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Dream is trying to be a good partner for Hob. A good father to Kian.
–so much of what he is not, what he should be, what he never has been, what he has failed at before, and he will lose lose lose Hob and Hope and Kian and happiness—
In spite of his previous experience, or perhaps due to such, it has not been easy.But Dream would like to think that he is learning. Slowly.Some aspects come easy. His arms remembered how to swaddle and support the moment Kian was born, and the steady trickle of life force upon which Kian’s hunger feeds bridged to him nearly unconsciously. He is a happy child, already lavished with adoring attention by the denizens of the Dreaming, and Dream can find no blemish in him, body or soul.And Hob. Hob is as easy to love as the first sunshine of spring. He’s an attentive parent and an exceedingly conscientious lover. He gives and gives and gives and Dream feels. Unworthy. Under the weight of his attentions. The depth of his affections.For he does not always know how to give back. In a. Human manner.He has been pondering this as he sits today in his own chambers, while Hob is away, tending to his own affairs in the Waking. Dream is alone for what must be the first time since Kian was born. He and Hob and Kian have hardly been a hairsbreadth away from each other for so long, and Dream feels his lover’s absence most strongly in the aftermath, like a weight missing from beside him, like a limb severed and departed.He may be feeling a bit dramatic about it.Kian rests as a warm weight on his chest, grounding and reminding, as Dream reclines along his bed. He is so small, but a few weeks old, held safe and protected by Dream’s palm. A healthy size. A healthy baby. Despite the risks surrounding him even before his birth.He is a miracle. A wonder.And so very human.And Dream does not know if he will be able to. Give back. To him either. To succor him as a human parent would. As Kian may need.Rarely before has the gap between what Dream is and what humans are felt so… wide. Distinct.Threatening.Dream remembers the earliest gatherings of the eternals and has hosted the younger gods in his realm; he knows well their tittering and jeering as they look down upon the sundry mankind with a disdainful air and a hunger for macabre entertainment. 'Look at the miserable mortals,' they've purred in vaulted halls and across his table, 'how slow and inobservant. Never shall they grasp the grandeur which we hold,' and their wicked laughter would echo through the heavens like shattering glass and shrieking rodents.And yet. Dream knows that there was a time when he would have nodded along with them.That knowledge catches him, grips him vicelike, as he stares down the convictions he held once, the facts he presently understands, and the. Person. Man. Entity. He might like himself to be.
—someone worthy of Hob, of Kian, who is not a burden, who might not ruin everything he touches, who is not the cause of so much suffering, finally not to blame, to blame, to blame, to—
Calliope had understood better. She had tried to teach Dream. To show him humanity, in its truest form- the ever-evolving, beautiful, aching, blackened, brightening mass of it all. The generations and generations of compounding sorrow and joy and evil and invention.Hob had tried to teach him that lesson too, perhaps the very lesson that Death wanted him to understand. Each 100 years, Hob would present himself with aplomb, fierce and vivacious, near daring Dream to evaluate him. His actions, good and bad, laid without bluster upon the table between them, subjected with excitement for Dream’s scathing judgement. Confident, as a bastion of his race.Hob shines with life, energy. Meaning. Dream knows of no immortal, deity, or Endless that truly lives more than Hob Gadling does.Perhaps it is Death that gives them such vigor. That the cap on their lifespan gives them a limit in which they must make their mark upon the world or fade away, lost in the passing years. Even Hob, deathless by will alone, carries her lesson and gravitas, if not her gift.Endless and their kind are not such. Dreams have no expiration date. Immortals endure. Forever. Endlessly.Dream is not that which Hob is. He cannot be described as vibrant, alive. He merely is. Has been. Will be.He. He may not be able to. Grow. Change. Like Hob.The chasm between what Dream of the Endless is and what Robert Gadling is seems to echo through the empty spaces of his chest, day and night. The twitterpation of their growing affections, of the promises that Hob has sworn on life and limb, cannot fill the void of his worry. It is worse when Hob is gone, when anxious vines twine over his shoulders and whisper into his ears that this too shall end, that Hob will come to regret and hate and —that it will become the wedge between them, the pressure before the quake, the inevitable fall of the guillotine—Hob does not believe in fate.Dream knows better.For fate and stories are brothers—each inspires the other.Free will is a real, undeniable force of the universe, for all that Destiny’s book can foresee the future—those existences are not contrary to one another. But equally existent is inevitability: all creatures will doubtlessly walk the same paths over and over again.He has too many examples from his own experience. From his own heartbreaks.
—his fault, his fault, his fault—
And that is why, pained though he is to admit. Dream is scared. That he will walk the same path again. Tell the same story again. With Hob. One of attraction, passion, love, completion, and eventually loss. Resentment. Malice. Regret.
