Chapter Text
Hob was known for the fact that any student could come to him almost any day and ask for help. He never refused kids if he could do something for them, he was open and friendly, and it is very difficult to piss him off. He didn't give indulgences to truants, but he believed that everyone deserves a second chance. If they didn't take advantage of this chance, well, there is no third way, that is their problem now. Hob tried to remember his students by name and face, was one of the few who used the correct pronouns and apologized if he made a mistake. Students loved him, many colleagues too, although there were those who believed that he gave too much freedom to his students. In response to their claims, Hob always said that university students are already old enough young people to decide for themselves what is important to them, and he saw no point in forcing those who are not at all interested in learning history.
The Department of Medieval History has greatly increased its staff over the past few years. There were more professors, and in order not to lose his salary, Hob volunteered to teach another new discipline. He spent about a year on additional courses, and, finally, he was able to open an art history course, for which, surprisingly, students immediately began to enroll. Hob even liked this alignment: he increasingly began to feel that he needed a change of activity, otherwise he would completely burn out for teaching. He loves history and he loves children, no doubt, but the same routine threatened to extinguish the bright fire in his chest, so the opening of a new course breathed life into him anew.
The university Hob worked at had many different humanitarian orientations. Future historians, linguists, journalists studied here, and five years ago the department of musical and instrumental art was opened. This was unusual, given that previously no prerequisites for the development of the cultural sphere of education were shown, but the university developed and rapidly changed its programs, replacing less demanded ones with new directions. In the first year of all faculties there was always a course in the Medieval History of England, most often as an introductory discipline. Hob didn't demand much from students who shouldn't study history in the future, and therefore didn't remember first-years well. However, some, for various reasons, were still fixed in his memory.
Like, for example, one young man who was sitting on the first desk of the lecture hall. It was the first lecture in the history of art, not only in this academic year, but in general at the university. Hob was very nervous, although he kept his composure well. He knew the material perfectly, he had a rather interesting and colorful presentation, and he never doubted his oratory skills at all. But the first lesson is always exciting, and Hob tried to catch his eye at least for something to stop nervously jerking his knee, half-sitting on the edge of the table. Hob noticed a young man whom he had taught last year in an introductory course. He didn't show initiative, didn't always complete tasks, and it was easy to read from his appearance that history was a very boring subject for him. Hob didn't blame him, realizing that he was studying at the faculty of a different direction, so he did not find fault with him and allowed him to pass the exam for a decent grade. But that was not what he remembered, no, there were hundreds of such students in each stream. The young man always kept his neck closed. This didn't catch the eye until the end of the previous year, when the air temperature in the street rose and rose, and he didn't bare his neck even once. Hob wasn't in the habit of prying into other people's business, especially student affairs, but he was still quite a curious person. Once the course was over, Hob didn't think of the student again, but now his curiosity was intensified as the young man wore a turquoise turtleneck with a high neck.
“Good morning!” Hob began, jumping off the table. “My name is Robert Gadling, but you can call me Professor G. I may have taught many of you last year in an introductory course in the history of Medieval England, but you don't remember me and I don't remember you, so let's get to know each other again. This is a new course that I will try to make as interesting as possible for you and me. If the classes seem boring to you, feel free to tell me about it. I will do my best to keep your attention.”
Hob smiled and looked around the room, but his eyes rested on the same young man. As far as Hob could tell from last year, he looked more focused this time around. Hob wrote his name, phone number, email, and his office number on the board, along with the floor it was on, encouraging students to come to him during office hours with any questions.
The lecture went exactly as Hob had planned. He talked about what is included in the course, how he will evaluate homework assignments, it possible amount, the future exam and other introductory moments, since the first lecture was always shorter than all the others and played the role of only an introduction to the course. Hob was even proud of himself when he noticed that everyone was listening to him carefully. After the bell rang, the audience quickly began to empty, and only the prefects approached Hob to give him their lists of their classes. Among them was the same young man.
“Looks like I taught your class last year, right?” Hob asked him, taking the list with a smile.
“Right.”
