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Hob is floating. It's amazing: his body is weightless, propelled by his mind, hovering above the ground in defiance of gravity. Psh, gravity. What a concept.
Hob spreads his arms and flies into one of the low-hanging clouds. It's fluffy, like Spot's fur, a huge ball of fluff that Hob tries to bury his face in, but the cloud parts and he's in the air once again, below him a coastline, the coast he grew up at. Home. Should he fly there, say hi to his mum? No, he'll visit her later, he has all the time in the world. Spot is down there, too, he knows, chasing a rabbit like she used to, wagging her tail while she does so, yapping excitedly while making her way through the underbrush.
Hob leaves her to it: she's so happy, and if he made her stop right now, she'd be cranky for the rest of the day. No, he's going to say hello to her later, too, once she has tired herself out.
He increases his speed, the wind howling around his ears, but its noise is like a long-lost friend, and Hob is glad for it. There's a castle down there, a castle on a hill, a castle that he knows like the back of his hand. He knows he wants to go there. Wants to tread the familiar halls, wants to smell that scent once again—
He lands right in front of the main entrance. The castle is deserted, none of the servants are there to attend him. In a strange way, Hob is glad there's nobody home. This is a private visit, just for himself.
The door opens by itself, just when Hob wants to enter. Of course: this is his house, it answers to his needs. Hob takes a step and immediately, he stands in the Great Hall. The Hall is empty except for the colorful floral tapestries lining it, and a single figure standing on the other side. Hob knows who it is even without being able to make out their features. He's known all along.
The walk takes a long time. The Hall is as big as a whole universe and Hob walks for a hundred years. A hundred years to the day, always looking at that distant figure, with absolute certainty that when he has crossed the Hall, he will see the man he wants to see.
A hundred years. A hundred years to the day.
Hob stands in front of him, that tall, dark stranger, a person who hasn't even told Hob his name. The way he looks at Hob is terrible and dangerous and wonderful and—
Hob kneels. It seems the prudent thing to do before a God, yet this is the first time he does it. Because right now, it's just the two of them, the two of them in the Hall as big as one hundred years. As small as one hundred years. The two of them, finally alone.
"How dare you presume to worship me?" asks the man who is not a man. His voice is deep and melodic and it cuts so deep that Hob's hands start bleeding. Little cuts into his flesh, stinging terribly.
Hob raises his hands to his God, palms up, cupped, hot blood running down Hob's arms, staining the white robe he is wearing, its light fabric fluttering in the breeze that's dancing through the room.
"You want me to cut you to death? Is that it?"
The cuts widen and Hob can't help the tears springing from his eyes, but he grits his teeth and bears it, anything, anything for him.
"No," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pain, but still gentle, "no."
He can see starlight in the man's eyes. Starlight and horror and mercy.
And then, finally, the man leans down and drinks from Hob's blood, drinks so deeply and so greedily that Hob can feel his soul shaking. When he rights himself again, blood is dripping from his chin, large drops falling into nothingness, and his teeth are impossibly red.
"You want me to feast on you?" he asks, almost gently.
"I want you to touch me," Hob replies shakily, a desperate plea, "until I forget everything else..."
There's a ripple all around him, inside him, like the whole world is rearranging itself just a tiny bit—Hob looks up and suddenly, he knows, he knows with absolute certainty that it's him, the real him, the man whose name is still a mystery.
"Why would you want that?" that man asks, and his voice still cuts terribly, but not into Hob's flesh this time, only into Hob's soul.
"Why does anyone what anything?" Hob asks. "I—"
His alarm goes off and suddenly, Hob is wide awake.
He touches his palms together: no injuries. He sighs, shakes his head, relieved. Sometimes, his dreams almost seem too real. For a moment, he'd even been convinced that his immortal friend had been there with him, which is completely ridiculous, of course. Nothing like this has happened in all the centuries they've known each other. Hob must have imagined it, and it's not surprising that his subconscious came up with an idea like that: he does miss his strange immortal friend more than he should.