—That this is his invariable fate.—
The thought tears at him, yawns over him like the mouth of a beast, any time he is too long alone with his own thoughts. That he is incapable of supporting Hob, of helping him flourish and grow, slow and immoveable as Dream so often finds himself to be.That he has trapped Hob with him out of obligation.That Hob may resent him for it.That Hob may leave him for it.Or worse—that Hob might stay with him anyway.He sees in his swirling mind a vision of his lover, feeble not in body but finally in spirit, living listlessly and spent, only held together by the echoing omen of his chosen duty and Death’s most dangerous of blessings. Wandering through his life by Dream’s side, hollow and numb. Tethered to a world he no longer wants, bound hand in hand with Dream—Kian snuffles suddenly against his collarbone, and Dream gasps, and sighs.These kinds of ruminations have gotten worse since Fawney Rig. Since Hob swore vows that he feign can comprehend. Exacerbated by the stress of Kian’s life feeding on Dream’s.He bends his chin and places a kiss on his son’s downy head in thanks all the same.He is but a few weeks old and so delicate in Dream’s arms. So human and pink. So loved.Dream will not allow himself to do wrong by him.
He wishes Hob were here.
And Dream berates himself for the drama of it. It is exactly the sort of thing that Hob need not be troubled with at this time; his stress is bad enough as it is.Hob had received his untimely summons just a week hence. Upon their discovery that Kian takes to the Waking just as naturally as he does the Dreaming, they had begun to make periodic excursions to Hob’s flat, or outside to a nearby park, to help encourage his acclimation. Sitting in the Waking breeze, watching the sun dapple across Hob’s features and Kian stare with his father’s doe brown eyes upon the new sights of the world—idyllic in every sense. Dream could not have crafted it himself better in the Dreaming. How ironic that this latest harbinger should arrive then, in one of the few recent instances when Hob had access to his phone and the distractions that could contact him upon it. Hob had taken the call, and stepped away. Dream watched from the bench as Hob’s shoulders tensed, his hand ran anxiously through his hair, and their picturesque vacation came to an abrupt halt.Hob had ranted about it at home, pacing up and down his kitchen. “Blooming rich kids and their sodding parents are trying to tell me that I undercut their final grade out of spite. Me! Of all people! And now the bloody administration is up my arse, asking for criteria and rubrics, which they’ve already got online, don’t need me for that if they’d slap two brain cells together for long enough to just look at it, and to top it all off—” he’d finally turned toward Dream, angrily smushing at his phone screen till it revealed the email, “—I’ve got to come in for an academic jury. Ridiculous!”Dream had peered at the phone curiously. Hob continued onward, “I am supposed to be on parental leave! They know this! Must be illegal or something. But no, of course since the rich donor mum is demanding it, I’ve got to come in and fight for my honor. Sodding rich people.”Dream had thought of Hob’s own wealth circa 1580, and his present, well-stocked and well-concealed coffers, and wisely stayed silent on the matter. Instead he muttered, “If it be a fight, you could bring your broadsword.” Hob had snorted gamely in response.And for all of the past week, Hob had been abuzz with activity, either rushing anxiously about his usual haunts in the Waking, tracking down documents and marked papers, anything that might support and justify his case, or stealing away for precious moments with Dream and Kian in the Dreaming, postponing natural sleep in favor of coming to them directly. A poor substitute for true rest, Dream gently chided, but Hob could not be swayed, even as Dream watched him slowly unravel at the seams. Even as he doted on Kian or joked gamely with Matthew, Dream could see Hob still steeped in his own concerns and complaints in his thoughts, his mind far flung.It was not, Dream had thought guiltily, his only source of stress. Dream himself has been more… moody. Melancholic. Since Kian’s birth. Hob has borne much of the brunt of that. Additionally, every day with Kian presents a new series of tests and challenges, as they attempt to understand what they have created, to what extent he is human and to what he is not. The trembling void of those unanswered questions grates even at Hob’s deep wells of enthusiasm.Most poignantly to his current predicament, they are both out of time to define a new normal—when they will be together, when they will see to their own realms, who shall care for their child and when, what Hob needs, what Kian needs, the vast ambiguity of Dream’s own needs—and that instability threatens the bounds of this new, delicate life they have founded together.Dream sees these thoughts eat at Hob, day in and out.So he had offered. To help. In whatever way Hob might accept, with regards to the jury. Perhaps a quick appraisal of the dreamscape of Hob’s mislead prosecution, or a well-placed nightmare in the minds of those attempting to defame him. Anything to soothe the lines of tension in his lover’s shoulders and brow.Hob had simply smiled weakly back each time, replying, “Thanks duck, but I’ve got it