Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

- Upright : Between Heaven And Earth -

"Good. You're awake."

All things said, it didn’t take Hob too long to adjust his changed eyes to a bedroom draped in night he recognized as his own. Or as close to his own as it could. It was all about the familiar ceiling, starting by the moldings, but in special by its small chandelier. Firstly, because the arms were coiling serpents, which was bloody neat, and secondly, because its vintage status meant getting it adjusted to work with lightbulbs had been a pain in the arse. And he’d handpicked it back in the XVII century.

It took him longer to realize he hadn’t hallucinated being spoken to. But he could, probably, be forgiven: Dream of the Endless was standing by the foot of his bed, dressed down to his shirtsleeves. And he was holding a broom.

Jesus Christ and Saint Molay.

Maybe the entire adventure had left something loose and-or broken in his brain. If Morpheus was in charge of dreams, then no way this was one he was allowing. Making things worse, he was also looking down at him like his confusion confused him; and Hob’s inner monologue kept making emphasis on that broom, because for starters those were Dream’s pale fingers around the handle, and Hob didn’t remember buying it. The brush looked brand new, even.

Careful, Morpheus left it leaning against the wall and sat down next to him, bed dipping under his weight and all. “I didn’t expect this to still be what you considered Home” , he commented. The corner of his lips quirked in amusement. “How do you feel?”

“Weird”, Hob admitted. “But a good kind of weird.”

“Are you sure?”

Hob just… Didn’t know what to reply, for a good long moment. But it was a fair enough question considering he’d avoided sleep, well, like the Plague. So he nodded.

Like past morning, Morpheus cradled his face in a thin hand. Like past night, he leaned down to kiss his forehead, measuring his body’s exhaustion by its connection to his realm. Satisfied, he straightened up, and offered Hob a hand so he could sit if so he wanted.

“... How are you?”, Hob asked, tentative. Which was fair as well, considering saying ‘Dream didn’t react well’ to the question was a misnomer by several degrees of magnitude.

“As I said, surprised by your choice” , like Hob hadn’t lost Pendle Hill centuries ago. In his defense he did add. “Your bedroom wasn’t quite livable when you brought us here. I’ve been entertaining myself with setting it straight.”

There was something utterly enjoyable in making bafflement appear in those animated features of Hob’s. Like his face couldn’t settle in a single emotion.

“I was very tempted to order someone else to do it.”

“... You’ve been doing it. By hand.”

This was the room Hob had made habitable back in September, but barely, from the only house the Count had never touched. He’d thrown himself into the fastest recovery he could, the planning, and then the beginning stages of the rescue with singular focus. He’d spent many a night away during the Hunt.

He’d found it covered by layers and miasmas of disuse, and they’d started to claim it back the moment he was gone. Calling the room clean would’ve been a lie - but the bed was. And maybe Morpheus had spent way too long polishing the surface of the nightstand, along with the brass clock on the mantle, instead of fixating on the more practical side of it.

But the windows had been thrown open. There were no cobwebs. And this, this was Dream of the Endless, who had barely started to sweep before Hob had woken up and who refused to confess anything in the vicinity of ‘I want to move and touch everything. Even dust and grime, and the wooden handle of this cursed thing.’ 

Rather, he spread his hands in an approximation of a shrug. “I’ve brought food from the Dreaming” , he added then. “For when you woke up.”

Hob looked at him starstruck. Awed. 

“... See, you’re saying you didn’t imagine this would be the place we’d be going back to. But”, he sighed, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand, and messing up his hair with sweat and movement. “You doing my household chores, that one is wild. Kind of breaks me.”

Morpheus arched his eyebrows, serious. “Am I to take this as you declining breakfast?”

“Shit, no…” Hob told him immediately, with a far too nervous smile. “Food sounds grand, please.”

There was a tray in one of the dressers. One that had been cleaned before it had been set there, god bless. He watched this maddening, otherworldly being stand up and walk for its retrieval like he was on his way to an official act, and couldn’t help himself.

“Morpheus?”, he called, and the other turned around with the tray in his hands.

“Yes?”

“I love you”, Hob blurted out. If he’d been hallucinating any portion of what he remembered after breaking that crystal ball…

Morpheus smiled at him. As wry as he was sincere. Stars, this was terrifying, but he wanted to do it right. Get everything right before they started twisting from the beginning. And he had to secure the fastenings, before he lost the impulse and his usual doubts slipped a foot in the door.

“Beloved”, he replied, watching Hob’s face come alive from this word alone. “Eat your food.”

“Will you eat with me?”, Hob asked. ‘Beloved’ was honey on his tongue - and a promise of sustenance. “I know you never do, I mean, most I’ve gotten you to try was hot chocolate, just… This is a lot.”

Morpheus knew for a fact it wasn’t that much food. This was… Well, the last breakfast Hob had liked. Sunny-side up eggs, with a side of sausage, fried tomatoes, mushrooms and toast. He had done his best not to go overboard with the tray, despite his perfect recall of the XIV century, and a well-fed Hob waiting for him with a literal feast set for two.

Of course he didn’t ask what he’d meant. 

Hob’s heart had swelled full for it, honest. He tugged Morpheus closer by the cuff of his shirt, clumsy with the lack of habit, a part of him still half-expecting to be struck down for it. His lover (god, how… ), moved to be by his side - And this smote him in a whole different way.

Nothing could be more surreal than trying to act Normal. But if love was about seeing each other for who they were, and wanting more, and a chance to never stop discovering new facets– Then yes. They could do this, couldn’t they? Being here with Morpheus, and making faces until he tried milky tea with a single sugar cube, was weird as all fuck. But he still felt… 

Hopeful. Like, come on. Dream of the goddamn Endless was taking a little sip from his cup. Just, Hob would’ve loved to know much of it was himself, and how much of it was Himself. Death, funny as it sounded, had been his only respite in many lifetimes of plays and masking.

“It’s not bad”, Morpheus commented, giving him back the cup, making him smile. 

“I’d expect so. You brought this tea”, Hob teased. “Which I’m very grateful for. I’ll keep thanking you for it at random through the day, or– Well, the night, if you stay with me a little longer.”