**
Hob is wading through a field of flowers: white lilies, solemn and stern, daffodils that are almost as tall as Hob himself, tiny carnations that seem to float among the other flowers, swaying in the breeze more than the others, red and violet freesias whose sweet scent is almost overpowering in its intensity, pasque flowers as big as Hob's whole hand, shy wood anemones, poppies so red they're practically glowing, sunflowers taller than himself; all watching him with grandmotherly faces. It's like a sea of colors all around him. In his arms he is carrying a tall man with black hair and impossible eyes, covered in a black cloak, his whole body light as a feather, unconscious. There's music in the air, distant and a little distorted, one of Mozart's string quartets if he's not mistaken. Hob remembers first hearing it two centuries ago at a soiree at a friend's house, when listening to a composition by Mozart used to be a special occasion instead of always being a quick Google search away.
Hob is not sure where he is carrying the man, only that this is the right path. And indeed, an indeterminable amount of time later, or maybe immediately, a large structure is growing out of the ground before them—Hob watches as earth turns to stone, to brick, to mortar, to graceful columns lining a wide staircase up into heaven. The man stirs in his arms: Hob kisses his forehead, and when he lies still again, Hob begins ascending the stairs that were made for him.
Every step hurts.
Every step must hurt, Hob knows this with deadly certainty, because every step is a sacrifice. An offering. Every step is an act of love.
There are a hundred steps in total. Hob has no need to count them, he just knows.
He can barely see the flowers down on the ground but he can feel their watchful eyes on him, as though they're waiting to see whether he's going to succeed or fail in his task. They might catch him, should he fall. They might not.
The heavens above him are black, yet the staircase is lit by a warm glow, and the stone columns lining it are bright white, shining like beacons. Not long now: Hob's whole body aches but he knows his destination is not far. He does not count the remaining steps. It doesn't matter, there are one hundred in total, there must be one hundred exactly.
Below him is a black void. Above him is a black sky.
In his arms there is a man, pale and sickly yet regal, in his own way, light as a feather yet heavier than a lifetime.
"Not far now," Hob tells the unconscious man, and it sounds like a promise. "We've almost made it."
He climbs the final step. He looks back down the staircase: his whole life is there, flowing down the stairs like thick, white syrup. Not much left for him now. Only just enough for his final sacrifice.
Hob places the man on the simple stone slab, where he opens his eyes: eyes like a whole universe. Hob supposes he should be afraid of them but he isn't.
"Here we are," he says with an exhausted smile. "Don't you worry."
A dagger has been provided—that's helpful, thinks Hob, he would not have been able to bring one himself. He takes it and plunges it deep into his own heart. His life flows out of him, swirling in the air, not quite gaseous, not quite liquid, pearly white.
Hob breathes out and his life flows through the air towards the man, who sits up just as Hob falls to his knees.
"Why would you give me this?" he asks, his voice dark and deep, making Hob shiver.
"It's yours," he answers simply.
The man reaches for him, his fingers almost touching Hob's cheek when Hob wakes up, heart racing, his palms sweaty. It takes a few deep breaths for him to be able to believe that he is in his own bed, alone, unharmed, his life force still entirely inside him.
Why does he keep dreaming such weird things? Sure, he thinks that the mysterious entity who gave him his immortality is hot, but other people simply have normal sex dreams about the people they're attracted to and not... whatever the hell this is.
**
"This has to stop," the mysterious man says.
Hob looks around: he's standing in the middle of a desert. No, he isn't: he's dreaming. This is a dream. He's never been so aware of being inside a dream before—usually, he only realizes upon waking that the images he saw weren't real.
"What has to stop?"
"You sacrificing yourself for me. It's not a good use of your time."
Hob laughs.
"How would you know? Who even are you?"
They look at each other. For a moment, Hob is sure that he's never going to learn the truth, that the man will just up and leave once again. He doesn't, however.
"I have had many names," the man finally answers. "But who I am has never changed. I am Dream of the Endless, King of Dreams and Ruler of the Nightmare Realms. You may call me Morpheus."
Hob inclines his head respectfully: so, in a way, his friend is a God, after all.
"I am honored to formally make your acquaintance, Dream of the Endless," Hob says, somehow even more desperate to touch him now than before.
He briefly wonders whether Morpheus knows his thoughts—if this is his realm, and Hob is dreaming, it's entirely possible. He should think of something to say, and quickly.
"You look different here than you did when I last saw you," is the first thing that comes to Hob's mind. He's not sure how exactly to describe the difference, though. "More... real, I guess."