“Can you remind me your name? I need to mark the prefect on the list.”.
“Orpheus. Orpheus Endless.”
“Orpheus, right. How could I forget such a rare name?” Hob smiled at the student again and circled his name. “I hope this course will be more interesting for you than the previous one.”
“It will. I'm not fond of the Middle Ages history, but it seems much more interesting to study the development of art and culture, and you are a good lecturer.”
“Glad to hear it. I'll see you at seminary, Mr. Endless.” Orpheus nodded and walked towards the exit. Hob began to gather his things, but suddenly remembered that he had not asked something important and turned around before the youth left. “Wait, wait, I didn’t ask for your pronouns, sorry.”
“It's alright. He/him.” Orpheus gave him a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes, and for some reason Hob's heart sank. Despite his young age, the boy looked completely broken. “Not many people pay that much attention to it. You are a good man.”
Hob didn't have time to answer before Orpheus left the audience.
Many said that only two things could kill Hob: curiosity and the desire to help everyone. He rarely refused to help even strangers, and it's very difficult to find a person with such a compassionate heart. Hob himself understood that he takes everything that happens around him to heart in general, and it’s hard to live with this, but he was even proud of this quality to some extent. Now from time to time he remembered the sad smile of Orpheus, and something about it made him worry about the guy. He is young, but his eyes no longer burn. Hob wasn't a psychologist, but he was sure that some very serious injury was behind this young man. Hob wanted to help him.
Whatever happens in your life, you can get through it if you have someone around who understands and supports. Who, if not Hob, knows about this. Hob struggled out of a huge pit of despair many years ago, and after that he set himself the task of giving a hand to everyone who happened to be in his place. He will give it to Orpheus, although he is sure that the young student will reject the offer of help. In any case, Hob will try to help. He was learning how to be a father longer than he was, and although Robin is no longer with him, the skills will stay with him forever.
In the first seminary session, Hob got a better look at Orpheus. Much can be understood by looking at the student during the whole lesson. Orpheus sat alone on the penultimate desk against the wall, where those who hoped to sit on the phone for an entire hour and a half usually sat. However, Orpheus listened attentively, was not distracted by anything and obediently wrote down everything that Hob asked to write down. There were two more textbooks on his desk than his classmates, which showed that he either wanted to go deeper into the subject, or was preparing for other lessons during breaks. There were headphones next to the textbooks, and from time to time Orpheus took them in his hands, like an anti-stress toy, and put them back on the table. He didn't look back at anyone, he didn't whisper to anyone, which made Hob worry about him even more. The boy seemed to be trying to ignore everyone. It's good, of course, that he devotes all his attention to the professor, but something told Hob that Orpheus was just as unsociable outside the university walls.
However, Hob didn't jump to conclusions. He spent three more lessons to make sure that Orpheus was always so sullen. Nothing has changed: the same textbooks, the same headphones, the same place. Only different clothes, and always with a closed neck. Hob wasn't sure if he wanted to know the reason why Orpheus was hiding it. At the end of the fourth period, he asked him to stay when his entire class had almost left the classroom. Orpheus tucked his textbooks into a dark purple backpack, pointed at by several badges and patches from various bands and artists. Hob smiled. If he is fond of something, then everything is not as sad as he thought.
“Did you want to say something about my homework?” Orpheus asked, approaching the teacher's table.
“No, I haven't finished checking your class's essays yet. I just wanted to ask, are you okay?”
Orpheus raised one eyebrow and scanned the professor incredulously.
“Completely. Why are you asking?”
“Look, I don’t want to impose myself, but I think something is wrong. Maybe something is bothering you, or you have some problems within your class? I just want you to know that you can come to me for any reason. My office door is always open.”
“I don't need anyone's help.” Orpheus replied coldly. He frowned, and the ice in his gaze made Hob almost physically uncomfortable.
“That's what I thought you'd say. In any case, you can come to me. If you feel bad, or need someone's advice, or whatever. I won't ask too many questions. Know that you always have somewhere to go.”
