Chapter Text
Hob Gadling would come. He has to come.
It’s the 7th of June 1989, and Dream arrived at the White Horse early this time.
Lucienne had practically hounded him out of the Dreaming — she was clearly at the end of her tether, what with him pacing back and forth through the library. Jessamy had, to her credit, done her best to ease his anxious tensions; her unerring loyalty rewarded by the smattering of poppy seeds he sometimes allowed her to find in the wild tousles of his hair.
With only another twenty minutes to spare before their meeting, Dream sank into one of the well-worn chairs, into the comforts of their tavern. Yet he could not help to feel a little disappointed — the White Horse had never been a feast to the eyes, but now, with the warm, candlelit glow having been replaced by glaring fluorescent lights, it looked positively mundane. There were decidedly fewer patrons than in the past, and far more technology. He grasped for the terminology: a slot machine, a cigarette vending machine, a juke-box.
The old man behind the bar gave him an inquiring look, but Dream only shook his head. “I will await my friend.”
For a moment, he considered whether he should order their drinks, as a gesture of goodwill — so that when Hob walked in, he will see the now-so-familiar scene and know that it is a peace offering. So that they do not have to voice the pain aloud, ever again. But, in the end, he decided to stick to their routine. Hob always insisted on ordering for them, and then delved into a long-winded story about why this particular drink was so representative of the past century. Dream rarely finished his physical drink, but he always found himself savouring the story.
Last time they met, Hob had been greedy in more ways than one: beginning with some champagne, while they waited for the sugar to melt down into their crystal glasses of absinthe.“You know, the European big wine producers are really doing their best to portray absinthe as some kind of fin-de-siècle poison, that will induce insanity or alcoholic furor —, one French alienist even made up a special name for it, absinthomanie. But it’s all malarkey, really — there isn’t enough wormwood in it to actually be hallucinogenic — trust me, I have tried it all. But since the herbs needed to make real absinthe are quite rare and expensive, the cheap stuff tends to cut a lot of corners. For example, mixing in a little bit of Scheele's Green or Paris Green paint pigments to get the green colour just right. Turns out, that contains a lot of arsenic, which is quite damaging to human cerebral faculties — You know, the Mad Hatter in Alice in Wonderland? Anyway, this is the good stuff.”
Dream had not, in fact, had time to taste “the good stuff” before The Affront of 1889 occurred. But a glance at the bottles behind the counter indicated that absinthe was no longer on the menu, and Dream would be damned if he showed his hand by plucking a silver absinthe fountain out of the dream of some Victorianist professor. Not before he had a chance to actually introduce himself. Not before he had a chance to explain. Instead, he ordered a pint of something to keep his fingers from fiddling, and he waited.
Hob would come. He had to come.
An hour had passed, before Dream was forced to acknowledge that Hob was now officially running late.
Feeling oddly self-conscious, Dream tried to smooth down some of the disorderly excesses of his hair; the spiky tendrils like jagged obsidian shards. But Lucienne had assured him that he would blend in. More than usual, in fact, because of his natural “goth” look. He failed to see what he had in common with the Germanic nomads who had brought about the downfall of the Roman Empire, but he assumed it was a compliment.
It had taken him an inordinate amount of time to choose his garb for their meeting, this time. There were so many options, now, and he found himself enjoying the fashion of this era: there seemed to be less concern over showing skin, now. For the first time, he could probably have gotten away with wearing one of the more revealing robes he favoured in his own realm. Instead, he finally settled on a black ensemble of skin-tight jeans, a tank-top, a slim leather jacket, combat boots and (after another consultation with Lucienne) onyx nail-polish and a more smudged eyeliner. The final touch was the velvet choker, holding his ruby. It was, frankly, a quite rakish outfit — a part of him had wanted to shock Hob, a little. To see his pupils widen, as he gazed appreciatively at whatever Dream had chosen to wear. It was all part of the experience that he found so interesting, Dream had told himself.
But now, Dream only saw the crude stares of other patrons refracted through his empty pint glass, and he felt oddly naked and exposed; choking on oxygen and the incessant friction from everything in this blasted realm.
He had not been back in the waking world since 1914; the decades that followed had forced him to work overtime to sooth the harrowing pains of the dreamers. As for the nightmares — the Great Wars had confirmed every cruelty he believed humanity to be capable of. And they were certainly perfectly capable of creating their own waking nightmares; they did not need his. Yet the lingering power imbalance between the dreams and nightmares of his realm left him wary. His shoulders sagged; he suddenly felt so overworked, so tired. He felt as if he looked gaunter than usual, more… frail.
Dream closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the sultry lyrics of the song playing in the background.
//Feel my blood enraged
It's just the fear of loosing you
Don't you know my name? Well, you've been so long//
Hob was now two hours late.