"This?" Dream gestures down at his body, clothed in a black robe that flows in the breeze as though it were liquid, the barest hint of a smile on his face. "No, this is still only your idea of me. When you look at me, you only see what you want to see, both here and in the waking world."
"And what if I want to see you as you actually are?"
Dream's eyes go soft. Hob could lose himself in them.
"You don't know what you are asking for, Hob Gadling."
They look at each other for a long moment. Then, reality ripples around Hob, and he can see Dream: vast and eternal and inhuman and Endless and terribly lonely.
Then, Dream is a man again, pale, dark-haired, haughty, beautiful.
"Would you rather see me like that?" He asks when Hob can almost think straight again.
It is a serious question and Hob considers it. Before he can give an answer, however, Morpheus speaks again.
"Mortals have a tendency to go mad when they see one of the Endless as we truly are," he says gently. "It's not usually done. And while you are arguably immortal, you are also very much human. I will not hold your humanity against you."
It is an out, and a beautiful one at that, yet Hob doesn't take it.
"Shame," he answers lightly. "I liked what I saw."
Dreams eyes widen: it is a minute change, yet Hob notices.
"You really did," Dream whispers in that wonderful low voice of his. "You're not lying."
"No," Hob says equally quietly. "I would not lie to you."
There is a slight pause as they look at each other.
"So, what would you of me?" Dream's voice is very quiet, oddly old-fashioned and formal, like a calm before the storm. "Now that I am in your dream, what would you?"
Hob considers this for a moment: if he does not seize this opportunity, another one may never present itself.
"I would like to touch you. To be touched by you. If you will allow it."
Unexpectedly, Dream laughs.
"In the end, it's so often about sex with you people," he sighs in a rather playful way, formality forgotten, having understood exactly what Hob was getting at. "You just can't feel truly connected to me unless your genitals are somehow involved, can you?"
Hob can feel himself blushing a little but refuses to be ashamed for his desires.
"We don't have to if you don't want to."
Dream smiles that little smile of his, at once affectionate and smug.
"No, no, I'd love to see what you're going to come up with," he says. "I've seen a lot of dreams, you know. They're usually quite informative about the dreamer in question."
Hob raises his eyebrows.
"I can only imagine. So, what have you found out about me thus far? I've had quite a number of strange dreams involving you."
Dream looks at him—the entire universe is mirrored in his eyes.
"You think I need saving," Dream hisses, suddenly sounding appalled. He takes a deep breath as though to control his emotions, then continues with a smile that might be described as condescending or self-deprecating: Hob suspects it's the first but would rather it were the second. "And you think you are the person to save me."
Hob looks at him.
"Will you let me try?"
Dream chuckles.
"By touching the genitals your imagination gave me? Are you sure that'll help?"
His dry delivery makes Hob laugh.
"Won't hurt to try," he jokes. However, this might seriously be his only chance to ever get close to Morpheus, and he's not going to squander it. "Well then, Dream of the Endless," he says, his words now also sounding weirdly formal, "may I be permitted to touch you?"
Dream gives him a single, regal nod.
"You may."
"And will you touch me in return?"
Dream smiles lopsidedly, almost imperceptibly as always.
"I might. I make no promises."
Hob crosses the distance between them: it's not really walking, it's more like thinking he wants to stand in front of Morpheus and then finding himself standing there an instant later, his hand raised to touch Dream's face.
He gives Dream a moment to object, in case he changed his mind about this, but the Endless is simply looking at Hob with an almost professional sort of curiosity. Hob feels weirdly exposed, and that's because he is, the being in front of him apparently knows his every thought, his every emotion. After all, they're in His realm. In a way, that's strangely freeing, too: what would be the point of making pretenses and coming up with little white lies in this situation? Hob decides to follow his instincts, his desires, wherever they may take him.
Morpheus's skin is cool against his fingers, smooth too, like a marble statue come to life. He doesn't feel human, and Hob shudders with excitement.
"I've wanted this," he whispers, following the lines of Dream's face with the tips of his fingers, "for a while now."
The edges of Dream's lips curl into a tiny smile, just barely recognizable as a smile at all, but Hob knows it for what it is.
He leans in and kisses that smile, just a peck of his lips on the edge of Dream's mouth, as he suspects that this immortal being is not too fond of kissing with tongue—it just doesn't really seem like his thing.
