Work Text:
The knock on the door signals seven o’clock sharp. Jessamy is never late.
Dream has been awake since four.
His infrared cooling mask has been tucked back into its drawer, and his stainless steel cryo roller has been returned to the freezer. There is a set of emergency under-eye patches in the bathroom trash bin, followed by a layer of dirtied makeup wipes, and then another set of under-eye patches. A massacre of makeup pots and hair styling products has been left on the bathroom counter. A hairdryer rests in the sink. A shoehorn and a garment brush lie atop the ruptured innards of a jewelry armoire.
And so, when Dream swings the door to his room open, he at least does not look like he is about to face one of the most important days of his life on a scant three hours of sleep.
“Good morning, your Highness,” says Jessamy.
“Good morning,” says Dream.
She eyes him over a portfolio heaped with an incongruous stack of neckties. “You’re… vibrating.”
Dream might be.
“I’d ban you from caffeine at breakfast, but it seems cruel when you’re running on—how many hours of sleep, exactly?”
“Seven,” Dream lies.
“Two,” Jessamy corrects.
“Six.”
“As if. I know you were up by at least five. You scared the bejeezus out of the poor footman who came to drop off your suit and notes.”
Dream, in immediate response, pulls at Shadows and slides into his Sight, vision shimmering into haze and murmur as his eyes go white, and the air he inhales is at once heavy and sweet with the weight of Nightmares that are already rushing to their Prince, and when he speaks, his voice will ring with the strength of—
“Must you,” Jessamy sighs.
“He need not fear,” Dream rumbles, “the power that shores the very foundations of the castle he resides in.”
“Your Highness, there is one human on this planet mad enough to find you attractive like this,” Jessamy says. “And you and I both know it isn’t me.”
Yes.
Yes, there is.
“Oh, dear. I’ve made you vibrate even more.”
Dream blinks the Sight away and lets the Shadows dissipate. He inhales, and carefully does not think of Hob’s hands on his face, nor the press of Hob’s lips just beneath each blinded eye. Does not think of the shape of his words in the air, blazing through Nightmares and Dreams like beams of light through the mist: You’re gorgeous, do you know that?
“Is it all in order?” Dream asks, when his atoms have at last returned to a regular frequency of oscillation.
Jessamy raises her eyebrows. “Your brother’s coronation day? I should hope so. We’ve only invested three months of work and a quarter of Halloween’s GDP, after all.”
“Jessamy.”
“Yes,” she says, smile gone soft the way it used to when Dream would slide her a London fog as he took his usual seat beside her at the school library—three bags of tea, oat milk substitute, one sugar. “It’s all in order. I promise.”
Dream inhales through another adrenaline rush.
Just a few more hours.
Just one breakfast, and then after thirteen long, lonely, cursed months—
He will see Hob again.
Of course, it isn’t just one breakfast.
Today officially marks thirteen weeks since the death of the Queen, and so, an end to the requisite mourning period their kingdom has been stalled under. Today is the end of darkened jack-o’-lanterns, and dust-gathering organs, and meatless Sunday dinners. Today, the flags of Halloween will fly high once more. Today, Destiny will be crowned, and a new regime will spread its wings.
Today is also another day as the Duke of Allhallowton, a title Dream has held in puppetry since his coming of age years ago, but in practice—
A scant thirteen weeks.
“Lord Hathaway,” Jessamy says.
Her heels move silently over an Anatolian carpet older than most European countries, woven of the deepest purples and darkest of crimsons so as to appear as shades of black but for the very closest of inspections. It stretches the entire length of the East Wing hall; a gift generations ago from some noble of Eid al-Fitr.
Growing up, Death had once told Dream that it had been the site of a grisly stabbing of a little prince, and that if you looked hard enough, you could still see the bloodstains that marked the spot where he’d died.
Dream had spent hours crawling up and down that damned rug.
“Mardi Gras by birth, but ingratiated himself into Valentine’s court in recent years,” Dream replies, businesslike. “Centrist, but fiscally conservative. Financial ties to the Earl of Fawney Rig. Wife and son both deceased, the son more recently. Regular at the French Open. Winters in Algarve. Enjoys boating and chamber music.”
“Lord Persson,” Jessamy says.
“Was granted his title under Midsummer last year,” Dream relays. “American. Fashion, wine, and automobiles. Had quite the embarrassment at the Monaco Grand Prixe this year, and this will be his first public appearance since.”
“I’ve marked him as ‘promising’,” Jessamy informs him.
Dream exhales silently. “Indeed.”
“I shall await your imminent success, Highness,” Jessamy says. “Lord Feldstein?”
“Christmas. Oil. Also American. Immense dislike of the reigning Santa due to the introduction of EV sleighs. Also the lead supplier of petrol to Allhallowton, and he provides regular donations to St. Lucian’s House and the Grim Protection League. He also continues to defy both statistics and common decency in his ongoing existence on this mortal coil.”
“Quite so,” Jessamy murmurs, biting back a smile.
Dream's fingers skate over the vee of his waistcoat, just where the necktie disappears beneath, ensuring it still lays smooth.
“It may interest you to know,” Jessamy adds, as she pauses just short of the East Hall exit doors. “He’s listed a plus one, for the concert tonight.”
Dream raises an eyebrow.
Jessamy leans in slightly. “I looked her up. She’s a pilates instructor about forty years his junior, and if you go far enough back into her Instagram, you can see she was first seen dating his son.”
It is Dream’s turn, now, to bite back a smile.
Jessamy grins outright, and nudges him with an elbow.
They are stopped before an enormous Goya painting, a macabre coil of flesh and maws and earth, a head taller than Dream and half as wide across.
Desire complains that stepping through paintings feels like getting instantly felt up by several amorous colonies of bats. Despair agrees with them. Dream has been successfully pretending not to care, on sheer principle, since approximately the age of six and two decades later he is well-practiced in the art of not shuddering as he steps through.
