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It was turning into a very long day.
Easy to build, they’d said, Hob thought scathingly, It’ll take ten minutes.
He frowned at the seemingly meaningless set of pictures that were apparently the instructions, feeling as if he was trying to translate hieroglyphs for all the progress he was making. Actually, now he thought about it, the hieroglyphs might have been easier. The picture on the last page taunted him, a fully formed bookcase rendered in bold black ink, and Hob flicked back to page one with a frown.
Anyone can do it, they’d said.
Damn liars the lot of them.
Hob reread the instructions carefully, read them again, and then checked that he had all the right parts for what felt like the thousandth time. He ignored the steadily rising tide of confusion, the sheer incomprehension he felt—Hob had lived for hundreds of years and he knew how to build things—projecting what he hoped was a convincing aura of calm.
He heard a chuckle.
“Shut up Dream.”
His friend acquiesced without a word, an indulgence that wouldn’t last long. True to form the silence lasted a mere minute, allowed Hob sixty seconds of grace, before that silky soft, smug, voice spoke from behind him.
“Need some help?”
“No.” Hob said sourly.
“Very well.”
Hob went back to frowning at the instructions, glancing back and forth between the pages and the parts he had assembled neatly on the floor, having been systematic when he unpackaged it all to ensure nothing was lost. Everything was well within reach. There was an order to it, a structure, the parts perfectly set up to be put together.
Then why was this so damn hard?
“I don’t think he knows what he’s doing boss.”
Hob rolled his eyes at the incredibly unconvincing stage whisper. The raven, Matthew, had been a recent addition to his social circle—a newly introduced part of his friends life—and at the time Hob had been happy that Dream was letting him in. He found that waiting six hundred odd years to meet one of his Stranger’s friends wasn’t bad going at all, was even better because it’d been accompanied by his friend telling him his real name.
Now Hob found himself scowling in the birds direction.
“I’m reading.”
“Been ‘reading’ for an hour.” Matthew said critically from his perch on the arm of the sofa, beady eyes somehow so very judgemental, just as mocking as Dream though far more obvious about it. Less sophisticated too. “Maybe you should take a break?”
A break sounded quite nice actually.
“Fine.” Hob said, grumbling half in true irritation and half so he didn’t seem too eager, tossing the instructions onto the ground and standing up.
Dream was just as he’d left him; sat on the sofa, poised like a king, not even trying to appear so because Hob could tell that he was relaxed. He could see it in how Dream had reclined, how he’d taken off his coat the moment he’d entered the flat, how he smiled when Hob met his eyes. It encouraged him to smile back, even as there was something wickedly amused in that starlit glimmer, a taunt made soft.
The tease of it dancing amongst the blue.
Dream looked at the pile of dissembled parts, tilted his head, then slid onto the ground with far more grace than such a move should have allowed for.
Hob was stunned.
“Erm—”
“Hush.” Dream said pointedly. “I believe you are taking a break.”
The tone left no room for argument.
Hob couldn’t even consider saying another word. Dream sat cross legged on the ground and proceeded to build his bookcase with startling ease, a precision to his movement that was as incredibly unfair as it was outrageously unnatural. He didn’t glance at the instructions even once, didn’t falter, didn’t frown, and Hob watched with his mouth agape as the bookshelves he’d spent half a day struggling with came together in what felt like ten seconds. Dream was smiling softly; at ease, almost soothed by it, as if building Ikea bookshelves was a pleasant distraction, as if he spent his days constructing designs that were much, much harder.
Hob wondered if perhaps Dream did.
He still couldn’t stop gaping stupidly at him though. The only consolation that Matthew had gone silent as well, stood frozen with the same surprise.
“There.” Dream said when he was done, standing up with a satisfied smile, stepping delicately over the discarded instructions as he returned to recline on the sofa. There was a hint of mischief in his eyes. “No need for such pointless struggle.”
“Boss?”
“Mhm?”
“How the hell do you know how to do that?”
Dream frowned as if Matthew had said something idiotic, pausing as if he had to lower himself to find his raven’s train of thought, as if he had to stoop before he could respond to it. “Why wouldn’t I know?”
“I’m making tea.” Hob said loudly.
He left the room to the sound of bickering.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s perfectly adequate.”
“No it’s—”
“Matthew.”
“Boss, really, it doesn’t make any sense! You don’t even shop at Ikea.”
There was a pause as if this new criticism was actually being considered as worthy of further thought. Hob thought it more likely Dream was frowning again. “The bookshelf was once a dream.”
“That still doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“Hob! Back me up here.”
In the kitchen, Hob paused as he raised the kettle.
He’d already set out two mugs—had been in the middle of contemplating getting a packet of digestive biscuits out of the cupboard—and for a moment he considered Matthew’s words. Hob couldn’t really say that he had any idea what Dream was talking about, but he also didn’t have any real desire to clear up the mystery. He thought back to Dream’s soft smile, his relaxed ease, found he was the one smiling now because confounding as it was it had felt good to see.
Besides, it would probably make sense eventually.
So Hob shrugged, filled the kettle up with water before flicking the switch to set it to boil, satisfied as the steadily rising sound grew loud enough to muffle all else.
It was a more than sufficient excuse for pretending that he hadn’t heard.