"Why do you think that?" Dream asks, as though Hob had spoken aloud.
"Mh, let's see," Hob says, completely unfazed: after all, this just confirms what he already suspected, namely that Dream is privy to his thoughts. His fingers are running through Dream's hair carefully. "You're cold, aloof, emotionally distant, and it took you over a century to admit we're even friends. I never expected you to let me kiss you at all."
Dream raises an eyebrow at him.
"Yet you expected me to have sex with you?"
Hob shrugs.
"That's different. There are many people who find kissing more intimate than sex."
Once again, Hob can see a glimpse of the whole universe in Morpheus's eyes. The sight makes a shiver run down his spine—a burning sensation that only strengthens his desire.
"Is that so?"
After a moment of contemplation, Dream grabs Hob's face in his own cool, perfectly sculpted hands, then kisses him deeply. He tastes like nothing Hob has ever tasted: he is reminded of the smell of molten metal. His tongue is cool against Hob's own, but not uncomfortably cold.
Why? Hob thinks. He doesn't have to voice the question.
"Like I said," Morpheus growls, his voice very dark. "I make no promises."
Despite his tone, his words make Hob smile. He had assumed that would mean that the Lord of Dreams might refuse to touch him at all—it is certainly a welcome surprise to find out he might have meant the exact opposite.
Yes, Hob thinks blissfully, take what you want from me. Whatever you want, it's yours.
"I know," Morpheus breathes into his ear before kissing that sensitive spot just below his earlobe, and Hob thinks he's surely going to faint, even inside his own dream. This is better than anything he could have ever wished for.
"That is really what you want me to do, is it not?" Morpheus asks, his voice low and gravelly, yet not entirely devoid of scientific curiosity. He grabs Hob by the hair and forces his head back a little; Hob shudders with delight at the possessive gesture. "To take from you. To take you."
"Yes," Hob sighs, a desperate plea.
No human has ever made him feel like this.
"And what if I ruin you, Hob Gadling? Will we still be friends?"
Hob laughs, or maybe that sound leaving his throat is a whine, he's not entirely sure.
"I think you've already ruined me," he whispers, "and we're still friends."
The desert vanishes in the blink of an eye—a moment later, they're in the splendid bedroom of a Victorian mansion, the one Hob used to own over a century ago, just before he'd had to fake his own death once again. He had always loved that house, and especially that bedroom. The colors of the wall tapestries and the bedclothes appear muted in the twilight of dusk, tiny candles giving the whole room a warm glow but no much in the way of light, the way it used to be before the advent of electricity. Hob blinks and vases appear on every surface, inside them lilies of all colors, their gentle scent permeating the air.
The large four-poster bed is more prominent here than it ever managed to be in the waking world, and Hob can't help but think, throw me.
A second later, Morpheus does exactly that: the way he manhandles Hob onto the bed breaks several laws of physics, and Hob has never been so glad to be dreaming—Dream's grip on his wrists on the mattress above Hob's head doesn't hurt, exactly, but the sensation is like fire in the best possible way, warm and immediate and intimate and just on the edge of being too much.
Dream kisses him again, teasingly this time, and Hob leans up as far as he can to chase the taste of his lips, until Dream grabs his hair with his free hand and tilts his head back so he can lick at the soft skin just below Hob's jawline, making Hob's whole body shudder.
Hob's heart is beating so fast he can feel its rhythm in his throat. Dream's lips against his skin are cool, his breathing, unlike Hob's, is quiet and even, as though Dream were completely unfazed. It's a potent reminder that Dream is not human, that he does not react like a human. The knowledge is intoxicating and wonderful and awe-inspiring.
Hob wants to be vulnerable, to be exposed, to be unmade at Dream's touch—before he can beg for this, Dream purses his lips and sends a gust of wind over Hob's body, and Hob's clothes melt away.
They're floating up and up, Dream's black cloak billowing around them, protecting Hob from the thunderous cries of a thousand birds. Hob can feel their soft wings against his face like an echo, the gentle imprint of their feathers like ghosts. Dream's grip on his wrists seems to tighten, even though that shouldn't be possible as he is holding Hob in his arms to keep Hob safe, suspended in the beautiful twilight; then again, they've long left the realm of the possible and Hob has no intention of going back there any time soon.