"Gyuegh," Jessamy mutters, as she steps through behind him.
Dream's mouth twitches.
“Lady Kaur,” she says, brisk stride resuming as they transition from splashing stained glass to the dim and flickering candelabras of the bypass hallway system.
“Longstanding ambassador of Diwali. Socially and fiscally liberal, and known for her work in health education. Recently remarried to a famous badminton player. Gambling addiction. Art enthusiast. Has spent her entire career being systematically railroaded out of Joy by my mother’s isolationist policies and watching her holiday suffer as a direct result.”
Jessamy winces.
“Let us hope,” Dream sighs, “that she is not the type to hold grudges.”
“Best of luck to you, Sir,” Jessamy offers.
“Thank you.”
“A… bit of good news, though,” Jessamy adds.
Dream looks over at her, and notes the Fuseli she walks past as he does. They will not be long to the Claret’s Drawing Room, where breakfast for the lesser nobles is being held.
Jessamy tilts her head toward his, smile gone conspiratorial. “The good Lady Cripps, most unfortunately, called in this morning to say that she would not be in attendance at your breakfast.”
“Ah,” says Dream.
“Most unfortunate,” Jessamy repeats, grin broadening.
“Lamentable,” Dream agrees.
“Tragic.”
“Devastating.”
“Stiff upper lip, Sir, and save those tears for your pillowcase.” Jessamy nudges him with a gentle shoulder. “Brave face, come on now.”
“Truly, I know not where to find the strength,” Dream says flatly.
Jessamy’s laugh echoes off the narrow stone walls.
Two Caravaggios and Bosch pass them by. They’re just outside the Grand Staircase.
“I saved the best news for last, just for you,” Jessamy tells him, as they come to a halt. As she turns to face him, her smile goes soft. “Wanted to send you off on a high note.”
“Thank you, Jessamy,” Dream says.
He means it, with all his heart.
She looks him up and down critically, brushing away invisible lint and fussing with an errant lapel. “You’ll do fantastic. I know you will.”
Dream swallows, and nods.
He has no choice but to do otherwise.
“Oh!” Jessamy says, eyes widening. “I almost forgot. Your tie.”
Dream’s hand goes to it automatically.
“Last minute update—you can’t wear that. We have to switch it.”
Jessamy’s clipboard is lowered to better display the small pile of ties, which it has now become clear are… alternative options.
The burgundy-studded black silk bunches smoothly between Dream’s fingers. “No,” he says.
“Sorry,” Jessamy replies, and she reaches up—
But Dream steps back. “No,” he repeats. “It. My. My whole outfit is based around this tie.”
“And do you see any teal or neon green ties in this pile?” Jessamy asks, jiggling the clipboard in her arm. “No, because I knew that. Any of these will also match just fine. I checked.”
“But I cleared it with Wardrobe a month ago,” Dream insists, gripping his tie tight—tight enough to wrinkle. He can't seem to loosen his grip. “I submitted. I submitted my selections in August.”
“Well,” Jessamy replies patiently, “your extremely well-connected assistant got word of a documentary that dropped yesterday at the Toronto International Film Festival about Ferragamo’s business practices, and when I rung up a friend in Intentions, her team came back with a big fat no. Ferragamo is going to be out. So—”
“No,” Dream says again, jerking back from her hands in a whirl of Shadows.
Jessamy stares at him in confusion. "…Dream?"
Dream stares back at her.
There is no possibility the tie is not wrinkled at this point. There is no suitable explanation for his behavior.
And still his heart is singing no no no no.
Slowly, Jessamy puts her hands up. “All right. I can’t force you to switch, of course. But. I’d just thought that you’d have enough on your plate today without people accusing you of supporting child labor practices and animal cruelty because of your tie. That’s all.”
No.
No, this isn’t—
Of course he doesn’t—
But he can’t—
It isn’t—
Dream takes in a deep, shaking breath. “I—apologize. Yes. Yes, I.” Slowly, he forces himself to relax his death grip on the fabric between his fingers. He forces the Shadows back into their crevices and corners. “You’re quite right.”
Intentions are rarely wrong. If they’re predicting that Ferragamo is going to be public enemy number one in a few days, then the last thing the Endless family need are the press getting distracted from the central coronation messaging to talk about the crown prince’s poor taste in apparel. Furthermore, the last thing Dream needs is to be handing out free leverage to his council opponents.
It’s only a tie.
He can wear a different tie.
“Are you all right?” Jessamy asks.
“Of course,” Dream says, fumbling only slightly as he begins to tug the Windsor knot free. “I am. Perfectly fine. Thank you for catching this, Jessamy. Show me the replacement options?”
She does. They are, as promised, all perfect black and burgundy substitutes for the one he’s currently pulling free from his neck, all the exact width and cut and fabric necessary for his current suit. All, to his memory, other ties that he has worn before in his life.
Dream hates them all.
“You choose,” he says.
“Oh.” Jessamy blinks at him, and then sees the discarded tie presently in his hands. “Oh! Here, I can take that—”
“No,” Dream interrupts, and with a push of Shadows, it snakes up a sleeve and to parts unseen by the public eye. “Which tie? Quickly, Jessamy, I haven’t much time.”
“You’re the prince,” Jessamy mutters, as she rapidly plucks through the pile of ties. “You can’t be late, it’s the prince’s breakfast. I was thinking—this one?”
Dream barely looks at what she holds out. “Thank you,” he says, and slips it around his neck.
“Perfect,” Jessamy says approvingly.
“Anything else?” Dream asks, as he fixes a new Windsor knot into place.
“I don’t think so. Well. Lady Bar posted on her socials this morn—”
“Yes, I saw,” Dream sighs. “With the Cupid.”