The last time Hob was this late, he was detained — by poverty, if nothing else. But what if something worse had happened? But what if he had not heeded his warning: you can still get hurt or captured.
Dream knew he was spiralling, but he could not stop. Had Hob not bothered to come, because he did not expect Dream to show up? Had Hob so little faith in him? Or did he simply want to be cruel?
Dream waited exactly three hours, crushing each petal of the complementary salt and vinegar crisps into powder between his cramping fingers, before he acknowledged what has happened. First, the immediate reality that Hob officially stood him up. Then, a much, much older realization — that the humiliating heat death in the pit of his stomach was that of rejection and regret and loss. Something mortals would surely reduce to something so pathetically diminutive as heartbreak.
The sensory impressions suddenly felt overwhelming — the obnoxious music, the cloying cigarette smoke, and the blatant giddiness of the young lovers practically devouring one another in a corner booth. Dream rose to flee the scene of his humiliation — rising too abruptly, apparently, judging by the startled jump of the barkeeper.
“Did your friend not appear?”
Dream stared in abject silence — what was he meant to respond to such an inane observation?
“No, clearly not.”
He was certainly not going to admit to something as infuriatingly embarrassing as having been stood up by his human companion; as having missed his chance to acknowledge that companionship out loud.
Yet he wavered, and hated how desperate he sounded when he asked the bartender:
“Is there another floor above us? A private room, perhaps?”
What are you hoping to find? Someone eager to come to your defence? A soft bed, a warm human body, a tender touch, a forgiving mood?
The barkeep shook his head so faintly, Dream nearly missed it; wished that he had missed it.
”Afraid not, just an office and some storage rooms. Did your — ”
Evidently Dream was content with rubbing more salt into his own wounds, for he quickly interrupted the man:
“May I inquire of the name of the owner? I have no means of contacting my friend, but we always meet here…”
Did you truly think Hob Gadling would have bought and preserved your little meeting place — built you a temple — after how you left things last time?
The barkeep sighed, scratching his head in fornlorn frustration. “It’s a proper shame, really. The owner just died, and without blinking an eye, his lay-about son decided to sell off the property to some bloody real-estate toffs. One of the oldest pubs in London, and they’re gonna knock it down and turn it into flats! Can you believe it?”
Dream could not, in fact, believe it. Hob would not have left their tavern to crumble, would he? Had he so little faith in him?
You left him, standing in the rain alone, bravely baring his heart into disdainful darkness. Can you really blame him?
The barkeep’s pitying stare followed him as he stomped out of the bar.
He cannot return to the dreaming like this. They will all know. He will not be able to hide the tempestuous torrent roaring within him; he cannot stand to hear the crack of thunder putting his pain on naked display. To see the gentle worry in Lucienne’s eyes. To hear Merv cracking jokes about putting up a storm glass weather predictor, to keep track of his mercurial moods.
Instead, he wandered aimlessly, eventually finding himself on a park bench, feeding pigeons. Exactly where he had found the baguette that he was petulantly ripping to shreds — well, that was anyone’s guess. He tried to channel the sprawling tendrils of anger into glowering at the pigeons; the stupid, plump pigeons looking up so hopefully at him. Looking so full of life that he wanted them to choke on the bread — to pluck each feather from them like bloodied petals — to hear frail wings break.
Instead, he heard the flutter of wings that signals the arrival of his sister. He childishly continued to hide under his fringe; he did not need to look up to know that Death was standing in front of him, likely a vision of sympathetic concern.
“You do that too much, you know what you get?”
“Obese fowl.”
Death smirked. “Close enough. Did you really watch Mary Poppins?”
“No.”
“You should. So, what’s the matter? Why the brooding pout?”
A sudden contrarian urge had Dream forcing his pursed lips into a stale replica of a smile. Judging by Death’s bemused look, the resulting grin was anything but amiable — all sharp incisors and animal hostility.
He bristled: “What do you mean?”
“I can tell something is wrong. I mean, look at you — Sitting here moping, pigeon-feeding. It’s not like you.”
He hissed at her: “To be nurturing? Kind? Caring about others? No, perhaps not.”
Death’s face softened into something that was certainly beneath them both. Yet, even now, he could not turn his sister away. She was perhaps one of the few beings still willing to tolerate him.
“Yes, something is obviously the matter.”
She plopped down next to him with a sigh, closing her eyes and basking in the sun while she patiently waited for him to expand further.
His face contorted in a petulant frown, and it took him another eternity to find the words; twisting and turning them, lining them up like doomed soldiers about to storm into an ambush.
“Hob Gadling did not show up to our meeting.”
He was not sure what reaction he had expected from her. But it certainly was not an exasperated chuckle.
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I just saw him.”
He saw her lips moving, saying something else, but he could not hear her — every sound drowned out by a deafening, ringing noise.
No. Please.