“I'll keep it on mind. Goodbye, Professor Gadling.” Orpheus turned around and hurried away with a quick step. Hob sighed heavily as he put the laptop back into his bag. It was the reaction he expected. Well, now his conscience is clear. He offered his help, and whether to accept it or not is the decision for Orpheus. Hob could only hope that the young man was smart enough to analyze his condition on his own. Everyone decides his own fate.
When classes ended, Hob went to work in the office. He waited all day for Orpheus, looking at the door, but he never came. Maybe he needs more time to think about his words. It was Friday night, his shortened work day, so on the way home he texted friends that he wanted to meet them at the bar. He inherited a pub from his father, and although he did little there besides documentation, he didn't want to dive from one job to another. Without hesitation, he suggested one of his favorite bars, and was immediately approved.
Hob ran home only to leave things and immediately went to the meeting point. He didn't plan to drink himself unconscious, but he should relax while he still had the chance. Very soon he will not get out of the papers, so now he valued his free time more than ever. Johanna was already waiting for him at the bar. She used to work at the university where she and Hob met, but since then she has changed almost a dozen professions and now works as a tattoo master. Before that, she made knives, but after one of her clients killed someone with her knife, she decided to find something new. And it was not about moral principles, it was just that Johanna didn't like to explain to the police at all that she simply created and sold the knife, and had nothing to do with the murder. Her girlfriend Rachel, who works as a model, offered her an alternative and enrolled her in a photography course. She still attends courses, but at the same time she is engaged in tattoos in her friend's salon.
"What's wrong with the face, old man?" Johanna grinned at him and immediately called the bartender.
“I'm only four years older than you.” Hob rolled his eyes and sat down on a nearby bar stool. “Tough week, nothing more.”
“Problem students?” Johanna pushed him a glass with suspicious contents. Hob narrowed his eyes, smelling strong alcohol.
“No, I have good children. Constantine, in my plans for tonight there is no point to get drunk and fall asleep in the bushes, I will not drink it.”
“We'll see.” Johanna kicked his chair, almost causing Hob to fall.
While they were waiting for the rest of their friends, he briefly told her about the student who was bothering him. It was only by voicing it that Hob realized how stupid the whole situation sounded. He fixated on one suspiciously quiet boy, knowing absolutely nothing about him, built a bunch of his guesses about the reasons why Orpheus is so distant, and now he suffers because of it. Hob was a master at creating problems for himself out of thin air. But Johanna didn't reproach him this time. She was one of the few who saw him when he lost everything, and guessed the reasons for wanting to help everyone, especially children and young students.
“You're starting to spin out again.” Johanna shrugged, taking a sip from her glass. “Not every introvert suffers from some kind of incurable trauma, understand this. Stop running after every sad child. Come on, have a drink, meet someone and relax. It's been more than six months since your last breakup.”
Hob nodded reluctantly, looking around the bar. In fact, lately he has somehow not been in the mood to build new relationships. During these six months, he only found partners for one night, making sure in advance that this suits both of them. With the preparation for the new course, Hob completely went to study and work, forgetting about his personal life.
They don't talk about his lost family. This is their unspoken rule. No one mentions either Robyn or Eleanor, because even years later, Hob's heart never stopped hurting. He lives on and rejoices in this, but the ghosts of the past now and then return to him. At such moments, he again makes an appointment with his therapist in order to survive another crisis.
Hob should have known that if Johanna was waiting for him at the bar, it would be impossible not to get drunk. It happened every time. And before each time, Hob was sure that now he was definitely opposed to her. In the morning he woke up on the couch in her apartment with a wild headache and a terrible hangover. He would not mind if someone shot him in the head, but, unfortunately, no one would agree to this. Hob tried to look for the positive in everything. He woke up at a friend's house, not some suspicious bar guy whose face he wouldn't even remember right now.
“Good afternoon.” Rachel giggled, holding up a glass of water and hangover pills. Hob gave her a devastating look. Although he was unable to fight, Johanna still sent Rachel to him, to whom he cannot even raise his voice. This girl is too sweet and kind to dare to offend her. For this friendship, he will sooner or later pay with his liver.