“Right. And you saw the headline this morning, about the landslide in—”
“Mexico City, yes. Of course.”
Jessamy looks him up and down once more, biting her lip, but eventually takes in a deep breath and squares her shoulders and says, “Don’t forget to eat something.”
“It is called the prince’s breakfast,” Dream reminds.
“Yes, and to half the people in attendance, that means you’re what’s on the menu. Sir.”
Dream's mouth twitches. “Then let us hope the staff have prepared the appropriate wine pairing.”
"I don't believe we keep any vintages that would be dry enough."
“The Zárate Albariño, perhaps."
Jessamy rolls her eyes. "Oh, go to breakfast already."
“I shall see you after,” Dream tells her, and deliberately does not think about what is waiting for him after breakfast because right now he needs to focus on American drilling regulations and nautical navigation and the current inquest at the Badminton World Federation.
He steps through the Bosch.
His original tie, with its ill-gotten Italian silk, is featherlight as it slides into his inner suit pocket, safe and sound and close to the heat of his body.
“I’m not saying that monarchies aren’t an inherently problematic form of government,” the Countess of Hasna is saying, champagne glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “But people equate centralized power with absolute power, and that just isn’t true. I mean, you remember when my cousin took the throne five years ago. Chaos! He couldn’t get a damned thing done for years with all his father’s nobles still hanging about.”
Dream inclines his head, and tries not to grip his own champagne glass too tightly as to betray his own interest.
Rosh Hashanah’s most recent transition of power is one their family has made an intense study of, these last few weeks. Over in St. Marcian’s Room, Death should be in a breakfast event of her own, gently milking King Ariel for his perspective on the regime change.
“Of course,” the Countess says, waving her cigarette, “I suppose you needn’t look much further than Candlemas for a prime example. Five kings in four years! Or are we up to six, now? I can’t even keep track. But regardless, there you are—a divided court creates an unstable seat, and even the strongest monarchs can’t keep power for long.”
“It is a credit to your cousin, that he has kept his throne all these years,” Dream tells her.
She raises one perfect eyebrow. “Well, he doesn’t do it alone, I can tell you that much.”
“You help him?” Dream asks, with gentle curiosity and the most strategic touch of admiration.
“Oh, the whole family does,” the Countess says. “It’s a coordinated effort. Without us, he’d probably still be fighting off courtiers from the Cold War!”
“I would be interested,” Dream says carefully, “to learn more about—”
A pause.
“Your Highness?” the Countess asks.
“My apologies,” Dream says, remembering himself, and turning away from the alcove where Jessamy has appeared and is subtly trying to get his attention. “I. I would be most interested to hear more of your family’s successes. Were you very close to your cousin, before he ascended?”
“Oh, yes,” she replies. “We were at university together, you know.”
(Dream did know, in fact.)
“Same dormitory floor and everything, because the security was slightly less of a logistical nightmare—still gave the boys a run for their money, though. Hah! Oh, but even then, he took his studies seriously. Not like me. I could get away with a bit of fun. But Ariel knew what he would be up against when his father passed, and he didn't put a minute to waste. Graduated top of his class."
“Shall I take a guess at his course of study?” Dream teases.
The Countess rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you couldn’t.”
“It isn’t every day a prince graduates with honors in Classical Dance.”
At this, the Countess laughs outright.
Dream allows himself the smallest of smiles.
King Ariel had graduated with his degree in International Relations, of course. Just like every other royal, noble, and gentryman currently swanning about the drawing room right now, cooing and laughing and always, always, always searching for the most powerful person in the room.
Presently, that would be Dream.
He hasn’t sat down since he crossed the threshold.
“But how fortunate, to have a leader that takes his responsibilities so seriously,” Dream says, steering the conversation gently back to its intended purpose.
“Better him than I, I’ve always said,” the Countess says wryly. She takes a sip of her champagne.
Jessamy is still in the alcove, tipping her head in a soft but pointed manner.
If it were an emergency, Dream knows that she would not hesitate to interrupt.
But—
“Your brother’s coming in to a similar situation, isn’t he?” the Countess remarks, champagne flute drained dry. “Your mother, zikhronah livrakha, she built herself… quite the reputation, during her reign.”
But what if it is about Hob.
“Yes,” Dream says, his mind racing.
“It would be easy, I think, to follow in her footsteps,” the Countess adds, and drags on her cigarette.
Jessamy tips her head again.
What if it is about Hob.
But beside Jessamy is Lady Kaur, deep in conversation with two nobles of Easter. Dream has already been politely dismissed not once, but twice. The Countess is the second most important connection he must make today, and he has already failed in the first. He needs this. The family needs this.
Jessamy’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly.
“I do not envy my brother’s coming days,” Dream says to the Countess, focus returning to the conversation at hand. “Especially as I do not believe he intends to uphold a great deal of her legacy. Shall we fetch more champagne, and you can perhaps provide further enlightenment as to the challenges of coming into power at a… less than welcoming court?”
The Countess smiles at him, and extends an arm. “I should enjoy that, your Highness.”
Dream takes her elbow, and turns his back on Jessamy and her message as he escorts the Countess toward the bar.
He prays that it is not about Hob.
“Is it about Hob?” Dream demands, the second that they are safely through the Bosch.
“No,” Jessamy replies. Then she makes a slight face. “Well. Not directly.”
Dream’s stomach contracts.
Jessamy pulls a granola bar from her pocket. “Eat this. I know you didn’t actually get to eat anything back there.”
“What’s happened?”
Jessamy holds out the bar.
Dream folds his arms over his chest.
“This is childish,” Jessamy informs him.
“Jessamy.”
She sighs. “Do you remember the zoning and planning application?”
Of course he does.