under control. You just worry about Kian.”As if dividing their responsibilities was so clinical. As if he could so simply quiet his concerns for Hob’s care.Dream obliged Hob’s request for compartmentalization, up until the previous night, when he insisted that Hob sleep normally, as a human ought, to be fully prepared and well rested for his fight.Hob was so tired, he hardly had the wherewithal to protest.That was twelve hours ago, eight of which Hob slept peacefully. He then woke and breakfasted in his flat, before returning to campus, regrettably early.Hob is likely in his jury now.Dream aches for his lover’s peace, and in his mind’s eye sees himself, painted as though by an old master, cast as the arrow-struck maiden, swooning to be near her lover and clinging to the hem of his garb as he marches triumphantly into battle.Dream wrinkles his nose. It is not a good look for himself: clinging, gasping, parasitic wastrel.He sighs and rouses himself instead; he has sat for long enough with his roiling thoughts. Perhaps he can at least welcome Hob home upon his return.“Matthew,” he whispers intently; his raven will hear his call from anywhere in the Dreaming. He gathers Kian up in his arms and rises, as a black shine clears the window frame and familiar talons clatter upon the table.“`Sup, boss?” Matthew cheerfully responds.“I go to the Waking,” he begins, spinning a star-studded blanket of silk and clouds around his son. “Tell Lucienne to call upon me if needed.”Matthew squawks and bobs his head. “Uh, you sure? I’m pretty certain you’re supposed to be taking it easy right now.”Heaving a put-upon sigh, Dream finally turns to look at him. He firmly reminds his own sour spirit that it is his subjects’ affection that has fed into the recent uptick in unnecessary coddling. “I am well. I am going to Hob’s flat,” he placates.His raven nods. “Okay, `s long as he can look after you.”“I am no invalid, Matthew.”“I never said that, I only meant—”But his next words are lost to the hiss and swirl of sand; Dream’s patience has ended, and he steps through to the Waking with confidence in his direction. These past few years of frequent company have bestowed him with a strong familiarity with Hob’s apartment, lit up by both the warmth of his presence and the memories they have made there together. Dream feels he could pinpoint it from across the universe.The edges of his form stretch and settle, firming into something defined by reality. Kian ripples in his own little change against his chest, and Dream glances down to ensure his safe passage, unnecessary though it is; Kian’s essence takes to the Waking as well as it does to the Dreaming. He does not stir, hardly even flinches against Dream’s chest at the rush of sand against his ruddy cheeks. Instead, he drools happily away onto the collar of Dream’s coat.But with physicality comes a slew of fresh sensations, and Dream is hit suddenly by the stench of unwashed man. The air is thick and musty with it and the tang of kitchen detritus. Even as Dream actively avoids inhaling, it still seeps into his senses like wine spilled over clean tablecloths.Hob’s flat is a wreck.Day-old pots sit in the sink, a smattering of mail has been carelessly slapped across the countertops, jackets drape over the back of the couch. Crumbs and bits prod his bare soles. A battalion of pens and highlighters dangerously edge the lip of the coffee table, intent on escaping the angry splay of papers and folders they have been precariously balanced atop, and smushed pillows lay rumpled across the couch cushions, threateningly close to waylaid mugs of tea.It is… worse than Hob’s usual unified chaos. Stuffy.Dream is struck with the urge to cast open the windows.It is a sign, he thinks, of Hob’s current predicament. Dream reads Hob’s domain like a story. There sits an unscrubbed pan atop the stove, egg residue still flaking the bottom, and he can imagine Hob scarfing down a frantic breakfast before dashing out just hours before, desperate to make the train. In the disorganized academic papers strewn across the table, highlighted with anger and annotated in worry, he sees the stress over the academic review tightening Hob’s jaw and shoulders. From the pile of unwashed clothing, he feels the phantom ache of Hob’s own body as he returns, late and exhausted, stripping off constricting layers before crashing into bed for the sweet release of sleep and fond companionship, only to repeat it all tomorrow.This, Dream thinks. His agitated mind stutters, and stills. This he can fix.He may be unable to bring order back to Hob’s life, but he can bring order back to his apartment.Probably. He thinks he knows where Hob keeps his cleaning supplies, at least.It is somewhere to start.Kian’s newly assembled baby swing still sits beside the couch, and Dream picks his way over discarded clothing until he can pluck it up and move it to somewhere more amenable for the present task. Of course, Kian does not wake when being ferried between the realms, but he will jolt awake when removed from two of his favorite arms in existence. He stares up at Dream dolefully with Hob’s warm eyes, rubbing at sleep-gunk with his tiny fists, as Dream situates him at an elevated level, so he can contentedly watch.To work, then.Various bright bottles await Dream underneath the sink, and if he remembers properly, there will be a hoover and feather