However, Johanna knew what she was doing, and Hob couldn't think about work or his student or anything else. All weekend he was only worried about a headache and a desire to take revenge on Constantine for the fact that she stole at least three years of his life with her suspicious cocktails. Since she began to be called a tattoo artist, every drinking with her threatened to end with a crimson tattoo in the most unexpected parts of the body. While the gods have mercy on him, but luck will not accompany him forever.
All the next week, Hob expected Orpheus to approach him, but the student only asked some questions within the course, and Hob consoled himself with the thought that it was too dramatic, and Orpheus was actually fine. He should have taken Johanna's advice and not run after him, so Hob tried to ignore his feelings of anxiety. The rest of the days went on as usual: more work, less free time. Hob immersed himself in paperwork while taking on his students during office hours, helping them with term papers, dissertations, and many other things related to study. And when, three weeks later, he raised his head after knocking on the door and saw Orpheus on the threshold, he was confused.
“You said that I could come to you.” said the boy, surprisingly mixing timidity and impudence in his tone. Hob nodded and stopped filling out the paperwork he'd been working on for the past two hours.
Orpheus sat down on a chair near the work table. He looked down at his feet, arms wrapped around his backpack. Hob leaned back in his desk chair, studying the student closely. Orpheus' face was more sad than usual. He obviously wanted to say something, but either he couldn't find the words or he couldn't muster up the courage. However, he came here.
“Are you here because of art history?” Hob asked carefully to make sure his guess was correct. Orpheus shook his head. Good.
“You said that I can come if something bothers me.”
“Right. Something happened?”
Orpheus pursed his lips. There was a heavy silence, and Hob didn't know how to fill it. Part of him was glad that this boy accepted a helping hand, but another part of him awakened a new wave of anxiety.
“I'm having some… difficulties.”
“With what?”
“With everything.” Orpheus rested his head on the backpack, holding it tighter against him. “I feel very lonely. I used to call my mother, but she's very busy with work now, so I wanted to ask you something. If that doesn't bother you.”
“Sure. I don't know yet what you want to ask, but I already agree.” Hob smiled at him.
“I am a beginner musician. I write songs and music. My mom works in this field, she is my main critic. But now I really need a listener to create. I wanted to ask if you could be my listener? Not for long, two weeks at the most. I can't create into a vacuum, and I need someone to take it seriously.” Orpheus sighed heavily and lifted his head to look at the professor. Hob was a little taken aback. Of course, he didn't know what to expect from him, but he was clearly not ready for this.
“You see, I am a historian. As a child, a bear stepped on my ear, so in music I am a complete blockhead. But I'll be happy to be your audience if it's so important to you.” Hob smiled and felt relieved that Orpheus's face brightened a little.
“Will you be able to go to the assembly hall with me today? There is now my musical instrument.”
“No problem. But only an hour and a half later, I have work that needs to be done urgently.” Hob nodded at the pile of papers on his desk. Orpheus nodded briskly and stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder.
“Good. I'll be waiting for you.”
As usual, Orpheus left before Hob had time to answer him. This guy really liked to just run away from conversations. Hob set an alarm to remind himself of the time and went back to work. He didn't have the slightest idea how his presence would help Orpheus, but if he just needed someone to listen to his music, it wouldn't be hard for Hob to do so.
His office was often visited by students who needed emotional support. He had already lost count of how many children cried on his shoulder, but they all left him in a slightly better mood. Hob knew how to listen and give useful advice, but he had not yet had to be a music critic.
As soon as the phone reminded him of the past hour and a half, Hob quickly put the documents in a folder and hurried to the assembly hall. The work is not over for today, but he deserves a little musical break. On the way back, he will also buy a small cup of coffee to cheer himself up.
As Hob walked towards the hall, he tried to guess what instrument Orpheus was playing. The guy looks very creative, and any musical instrument would suit him. Most likely, this is something banal, like a piano or a guitar. These are the most common tools these days. Perhaps, of course, it can be a flute or a violin. Somehow Orpheus looks like a man who can play absolutely everything.