Dream had spent the better part of August getting that committee assembled. It is one of his larger moves to decentralize the regulatory framework for Allhallowton and provide its citizens with a more stable and self-sustaining local government. For too long the city has stagnated, as every new construction project required the mercurial, often bribery-laced approval of the Queen’s favorite Baron. Without other options, unregulated constructions have proliferated in the last thirty years. Fires and building collapses are not uncommon. People have died.
Relying on the whims of nobility is no way to grow a city.
Instead, under Dream and with the help of some discrete Halloween magic, Allhallowton will become a municipality under the state (not the state of Halloween, but the actual mortal English government), and therefore be able to set its own laws regarding construction.
But first they must apply for municipal status.
And the application to the mortal government is due—
“They were supposed to have submitted it by Tuesday,” Dream recalls, horror sinking into the pit of his stomach, rage dawning, as the memory rises. “Two days ago. Because it requires my signatures, and the actual application deadline is—”
“Today,” Jessamy finishes grimly. “At eleven. I know.”
Dream clenches his jaw.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Jessamy says, mouth twisting in apology. “I should have had a note in my calendar to look for it on Tuesday. It’s—it’s all my fau—”
“No,” Dream interrupts, and he wants very badly to run a hand over his face but he can’t show that sort of weakness right now. Not even with Jessamy. He inhales carefully instead. “No, this has been my battle. I should have asked you to follow up on it. I did not.”
He’d forgotten. Or rather, he hadn’t specifically reminded Jessamy and instead assumed that she would note it on her calendar, as she usually does for such deadlines—because even if the mistake had been hers, the responsibility of it still falls to him.
“I should have noted it,” Jessamy insists, biting her lip.
Dream exhales. “I suspect,” he says, “that it would not have mattered. Half the committee would sooner see the city burn than have its governmental control returned to the citizens. I have no doubt that they remained aware of our deadline, and they deliberately waited until the last possible minute to submit. It is sabotage.”
“Attempted sabotage,” Jessamy corrects.
Yes.
After all, the application is due at eleven o’clock.
Dream glances at his watch, and finds it to be twenty minutes to ten. Twenty minutes until he is supposed to be in the gardens. Twenty minutes until he will reunite with the man that has held hostage his heart for the last three years, the man that laughs like summer and smiles like the break of dawn, the man that—
The man that Dream had let slip away, thirteen months ago.
He takes in a breath.
“It is only signatures,” he says, shoulders straight, diction perfect. “Have you marked them?”
“Yes, of course,” Jessamy says, opening the file at once to reveal a few dozen little red post-its sticking out from the sides. “That’s everything. It shouldn’t take long, I don’t think. You should still have time for…”
Dream nods, eyes scanning the first page of what must be a at least fifty. “Indeed. It should not.”
Jessamy brightens a little. “And Mr. Gadling, shall I—”
“Send someone to… distract him. A tour, perhaps. Not of the gardens. I’ll be quick.”
“Of course,” Jessamy says. “You’ll be in—”
“My study,” Dream confirms. “I’ll expect you shortly.”
And with that, he pulls the Shadows fast and hard around himself, and vanishes into the dark.
“Can’t you just—”
“No,” Dream says, staring down at the handwritten tabulations of lots, their sizes and their borders and their development status. He checks, and rechecks, and checks once more to be sure. The numbers run before his eyes like Nightmares.
It is wrong.
The whole application has been filled out wrong.
“Shit,” says Jessamy.
Dream takes in a deep, slow breath.
He lets out a deep, slow breath.
He regrets that as part of Destiny’s reign, public executions will now be outlawed, because Dream would very much like to see the Earl of Corinth strapped beneath a guillotine’s hovering blade right now.
“Jessamy,” Dream says, with deliberate calm. “You have access to the Records database.”
“I… do. But—”
Dream snaps a ghoul into existence. “Her laptop,” he tells it. “Now.”
“You want to redo the application?” Jessamy makes no secret of her incredulity as the ghoul rattles off with immediacy. “Now?”
“I do not want to,” Dream bites out. “But Cortinthian has apparently seen fit that I should.”
If Dream cannot have him beheaded, then at the very least, he’ll have him out of the council by year’s end, and out of his current tax bracket by the next.
“But it must be fifty pages!”
“We have no choice,” Dream says. He opens his own laptop, and begins plugging in the appropriate cables to keep it alive and connected for the foreseeable future. Shadowy tendrils around him begin opening drawers and flurrying papers about.
“But—”
Dream looks at her sharply.
Jessamy’s eyes dart to the clock, which shows both hands on either side of the calligraphic 10.
Somewhere, floors below, Mervyn is taking Hob on an improvised tour of the castle that Dream has wanted to welcome Hob into for years. Hob is probably dressed up for the coronation, the trim lines of his body on display, the length of his hair combed and soft in a way that invites the caress of fingers. Hob is probably telling bad jokes and chewing at his lower lip unattractively and rambling on about intricacies of astrophysics that no one in their right mind would ever care about, and Mervyn will not understand that it is these very inanities that Dream has missed so much sometimes he can’t breathe for it.
“The English Provincial Grants Committee… Well. They do meet quarterly,” Jessamy offers tentatively.
Dream’s next swallow goes down like a blade.
“It isn’t unreasonable,” she continues. “It, it would only be a twelve week delay, to a decades-old policy, and no one—I have a copy of the courier’s receipt, we can prove that the Earl had it delivered two hours before the bloody deadline, on your brother’s bloody coronation day! The council will understand, and more than that, you deserve—”
“Jessamy.”
Jessamy’s mouth twists unhappily.
“We will correct it now,” Dream says, carefully even.
Her eyes go yet again to the clock. “But—”
“But nothing.”
“But you’ve been waiting for this day!”