‘Please don’t leave me’ rang loud and clear. Everything was far too recent, and– Morpheus was tired, too. Overwhelmed by his own return, in ways he hadn’t expected. The emotion he’d thought would warp him was rage. Not… 

“This room is unacceptable as it is” , he commented, feeling Hob jump against him, and set the cup down on the nightstand. He had to continue, though, needing to explain the entire process. “But I asked an old friend to take away the spiders’ weaving. Your proteges promised they'd come help tidy up, once they had had an opportunity to rest as well."

He was breathing in and out the vertigo of a changing path bibliomancy had never, ever shown him. And Hob’s lungs had paralyzed as the implications kept sinking in.

“I personally changed the bedsheets, and the duvet” , the King of Dreams, the Lord Shaper finished. “So I think– Yes, I might stay the night. As long as it’s a restful night.”

Hob’s grin widened, and grew into laughter made of quiet, relieved joy - doing his best not to spill anything with his fidgety, human hands. He kissed Morpheus’ temple and started to scoop some tomatoes on his toast. 

“That can be arranged, love.”

- Upright : An Union Of Opposites -

(“How is it born, a pain this deep? But if the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.”)

Once upon a time, a Prince had been locked in a basement, where the only Stars he saw were painted gold in a blue plaster sky, and the only Moon he saw was a diffuse skylight covered by a thick glass. Fire meant not the pale torches by the walls, but a ward fed with blood. Water was a moat, and Earth was a raw stone floor.

Perhaps it hadn't been completely dark under there, but the Prince had felt it all the same - Thick and oppressive, unlike the shadows in his domain. Choking out everything else, draping the accomplices of his captors into an indistinct, oily veil.

It had been tar. It had been loneliness with no adornments.

Nine years ago, a knight had stood in front of a crystal cage keeping an Endless prisoner. He'd seen him, truly seen him, and as if to spite his orders (leave, live) , he'd faced his jailers and ended up with the sword through the torso Morpheus had feared all along. He’d died for him. The Prince might as well have stabbed the knight himself, holding him from behind - intimacy before a drawing of steel, a last moment of closeness, a flash staining the stone floors with his blood.

Morpheus knew the Fates would have agreed with him. That Destiny would have made a statement of his blame as well.

Nine days ago, a knight had stood in front of a crystal cage keeping an Endless prisoner. He had truly seen him, and the Stars knew what else breaking the wards had cost him but he’d gone ahead, wanting more. Whipped by blinding wind and light, he'd reached out not to carry Morpheus out in triumph, but as his means to step outside them by himself.

Hob had given up his control and his blood willingly. The transmutation taking place back then in the basement, wouldn't have happened had it been coerced. And Dream-- He had fixed himself this much to respect the man he loved. To place responsibility where it was due.

Blame whom he had to blame.

And coming home had been stepping into warm, familiar, utterly ill- fitting clothes. And he’d discovered– He couldn’t pick back all of the pieces of himself at once lest he be overwhelmed by the bustle of his realm: Subjects who’d asked for an audience to give him, indirectly, their welcome; the torrents of the Unconscious Collective flooded by the addition of a million dreamers, knitting back the places that had started to crack. Rebuilding from the ashes could be easier than a healthier upkeep. 

His saving grace was having practiced, again and again, at gathering strength where there was none, learning patience, and in special, at telling himself the same stories so he could tweak them, adjusting his own role until he’d discovered at least some of the lessons had stuck.

1889 said “I think it’s you who’s changed.”

1925 replied “it appears I have.”

Morpheus had made sure through touch and taste and voice these were certainties instead of self-delusion. Hob and him had started pinning the visions of what they wanted into something solid, and perhaps even attainable. So why–?

Once again, like a viper in the tall grass: The image of holding Hob Gadling from behind, holding him tight like he'd wanted for so long, and driving a sword through his stomach. The vertigo of an incoming betrayal, of fixed paths. 

The Fates would have agreed. Destiny would have, perhaps. A younger him would definitely have. And he…

There he was, fading the shroud, the husk of shadows he’d wrapped himself in to stop seeing the Temple of Apollo where the remains of his son awaited for a boon he did not want to give him. Standing upon a grass-covered hill that finished in an abrupt cliff, letting the Aegean winds whip his hair into an inky mass of seaweed.

The fine sand of Greek beaches might as well have been white. In a spring afternoon with clear skies, many of the islands wore a mantle of green not meant to last until the summer. Some of the marble temples still reflected the sun to the point it hurt to look at them. It was all beautiful, really. And, from where Morpheus was, incredibly lonely.

Wishing to have an easier road had never worked for him. Wishing his Hope, his Hob, hadn’t seen him brooding was moot the second he felt a warm, copper-gold presence behind him. 

“Dream”, Hob called for him, soft. Serious like he’d never been before. “I thought you at Naxos. But you have to admit - this isn’t a good look either.”

And Morpheus, he did feel the flare of irritation, brought by eons of never having to explain himself, and allowing only about two other people in the world to use that kind of tone without consequences.

“Did you come in through the Dreaming?”, he asked.

“Mostly”, and Hob’s voice hadn’t changed at all. If anything, it had grown tenser by a single degree. “Kinda flew a part of the way.”

“Thought as much.” Morpheus half-turned enough for a sideways glance. It didn’t last long, slipping past Hob’s cable knit sweater, the dark rust of his jacket, to get lost in the soft waves of grass at their feet. “I did put too much of myself in you, didn’t I?”

“It’s very much not the point”, Hob replied, lips tighter when he paused. “But it seems like you did. I’m glad for this new and strange sense of direction, though. Delos isn’t as close as the maps say.”

He’d managed to enjoy himself some, at least. After making sure Morpheus was in another temple. He had never imagined this would be the way he’d get his wish of flying , but it had helped. He’d shot up very high, and very fast, with these wings that weren’t quite his but his other half had sodding improvised . Learning to use them on the way had gotten his blood running, and himself as mellow as the situation allowed. Plus, they had faded once his feet had touched the ground again, thank god.

Fear tended to come out of him as anger. Hell, grief did too. He was but a flawed human, no matter what Dream of the Endless had mixed into his essence.

“Kind of glad you were inside that shadowy thing”, he added then. “You’re my North Star, milord, and my soul is drawn to yours. But I’m not sure I could’ve spotted you otherwise. So why are you here?”