Hob didn't expected to see him sitting on the stage with a lyre in his hands. Seeing him, Orpheus smiled, less sadly than usual.
“You came.”
“I promised. So what do I need to do?”
“Nothing. Just listen. I can't work in the void, I need to know that there is someone who will hear me.”
“Got it.” Hob took the last chair and watched. Orpheus stepped onto the stage, brushed off his jeans and took up his lyre more comfortably. Hob met many people who played many musical instruments, but no one in his memory owned a lyre.
Orpheus played. Without amplifiers, the music was fairly quiet for such a huge venue, but Hob sat close enough to hear everything perfectly. He had never heard live how the lyre sounds, and this instrument fascinated him. The melody flowed with soft light sounds, it's easy to imagine some kind children's fairy tale with a happy ending under it. Orpheus's fingers skillfully plucked the strings, and he looked at the lyre with indescribable tenderness. His features smoothed out, and a completely different person stood in front of Hob, not the one who goes to his classes. This Orpheus looked peaceful and free, as he should have been. This man lived for music. No matter what happened in his life, music gave him peace of mind, and this explained why he grabbed his headphones so often and didn't part with them. Orpheus played the lyre beautifully, as if he and the instrument were one. Hob even closed his eyes to fully enjoy the pleasant melody. It stopped sounding unexpected. When Hob looked at Orpheus, his face was again grim and tense, but he looked at the lyre with love.
“It's not finished yet.” said Orpheus, sitting down again on the edge of the stage. “I wanted to test how it would sound in such a large space.”
“It's beautiful. You are a great musician.” Hob smiled reassuringly. He rose from his chair to stand next to Orpheus and his feet dangling from the stage.
“Thank you. Music is the only thing that keeps me alive.” Orpheus smiled sadly. He placed the lyre carefully on his knees. Hob wanted to ask why, but he knew it was too personal a question, and Orpheus would not answer it.
“Why don't you invite your friends to be your audience?” Hob asked instead. “Do you have friends?”
“I have. Had. I have minor trust issues now.” Orpheus looked at his instrument, stroking it, while Hob studied his face, which showed nothing but sadness. “My best friend betrayed me. He did something terrible and unforgivable. You could say he took my life.”
“That's a shit. I'm sorry to hear this, kid.” Hob lowered his eyes to the lyre and put his hand on Orpheus's shoulder. “You know, my office is sometimes used as an alternative to a psychologist's office. You can too. Everything that happens in the office stays in the office.”
“I have my own doctor.” Orpheus chuckled. “But thanks. I think I will use this information. In my own way.”
Hob smiled at the boy again. When he left, Orpheus was still in the hall. Hob was right about something happening to him. But he has a doctor, so it's not so bad. At least now Hob didn't have to worry about Orpheus being deprived of psychological help.
Orpheus really began to go into Hob's office. A day later, he asked him to listen to him again, then again a few days later, and again. He played the same melody, but he ended it differently all the time. Orpheus didn't ask for opinions or criticism, he only wanted the live presence of someone who takes music seriously. Then Orpheus asked to sit in his office, promising that he would not interfere. Hob allowed. The student was doing his homework on some of the musical subjects while Hob was busy checking tests and essays. He liked to think that the boy had found a safe place next to him. Orpheus became a little more open, although he still didn't say anything about his trauma and problems. But his sad smile began to appear more often, and Hob considered this a small victory. Another student he could help.
On Friday evening, Hob stayed long in the pulpit. He went back to his office to pick up his stuff and go home, mentally imagining how he would order himself a pizza, turn on a Disney or Pixar movie, and have a wonderful evening without alcohol and Johanna. He deserved it. His work hours had long since ended, and nothing could have kept him within the walls of the university any longer. Well, he thought so. Hob saw a man in a long black coat in front of the door of his office. He looked at the sign with the professor's name, raised his hand to knock, then lowered it back. Hob stopped at a sufficient distance so as not to draw attention to himself, and tried to examine the man. It was clearly not a student, Hob would have remembered that gothic style and the nest of shaggy hair. And it's definitely not a teacher. Then three questions: who is he, how did security let him into the university at such a late hour, and what does he need from Hob?