“And there are twenty thousand people in Allhallowton waiting for me to take responsibility for their care,” Dream snaps. “Twenty thousand people that I have been forced, my entire life, to fail. Until now. And I will not begin my time as Duke by skirting duty and handwaving the suffering of the populace.”
Jessamy opens her mouth, just as the ghoul comes rattling back in with her laptop in hand. She glares at Dream, but accepts the laptop.
Dream waves his hand, and the ghoul dissolves into bones that are immediately descended upon by the ghosts of Grims past.
“We’ll work quickly, then,” Jessamy decides. “Together. The gardens will still be there in thirty minutes, and so will Hob.”
Dream can’t think about Hob right now.
His smile.
His eyes.
The shape of his mouth, forming the words Of course I still love you.
Of course I forgive you.
Jessamy sits down beside him at his desk, opening her laptop as Dream is already logging in to the government website that will allow him to print a blank application. There’s only just enough space for the both of them, the curve of her hip pressing into his, the sleeve of her dress catching on the lapel of his suit coat. She smells, as ever, of honeyed apples.
He’s in the middle of clicking the option to print double-sided, when the granola bar lands pointedly on his keyboard.
Dream had sworn to himself that he would not lay eyes upon Hob until he was at last prepared to do right by him, and technically—technically, he is not breaking that vow.
“Wait,” says Hob, pausing to gape up at the cracked, desilvered mirror in its gilt frame upon the wall. “Like the actual Bloody Mary?”
He’s grown his hair out.
He's obtained a new wristwatch.
His suit—the one Dream had had made for him, the one Hob had complained about right up until Dream had mentioned that of course, the best part of a birthday gift was unwrapping it—hangs perhaps just a little looser than it had last year.
It is all Dream can do, to not pull himself through the Shadows and consume him
W H O L E.
“No, the royal family went an’ bought a knockoff and hoped no one would notice,” Mervyn replies, and rolls his eyes. “‘Course it’s the real bloody thing.”
“So—so you can summon her?” Hob asks, with growing excitement. “Is it like the legend says? You say her name three times, and she appears?”
“Sometimes just the twice, if she’s feelin' a bit saucy.”
Hob lights up. “Can I—”
“Not unless you want to clean up the fuckin’ mess, mate,” Mervyn says. “Blood oozes from that mirror like you wouldn’t believe. His Majesty—Lucifer rest his soul, o’course—used to show it off to just about anyone who stepped foot in the bloody castle. Loved this thing. I near scrubbed the wallpaper clean off every October.”
“Right,” Hob says, deflating.
Mervyn checks his watch, and grunts.
“Er,” says Hob. “Can I ask?”
“Rather you didn’t.”
“Is there a reason—not! Not that I’m not appreciating the private tour! But. Is there a reason that I seem to have been given a… private invitation to the palace grounds, two hours before the coronation is set to begin?”
Dream, behind Matthew’s eyes, goes very still.
“Because I’ve spent half my bleedin’ month on that masterpiece in the garden,” Mervyn replies shortly, “and I’m going to make damned sure that it goes appreciated.”
Hob frowns. “We haven’t been to the gardens.”
Mervyn lets out a noise of disgust. “You don’t say, Velma.”
“Are we… going there now?” Hob tries.
“Hellfire, I wish. Come on. We’ll go see, uh… We’ll go see the library, I guess.”
“You already showed me the library,” Hob says.
“Library? Who said library? I said statuary, didn’t I. Let’s go, let’s go, time’s a-wastin’, don’t be slow as well as deaf, come on,” Mervyn says, herding Hob down the hall past the haunted mirror, past the possessed portrait of Paz Pardo de Tavera, and past the raven perched in the shadows of the triforium above.
With great effort, Dream pulls himself from Matthew’s eyes, and back to the stack of paperwork before him.
They submit the application fifteen minutes before the deadline.
Fifteen minutes until eleven o'clock.
Fifteen minutes until Dream needs to present himself to Wardrobe to be dressed in full military regalia for the coronation.
Jessamy bites her lip. “You could… Well. If you were quick—”
“No,” Dream says. He has known this since the half-hour mark. He has known this since he first laid eyes on the square meters of lots that did not quite add up, and the map of his city drawn with red lines that were put down to squeeze out pennies, and not to support the growth of a population in need.
He has known it, perhaps, since he first turned away from Jessamy during breakfast to instead court the favor of the Countess of Hasna.
He will not get to see Hob this morning.
Dream lifts his head to meet Jessamy’s heartsick gaze. “There is a forty-five minute window of time, after the coronation and before the banquet.”
“Er. Yes, I think so,” Jessamy says, and pulls out her phone. “We’ll have to escort him from St. Seb’s all the way back to the palace—that is, if you’re still wanting to talk to him in the gardens? There’s certainly no shortage of private rooms in the cathedral, if you just wanted to talk to him there, though—”
“He will be brought to the gardens,” Dream interrupts.
Hob deserves better than a dusty, windowless room in the bowels of a church.
(Dream needs more than a dusty, windowless room in the bowels of a church, if Hob is ever going to forgive him.)
“Send a private carriage, and an escort ahead of the ceremony’s conclusion,” Dream instructs, deliberately not thinking about the thousand ways in which this new plan could go wrong. “It isn’t more than ten minutes’ ride, and the route will already have been cleared for the parade. I can use the Shadows and be waiting.”
“And… the seating at the banquet?” Jessamy asks.
“Unchanged,” Dream replies.
The day is not ruined.
This new plan will work.
It will.
Dream has only been in these ceremonial carriages a handful of times, but all the same he has not forgotten that for all their elegance, they are host to a pervasive odor of mothballs and some of the most uncomfortable benches he has ever had the misfortune to perch upon.
“It’s supposed to be a celebration, you know.”
Dream looks over at Death.
Death grins back at him. “Come on, give us a smile.”
