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1789
They part ways far too quickly in 1789, though Dream is glad for the haste once he’s fully processed the weight of his own words. His concern for Hob’s safety is one thing perhaps, but to speak it aloud… It is far too close to a truth Dream will not admit even to himself.
Thus he and Hob agree to meet in a hundred years. The exchange is perfunctory, a brusque arrangement to remain strictly on course.
Dream has one hand on the glass door, one foot almost in the Dreaming, when Hob calls out.
“Wait.”
Nothing within Dream’s being should want to turn. He should continue onward, resolute and apathetic, leaving this mortal in his wake. Yet Dream turns his head to look over his shoulder. And then slowly, sullenly, he allows the rest of his body to follow suit.
"Will you at least accompany me to my room?" Hob asks. He chuckles at Dream's pursed lips. "In case she has more of those nasty throat-cutters lingering about."
He isn’t wrong, Dream supposes, to suspect Lady Constantine of this. Dream tells himself this is why he crosses the dining room for the second time that evening, footsteps light and measured as he approaches Hob.
Something has changed. About Hob, between them. Dream observes it in every detail as they depart the private dining area. Hob’s ears, which he continues to tug, are tinged red at the tops as they ascend the inn staircase. His pace, usually so quick—a man with so much to live for and so much time to do it, always in a hurry to get to the next experience—is deliberately slow. And his eyes, which should be looking for Constantine’s thugs, instead affix themselves to Dream with such hunger that Dream cannot help but comment.
“I recall…” he begins, voice lilting with amusement, “when we last met and you told me you would ‘eat the table’”.
Hob laughs. “A fond memory, though not a fond set of years for me.” He takes three more trudging steps before inquiring, “What reminded you?”
“You’re looking at me like that.”
Now Hob stares at the inn’s uniform doorways, his blush hiding behind each flicker of candlelight coming from the walls. They walk on in silence until they reach the last door at the end of the hall—presumably Hob’s. Only here does Hob finally muster the courage to face Dream.
“Like what?” he finally asks.
Hob already knows the answer, yet Dream indulges him.
“Like you wish to eat me.”
Hob hasn't been this nervous around Dream since he thought him the Devil. But, same as before, Hob swallows his fear to meet Dream’s piercing stare.
“If you’re still interested in my experience, you can be part of it,” he suggests.
Dream drags his gaze down Hob’s body. He chuckles. “From one pretense to another, then. First I must protect you, and now you propose hands-on learning.” Dream finds himself angered by this. He steps forward, crowding against Hob, nearly flattening him against the closed door. “Do you think, Robert Gadling, that in all my years I have not shared someone’s bed?”
Hob does not shy away. He juts his chin out and replies, quite simply, “You have not shared mine.”
Such defiance has its desired effect. Dream draws himself up to his full height, shoulders back, hands clasped firmly behind him. Heat, rich and sweet as molten honey, pools low in his belly.
“Tell me, then, what I am missing.”
He leans forward, watching Hob tremble, seeing him lick his own lips. But then Hob shrinks away, fetching a key from his jacket pocket. “Not out here,” he hisses.
Hearing the scuttling of servants on this floor, and the chatter of people beneath them, Dream acquiesces to this request. To crossing this line. Despite remembering and regretting his previous entanglement with a mortal, he enters Hob’s rented room all the same.
The room is spacious and impressively furnished—befitting a man of Robert Gadling’s status. It is illuminated by the orange and blue flames emanating from a large fireplace, which cast shadows over oil paintings, a wardrobe, and Hob, who stands amongst it all with both a shy and self-satisfied look upon his face. He has ripped his shirt in his eagerness to remove it quickly.
“The next great epiphany of humanity,” Hob reasons irritably, “should be fewer garments.”
“I concur,” Dream replies.
Dream, of course, has already removed his own clothing. He lounges on Hob’s bed—sheets as dark as the sea, and pillows stuffed to the seams with the finest feathers—while Hob undresses. Now that he is aware Dream is watching, he seems more content to move slowly.
“Come here,” Dream growls.
Hob doesn’t budge. “Impatient, are we?”
“Yes.”
Such an answer gives Hob pause. And when he looks up from the fastenings on his trousers, Dream is in front of him, wrenching the fabric down, then ripping the ribbon from Hob’s hair. He makes faster work of the rest of Hob’s outfit, then pushes him, naked and smiling, toward the bed.
His skin burns like sand. Dream grasps him just as tightly.
He makes love to Hob as he would construct a dream—slowly, meticulously, not a single part forgotten or untouched. Whereas one of Dream’s creations would be full of life, however, Hob shudders as though he’s been unmade.
The only action Dream does not allow is a kiss. This is not forbidden with words, but Hob is an intelligent man. He abides admirably by this tacit rule.
A few minutes before midnight, Dream extracts himself from their tangle of limbs. He dresses in a simple black greatcloak, unwilling to bother with the cumbersome attire of this time period.
From the bed Hob murmurs, “A hundred years?”
“A hundred years.”
1889
Dream is all too aware that he has begun to look forward to his meetings with Hob. He sees Death in 1888, and she asks after the man’s outlook on life.