duster stowed in the hall closet. Rags are in the drawer to the left of the sink. He casts his eye about the flat again, cataloguing the damage.And he pauses. For all the time that he has spent here, for all the moments he’s watched Hob tidy up, he is unsure where to begin. There is an intended order, he thinks. However, his growing list of tasks to complete seems to dwarf logic.He could ask Matthew, he ponders. His raven so often has input on all things relating to humanity.Then again, Dream has seen his nest. Knows of his human life.He’ll make do well enough on his own.Instead, he closes his eyes and settles into the vastness of the Dreaming, seeking out information like star lights across the universe of his consciousness. His mind’s eye whirls through catalogues of dreamers, faces and shapes shifting rapidly and their stories singing and calling to him, feeding the humming chord of the spheres. Ever Dream feels a swell of respect in this not-space. The breathtaking view of regarding the whole of the mortal unconscious. It is never far from his reach, and to sink into it is a breath of fresh air, for as much as the musty flat still creeps around the corners of his senses. He calls to it now for skill and expertise, and should he dive deep enough into the unconscious of humanity, he will find it.Surprisingly, it doesn’t take him long at all. He’s hit by the stark, sterile odor of synthetic cleaners, hears the shuttering squelch of a spray nozzle, feels an appreciation for rubber gloves that he has never worn. A woman mumbles along to a song in his ear and a child whines loudly at injustices and the grotesque feeling of gunked-up food along a dish. There is knowledge, do not mix bleach with ammonia, and the wonders of sodium bicarbonate, that Dream picks curiously at with astral fingers.Yes, here he will find his answers. His dreamers know. He can always trust his dreamers. He will look to them. *~* He starts by removing his robe and cracking open a window, finally.As it turns out, laundry is first. Laundry will take the longest amount of time, even with the ease of modern technologies, and he can ‘set it and forget it,’ as Priscilla Simmon’s dreaming mind helpfully supplies. He steps briefly into her dreaming memories, all poodle-skirted and pearl-necklaced as she was in her young motherhood, and watches her cut soap slivers off of a bar into the roiling water of her machine. He catches the scent of her perfume as he uncaps Hob’s usual detergent.She sweetly admonishes him to separate his lights and darks as he departs, and he presses a soft thanks back to her.He gathers up the clothes and socks laying forgotten about the apartment, stuffs them into Hob's hamper, and lugs them into the appropriate machine with dispiriting ineptness. He squints at the buttons. Guesses. And the washing machine swishes and rumbles away happily.One down.With the clothing gone off the floor, the flat is now much easier to traverse, and Dream scans it for his next heading: the stench in the kitchen, with all likelihood. But there are countertops and grimy pots and a littered stovetop and crumbs digging into Dream’s feet, all crowding for hierarchy. Solving one task seems to be impeded by the presence of the others. Hm. With a brief huff, Dream looks up to meet Kian’s gaze with his hands on his hips. His baby gurgles back happily.So Dream relaxes into the human unconscious again, buoyed and held. Like a premonition, he faintly feels the stick of soap and the rasp of scrubbers he has never held, hears the whisper of lessons taught parent to child, mother to daughter, passing through the generations. The web of dreamers quivers and connects, cascades. He knows their voices and their names like his own.In the dreamscape of Martha Cummings, neé Jensen, her mother’s voice rings with the careful reminder to ‘set the pots and pans to soak first, or you’ll never get that grease off’ as she bustles about, desperate to impress her new in-laws by hosting successfully for once. Elsewhere Alexandra clatters about desperately under her sink, praying she still has some of that magic powdered solution her mother left for her, and that it will be enough to clean burnt caramel off her stovetop before her landlord arrives for checks in naught but 10 minutes. Marco dreams of sweeping the floors of his studio apartment and chatting amicably with his partner after dinner, finally in person and no longer beholden to late-night long-distance calls and the ache for physical affection.And Nina Zimsky chucks a spare plastic container into a cabinet and slams the door shut, flinching at the sound of numerous mismatched and curry-stained containers clattering against each other and the door. She’ll get to it. Eventually. Dream cracks a smile at her contrariness.As he pulls together these threads and thoughts, the order of it takes shape in his mind. He feels the impressions of check lists and chore boards, and generations whisper to him his plan: see to everyday dishes, and set pots and pans to soak. Clean the stove and countertop, then the remaining dishware. Floors last; work top to bottom.Somewhere in the field of his attentions, an overexcited seven-year-old dreams of sliding across slick, freshly mopped floors in gleeful bliss. Another time, Dream thinks, he might investigate doing battle with the mop.Instead he plugs the sink and runs hot