“My PR-mandated happiness has been delayed by approximately five to ten minutes secondary to a security concern,” Dream replies.
Death rolls her eyes.
Dream returns to picking at a loose thread on the slab of concrete presently masquerading as a seat cushion. Someone is supposed to knock on the carriage when they've been officially cleared to start.
“Did you not have a good breakfast?” Death persists.
Dream tilts his head. “Six out of ten.”
“Well that’s certified fresh, for you.” She pauses, likely to hear out the ghost of King Salem III, who routinely haunts this carriage. “Yeah, he is pouting, isn’t it?”
Dream glares. “I slept poorly last night.”
“I can’t help if you don’t tell me what’s wro-ong,” Death sing-songs.
“I did not ask for your help,” Dream snaps. He pauses. “And nothing is wrong.”
Death rolls her eyes. “Clearly.”
The black chiffon of her dress crunches as she settles back into her seat on the bench opposite him. The bench, ancient and also probably cursed, creaks with the motion. From outside come the restless steps of horses kept in place.
Beneath all the layers of tassel and braid and button that comprise the royal military uniform, there is a contraband tie tucked warm and safe against the heat of Dream’s body.
“It’s nice to be back home,” Death says conversationally.
Dream hums.
"Just about time for the apple harvest, isn't it?" Death muses.
"Surely you have not been away so long that you have forgotten," Dream replies.
"Well, you know," Death says easily, waving a hand. "Global warming and all that. I didn't know if it had changed."
"It is, as ever, the third week of September."
Growing up, the family's annual visit to Halloween's apple orchard had always been Death's favorite of the autumnal press events. She'd usually found a way to sneak them out from under the cameras to spend a wild hour running amongst the trees and eating enough of their fruit to be sick, and soaking in enough autumn sunshine not to care.
"Will you be staying after the coronation, long enough to join us?" Dream asks tentatively.
Death's smile turns rueful. "You know I can't, little brother."
"You answer to no sovereign," Dream says. "Not any longer. Destiny would not—"
"But I must still answer to my duty," Death interrupts gently.
Dream prickles at her tone, embarrassment and irritation and the rough woolen weave of his horrid orange uniform suddenly everywhere all at once too much.
"I had only thought," Dream begins stiffly.
"You know I need to get back to Lunar New Year," Death continues, shaking her head but not unkindly. "Now, more than ever, we need our diplomatic ties at their strongest. I'm booked out at embassies from now through Ostara, and that was before Mother decided to to finally cark it."
Dream stares at the embossed coat of arms on the buttons of her dress. "Of course," he agrees.
He feels a nudge at the toe of his boot.
"Besides," Death adds, with another nudge. "I can't imagine you've any free time of your own, what with the viper pit I hear you've got over in Allhallowton?"
Dream grimaces.
Death tuts. "Thought not."
She nudges him once more.
"You'll scuff it," Dream complains, which of course results in Death pinning his boot to the door of the carriage with a thwap that makes the onyx pull-cords rattle against the windows.
Death grins.
Dream reminds himself, yet again, that it could have been worse. If he'd been born a bit out of order, he'd have been sharing a carriage with the twins.
"Cheer up," Death says, neatly catching his foot between her heels and tapping it twice.
"Because you've made the scuffing symmetrical, now?" Dream asks, long-suffering.
"Because it won't always be like this," Death corrects gently.
Dream sighs.
"Give it a few years, " Death says. "Things will calm down as the politics shift. Relations will re-settle. The old guard will fall out, and the councils will be full of people on our side."
Dream hopes so. He really does.
There's a double knock at the carriage door.
Death sits up straight, uncrossing her legs at the knee and instead leaving them crossed at the ankle. One hand tucks a curl behind her ear while another set of invisible hands (likely King Salem III's) adjusts the set of her tiara.
Dream's Shadows have just finished smoothing the fold of his shirt collar when the carriage jolts into motion.
A September drizzle has dampened coats of the crowd but not their spirits, if the subsequent roar of cheering is anything to go by. There are thousands of them. Children are perched on shoulders. Teenagers press at the spiderweb barriers. Everywhere, the flag of Halloween is in hands and on poles.
Their people.
Dream sets his shoulders, and smiles for the cameras.
It is Beltane, and yet again, Dream has been chosen to represent the family.
Yet again, his mother is discontent with her holdings and so has provided Dream with a shopping list of holidays she expects him to forge new connections with—as if he does not already struggle to find time at these events just to pay lip service to all the alliances she has already bought, threatened, or outright stolen into her armament. As if Mardi Gras, in particular, would have forgotten Halloween's betrayal at the Northern Summit three years ago.
And yet again—worst of all—Beltane has flowers in the champagne.
Hateful little things.
They are edible, of course, but in Dream's opinion they are edible in the same way that banana peels or small amounts of paper are 'edible': on pure technicality, and without cause for pleasure. Dream, accordingly, lets the petals bump against his mouth as he sips, and is unembarrassed to pass his glass back to a waiter with the rejected flower clinging to the side of the drained flute.
If he sends enough of them back just so, perhaps someone in the kitchens might begin to take it as feedback.
Lucifer knows Dream will be back again next year, with the same wretched people, beneath the same horrendous, pollen-dripping canopy of wisteria and fairies, listening to the same accursed pipe band. He might as well try to make improvements upon the menu.
"But of course, it's no trouble at all—no trouble at all—to share our Joy with such a preeminent holiday as yourselves," simpers the King of Mabon. "Your mother, of course, such an esteemed leader, such a pioneer, she'll have much better use for it than our people would anyway."
"Remember that incredible Halloween a few years ago, when she hosted the Joyathon?" the Princess of American Thanksgiving adds.
The Princess of Canadian Thanksgiving claps her hands. "Oh, that was wonderful."
"Never been to a Joyathon like it," says the King of Eid al-Adha, shaking his head. "Marvelous. Simply marvelous."