The fear that shot through him was so physical, so audible, that it seemed to rattle his ribcage.
Hob no longer wished to live. His sister had rescinded her gift. He was too late.
His sister must have said something, because her hand was now on his arm, squeezing it gently.
“He’s alive, brother. I asked him, and he still wants to live. You have my word that, as long as he still wants to live, I will not take him.”
“Then, why? Why did he not come? Is he hurt? Has he been captured?”
She shook her head, now visibly annoyed.
“Yes, because those are the only two options for why Hob Gadling would not show up to your little date. After the way you have treated him, can you really blame him?”
Her words were not meant to be cruel. That was perhaps why they burned him like acid.
She sighed, and gingerly tucked a particularly unruly strand of his hair behind his ear; a gesture clearly intended to appease the oncoming tantrum.
Dream welcomed the surge of cleansing anger rising within him, as if branded into muscle memory; but even that simply flickered for a few impotent moments, before dying out. Now, there was nothing left but the withering emptiness nestled behind his ribs, hollowing him out from the inside.
His mind still reeling from his sister’s revelation — how had they made contact? When? — the matter remained that Death had recently seen Hob. That meant that Hob now knew the true source of his immortality, and the utter pointlessness in Dream being the one to meet him every century; in Dream being the one to ask him The Question.
He must have known what that meant.
What it meant to Dream.
Yet Hob still stood him up.
Dream had not thought that he would ever lose Hob. Had not thought of Hob as his to lose. And now he had — irrevocably lost him.
The pigeon closest to him gazed up at him with a look of utter betrayal when, instead of the promised bread crumb, a decidedly un-regal tear splattered across its head.
Death pointedly moved over, kneeling in front of him in order to catch his gaze, before throwing her hands up in exasperation.
“Oh, my dear little brother — my sweet, pig-headed, psychopompous numpty. How long are you going to keep this up? What do you believe that you have achieved by denying him — by denying yourself — what you both know to be true?”
Dream tried to defend himself, as acrid words and doomed narratives burned in his throat.
“I fear that Desire—“
“Nope, uh-uh, you are not blaming them for this. Trust me when I say that this perennial dance of yours is somehow managing to be simultanously too depressing for Desire and too horny for Despair to even go near it, and the rest of us are just fed up at this point.”
Was this not what he wanted? For Hob’s brandishing gaze to wane, to wander on to more deserving, rational objects for his affection? For Hob’s persistent, maddening patience to finally ebb out?
“Haven’t you both suffered enough? Why can’t you allow yourself to be happy?”
Because this was the only way he knew how to love. Because if he accepted the truth, that their love was inevitable, then so was their ruin. Because he truly wished to keep this one.
“The Fates…”
“Fuck the Fates.”
That shocked him enough to look up. He had not seen his sister this angry in a long time.
“You know the rules. Hob Gadling is human and mortal-born. Any union between us would prove fatal.”
“Immortality did not manage to save your marriage to Calliope. Being non-human did not help Alianora keep your attentions. And Hob Gadling has not been mortal for 600 years. Try again.”
“I cannot let what happened to Nada —“
The pointed finger of Death poked him sharply in his chest, interrupting him:
“No, you happened to Nada. You are the one still keeping her in hell. Not the Fates, not the universe, not any of our meddling siblings— just you and your stupid, stupid pride. You stubbornly cling to these rules — these ancient guidelines, mind you — because it is easier to blame your failed relationships on some cosmic faux-pas than to accept that you have single-handedly ruined them all by yourself.”
They had fought over Nada during their last family dinner, too. He had refused to hear her out, then, and it was only his obvious exhaustion that had led her to eventually drop the subject, at least for the time being. Now, the long overdue onslaught of hard truths ripped and slashed over his spine. He could try to deny it, again, but what was the point? It was the truth — his love was an oil spill, suffocating all wildlife, and he would be damned if he took that away from Hob.
“But you haven’t told him about that love, have you?”
Dream looked up in confusion. “How…?”
“Oh, you know, probably because you are the anthropomorphic personification of la petite mort right now, and you therefore fall under my realm. Or maybe — just maybe! — I know and love my little brother enough to know when he is tormenting himself with only barely unjustified self-hatred.”
Dream did not know when he had began to tremble, but suddenly his sister’s arms were around him, and he could no longer fend off the embrace. They sat like this a few moments, before he felt a faint kiss nuzzling into his hair. The indignity.
“Look, it seems that you don’t even need to give in to your wants, in order to hurt him. You tried to save him, but you just made it worse. So why fight it?”
Why, indeed? The exhaustion coursed through his bones; he was so, so tired. He just wanted to leave, to rest, to let his mind grow silent. To be held.
Dream of the Endless succumbed, capitulated, crumbled.
“I cannot allow myself this failure.”