The best way to find out is to ask. Hob resumed his stride, pulling his office keys from his jeans pocket as he went.
“Sir, can I help you?” Hob asked when he got close enough. The man jumped in surprise and turned to him. Hob nearly tripped over his own foot. The stranger was so unimaginably handsome that for a moment Hob forgot where he was. There were virtually no wrinkles on his face, which made him look very young, but Hob's gut instinct told him that he was older than he looked. Although the stranger kept a neutral expression, his gaze was lost, as if he himself didn't understand what he was doing here.
“I want Professor Robert Gadling.” said the stranger in black as Hob stopped beside him at the door. He was only a little taller, but Hob felt very small under the pressure of his bright blue eyes.
“On what question?”
“A personal”.
“I'm ready to listen.” Hob smiled and raised his hand with the keys to eye level to show him who was the owner of the office. Hob opened the door and let the man inside, then followed him and settled down at his desk. The stranger sat down on a chair opposite. He sat with a very straight back and hands on his knees, too tense. He seemed like someone to Hob, although he had never met a man of such beauty.
“My name is Morpheus.”
“I'm Robert, but you can just call me Hob. So, what personal question is causing you to stare at my office door like it personally offended you?” Hob smiled. Considering his interlocutor, he was not even upset that he had not gone home at the appointed time, otherwise he would have missed the Greek deity itself at his doorstep. The man frowned and looked in the direction of the door with the same look, Hob barely suppressed a chuckle.
“My ex-wife said I should learn from you.” Morpheus said in a very serious tone.
”Learn what? History?”
“I... don't know.” Morpheus closed his eyes for a second. “I believe she was talking about our son. You get on well with him, and I need to know how you get along.”
“I have a lot of students, I just try to be a good teacher.” Hob shrugged.
“No, my son is hard to get along with. I am Morpheus Endless, my son is Orpheus. He has been suffering from depression for quite some time, and nothing has pleased him for the past three years. But his mother told me that he found inspiration in his professor and feels a little better now.”
“Stop, wait. Are you the father of Orpheus?” Hob interrupted, unable to keep up with Morpheus's words. Perhaps he worked too hard today, and his brain began to process information too slowly.
“I just said it.”
“Yes, right. Good.” Hob rubbed the bridge of his nose. In addition to being tired, a black hole in his stomach prevented him from thinking, since the only thing he had eaten today was a croissant and coffee. “Listen, do you mind if we move this conversation to a cafe near the university? I am terribly tired and hungry, and when I am hungry, I am very dumb.” he smiled at him again, but Morpheus looked at him as if he considered this joke to be true.
“Fine.” he answered and stood up. Hob smiled wider, put the necessary folders in his bag and hurried out into the corridor.
Over the years of teaching, he very rarely encountered the parents of students. Usually mothers of truants came to him, who paid for their child'a studies who was not at all interested in it. Conversations with this type of parent always ended in wasted nerves. But Morpheus is something new in his experience. Hob had the feeling that he had seen him somewhere, although he would not forgive himself if he forgot such a magnificent man. On the way to the cafe, Hob glanced at him. Morpheus either didn't notice or ignored these views. He stared straight ahead and seemed to be trying to appear taller and bigger than he really was, though his clenched fists indicated that he didn't feel confident in the company of a stranger.
Hob chose the nearest cafe and mentally said goodbye to the pizza he was about to order. It remained to be hoped that he would not have to say goodbye to the cartoons, and that he would arrive home not too late. Morpheus politely declined the meal and only ordered himself a glass of red wine. Of course, he looks like an aristocrat who drinks wine every evening. Out of interest, Hob looked at the price of the ordered wine and immediately closed the menu, regretting that he saw it. Rich twink aristocrat with a problem child. Hob hoped that such people would only be met in films. But he couldn't complain. He wanted to look at this man without taking his eyes off him.
“So, back to our conversation.” Hob began after he had ordered and the waitress had retired to the kitchen. “Are you unable to get along with Orpheus?”