Dream graciously inclines his head, and does not bother to point out that the so-beloved Halloween Joyathon had been over ten years ago, and that Mother had given them back a fraction of that which she had hoarded over the years.
The sycophancy continues round the table.
Dream spears a fork into his honey cake, and wishes he could spear it into an eyeball instead. Preferably one of his own.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, as the Princess of American Thanksgiving begins gushing over her last visit to Halloween, and though Dream will not check it until the conclusion of the meal service he knows that it will be a text from Jessamy. She had promised to send him as many photos as she could and it is… half three, in Paris. The ceremony will be starting soon. She's probably sent a selfie of herself lined up with their friends, waiting to enter the building.
Dream hadn't actually ever held any real hope of attending his own university graduation, of course.
But it would have been nice.
"Oh, yes, the butternut squash soup is just superb," the Duke of Canadian Thanksgiving is saying, nodding his head in agreement. "We look forward to it every year. Absolutely unparalleled."
"We've had our chefs try to recreate it, but—it just isn't the same," sighs the Princess of Canadian Thanksgiving.
"Oh, how funny—so have we!"
The King of Eid al-Adha raises a glass before a rueful grin. "Our kitchens as well."
"Ah, we should know better," laughs Ser Erikson, shaking their head, "than to try to out-do Halloween in root vegetables."
There is general laughter around the table, and head-shaking, and the Princess of American Thanksgiving raises a flute of champagne and says "To Queen Night, long ma—oh!" She laughs again, as the table begins to move. "Hold that thought, I suppose."
All the tables slowly rotate around the room, spinning effortlessly on at least three different axes, with the Maypole at the center of it all. They are brought to a stop on the other side of the banquet hall—closer to the exit, further from the kitchens.
Dream's phone vibrates again.
"That's better," the Princess of American Thanksgiving says, raising her flute once more. "To Queen Night of Halloween—long may she reign."
"Long may she reign!"
"And her chef!" adds the Duke.
"Long may they cook!"
"Long may they cook!"
Dream, were he of any lesser breeding, would drink deeply.
It is as he is taking his sip of champagne at precisely the required fifteen degree angle, however, that he hears from the table that is newly beside them—
"—absolutely bloody brilliant! Like magic!"
"I mean, it is magic."
"Yeah, but everyone here is acting like this is just another Tuesday when we've literally—it's like Harry Potter in here. Tables moving by themselves! Talking rabbits! The—there's—I mean, the fairy lights are actual, literal fairies!"
Dream glances left, to find… he thinks it is the son of a Lord of Purim, perhaps—Zeke?—and another man that he does not recognize at all.
"Well, it is sort of just another Tuesday, for most of us," Zeke says, shrugging one shoulder.
The stranger slumps back in his seat without a single care for his posture, and laughs with awed incredulity.
"You'll get used to it," Zeke assures.
"I don't know, mate. I just—" His friend suddenly lights up, and with the twist of his wrist a salt shaker levitates right off the table. "I can do this. Whenever I want. I'm magic!"
"I keep telling you, you've got a finite amount of—"
"Look!"
The stranger—he looks to about Dream's age—gleefully taps a finger into the air, making the salt shaker snow liberal amounts of salt onto his honey cake below. It will be ruined, now.
What an idiot.
His tie, too, is askew. There is a stain on the pocket of his un-ironed shirt.
"It's amazing!"
He has a face like sunshine and a laugh to match.
The Lordling of Purim say something else in reply, something amused, but Dream does not catch what his words are because eyes as dark as a forest floor have just landed on him.
There are laugh lines, around those eyes.
He has a few faint freckles, just on the end of his nose.
Dream's breath catches in his throat as he feels his heart skip a ridiculous beat—and for a moment—just a moment—
The elbow to his side brings Dream back to the cathedral just in time to rise alongside his siblings from the pew, embossed program grasped reflexively in his hands.
Destiny stands at the head of the cathedral, directly beneath the chandelier of bone, St. Lucian's scepter in one hand as the other splays over the Book of Shadows being held by the current Head of the Haunt.
"An geall thu gu sòlaimte agus an toir," the Head of the Haunt intones, the ancient Gaelic words clear and ringing, "thu mionnan gun riaghladh thu muinntir Samhain, cho math ’s as urrainn dhut, fhad ’s a bhios tu beò?"
"Tha mi a’ mionnachadh gu sòlaimte," Destiny replies.
"Agus an dèan thu mionnachadh gu sòlaimte cuideachd gun dìon thu muinntir na tìre seo?" asks the Head of the Haunt.
Dream stands ramrod straight in the front pew between Death and Despair, not even allowing himself to worry at the crease of the program. Behind him, somewhere, in the mess of Princes and Earls and Baronesses packed between the ancient walls of St. Sebastian's—is Hob. Dream can feel it like a prickle at the back of his neck. The Shadows feel it, and they pull at his restraint like hounds at a leash. He is so close.
But Dream bites down on the inside of his cheek, and watches Destiny go down to one knee, head bowed, shoulders braced for the long-awaited weight of kingship.
Soon, he reminds himself. Soon.
"My brother," Dream says, through numb lips. "Can. There be no other of the family, to meet with her?"
"There are none other who have spent the last two years in collaboration with her on the FOTEC Initiative," Destiny answers, raising an eyebrow. "Nor none other that the Lady Cripps has requested to speak with this day. Would you have me dismiss her?"
"Perhaps—after dinner," Dream tries. "Before the concert. We could walk together. I will speak with her then."
Destiny tilts his head. "You seek to insult her, with such a paltry offering of your time? The ten minutes in hand between the conclusion of the feast and the start of the concert?"
"No—"
"Then you seek to shirk your responsibilities to this family," Destiny says.
