, but he’d expected gloating, not…encouragement. Desire had hidden it under their usual layer of irreverence, but Morpheus still noticed the pleading in their teasing: if he left his desire unfulfilled for much longer, his feelings were likely to shift to their twin’s domain.
Dream would be a fool to trust Desire’s advice, but he couldn’t deny that his realm was suffering from his fixation. After his sibling's departure, he decided to take a middle route and entered the mind of a peace corps volunteer dreaming of a cold shower in the Horn of Africa. If that volunteer also happened to be asexual, well. Anyone willing to call him out couldn’t fault him for taking precautions.
“Desire wasn’t kidding.”
Dream whirled around from where he had been perusing a row of books in the library. The shelf in question was in the “gripping adventure novels with absolutely no romance or sexual tension” section. Reading had yet to take his mind off Hob, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying. At least Death hadn’t caught him in the romance section.
“Sister. You know the rules as well as I, and yet you dare come unannounced?” He would ignore her opening statement for now; if that was the reason for her visit, he would hear more about it soon enough.
“Rules,” she scoffed. “I did ask Matthew if now was a good time for a chat.”
“Matthew,” Dream said in a low voice, “is not the ruler of this realm.”
Death just rolled her eyes. “Maybe not, but he was a gift. Just like Hob Gadling was a gift.”
She was going to get right to the point, then.
“You, too?” Dream asked with a sigh not befitting his station.
“Me too, little brother,” she replied, smiling broadly. “Care for a walk?”
He glowered at her for a moment before inclining his head in acquiescence. His sister was always good at taking his mind off things, whether that was an existential crisis or…his current predicament.
“If I steal you away to the human world, will it cool down a bit here?”
“…perhaps.”
She held out her hand. “Off we go, then.”
“Is this a working visit?”
Death breathed in deeply before answering. Dream never took the time to savor the human world. Indeed, she knew he was only looking around to figure out where she had brought them, just as she knew that he recognized New York’s Central Park from the dreams of its visitors.
Releasing his hand to place her own in her pocket, she replied, “I do have an appointment I can’t miss in a bit, but…family before work.” She chose not to comment on the way he bristled at the statement. Death could only hope Morpheus would learn that lesson before his time came to an end.
“So,” she began, picking a direction that would eventually take her to a Mrs. Anne Filby. In just under half an hour, Mrs. Filby would slip on the leaf-strewn path while walking her dog. “Hob Gadling. You two have finally developed feelings for one another?”
“Finally?” Dream parroted, affronted.
“I couldn’t know, of course,” she continued, as if her brother hadn’t spoken. “But I hoped. He seemed…good for you, even back then. So full of life, so willing to not only experience, but to learn.” The emphasis was intentional, but she wouldn’t press the issue. She knew the last century had changed Dream in ways they were still discovering. “I’ve kept tabs on him – he’s grown, your Hob. Immortality looks good on him.”
“And it does not on me?”
Death suppressed a sigh – of course he’d focus on that. “You’re different, Dream. We’re not human; you know this. The point is your imprisonment broke parts of who you used to be. You’re still sorting through the pieces, putting yourself back together again.”
She paused, pulling her brother aside to let a jogger pass. She could tell Dream was overanalyzing her words at the same time he was missing the point, so she tried again. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re still healing, and that’s okay. And I think Hob could help you: he’s removed enough from your duties, but he still knows you. He’s not going to run from the nasty bits.
“The trauma,” she amended at Dream’s sharp look. “Not that you’re without fault – none of us are perfect.” She bumped his shoulder to reassure him that the statement held no judgment.
“You talked to Desire.”
Death didn’t question the non sequitur, answering, “They came to see me. Just wanted to complain a bit, as they usually do.” She paused, kicking a nut across the path. “I shut them out for a while – after I learned what they did – but…another rift never solves anything.”
Threading her arm through Dream’s, she said, “They were frustrated. Dramatic as always, of course – something the two of you have in common.” Her brother tried to pull away, never in the mood to be teased, but she gripped his arm. “They’re not playing games this time, Dream. That’s not to say they won’t if you decide to pursue this, but you’ve always known to be wary of them.
“I can tell when Desire’s interfering and when they aren’t,” she continued. “It bothers them that you and Hob want each other and, despite knowing this, that you won’t act on it.” She finished by saying, “The ball’s firmly in your court, little brother.”
They walked on in silence for a moment, Death enjoying the fall foliage as Dream frowned down at the cement path.
“What if I bring him to ruin?” he asked, voice quiet and unsure.
She squeezed his arm. Morpheus certainly hadn’t had the best luck where love was concerned, although she couldn’t deny the role of his own failings. “Can’t you hope for a different ending?” she asked softly. “It’s been over half a millennium and nothing dire has come of your friendship. Go see Destiny if you really want, but I think you can take a chance on this one.”
“The change would be more drastic than you suggest, and you know it,” Dream pressed.
“Hob isn’t mortal,” Death emphasized. “And do you really not think he’s worth the risk?”
He stopped, forcing her to stop, as well. She let the question hang in the air before pulling her arm out of his.
“I need to get back to work,” she explained. “Go see him, Dream. Whether you confess your feelings or not, you’re always happier after you see him. Well,” she corrected, “minus the one exception you know not to repeat.”
Ignoring his scowl, she said, “Let me know how it goes, will you? I’m not above sending Desire to bother you if you drag your feet.”
Letting the light threat serve as a goodbye, she turned, a slight wind at her back the only sign of Morpheus’s departure. Whether he’d gone to his realm or to Hob, she guessed only Time would tell.