“He still wants to live,” Dream answers, not without some amazement.
“Does it please you?” Death wonders aloud, her chin resting in her hands.
She sits cross-legged beneath a cherry tree while Dream stands with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. The white blossoms flutter in the air around the siblings like feathers.
Dream sighs. “Sister, if you are suggesting—”
“Certainly not!” she interrupts, with a smile that speaks her thoughts far truer than her voice. “I look forward to his answer when he sees you next.”
Dream is overly conscious of Death’s feelings when he meets Hob in 1889. Thus when Hob so boldly states that he believes Dream to value his friendship, Dream loses his patience with the lot of them. Death, Hob—do they actually believe Dream is this weak? To shamelessly crave a mere mortal’s companionship? Or worse, his affection?
Dream rages. He storms out of the inn, Hob’s shouts and pleas only hastening his exit from the Waking World. Once alone inside his palace, and alone with his thoughts, Dream decides to make himself and Hob strangers for far more than a century. This punitive feeling festers inside him, burrows deep and lives there over a decade.
By the time Dream realizes his mistake, it is already too late.
1989
Days drag across Dream’s skin like knives. He feels the passing of time in all its agony, the bite and press of metal and missed moments. The Dream Lord mourns his severance from his realm as well as all the damage done to it by Roderick Burgess’ arrogance.
He also grieves the day he cannot meet Robert Gadling.
That particular date slices him under and inside his ribs, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Dream sits up in his cage. His gaze seeks the surface. Within his mind he maps the roads he would travel to the inn.
Hob will believe Dream has abandoned him, at least temporarily, to prove his ability to stay away. Of this Dream is certain. This, Dream considers as he digs his blunt fingernails into the metal fastenings of the glass orb, is another transgression for which his captors will not be forgiven.
He closes his eyes.
2019
Dream is not nervous. Yet the instant Hob grins and scolds him for being late, Dream cannot deny the wave of relief which washes over him.
He takes the chair across from Hob and suddenly the rest of the world melts away. The cacophony of the diners fades to static, the London traffic without dims. There is only Hob, one arm bent onto the booth behind him and one hand spread across a variety of semi-important seeming documents. Dream pulls one toward himself, pretending to read it.
Hob follows the movement with a quirk of his lips. "Are you still pretending you're just observing?" he asks.
He leans forward on his elbows, one finger extended toward Dream's sleeve cuff. Hob hasn’t quite reached the fabric; his touch lingers on the edge like a magnet. Waiting. Pulling. Dream feels Hob's desire like a current through his jacket. He scoffs. And he draws himself away, crossing his arms over his chest once again.
“It is impolite to observe one’s friends, as well.”
There is a warmth in his chest that spreads like wildfire when that word leaves his lips. It feels as though it jumps from his tongue into Hob’s, who repeats it while shaking his head and grinning like the fool he is.
Dream says, “Tell me, then. What I’ve missed.”
It’s an echo of a two hundred year old conversation, one that began in a far more private setting. Dream watches Hob’s pupils, sees them blow wide at the mere suggestion of that time. The hint of a repeat circumstance also seems to surprise Hob, who sweeps his hair behind his ear.
“I live nearby,” Hob offers. “I could catch you up on the way there?”
“I wouldn't be opposed to a walk.”
Hob—clearly a regular—clears his work papers and chats with the server a bit while he pays. Dream waits by the door. Just outside, a raven hovers too close, hopping from the ground to the bench and back. Dream scowls at Matthew, who caws nervously. Dream’s plans to punish the bird are interrupted when Hob returns.
He slides his hand up Dream’s arm, from his wrist to his elbow, before releasing him. Dream spares one thought for Desire, who must be in The Threshold simply writhing with self-righteous amusement.
Then Dream banishes all thoughts of his siblings from his mind. He listens with rapt attention to Hob’s tales, the ones that fill in the gaps of the years Dream missed because he was imprisoned.
“I quit soldiering a while ago, after the War—ah, the Second World War. I almost considered joining up again, mainly out of boredom, but I wasn’t too keen on all the politics of it. So I got into communications manufacturing, even helped a bit with the first portable phones.”
Hob and Dream pass perfectly manicured lawns and wrought iron park benches. The sidewalks are smoothly paved, the flats around them reaching high into a clear, blue afternoon sky. Fluffy, white clouds shield them from the worst of the sun while still casting warm light upon the path.
Hob, who has walked these streets many times before, does not admire their surroundings as Dream does. He continues his life story, allowing his feet to lead them to their destination.
“What else? I invested in some stocks, which have their ups and downs. In the ‘90s—it’s funny to say it like that, when I’ve lived through my fair share of ‘90s—I got into the tech business. And a bit of cocaine.” He laughs. “One of those treated me well. I’m certain you can guess which. Survived it, though, thanks to all these medical advancements—vaccines, can you believe? People would have given anything for vaccines in my day.” He shakes his head, eyes alight with joy and nostalgia. “Lately I’ve been teaching history at the University of London—predictable, I know. And now we’re, well… we’re here.”