“I could ask the same of you. It is an odd place for us to meet, Hob Gadling.”

“Oh for fuck’s—!”, Hob muttered, and his effort to control his temper was so apparent Morpheus did feel stung by guilt. “I wish I knew! I have no idea! But there’s a part of me that does, and let me tell you, he is freaking out.”

Ah. That would do it, yes, and it had too many implications to parse, but the closest to surface grew his guilt into something that cut into Morpheus’ skin. It might have shown through as well. Some of the fight went out of his lover.

“I had gone to see you. Just that”, he said then, exhausted. “And when I wished to step out of the Dreaming, to where you’d left for–”

“That’s enough”, Morpheus told him. It was no warning, it held zero anger. Just the same exhaustion. And he reached to touch his face.

Once upon a time, a Prince of Stories had glimpsed a thousand variations of his very own Sad Ending.

This was how he Revealed to Hob, Hob Gadling, the things Hope already knew:  Calliope, and Orpheus, Eurydice and the viper in the grass. Image after image of his refusal to aid his son in traversing the underworld, and the deal Orpheus had made with Death and Destruction instead. How it meant he couldn’t come back from the Sparagmos entirely. How the only thing he’d done for him in over a millenia was putting Johanna Constantine at his service.

This was how Hob was shown how– If all of his chains had to be undone, Dream’s path had to go through Naxos. And by the time he was done Hob was pale, and mute - trying to process all of it.

“... But you told me that you want to live now."

“I do.”

“Do you still? Did you mean it, Morpheus? Aren’t you– Isn’t the family blood thing–?”

Morpheus wasn’t used to be questioned, let alone in that tone. But he deserved it, he guessed. He’d started on the wrong foot. Put the explanation before the statement, as he did.

“I meant it. I wasn’t in Naxos to grant Orpheus his wish.”

Which in many ways sounded immensely selfish. But Hob was almost sagging with relief in front of him. He could hold his lover first, couldn’t he? So he did – and tight, tight so he knew he was still there.

“God’s tits, I think I had a heart attack”, he heard him mutter. It got a faint, faint quirk of lips out of him. Just a tug. “Burying the bloody sodding lede… Why the hell couldn’t you start from there?”

The wind picked up again, waving Morpheus’ dark coat and Hob’s lighter clothes with a sound of wings. Like the rustling grass, or the albatross soaring and nesting close by.

Many meters below, the Aegean kept crashing against the rocks - loud and constant.

“I came to talk with him”, he said then.

And Hob, he didn’t say ‘is that all?’ because, oh. Oh, fuck .

“Though it might doom us all,” Morpheus added, ”I found myself unwilling.” 

Discomfort radiated out of him as disgust, and its waves were too the echoes of a storm Hob had only guessed at. Recognizing themselves in each other’s wounds, different as they were, was as beautiful as it was terrible. The pang of companionship didn’t negate that they were wounded. So much shame laid at the root of loneliness.

“You don’t need to get it all done right now, y’know”, he told Morpheus, soft at last without the barbs. “Or–” 

If guiding each other out of Hell wasn’t enough, Morpheus wondered, what would be?

“Come on. You have me”, Hob whispered. His voice was failing him. “You have me, I– I don’t have all of my shit together. At all. But please…”

(‘I’m here. I’m here, goddammit, don’t do these things alone. You don’t have to.’)

They already had another path. Shouldn't they learn to actually stand side by side? Beyond moments like these, emotions so high they ran close to desperation? But Hob had taken his hands between both of his, and there was a scared twist to his lips Morpheus didn’t want to see again.

So he pulled him close, brusque and almost grim, and kissed it away, licking into Hob’s mouth when he gasped. Wrapping both arms around his waist, yes, like an unvoiced ‘ please don’t leave me’.

“Morpheus”, he murmured, running his palms up his lover’s black coat, and setting them sprawled on the sharp corners of his shoulders. “Fuck, love, you’re so tense, it’s…”

So tense he was shaking. But so was Hob. And Dream of the Endless may have wished to be back in his realm, for a better measure of control, but he wasn’t moving now.

“I apologize for scaring you.” Every single word he said was calculated and weighed before he stated them. He was having trouble with them now. “I won’t take measures, not today. But I won’t…”

“Not today”, Hob repeated, rubbing his shoulders, feeling them move as Morpheus took a deep breath - seven in, four out, clarity of mind.

“I’m not here to self-destruct. I will fix myself, Hob Gadling.

‘Thank you. Thank you,’ Hob didn’t say, chasing his parted lips. Morpheus heard him clearly anyway, over a confused mass of feeling that wanted to say it’s not about fixing, but didn’t know how. It was enough for him, and then…

He turned off this sense too, trading his lover’s privacy for a piece of the mundane, and pressed into it - teeth and tongue and a whisper of “come closer”. His compass. His way Home. When they broke away, a thin string of saliva kept him connected - fraction of a second, and Hob’s pupils were beautifully wide. Morpheus’ hands had bunched on his clothes in tight fists, feeling the heat of his golden skin rise against his.

Hob brushed a strand of windswept black hair away from his face, before doing the same with his own, and panting slightly. No masks, no barriers: In front of him, Hob wore his emotions on his sleeve like he seldom did anymore. What could Morpheus do with such a wealth of trust? 

The next time Hob leaned in, cupping his chin, he tasted the ozone before a storm. He felt it with his fingers wrapped so tight on his shirt he was tugging it down - and Morpheus, he grabbed him by his wrist, getting a soft whimper out of him when he slipped it under the fabric, splayed on his chest.

“... Don’t do this to me”, and Hob’s tight smile was a plea. “You’ve got no idea of how long I’ve wanted to touch you.”

“So touch me”, replied Morpheus, taking shelter on his pride as he made Hob run his hand over a smooth pectoral, letting him remember how human was this vessel he owned - breastbone, sternum, a heartbeat and a nipple that pebbled at the friction of his palm. 

All of these days, Hob had held back, the strangest part being– it hadn’t been as difficult as he’d once thought. Shell-shock had stopped being a metaphor for both of them, and they’d wrapped around each other for warmth rather than– Anything like this, really. It still felt profane to follow the lines of Morpheus’ chest with his fingers, sightless. Having permission turned it into a rush.