Dream's cloak protects him from claws and beaks and prying eyes, yet exposes him to the gaze of the Dream Lord, Hob's skin illuminated by soft moonlight. A shiver of delight runs through him, scalding and ice-cold at once, and he silently begs, pleads, wishes—
They're inside the flame of a candle, warm and welcoming and a little too bright, and Morpheus is kissing Hob's skin, holding him, tasting him. Hob closes his eyes and lets himself be engulfed by fire, by desire, by the impossible touch of an impossible man who seems determined to know every inch of Hob, to learn every secret of his body, to unmake him so wholly and completely that Hob will cease to exist at all. His skin is like white silk against Hob's own.
Take from me, take from me, it's yours, all yours...
Hob's blood is a lake. He is floating on the leaf of a water lily like cashmere, and Morpheus is above him, Hob's legs curled around his marble statue body, pale and hairless and reminiscent of a feline hunter, and he wants to ask a question but he doesn't have the words.
"This is still your dream," Dream reassures him, his voice low and melodic and beautifully inhuman, "all of this comes from you. It'll feel the way you want it to feel."
It's a little too much—that's because Hob likes it like that, likes when it hurts just that little bit, when he feels like he won't be able to take it all right before he does.
"You feel joy when I hurt you," Dream observes gently. "In every single dream, you were always... ecstatic at the pain my presence inflicted on you."
Hob feels unable to string words into a coherent sentence at this point, and he just thinks, yes, yes, yes.
Dream pushes and Hob moans and the red lake ripples around them, a thousand pink petals of the water lily thrown into the air by a gust of wind, raining down on the two lovers slowly, like feathers floating through the air. They melt into nothingness where they come in touch with skin, yet they stay afloat on the water, soaking up some of its violent redness into themselves. The rain turns darker, redder, more intense, and Hob wordlessly begs Morpheus for more.
The Lord of Dreams fucks him harder, his touch unforgiving, like marble, like glass, like molten gold, like he owns Hob and will not ever let him go.
"Are you afraid I'll vanish if you don't have such proof of my presence?"
Dream's voice is sharp and dark like the night, cutting into Hob's pleasure and multiplying it at the same time. The rain that's soaking Hob's skin is red and black and tastes of eternity.
No, Hob sighs soundlessly, I'm afraid I'll vanish.
Lightning strikes across the black sky, throwing Dream into sharp relief above him: Hob can see that hint of a smile on his face just before Dream leans down and claims his lips, his kiss possessive and demanding. Hob buries his hands in that messy black hair, holds on, holds on, holds on...
His pleasure is great and terrible and gorgeous and meaningless and always and never, it's everything and everywhere and only for Morpheus, and Hob cries, harder than he has ever cried in his life.
Later, much later, or maybe immediately, Hob finds himself in that bed again, his old favorite, safe and dry and clean in Dream's arms, candles and lilies and tapestries around them like a beautiful painting. Nothing is real. Yet everything seems more true, more immediate, more honest than in the waking world, even Dream's touch.
Hob thinks he understands what Dream meant when he told Hob he might ruin him—Hob is not sure that anything will ever compare to what he just experienced. He turns to his Endless lover, who appears beautiful and regal and inhuman as always. Hob's heart might break with adoration if he looks at him long enough.
"So, is there any chance—"
Before Hob can finish asking his question, Dream already says, "No."
They look at each other for a long moment. Hob thinks he understands, or he thinks he can at least pretend to understand.
The expression on Morpheus's face softens a little, and he raises a hand to run his fingers through Hob's hair.
"I need things to stay the way they are in the waking world." His voice is low, and once again, his eyes seem to mirror the entire universe. Hob thinks this is probably the most honest he's ever been with Hob. "We will meet in 2089."
Hob nods: this isn't entirely unexpected, even though this rejection hurts worse than an arrow to the chest. But he will see Dream again, that is the important thing.
"However," Morpheus says slowly, gently, with great deliberation, "in the meantime, I will be here."
He doesn't need to explain any further. Hob's smile is so bright it hurts.
Hob is raising his hand to touch Dream's cheek when the sound of his alarm once again pulls him out of the Dreaming and into his actual bed. He groans in frustration, but seven hundred years of experience have taught him that going to sleep again right now is absolutely impossible. He'll have to wait until the evening—then, with a bit of luck, he will meet Dream of the Endless once more.