“Are you truly so convinced that loving your best friend would end in inevitable tragedy, that you would willingly condemn you both to the pyrrhic victory of eternal loneliness?”
She kissed his forehead, and rose to her feet.
“Dare to fail, little brother. Sometimes when you fail, you fly.”
“Sister.”
He called out after her, groaning at the pathetically pleading tone in his voice.
She glanced back at him, a knowing smile on her face; something uncomfortably close to relief.
“How… How do I fix this?”
He was rewarded with a loud cackle and a wide grin.
“Do I really need to do everything for you? You are the Prince of Stories, I’m sure you can figure out a grand romantic gesture on your own. Although I have heard that, in this day and age, emotionally incompetent men can very successfully woo their paramours just by standing outside their window with a boombox.”
Dream assumed that this was another cultural reference that went above his head, and grasped for the context in a few dreaming minds. The result was… surprisingly appropriate.
Hm. His sister’s advice had clearly been made in jest, intended to gently mock him. Another challenge, then.
***
In the film that Death had referenced, the protagonist waited outside his paramour’s home, tormenting her with underwhelming music until she yielded. Looking up at Hob Gadling's window — a practically giddy Jessamy having reassured him several times that Hob Gadling was, in fact, currently at home — Dream settles for shouting his own names. An offering freely given.
"Morpheus. Oneiros. Kai’ckul. L’Zoril. Sandman. Prince of Stories. Shaper of Forms. Dream of the Endless.”
He repeated his chant of names and titles three times, without an answer. He could help but bristle at the insolence of having to wait for him like some blushing servant outside his lord’s bedroom. Surely, Hob could hear him? How dare he ignore him?
//Still this pulsing night
A plague I call a heartbeat Just be still with me//
He dared.
”My family, my loved ones, call me Dream. Just… Just Dream.”
Only then, finally, Hob opened the window, and peered down at the anthropomorphic mess calling for him. He was even more beautiful than Dream remembered — an illuminated manuscript, an amber vision of auburn waves and pained anger, gilded by the last rays of the evening sun. Hob opened and closed his lips, uncharacteristically speechless, and Dream found himself awkwardly holding his breath in hopeful anticipation. Soon, Hob would smile at him, and all would be forgiven.
“What do you want?”
Dream flinched at the unfamiliar tone in Hob’s voice: his usual timbre, warm and inviting like rich soil, now sounded like scorched, salted earths.
Dream had not prepared for this. He had spent another hour on the park bench, nearly shuffling the not-unwilling pigeons into a gluten-induced coma, rehearsing his speech without being able to settle on what he wanted to say. He was, as his sister would lovingly have put it, winging it.
“You are late. I thought it was impolite to keep friends waiting?”
His improvised attempt at a jest was not met in kind.
“We’re not friends. We’re not… anything. You’ve made that perfectly clear.”
Dream’s mouth filled with the taste of copper, not realizing that he had chewed his bottom lip raw.
His courage faltered for a moment, falling back on old excuses: “They are closing The White Horse. We need to find a new place to meet.”
“I’m sure you can find another human to experiment with. There’s a poetry slam around the corner from here — you could pick any of those bright young things to wander off with.”
“Hob Gadling. I know I have not answered your questions in the past, but I will try to be more…forthcoming. And I am sure you have some choice words for me.”
Hob scoffed. “Yeah, right. Sure. How can I tell you the truth when even acknowledging our friendship was enough to send you flying?”
Dream just stared at him, silently pleading Hob for mercy.
"I had assumed that, by now, you understood that your affections were not one-sided."
Hob’s mouth fell open, looking at him like he had indecently propositioned the moon. Yet the disdainful glint in his voice remained steadfast.
"You did, did you? Yet you did not feel it necessary to divulge your name until two minutes ago? Or, you know, whatever this... dream lord business even means?"
"Hob."
Dream could feel the artificial blue of his eyes fracture; his obscene eyeliner bleeding kohl-sooted cracks into the sapphire, so close to shattering over the abyssal black of his true form. His eyes bloodshot with stellar remnants. He could feel the undignified tears well up again, but resisted the urge to suppress them. Instead, he leaned into the sting. He looked up, and revealed his star-stained hand.
“Hob. Please.”
Hob gazed down into the abyss, and the abyss stared pleadingly back at him.
The moment crackled between them for what felt like hours, before Hob let out a shuddering exhale, tinting even his frustrated vexation with a tender, golden glow.
“Fine. Fine. Come up, love.”
Dream could not help the sheepishly hopeful smile invading his face — a grin that was so wide that it felt like his skin would split open; so eager to offer up this reverent rawness.
“Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized.”
“So help me god, dearest Dream, if you are citing Romeo and Juliet as a way to make me take my own life, you are succeeding.”
“Peace, Hob. I am… not good at this.”
“Oh, no disagreements there. Wait there, I'll buzz you in.”