This was how Hob slid a thigh between his lover’s legs. He would go slowly, he swore, like he didn’t know he’d fail that oath. Morpheus wrapped his arms around him, cupping the crown of his head in an open hand, and letting the other drift past his waist, low on his hip. The space between them was a concession so he could keep touching him.

They weren’t in the Dreaming. This wasn’t Dream’s element. And this, this was making his heart race, and his skin prickle with the beginnings of a daze , defying the cool breeze. 

“Oh, I wanna worship you”, Hob muttered, and before Morpheus could reply, he pressed in again, swallowing his shiver. Devouring him until he forgot how breathing was supposed to happen, his tongue against his, rocking against each other in tentative friction.

Dream of the Endless had wondered almost from the start about the taste of Hob Gadling’s skin, the strength and shape of his body under his clothes. He didn’t need to yearn now, he had to lose the habit.

“Hush” , he replied, far too late, and “your jacket, Beloved. Take it off.”

Hob disentangled them just enough to obey, delighted, and not entirely sane about it. It made a quiet sound when it fell amidst the grass.

Shit, they were out in the open, not so far away from a cliff, and he’d wished for this since they’d met. His brain couldn’t handle being wanted by his North Star: Anticipation alone had him light-headed as his blood surged to pool between his legs, starting to tent the front of his trousers - making Dream of the Endless remember how a dry mouth felt like, and the instincts of seeking friction, of an ache on his knees that spoke of hunger. He stepped in to do away with Hob’s sweater himself and fight the buttons of the collar of his shirt, untucking it from his waist.

Hob yielded, thy will be done, helping only so they wouldn’t get entangled with his necklace, and his clothes. Over five hundred years of experience - so how in the world was this, this, being pinioned by his hair and by his hips so Morpheus could mouth at his neck, undoing him so badly? His nails on his skin echoed the flare of his mouth seeking every sensitive spot, sucking on the lobe of his ear and the tender vein running the path from there, (“... love!”) to stay by his clavicle, nuzzling and lapping at the sweat on the hollow of his throat. Hob had no idea how he managed to get a hold of himself and respond sliding his hands down to Morpheus’ ass, squeezing.

“You asked me to touch you”, he got out, grinning, doing it again. And this prideful being he loved so much– He stopped, just enough to shed his coat and let it fall, as if daring him. 

Hob had never, ever, been good at resisting a gamble. Of course that he flashed Morpheus his teeth and grabbed the lower edge of his shirt, pulling it up, and making sure there was no reluctance the entire way. He’d seen Morpheus naked– at some point it had felt like a hundred times too many, it had encrusted guilt deep into his core. And maybe it would come back later! But oh, his lover didn’t stop him, and… 

This moon-pale skin was so soft under his hands, so utterly alive . He’d never thought it could feel warm, or even feel damp, and the wintery scent of it hadn’t been his imagination, but there was something else to it, carnal and sharp, he couldn’t wait to lick. So he didn’t.

“Come down, come down with me”, he asked. It was assertive, it was a plea, it was Hob kneeling in front of his Lord to press kisses to his stomach and hooking his fingers to his waistband. So thin, a deeply-rooted need to take care of him entwined with desire. He wanted an immediate answer on whether his skin would bruise if he sucked on it, taking bits between his teeth, worrying away the scrapes with the flat of his tongue. His hands ached to play with Morpheus’ nipples - those that had no reason to be there but delight, just like his navel, starting point of a trail of black curls that got lost past the button.

Morpheus was touch-starved, and Hob was inviting him to feast. He let his last garment fall and he followed, fluid like water, silk in slow motion - pushing his lover so he fell back on his elbows. Having him gasp in with that quiet trace of sound did nothing but spur him on. 

Hob’s body was everything he’d wanted and more. His broad shoulders, the shapes of muscle under his skin, they spoke of strength. He was fit with a layer of softness, the dark hair of his chest was an arrow leading to a growing bulge trapped under the fabric of his trousers, and he was panting. It was all so animal it disarmed him. The compass tattooed over his heart was crowned with a sigil Morpheus hadn’t seen in over a billion years, engraved from the top to the jut of his clavicle. 

This was how he lost it.

He went down to mouth at the ink, and found himself unable to stop again - kissing, nuzzling, tasting the dusky pink of one nipple and then the other. His hands fumbled with Hob’s belt, shaky with want, and when he opened Hob’s fly, tugging so he obediently lifted his hips, the only thing he could think about was sucking him off right there, amidst the tall grass. The flushed erection jutting out from under his clothes had all of Morpheus’ focus as he sat back on his haunches to take off his shoes, and the rest of his clothes. He’d make him louder than the waves. It was an oath. And Hob– 

He’d never been one to lie there taking it, usually comfortable in his nudity, but he was losing it too. This was happening. His lord, his lover - Reaching for his cock. Turning his whine of desire into a moan when he started, slowly, pumping his length like he had to make sure of how hard he was.

Hob could’ve bucked in his grasp, mindless, until he came. Morpheus looked like he’d be happy to let him. Panting, wrapping a hand on his hair as the sole place to hold on he had left– 

“My love”, he got out, low and intimate. “My North Star. I had wanted to treat you right.”

Morpheus was being consumed by a thousand images of everything he wanted to do to this man, and wanted him to do. He wanted to swallow his cock until he couldn’t come anymore. Ride his face, put him in all fours, he wanted–

“Love the idea… “Hob clarified, arching under him. Seeking friction, trying to be tender - both could happen. “For the next time. Come on… “

And shuddering in pleasure, stubborn, “you deserve better. Let, hah , let me take you to bed...”

Morpheus didn’t tell him he could get them one right there if he so wished. Hob Gadling had him by the throat. He reached for his coat, and threw it over his shoulders. The galaxies in the lining flared alive in a background darker than black, blinding his human lover - fraction of a second, shadows falling to unveil a silly bronze chandelier.

Morpheus wasn’t about to tell Hob the softest bed he could think of was his, either. But Hob’s shaky hands tugged his lover back on top of him for a deep kiss laced with hunger that spoke of understanding, that licked into his mouth and finished with him sucking on Morpheus’ lower lip to ease the sting of his teeth.