water, testing it with his finger. Hob has left plates askew and knives caked with butter and jam, bowls and cups and all sorts of items balanced precariously against each other in a teetering stack in the sink, and the water clouds as soon as it begins to fill the basin. Dream’s nose quirks against the smell, and he reaches for the cheerily labeled soap, setting to work.The motions are foreign but the concept is not. Granted, his inexperienced fingers slip along the rims of wet dishware as they lose their purchase and much of his scrubbing feels only moderately effectual against the worst of the stains, but he is surprised to find such a level of ease in the work. He sees his progress reflected back at him as he potters about the kitchen, in the buildup of dishes laid to dry, in the darkening of his working water, in the elimination of junk mail and crumbs from forgotten corners. The directness of the cause and effect is peculiarly comforting, and he finds his mind set adrift.He is close to humanity, in this way, in this moment. Something in between an upholding of tradition and a requirement of living, and something Dream has never quite so fully approached before. A communing, perhaps, with his dreamers, with generations of hands worn soft in dishrags and soap, with the sweet warmth and comfort of the impression of the hearth, a grand number of humans, providing, caring, keeping—maintaining the home, the center place of human life.Homemaker, now there’s a thought.Dream is many things—in some ways, all things—but he does not know that he has been this thing so directly before.Yet he feels the swirl of connotation rush in from the hearts of his dreamers at the word; warmth, safety, security. Peace and rest. The quiet light of dawn and the cool embrace of night. And yet others cloud the edges with darker views, of betrayal and fear and sadness. A cascade of sensations rushes by him.And this is a unique pondering he turns over in his mind. That mankind, ever focused on survival, on delaying sweet Death, so often so caught up in wars and fighting and power, should also spend so much focus on this thing too—this founding and building and establishing of a shelter. Of a home. That in the strain against themselves and the elements and the hopelessness and the misery that seek to invade, they still carve out this soft, warm space where, for but a moment, all is quiet.It is a feeble yet earnest attempt to set things right, in a world where nothing ever seems to be fully right.Perhaps, Dream wonders, as his wet fingers trace the edge of the eggy pan, it is in setting small things right, that some things larger, and much more daunting, are set to rights as well. Like a seawall, built up against the tide, layer by layer.And Dream wants that for Hob. To see his lover in peace and comfort. Cradled against the storm. To be home.He wants to be home with Hob. To make a home with Hob.It rings much like the desires he expressed before, as he fled the eddying vortex of his own thoughts for the stability and harshness of the Waking, but now he finds it to feel not so lonely. More of a promise and less of an ache. A hope. A confidence.Dream watches the water swirl down the drain absently, and finds some of his own melancholia caught away with it. *~* Kian was born in the Dreaming, an event that, reported back to Dream posthaste, caused the sky to darken and hail to fall sporadically, intermixed with harrowing bolts of red lightning and sweet, golden drops of ambrosia cast down from the heavens. The earth had quaked as lilies and daffodils ferociously sprung up in the overturned dirt, and the Sea of Dreams had bubbled and boiled so hot it froze. The residents of the Dreaming sought shelter under treetops and roofs, huddled together in worried masses.Dream remembers none of this, though feels like he ought to. He recalls little beyond the grip of Hob’s hands and the soothing security of Lucienne’s gaze, and Matthew’s occasional anxious squawking.He also remembers Kian’s first bright wail, and the break of sunlight that followed.Thankfully, despite his chaotic bursting forth upon the world, Kian is a blissfully easygoing child. In the Dreaming, he feeds not on food, but on Dream’s own essence, much like he did in the womb, which means that he does not regurgitate messy things, and is kept clean and sated, swaddled in the embrace of his father's power. Similarly, in the Waking he is just like any other human child—he fusses for food and is given human-made formula, one Hob spent several determined evenings closely researching. At times he may spit up a glob of whitish goo or suffer bouts of speckled baby acne, but for the most part, Kian is as content in the Waking as he is at any other time.Even if parenting the Waking is sometimes a larger oddity than Dream dare admit.Kian fusses now, as Dream is about to turn to tidying Hob’s bedroom, gurgling and starting to pitch his cries higher and higher, so Dream instead sets to mixing and heating Hob’s meticulously chosen formula in its specialty machine.He hums with a bit of pleasure at the sight of the clean kitchen around him as well. A pleasant space once more.By contrast, the living room is still scattered with loose papers and forgotten mugs, but Dream is able to find a spare bit of couch to which he can ferry Kian. As Dream props him against his chest, he wriggles and whines