After passing rows of terraced houses and flats, they’ve come to a stop outside a detached unit which stands stubbornly on its own on a large patch of lush green land. The home’s exterior is dark stone, with a deep brown roof and white-trimmed windows.
“Do you like it?”
Dream does, as much as can appreciate a building restricted to the physical confines and imaginations of the Waking World. He nods.
“I built it myself, when the Inn was about to become the New Inn. Thought I should have a place close by so I could…” Hob trails off, letting Dream interpret the rest. “Of course, I inherited it from my father. All of the senior tenants around here will tell you he and I look remarkably similar”
Dream smiles. “Of course.”
Still grinning, Hob unlocks the door. He steps into his house first, then turns and appraises Dream with a mischievous glint in his eye.
They remain in this standoff for a moment more until Dream catches on. He sighs, exasperated and aggravated. “Are you testing if I’m a vampire? Is that your best theory after 700 years?”
Hob shrugs, clearly amused. He walks down his hallway without asking Dream to follow, so Dream is forced to do the impolite thing and cross the threshold uninvited.
Robert Gadling’s home is a time capsule. Relics of both happy and unhappy times reside in glass cases. Hundreds of books are crammed into shelves and stacked on the floor and on tables and counters. Yet the interior of the house has also been meticulously updated to this century: a kitchen for countless mortals to envy, an entertainment system over which any child would drool.
A king size bed in the master, and sheets soft enough to make the monarchs of old weep.
Dream lays Hob down on the mattress. They end up on their sides, facing each other, Dream’s lips on Hob’s throat.
Winding his fingers through the unruly black tangle that is Dream's hair, Hob murmurs, "I missed you."
“Did you now?” Dream hums. He stretches, fluid and graceful like a cat, as he leans into Hob's touch.
“I did.”
Hob rolls atop Dream, balanced on his elbows as his hands frame Dream’s pale face. He lifts one strand of Dream’s hair, seemingly endlessly fascinated by it. Smiling softly, Hob lowers himself a bit, teeth tugging at Dream’s ear.
“Do you know how hungry a man can get…” he whispers against the corner of Dream’s jaw, “when he can’t eat?” He crawls down, biting Dream’s chest, above his heart. Then he sinks further still, body arched while his tongue traces a line from Dream’s hips to his inner thigh. “But he can’t die?”
“Would you devour me, Robert Gadling? With all this life that you possess?”
“With pleasure.”
Their meeting date spills over into a new day, Still, Dream does not depart—-save for a spare moment spent chastising Matthew for spying. The raven’s presence reminds him of his duties, yet the Dream Lord remains twenty-four hours more.
In the daylight, he lingers in Hob’s bed. In the night, he haunts his dreams.
It is strange to watch another version of himself make love to his lover. To witness the idyllic version of Dream that Hob’s mind has produced—someone softer, smiling more often than he scowls. Hob dreams of a life both mundane and fascinating, full of ordinary marvels. Reading side by side, feeding pigeons in the park, watching lazy boats idle across the River Thames. Hob imagines an entire life with Dream in the blink of an eye.
Hob conjures them up a daughter, a beautiful baby girl with ringlets of black hair. Dream at first cannot fathom the drudgery of caring for a child—the thrill of watching amateur ballet recitals, or sprinting through a child’s football game as Hob does—is lost upon Dream. But he cannot deny the allure of a family when his own can hardly be described as affectionate.
Dream wanders through the outskirts of his mind’s machinations, wondering how long this has been happening. Before, he always stopped himself from finding Hob in the Dreaming. Their meeting schedule was strict, and Dream would not falter. Currently, however, it is all too easy to slip into his unconscious mind when it rests so close to the entity over which it rules.
“My name is Morpheus,” is the first thing he says to Hob when he wakes.
Hob blinks. His eyes crinkle into a smile, and he laughs. “It suits you.”
“How so?”
“You’re beautiful. Like a dream.”
“And you are prone to flattery.”
“I’m only telling the truth,” Hob replies. “I’m an honest man now, you know.”
Embarrassed by his own words, he snorts and covers his face with his hand. Dream won’t encourage him with a reaction. So he waits patiently while Hob sobers. And he does; silence, full and contemplative settles around Hob for over a minute. Although he lies next to Dream, it is as though he has gone worlds away.
Hob inhales, exhales, inhales again. Then with all the breath in his lungs he confesses, “When you told me to live my life how I choose, did you ever imagine I’d end up choosing you?”
“Not at all. I admit I thought you’d have given up on life already.”
“There’s still so much to live for.” Gently, Hob cradles Dream’s face. “After all, in another hundred years, you may let me kiss you.”
“Perhaps,” Dream replies.
He loses his battle to a smile, and allows Hob’s fingers to trace the scar it leaves. Eventually, however, Hob pulls away in a noble sort of way, as if he’s realized he’s taken too much of the Dream Lord’s time. As if he doesn’t deserve to take it.
“A hundred years, then?” he asks, voice hitching at the number.
“Of course,” Dream replies.
He waits for Hob’s face to fall before he leans forward, his mouth lingering only a centimeter away. Dream smiles, then, and the movement causes their lips to brush.
“A hundred years,” Dream promises. “And perhaps Thursday.”