“Anything you want”, he gasped, swore, against him. “I’ll do anything.”

“I want you.”

Morpheus shifted and spread his thighs to perch on Hob’s lap, look at me, pale skin flushed, and an engorged cock. This wasn’t about pride, nor a ‘take your reward’.

It was just a “take me.” 

And Hob– He did reach on instinct for the drawer at his left, choking on a groan, but Morpheus stopped him, grabbing his wrist. Reality bent to his will. If he wanted to be wet for his lover, he didn’t need further. Having the time to explore it all, having waited far too long, they weren’t at odds.

This was how Morpheus wished he could’ve watched himself, spread legs and dripping with slick, feeling for the girth of Hob’s cock with his hand before the rest of his body followed, guiding him. The rim of his entrance let Hob in easily, head slipping in, but the rest was all about sinking down inch by agonizing inch, not because it was difficult, but because Morpheus wanted to feel him, thick and wanting. Breaching into his body and loosening him up.

Under him, Hob was drowning in dry land, growling. Wide pupils had darkened the metal of his eyes, tight around the corners with the effort of staying put - one hand fisted in the duvet, and the other in the coat. Morpheus loved the shine of them, and his blatant worship— Like this wasn’t all about him telling his lover how worthy he was, how much Dream of the Endless belonged to him and him only. He sat on his lap, speared as far as they could go, and held his face with both hands. Ran them down his chest, ensuring his palms dragged over his nipples, still damp and puffy, making Hob moan. The tickle of his hair was pure static and he knew (Knew) this full body shiver he’d felt running down Hob’s body had echoed inside him. He'd been hard enough to leak, too.

Stars, it felt good to be this full.

“Love”, Hob whispered, voice low and rough. His cock was twitching inside Morpheus, his hips struggled under his weight to stay still. “Please. Should I– Should I just…?”

Morpheus’ answer was rising from his lap, letting his length slip out almost completely, and then bearing down again with a rough moan of his own. Want alone had turned this vessel’s blood into liquid fire - He’d forgotten how good actual pleasure felt. Tensing his muscles like hunger did, overwhelming like pain, an addictive flare running down his spine in every rise and fall - Once, twice, threatening him to lose count before he told him “hold me”, barely finishing the words before Hob reached under the coat with wide, shaky hands, splaying them on his hips.

“Fuck”, he got out, “ - fuck, you’re beautiful, you’re…”

“So are you”, Morpheus turned it around, panting, stubborn. His own length was leaking all over Hob’s stomach, pearling on its hair, and Hob couldn’t take it - He thrust up, meeting and matching his rhythm. Making sure Morpheus couldn’t do words, let alone protest, when he pulled him closer and the angle made sure the head of his cock ground against his prostate, insistently, getting a startled moan out of him that sounded like his name.

“Let me be good to you”, Hob insisted, growling, rutting in with short, sharp thrusts. His lover was a wet, perfect sheath. He’d rather die than burn without him. 

“Yes”, whispered Morpheus, shaking from the effort of holding onto sanity and guiding his human vessel - spread thighs, spread ass, dripping with sweat, slick, and Hob’s precum as he rose and sank down his cock. 

Gravity helped. Gravity didn’t.

“Yes, you may” , he repeated, and his low voice was cracking, slipping, caught by Hob before he fell with a wide hand on the back of his head and the other protecting his spine. The gesture broke him, and he moaned, calling for his lover, wrapping his legs around him, and digging his heels to hurry him up.  “Don’t stop…”

Demanding, like Hob would ever, he’d wanted this being far too long for disobedience. In a single moment, his hands slid from under him to pull him higher, change the angle, praying for more of his lover losing control laid on the starry backdrop of his coat.

He would’ve stopped otherwise to breathe, to look at Morpheus and his flushed skin, his proud cock resting on his stomach, dribbling clear fluid. The stubborn twist pleasure gave to his mouth as Hob pushed, sheathed to the hilt into his body, loosening him up into a moan - scrambling for him, locking his ankles together for leverage. Letting Hob understand with searing clarity how much he’d craved stern, disciplined Morpheus giving up and giving in.

“I’m yours“ Hob’s grasp on his thigh grew tighter. He knew now it’d bruise, it fed his need and he repeated “I’m yours” because otherwise he wouldn’t have dared to drink his soul out in a kiss, right as he started thrusting on earnest.

Morpheus’ nails dug into his shoulders, and his low, rough moan was a full body affair. Closing his eyes was yielding, and so was crying out and arching under Hob; seeking to rut on him as his lover thrust into him faster, harder. Hob was fucking him true and relentless, chasing the high as well for this couldn’t last forever, but they’d had time to do it all over again.

“Mine… ” he replied, low and rough, sincere in madness, close, close, close… “mine– and I’m yours…”

Everything else, Morpheus hushed by biting Hob’s shoulder. The Knight lifted his North Star’s hips to get them right where they needed, staking a claim, frantic. God knew how he snuck a hand between them to pump him in time, fingers around his girth and thumb rubbing at the glans; but if he’d hadn’t come yet it was because he had to, needed to bring him past the edge first after this gift, hear his moans, the spasms of his cock, and– there!

Morpheus cried out loud and mindless, every muscle tightening, a live wire spilling all over Hob in white streaks - blind with pleasure, holding on for more with one foot slipping from their embrace to arch and keep him in, in, please stay. Hob's strangled sound of need wasn't any quieter. His lover, (his lover!) was locked around his cock, this was his cum staining his hand, this was what he looked like when he came and, no, he couldn't stand it further, fucking him deeper , higher and higher until pleasure struck him down.

Falling was a rough, growling moan, a rush in his ears, the taste and scent of his lover - and Morpheus panting and writhing as he flooded him with his seed.

It was slowing down in a handful of broken thrusts, both of them clinging to the aftershocks, until they stilled in exhaustion. Hob's lungs were on fire. His heart was under him, fucked out on top of a starry coat. 

Morpheus pulled him in to steady his own breathing through a sated, sloppy kiss. "Don't stop", he repeated.

Hob heard, loud and clear, it was a 'don't leave me'.

"I won't. I'm yours."