in his arms, but he latches to the bottle quickly and scratches loosely against the sides with flexing fingers. His tiny nails will need clipping soon, Dream softly notes.Feeding is usually Hob’s duty, in the Waking. He relishes the time spent cooing into his son’s unfocused eyes as he suckles vigorously, and whispering to him sweet promises and stories. Dream will happily pay the prices that come with expanded time in the Waking, if only to see Hob in such joy.He remembers with fondness how much his lover had delighted when they tested Kian’s first exposure to the Waking, only to find he took to it like a fish to water. Some of Dream’s own creations have not taken to it as well, and he was pleased, but Hob was ecstatic, his gentle but excited fingers brushing over Kian’s silky head and his crinkled eyes peering at Dream with adoration. He had begun that day to plan a family outing to his upcoming, hotly contested football match, health and stress willing. And that night, he dreamed of winning a successful game with his mates, only to come back to bestow on Dream a triumphant kiss and to swirl away his baby, hoisted into the air as the symbol of triumph among the throng of chanting and hollering sweaty men. Dream had sat in the bleachers upon a plush blanket with the other spouses and long-sufferers, dappled with the blur of the inattention of Hob’s dreaming mind, and smiled contently. *~* Fed and burped, Kian now travels with Dream as he continues in his mission, swaddled to his chest in a papoose spun of dreamfiber. With a short pause to set the various couches and blankets to rights in the living room (and regretting failing to gather up the tea mugs when he first cleaned the kitchen), he sets off to finish his appointed task in the bedroom.Luckily, Dream already knows where Hob keeps his fresh sheets. And has assisted (and at times distracted) in changing them. And in wrecking them again.As such, Hob’s bedroom proves an easy task to sort. There are some loose socks to be gathered and blankets to be folded, but little that he is not already familiar with. Dream organizes Hob’s lotions and other bedsides amenities, and his fingers brush over the edges of a framed photograph, of him and Hob, sitting under the trees near the pitch together. Hob’s head cants onto Dreams bony shoulder, sweating through his football uniform and his cheeks flushed with exertion, and Dream’s own ghost of a smile is caught in the candid moment of intimacy.Dream knows a reproduction of Eleanor’s form sits with equal pride on the mantle of Hob’s home.He does not find it in himself to feel jealousy, not over Hob. Each time the thought of Eleanor Gadlen has crossed his mind, no anger has risen in its wake. Instead, he finds himself grateful that Hob has known such love, and has been adored and valued for all that he is.Dream bends to grab another loose sock, and Kian grunts against his chest.Hob’s life has been a wealth of stories, in scales both large and small, and Dream cannot deny the attraction of it. Even still, over meals or strolling along together, Hob will uncover another of his rich stories that he has yet to share with Dream, and, Prince of Stories that he is, Dream never fails to find himself caught up in those moments, in the swell of his voice and the vivacity of his cadence. The way Hob reverently speaks of Eleanor nearly makes Dream want to love her as well.He wishes to be someone that Hob will speak so lovingly.Perhaps he already is, or at least in Hob’s eyes.Kian’s tiny legs kick against his chest, and Dream wonders how Hob speaks of him to his colleagues. Ever Hob has expertly lied and woven tales to excuse the oddities of his life, and doubtlessly Dream has become one of his oddest facets of all. How then does he describe their life together to his associates? What stories does he spin of their romance to spark the imaginations of his students?Dream so loves to play with his stories, and Hob meets him there blow for blow. Their roles are fluid and invigorating; at times one may play the trusted confidant, agreeable and patient, and at others the terrific knight swooping to avenge the dignity of their lover. Seductress; villain; champion; at each moment they contain multitudes of possibilities, and Dream’s heart sings in smug pleasure. The world around them moves blind to the enormity of the tales they spin to one another, back and forth. Dream is heedless of the Waking’s perspective in any matter, but the coy thought does parse his mind: which story does Hob let them believe to be the truth?Again, the view of himself, cast as the wastrel maiden gasping for the arms of her lover comes to mind, and his nose scrunches at it once more.And at the smell. Emanating from his chest. Kian has gone contentedly still.And there is one vital fact that Dream has forgotten. In the Waking, Kian eats, which therefore means that, in the Waking, Kian… poops. Like lightning and thunder and destruction. Suddenly and without warning.Dream finally notices the damp patch sticking his shirt to his chest, right up against Kian’s bum.And Kian sighs comfortably. *~* It’s not till Hob’s already locked the door behind him and shunted his shoes with an exhausted groan that he notices that the lights in his flat are already on, and the smell of something amazing is starting to waft in from the kitchen. He turns the corner, and the last 9 