“Right.” Morpheus nodded. His blue eyes looked right into the soul, which made the skin goosebumps, but Hob liked it. “I'm having trouble with him.”
“He mentioned that he has a close relationship with his mother.” Hob remembered his first conversation with Orpheus in his office, when the boy asked to listen to his playing the lyre. Morpheus nodded again.
“They are close. But he's mad at me.”
“Why? Did you have a fight or something like that?”
“Yes, something like that.” Morpheus sighed. Just at that moment, wine was brought to him, and he grabbed the glass as if it were a lifeline. “It's hard to explain. Once I almost lost him. In all senses. Calliope, my ex-wife, says that he lacks care, but he refuses to accept it from me. And from everyone but her.”
Morpheus spoke more quietly with each sentence and didn't look Hob in the eyes. No matter how indifferent his face seemed, Hob felt that it was not easy for him to talk about it. What did he mean by saying that he almost lost Orpheus? Whatever the true meaning of these words, Hob felt the fear that his interlocutor felt.
“Almost a month has passed since I offered to help.” Hob smiled faintly. “Then he came and said he needed a live audience for his music. I couldn't refuse. The more often I came to listen to him, the more openly he spoke to me, although I can't say that he really opened up to me. Maybe he just needs a father figure next to him? Have you ever asked him to play something for you?”
Morpheus frowned again. He stopped rocking his glass of wine and set it down on the table. “No”.
“Do you know what he's into? What bands does he listen to? What does he read?”
“No”.
“Okay. Hmm... Have you ever asked him how he feels?”
“No”.
Yeah, it's more difficult. This dude is clearly not the best father in the world. Hob wanted to ask a few questions about how much time he even spent with his son and whether he was involved in raising him, but Morpheus already looked like he was ready to turn the table in a rage and leave. It was clear from his face that he was having a hard time holding himself back. Hob decided not to risk it.
“I didn't expect it to be so difficult.” he sighed. Luckily, the waitress had put the food in front of him, and now he had a good reason to shut his mouth up and think. Morpheus gave him a furious look and turned his head to the window, showing his annoyance with his whole look. He was like a stray cat who pretends that he doesn't need anything, but doesn't leave because he still needs something.
While Hob ate, he thought about how to help this unfortunate father. To give any advice, he needs to know more about his relationship with his son, when it went bad and whether it was ever good. And Morpheus should have seen how to deal with Orpheus's peers to have an idea where to start.
“How about you watch me teach a lesson?” Hob suggested. “You will see me talking to students of the same age as Orpheus, and then we will discuss it”.
“It can help.” Morpheus agreed with an undisguised sigh.
“Excellent. Give me your number, I'll text what day and what time you can come. I'll find an opening in my schedule so that you don't meet Orpheus under any circumstances.”
“I don't give out my personal contacts to anyone.” Morpheus said coldly, as if the very suggestion to the contrary offended him. Hob had no idea what this man's profession, but decided to ask about it next time. Rolling his eyes, he took a napkin, pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, and wrote down his phone number.
“Well, then text me yourself. Don't look at me like that, we need to connect somehow if you want me to help you with your son. Did you think one evening was enough for this?”
“I hoped so.” Morpheus said primly, but took the napkin. He folded it several times and put it in his pocket, then threw the money on the table and left the table. "Then I'll let you know when I can come to the university. Consider paying the bill my gratitude.”
With these words, Morpheus hurried out of the cafe without waiting for an answer. Hob rolled his eyes again. Now he understood why Orpheus had a habit of running away from conversation. There were plenty of bills on the table, and Hob felt a little uneasy. He's not used to being paid for. Even friends, not to mention a strange handsome man. Since Hob was now alone, he took out his phone.
Hob: I think I met the man of my dreams.
Johanna: dog again?
Hob: No, this time a human. The most beautiful of all that I have seen.
Johanna: I hope your dreams are worth my time. See you tomorrow, tell me everything.
Hob looked out the window with a smile in the hope that he would notice the retreating figure in black, but he saw no one.