"Good…"

A long pause draped upon them, until Morpheus asked "Hob?"

Nothing Hob had seen compared to Morpheus opening his eyes - hazy with pleasure, pools of obsidian speckled with stars. 

"I love you."

And Hob– His smile was so full of wonder, Morpheus had to trace it with his fingers before he kissed him again.

- Upright : Know Thyself -

Rain had a rhythm, and it had a weight. London was well acquainted with both of them. While the sound of its droplets hitting cobblestones and roofs was talented at drowning out all the others, the city on itself bowed to nobody. 

Neither did Hob Gadling. But his currently empty bed did say he was a tad done with this blur of darkened skies, when there were warmer places to spend his time at. The occultists’ 'peace from the sun’ had come to him in a stranger script he’d ever been told of. Someone could’ve told him it was because Revealed Knowledge was never sent in straight paths but… He was doing his actual best to stay away from that sort of train of thought. Or of any thought, at all.

He was doing better with the former than the latter, born restless, and not as stupid as he was trying to stop repeating. Actually, he was certain sooner or later he’d pick up something to do, because he already had a hundred ideas, but so help him god - if anyone objected to him being under a magnolia tree, with the first book he’d picked up in a while and a bottle of beer, well. He’d fight them. He would’ve fought himself if he’d had to. Hob had earned the break fair and square… 

And so had Dream of the Endless, as far as everyone was concerned, but he had a workaholic lover who had ‘giving Lucienne some days off’ as an excuse Hob could do nothing about.

Morpheus had shown him the heart of a realm too vast to explore in a hundred lifetimes. This was still Hob of the Endless’ favorite spot. It was sunny, and new, and a part of him suspected it would take a lot to change this. In the meantime, though? He was sitting on a blanket, watching dusk paint the sky in purple and orange, limning the mountains with a gold so bright it looked white. Tucked against his side, there was a wicker basket with provisions. He set the book by his side, and rummaged inside for a snack.

The tree branches wavered in the wind. The red skin of an apple gave way to his teeth with a crisp sound. At the base of the hill, Morpheus waited for him to notice he was there.

“You must’ve been very focused”, he commented in the end, making him jump.

“You were late!”, his lover accused, voice rough. He forced himself to swallow, coughed, and laughed - and then he coughed again. “I could’ve drowned! Warn a mate next time?” 

Morpheus was all amusement as he replied “Choking, let alone drowning, isn’t possible here.”

That was not exact, as far as the other man was concerned. Drowning was a matter of belief, like in the River, and very sadly unlike in the Waking. Being taken by surprise kind of bypassed conscious thought. “Get up here and kiss me”, he told Morpheus, bright, after clearing his throat. “Promise you I’ve faded the bits of apple from my lungs.”

“As you wish.”

“I do. Hurry. I might have some sunset left for you, and another beer. I guess.”

Morpheus sat by his side first, and indeed - he kissed him hello, and grabbed it from the basket.

“Your mind does feel far away from here”, he commented - with excellent reasons to think so.

The bottlecap ceded under his thumb as he let his own drift, for just a moment, thinking of topaz, and burnt copper. His lover’s eyes. He sighed, with a minute shaking of his head, and added, “hello, Hope.”

Hope… Hope leaned against him. “You caught me early”, he replied. “But I’m happy, you know? That you played along, last kiss and all.”

“It’s not about playing along.”

Hope faded the apple with a wave of his hand, and wrapped an arm around Morpheus’ waist. Fiddler’s Green was beautiful, an open space made of life and color, lit up even at night. It was sweet-scented. It felt real. Which… Current melancholy aside, suited him.

He was real too.

And Morpheus, he wasn’t good at this sort of talk. He was, honestly, rather well-known for being abrupt. A lot of it stemmed from feeling so much, at times he couldn’t parse what. So he cut to the chase, with a non-question: “I take it that you’re leaving”

“Wait, wait!” Hope tried to appease him, raising his hands. “It’s not forever! I swear! Actual swearing, not… Denial swearing.”

He fidgeted with his necklace, worrying at the small ring pendant. Guilt shouldn’t have been in his nature, but the gift of complex emotions meant all of them.

“I discovered I suck at goodbyes as much as my Other tends to. But ah… Both of us are trying to work on that kind of thing. So I didn’t leave him the heavy lifting, and he passed me the wheel.”

“It’s your choice, and it’s something I respect” , Morpheus told him, serious. “I would like to know your reasons, though.” 

“Well, mostly… We didn’t fit together”, Hope admitted then. He made a face on Morpheus’ behalf when he realized that he’d suppressed a wince. That had been tactless, alright. “How to go about this… ”

“Being truthful, Hope” , and his lover, still his lover, was so tense this encouragement was a poor comfort, but Morpheus could make that clearer, didn’t he? Even if he had hurt. So he added, “pay no mind to my reaction. I want to know.”

It wasn’t so odd, Hope thought, that his North Star would take this as some kind of rejection. So he reached for his hand, and kissed his knuckles, and sought the best angle he could to say this truth. 

“We resembled each other far too much, if you can believe it. Please, bear with me! It’s… There’s zero jealousy, even. None. This is an agreement.” 

If Morpheus hadn’t said anything, it was because he wished not to interrupt. But Hope had kept paying such careful attention to his face, and to his gestures, he found himself leading his tanned hand to his cheek, asking for affection.

“We spent such a long time being, well. There was William fucking Palmer, may the wanker rest in pieces, but the Count of Saint Germain did last a while. There’s all of the roles I played, too. And– Shit, there’s so many identities, more than you think. Most of them a disaster.”

He allowed himself a snicker at his own, their own expense that for once held zero ill will. They’d accomplished that much. 

“So I can say, see. That– I have no idea of who the hell I am anymore? I know what I don’t want to be. And things I want to do. The rest is…” he shrugged, words failing him right at the end. Wry, “I’m speaking in first person, sorry. But, it’s because we’re kind of the same bloke in that aspect.”

Though not the exact same. Hope of the Endless , a dream whose very name stated how much More he could be, hadn’t even had a chance to think of who he was... At all. Hob had seen this, had told him ‘you can’t just throw a wager at my head when it shows you aren’t all in’, and kept arguing about it even after they’d made a deal to try. 