hours of painstaking reviews and justification and fighting seems to evaporate from his shoulders.Dream is there. His husband, holding their baby, wearing a tightly cinched apron and stirring a pot of Hob’s leftover soup on the stovetop. It’s domestic, and warm, and loving, and everything that Hob in this moment wants and his heart sings. He starts to step forward, a smile creeping across his face, when he begins to notice that the countertop is bare of the chaos Hob had left this morning and—The flat is sparkling. Clean. The flat is. Dream cleaned his flat. Hob's mind attempts to construct that image and comes up with a net error. He drops his messenger bag at his feet.Dreams eyes him, up and down and elegant and regal, and Hob can’t not rush over to embrace him. He stuffs his nose in Dream’s hair and cups a cautious hand around Kian’s skull, and just breathes. There’s the smell of warm food and new baby and ozone and love and Hob melts into it.He feels like homesickness cured.Dream’s thin fingers thread through his hair, and a soft kiss lands on his temple. Hob sighs into his husband’s shoulder, letting his tension bleed out from him. “You cleaned up?”“Yes. Since you would not permit me to aid you in other ways."Bastard. “You didn’t need to do that,” Hob half-heartedly whines. “You’re supposed to be resting with the baby. Convalescence, or whatever they call it now. On leave.”“I am well,” Dream all but whispers back, voice seeping with promise and assurance. “And Lucienne has my duties in the Dreaming well in hand. I couldn’t exactly leave my spouse to suffer.” Hob holds him all the tighter for it, and tucks a little kiss against Kian’s head as he wiggles and kicks against the squeeze. He feels suspended, drifting in the quiet bubble that Dream has spun for them here, secluded from the brash incursions of reality.All things considered, he probably shouldn’t be reacting like this, he tells himself. This too shall pass, and all that. But it doesn't exactly make it any easier, can't relieve the insistent reminders that sometimes life just sucks and you have to deal with it.But to see Dream, in this version of domestic bliss—It reminds him he doesn't have to do it alone.If he could cork this feeling in a bottle and sell it, he would be the richest man to walk the earth.Then again, with all this already at his fingertips, he thinks, perhaps he already is.“Proud of you,” he says into Dream’s collarbone, and Dream clutches him back more fiercely.“Beloved,” Dream breathes along the line of his forehead.And there they stay, as Hob struggles to regain control of his own wobbly chin and Kian burbles between them. Hob didn’t want to be crying about this whole thing, but here he is, wetting Dream’s shirt because he just really needed someone to come take care of him today.This is new, from Dream. Hob could get used to this.Once his throat releases enough that he can let out more than a croak, Hob finally leans back and sniffs a little. He resolutely does not look into Dream’s eyes because that will only start the waterworks all over again, and he’d really like to move on, thanks.“Do you have any other duties today?” Dream murmurs, just louder than the pot merrily bubbling on the stove.“No.” Well, the jury’s not over, probably not till next Tuesday, but Hob’s said his piece and there’s little more he’ll be able to do but stress and wheedle his supervisor for updates. Still, something in him nags to do something to try to fix it. What that would be, his inner monologue helpfully isn’t extrapolating.“Good,” Dream states. “Then take our child,” and Kian is passed over to Hob’s happily waiting arms, “and sit on the divan. I will bring you food, and we shall watch something together while I see to you.”“Mmm, see to me?” Hob can’t resist wiggling his eyebrows salaciously, even with tears just held back, and Dream silences him with a rolled eye and a chaste kiss.Dream moves past and gracefully picks up his messenger bag, traipsing off into the home office, and again Hob is punched in the gut by the thought that Dream is picking up after him, putting his stuff away. He tucks his nose against Kian’s velvet head until his throat unclenches enough to call out, “While you’re in there, mind plugging in my laptop? It’s in my bag.”He hears an affirmative response back too, and his tears flow. Is this what they are now? Is this the kind of couple they get to be? Not just the in-and-out, two people with busy lives making time, lovingly explosive thing they used to be when they were dating, but. Real. Settled down. Committed. Him and Dream of the Endless: a dense bloke living far longer than proper and an ancient eldritch force somewhere in between a god and a God. Having made a home together. Founded a family together. Taking care of one another.It’s trembling and new and so, so odd, and Hob doesn’t know if he’s ever loved anything more.Homesickness cured indeed.Hob drifts over to the couch, intent on getting enough baby cuddles to make up for the unending slog of rubrics, meetings, and passive aggressive emails of the day. Draped over his chest, Kian happily nuzzles into his stubble and wraps his tiny fingers around Hob’s thumb. His pink footie pajamas, light and airy for the season, are dotted with half moons and stars—a gift from one of his aunts, Hob can’t remember which.Dream wanders back into the kitchen, and Hob moans over to him, “Why do babies always smell so good?”