They didn’t go for the full amalgamation. Like antimony, silver, and gold in a crucible, they fused into each other, then separated - over and over. A bit for the experience too if they had to confess it, but mostly, so they could be a single being while still being themselves.

For a long while, his lover only let a silence thick and soft like a blanket drape over both of them, deep in thought.

“I did promise you an opportunity to be for others what you were for me” , Morpheus said then. “But there were many paths for this to happen. That night when I realized which one you had taken…”

He sat straighter with his back to the tree, feeling rather than looking for the stars that, one by one, had begun to lit up like fireflies.

“It made me happy.”

Hope’s grin was shaky - crow’s feet, glassy eyes, and very, very wide. “It’s… It’s okay, for real. You aren’t getting rid of me”, he replied then. “I’m sorry. I’m a pest like that.”

Morpheus huffed something that wasn’t quite a laugh. But he was allowed to be a bit melancholic about this - all of them were. 

“Don’t be mistaken. I’m pleased I got it this right. When has any of you actually wanted to disappear?”

Hope had less qualms about snickering. Even if his eyes stung.

“Hey, I meant it! And it’s not disappearing. It’s more like– Resonance? Far as we could tell. Like… Memories clicking into place. I do want to come along.” He gave his North Star a small tap with an elbow, failing to keep the smile. “It’s just I don’t have many. Memories, that’s it.”

He’d been scared. Could he be blamed? Hell, he was scared now. Morpheus was, too. Softer, daring, Hope added “we toasted to fulfilled promises, Dream of the Endless. And you belong to me, so… I’m making you one now.”

This was how Morpheus tilted his untouched beer at him, in an offering of renewed vows. And Hope– He reached for it, and when his lover gave him a nod, he drank. Because they wanted to, all three of them. Kind of needed it too, so he could ask “may I have one hundred years? You’re my love. But… “

Morpheus waited for him to finish. What came after the conditional?

“Not yet. Just one hundred years”, Hope repeated, pleading. And his lord, his love, he shook his head.

“You can have all you need” , he said. “A century, or twenty - there’s time. Do not become a Stranger, Hope of the Endless. That’s all I ask in return.”

“Oh.” 

Hope tilted his head back, with his crown against the trunk and his eyes in the sky - so pleased it made him shy, offering the bottle back. “I’ll be, ahm– I could be coming and going, then. I mean. If I can have more, we…” he drummed his fingers on his thigh, trying to get himself unstuck from flustered. “We can adjust the terms a little, if you’ll have me.”

Morpheus smiled. “You’ve just said it. I’m yours - fingers crossed.”

There was a memory of glass clinking on glass in his mind, almost musical. He didn’t wait for them to be done with the bottle to kiss Hope’s lips again. And again, in between shared sips, until the last drop was gone, and a parting gift of Knowledge had taken root in Hope’s heart.

“... I think I know now”, Hope said then, tranquil at last, “how to be the kind of dream you’d offered me to be.”

He set aside the bottle, and got up. The waning moon of the Waking was there on it’s first quarter, and Morpheus gave himself the pleasure of looking at his Hope, his Hob, as he stretched with a whine that was only a little sleepy. 

“May you fare well, until the next time” , he told him. “I’ll look forward to it.”

Hope gave him a last grin, a wink– And what could Morpheus do but let him go? 

He closed his eyes with a sigh. In front of him, the resonance of two waves, falling out of sync and drifting apart, was soft enough to be felt rather than perceived - the lingering ghost of a drawn violin, somewhere far. He counted heartbeats to make sure it  was over before he moved.

In the end, what pulled him out of it was Hob - just Hob, kneeling in front of him to kiss his forehead.

“Hey”, he asked, nervous under his gentle tone. Like he still expected Morpheus to be upset at him, when he wasn't. Quietly sad, maybe. But not many beings could speak of being certain they’d see each other again to sweeten the sorrow of parting.

“Were you looking?”, he asked Hob, tugging him in an invitation to sit down.

“I tried not to”, he sighed, letting himself fall heavily by his North Star’s side. “Overheard, only a little bit by the end, but… Did my best. I’m sorry, love. We didn’t want to hurt you.”

Morpheus wasn’t going to fault him for either thing. He still didn’t know how much they had been the same before they parted ways, so the attempt at privacy was endearing; and he’d learnt a thing or two about not keeping those he loved under a lock. 

“How are you feeling, Hob Gadling” , he reminded him, stern. “It matters too.”

Hob was too tired for anything but a brief, brief laugh, and a shake of his head. He picked up the empty bottle and joked “that’s a hard one. There’s nothing to get it out easier, either. May I…?”

Morpheus rolled his eyes, and gave him a refill. “One would’ve thought this was one of the first things you taught yourself to do in my realm. You made the basket.”

Hob worried at his lower lip. A part of him wished he still had the necklace to fidget with - that had been such a great idea, truly. “Maybe I still can”, he said, tapping a finger under his silvery left eye. “Tomorrow, though? I don’t want to do any more reality-bending tonight.”

“It is your right” , Morpheus reminded him. “One you’ve earned fair and square, and I’ve gladly granted.”

His lover, all about him was so charged with questions. Difficult ones, harbingers of melancholy. Hob let himself slip - from leaning on the tree to laying down on the blanket, grateful for Fiddler’s Green’ grounding scent. The heath bushes, not so far away from there, were in full bloom.

“You know me”, Hob told him then. “So I’ll warn you, what I’m about to say… Is going to sound very weird. But Morpheus, love, I don’t want more. I mean, yes I do, always. But…”

“Oh?”

“Alright so, listen. What I had been thinking of was seeing the world”, Hob’s gesture at the skies was slow and expansive, like he could reach for all of it at once. Then he turned to lie on his side, drinking in his North Star. “The Waking. I missed a full nine years. There’s gotta be lots of things I haven’t come across with yet.”

“... Are you leaving as well, Beloved?”, Morpheus straightened up, trying his best to read him without assumptions. 

“Hell no!” Hob declared, emphatic. “Not the plan. And I’d never. What I’m trying to say is… I wasn’t aiming to earn anything after all this. I have you.” 