“You are lucky you were not here an hour ago,” his husband dryly calls back. “He smelled quite different then.”“Aww,” Hob coos, hoisting Kian above his face, “did you have a blowout for Daddy?”Dream appears in the edge of his vision like an incongruous specter, standing behind the couch with a cheery, ceramic bowl in hand and a dark, pinched expression across his face. “Hob, he only defecates in the Waking. I do not comprehend why.”“Sorry, love,” Hob placates. He folds up his legs and props up Kian against a knee before accepting the bowl of leftover soup from over his head. “`S probably because he only eats physical food here. What goes in must come out, eventually.”Dream only hums, but comes around to sit on the opposite end of the couch with his feet tucked up under him as Hob starts eating his dinner. He artfully leans over the back cushion, arm folded under his head, and gazes at Hob with a painter’s romantic eye. Hob might just be projecting his own personal relief, but he seems a bit more settled now, not as buzzy as when Hob had left the Dreaming palace this morning. Convalescence must be driving him mad, poor, tight-wound thing that he is. It’s good he’s out and about and independent today, then.Hob smiles at him over his bowl. Dream sends him a luxurious smile back. *~* Hob’s fed, Kian’s fed again (one of Hob’s favorite activities) and now he indulges in another— lounging across Dream’s body, chest to chest on the couch as he watches mindless telly. His back will certainly protest once he tries to move from that position, so he’ll milk it as long as he can. He sighs and mushes his face into Dream’s chest as thin fingers run through his hair again, smoothing out knots and scratching his scalp. Kian rests as a warm weight across his back, buoying lightly up and down with each of Hob’s breaths.During the commercials, Hob plants his chin on Dream’s sternum and just looks at him, love-struck fool that he is. Sometimes he even earns a kiss for his efforts.“Your day was okay today?” he asks as silky-coated dogs bound across the screen in slow motion, advertising pet food.Dream looks down at him, all deep eyes and vastness, and draws a petal-soft thumb across his cheekbone. “It got better,” he whispers back. “Hob, I…” he trails off, eyes unfocused, and Hob presses a kiss to his breastbone to mollify him, until he finds himself again. “I have been thinking. About. How I can care for you. That I may not always recognize the things you need.”Dream’s eyes cease floating down Hob’s hairline and lock directly onto his. “Please, if something should come up that would. Ease your suffering. Any request you might make of me. I would grant it.” He stutters in a breath, and eases his seriousness. “I do not mean now but… if you should think of something I could provide. Please tell me. As I may not. See it on my own.”Hob’s first impulse is to deny that he needs anything, that everything is fine as it is. But Dream’s conscientious nagging throughout the week prior, desperate to find something, anything he could do to help Hob through the jury still hangs about his ears and softens him. It’s emblematic, he thinks of Dream’s deeper-seated fears, the ones he struggles to put into real words, and that Hob is still chipping away yet. He doesn’t yet have a full grasp of them, but he’ll do what he can for now.He exhales heavily onto Dream’s chest. “You’re a real catch, you know that?”Dream cocks his head ponderously. “I don’t believe I’ve been told that before.”“Well, it’s true,” Hob petulantly declares back, smacking kisses loudly across what skin is in reach.“My previous attachments might disagree with you.”“Then maybe you’ve become quite a catch. You’ve grown.” All at once, a bright spark lights Hob’s eyes, and he grins toothily up at Dream, “You’ve changed.”And, delight of all delights, Dream rises to the bait, letting the joke run its course. “No,” he recites back, demurely turning his head, and “Yes!” Hob exclaims back, deciding to bite at his chest through his shirt until he caves and agrees. Out the corner of his eye, Hob catches the curl of Dream’s lip with deep satisfaction.Until Kian lets out a choking burp, and they both freeze. Dream extends a hand to firmly pat on their baby’s back, as Hob feels a suspicious wetness spread across his spine. “Ew, it’s warm!,” he whines, “did he just spit up on me?”His husband only chuckles back, lifting Kian deftly from Hob’s back and wiping at his yawning mouth with a burp rag summoned from the ether. Hob, for his part, levers himself up on his knees, heaving with the protestations of his back stretched too awkwardly for too long, and pulls his shirt off to assess the damage. Little white chunks, smack dab in the middle. He’ll deal with it tomorrow, he decides, and chucks it unceremoniously towards the kitchen.“It’ll stain,” Dream remarks.“I’ll wear a jumper with it, I usually do,” Hob says back, flipping over onto his back and resting against Dream again. He makes grabby hands at Dream until his baby is again draped across his chest, burbling contentedly now that his indigestion is gone. “Did you spit up on Papa? That is not very nice, Kian,” he coos, sneaking another swift kiss. “That’s okay, baby, better out than in.”Dream hums behind him, and plants his cheek against Hob's hair. "Better out than in, indeed," he rumbles.