Morpheus discovered he’d missed breathing and having a heartbeat when Hob added, “It’s enough for me.” And then his lover went and finished  “for now” , and drew a huff of amusement out of him. A genuine one.

“For now”, he repeated, delighted despite himself. “Always wanting more.”

“I am a greedy bastard. The other one, mind you, agrees. He’s a greedy bastard too, because I corrupt everything I touch. Which…”

“I do love you for many a reason, Hob Gadling.”

The certainty in that interruption was so new, Hob’s eyes stung, and his smile went tight. Not wry - overwhelmed with emotion.

“I can come see you anytime now, right? No Vortex business?” It was so hard not to be insecure when anyone went ‘I love you as you are’, ‘I love you because of it’, to his face. Let alone his North Star. “You don’t even need to leave your own place, just…”

“No.”

“... No?”

“There is much to attend to in the Dreaming” , and Morpheus– He shifted and then laid down on his back. The blanket made itself soft like a cloud on the spot. “Repairing it will not be easy, or a short affair, and there’s a rogue nightmare at large I worry about.  But if this is your wish then I want, too, to see the world.”

He was the Dreaming, and the Dreaming was him. It existed in an odd state of being his Home as well - All three of those things could be, and were true. 

But if Home was the place where you set down, settle down the things you’d previously locked away in closed vaults and warded hoards… Where they could finally breathe, and you with them, glad of what you’ve saved for this shelter of your own… 

Home could be a person, too. And Coming Home could feel like a night under the stars, anyplace, if they made it happen.

“Do you mean it?”, Hob asked. The part of him that didn’t dare to believe this much had him shivering, it was vertigo and sparks.

“I could try. It's been a relief to be my realm once again. But I’ve found myself enjoying the Waking as well, through a physical shape in particular. A body, mine to do as I please.”

“Are you talking about mine?”, Hob teased, drawing another brief, raspy laugh from Morpheus. Stars, how easy it was with this man, now he allowed himself having emotions. They were having an important conversation, though, and he needed to keep talking.

“I meant it. You can’t tell the difference yet, but human senses don’t resemble what I always experience.”

Now he’d renewed his ties with the Dreaming, he’d carry it within wherever he was, and with it, the task of keeping himself from being swallowed by its emotions. The Stream of Unconsiousness and its living Waters, his sand, his shadows– All of it, Morpheus loved, heavy as they were. 

It had also been proven it would take more than a temporary absence to truly break any of it. He hadn’t foreseen Hob’s wish, nor his own reaction. But perhaps he could attempt being physically in the Waking as he held the Dreaming on his shoulders - as some way to ease his mind. 

It pleased Morpheus to think this was something he hadn’t been meant to learn. It spurred him on.

“I… It’s not the same, of course it’s not the same. But I think I could get an idea these last days”, Hob told him then.

The Dreaming had reacted to his wishes. It had let him shift his shape, and travel, and speak into others’ minds. Made a thing or two appear. In the Waking, he’d flown. He’d felt–

He’d always had a knack with people, but he’d been able to read them if he tried. ‘There's at least five whole people in that house who're going to have quite a different story, just because you were there’, Hope had told him. Was he going to end up changing others’ paths? With his mere presence?

“... You do bear a lot. The merging felt nice, but it was kind of too much , and… It happened so fast. Do you even know what would have happened if we’d, like… Made it permanent?”

“I shaped Hope using much more of my essence than would be advised”, Morpheus confessed then. “He may be a dream. But he was never made of sand, and it is true - I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

“... I’m not sure I count as human anymore”, Hob commented, and in it Morpheus did feel an echo of a valley of poppies; making him shiver. There was no reproach in Hob’s voice, though. Nothing but a statement of fact and a lilt of amusement. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to live like one for a little longer. Experience all the things that make me feel like when they invented handkerchiefs.”

Which meant no omniscience and no omnipresence, even if it meant giving up a supernatural capacity to inspire people to be better.

“I do need to change, too”, Morpheus admitted. They were alone, he could do this. “Keep changing. You don’t need perfection to be the likes of me.”

“Love…” Hob murmured, moved. Rather fittingly… Morpheus hadn’t thought of the consequences of making Hope of the Endless. But once he’d reunited them, it was clear he'd wished they would stay that way. How was he not disappointed?

“At ease, Beloved” , Morpheus cradled his sharp jaw, drew a thumb over his cheekbone. “Besides. This didn’t catch me unaware. I had some inklings this merging of yours hadn’t been seamless.”

His lover wasn’t startled. But he did jump a little. So Morpheus pulled him closer - Wrapping an arm around his waist. “You were scared at Naxos, and didn’t know why. Knowing should’ve been the same thing as Remembering.”

Hob hid against Morpheus’ chest for a moment, steadied. Neither of them spoke for a while. ‘These eyes are your eyes’, Hope had told him, and even that first time, Hob had replied, ‘are they?’ Because, come on. The ‘I am thou, thou art I’ was supposed to run both ways.

Maybe next time his eyes could be Hope’s eyes. But if not, they had the next one, and the next one. Morpheus had wanted to make him an equal, and now Hob knew it.

What an adventure would that be. 

This is how Hob kissed his lover, brief and sweet, and let both of them get lost it in until he’d gathered the bravery to say:  “My North Star. It wasn’t only about Naxos, I– I don’t remember any memory of his. Didn’t go there. I actually asked him not to share a thing.”

“... This does surprise me. I thought you’d be interested.”

“Morpheus…” he sought his eyes. “I do want to know everything. Starting by the things you dreamed inside that cage. What you felt, how Hope of the Endless happened. But it doesn’t feel right that way. Being shown… Revealed Truth, I guess.” 

“I am guessing you think it impersonal” , Morpheus tilted his head, meeting his gaze. He tangled their legs together, and found himself tracing the shape of Hob’s lips with the pad of a finger, careful and inquisitive. “What do you propose, then?”

“Well…”

Hob smiled at him. And Morpheus, he was the Dreaming, but there were so many stars in the skies over Fiddler’s Green he could’ve seen the love radiating from his generous mouth in waves, rather than felt it . Of course he caught the moment it quirked in mischief.

“... Why don’t you tell me a story?”

- Upright : An End Is A Beginning |  00 - The Fool -

[ Curtain Call. ]