Dream draws in a careful breath. "That is not my intention."
"In this precarious time of transition, little brother, it is the consequences that matter," Destiny replies. He lays a hand on Dream's shoulder, and squeezes. "Not our intentions."
Dream knows that.
He still wants to snap at Destiny's hand with his teeth. He wants to snarl.
"Of course," Dream forces himself to say.
The corners of Destiny's mouth crook upward slightly, and he inclines his head. The onyx and citrine of his new crown glitter in the light from the candelabras. "It will be for the best, in the end."
Dream doesn't trust himself to open his mouth. Shadows snake through his fingers and whip at the hems of his trousers, as Destiny turns to reunite with one of his advisors who has been patiently waiting, but he holds them in check. From the buffet table on the left, he can see Death shooting him an inquiring look.
It is a small room in the back of the cathedral, plushly appointed for the sole purpose of giving the royal family a convenient respite from the public eye without requiring an entire journey back to the palace grounds. This is the forty-five minute window in which they are at leisure to eat, nap, bicker, scroll their phones, exchange their ceremonial clothing for their formal dining outfits—and for the opportunistic, a chance to sneak back to the castle to finally, properly apologize to the love of their life for very unceremoniously dumping them last year.
The best laid of plans.
Dream turns on one heel, fingers tapping to Jessamy's contact by memory. Two security spooks peel themselves from the wall at his exit, trailing loosely behind him, but Dream pays them no mind.
"Your Highness," Jessamy answers at once. "Not to worry, Mr. Green is already en route to the palace with—"
"The plan has changed," Dream cuts in.
A startled pause. "I—sorry?"
"I cannot—" A Shadow bites at the wall, rattling the sconces above, and Dream grits his teeth and reigns it in with the swoop of his hand. "I am no longer able to return to the palace. I must meet with the Lady Cripps instead."
"What?"
"I have been reminded of my responsibility to the family," Dream practically snarls. He tightens his grip on the phone, and tries to remind himself that this is not Jessamy's fault. Tries to remind himself that this isn't even Destiny's fault.
Not really.
"But…" Jessamy's voice wavers. "But you're supposed to…"
No.
No, as much as he might wish it otherwise, above all else what Dream is supposed to do—is his duty to his kingdom.
"I cannot," he repeats.
He turns left down the corridor that will take him to courtyard where the Lady Cripps awaits him, but slows his steps at the shine of daylight through the glass doors at the end of the hall.
"Okay," Jessamy says, gathering herself at last. "All right, then. On to plan C."
Dream thinks they're probably a little further into the alphabet than that with this disaster of a day, but he doesn't have time to quibble over it. "Have him re-seated for the banquet—somewhere with the rest of the Spring holidays, I suppose. I'm sure you are capable of the finer details."
"Of course," Jessamy agrees. "And the concert as well?"
"Yes. I'll—" Dream stops just short of the doors. In the periphery of his vision, security hovers in wait. He swallows. "Re-seat him for the concert as well, yes. Plan to intercept as he leaves, though, with an offer of escort to the palace."
"Don't forget you're scheduled for acknowledgements with the board of directors after—"
"Yes, of course," Dream says impatiently. "It took less than fifteen minutes after the Queen's birthday celebration last year, and I expect it shall be similar tonight. Stall Hob at the gardens, if you must."
"We have done nothing but stall Hob Gadling today," Jessamy grumbles. "Repeatedly and at length."
"Then you are well-practiced in the art," Dream replies, and ignores the mounting anxiety that Hob will not want to be stalled again. That whatever lingering fondness might have been available to draw upon has been wasted on Dream's poor planning, and his chance at redemption has been well and truly spent.
That there was never any chance at all.
"I'll do everything I can," Jessamy promises, amidst the distant hubbub of the emptying cathedral.
After all, what reason has Hob to forgive him?
What reason has Hob to even hear Dream out, after the way he'd been treated last year? The way he'd been treated throughout their entire relationship? A dirty little secret. A string of broken promises and cancelled plans. An empty chair at a table for two, and half of the bed left cold, and a thousand pictures that could never see the light of day, and—
"Dream."
The world, soft and shimmering with Nightmares, goes abruptly bright as Dream blinks away the Sight.
Dream clears his throat around a racing heart. "Apologies."
"He wants to talk to you," Jessamy says.
"Perhaps," Dream allows.
"He responded to the coronation invitation twice."
Yes.
Dream has the paper copy in his study, returned within a week of the initial mail drop, carefully tucked between the pages of his journal. He has traced over the indent of cheap ballpoint into fine cardstock countless times—the sloppy X next to Graciously Accepts. The clear, unmistakable 1 next to Number of Attendees.
"He arrived at the palace this morning forty-five minutes early," Jessamy reminds him.
This, too, is true. Dream had glanced at the text message during breakfast, and had not been able to concentrate on the entire rest of his conversation with Lord Feldstein. He can almost remember the thrill of it, the fluttering in his stomach like a swarm of spiders spinning webs.
"Stop panicking."
"I am not panicking," Dream says immediately.
"Happy to hear it. Now go deal with the hag, and I'll take care of everything else in the meantime. You want me to send in a rescue team at half five?"
Dream exhales. "If you would be so kind."
"It would be my pleasure," says Jessamy. "See you at the feast."
Dream slips his phone back into his pocket after turning the ringer volume to maximum, for the eventual phone call that will rescue him from the likes of Ethel Cripps, and stares at the doors that still stand before him. Security float readily at his sides.
He smooths a hand down his front, over the woolen dress coat and the silk button-up and the cashmere undershirt and beneath all that, a burgundy Ferragamo necktie pressed close to his heart.
And then he takes in a breath, and opens the door.
The plan had been for Hob to occupy the chair across from Dream, during the dinner. It is the traditional seating for married royals, and absenting a spouse, usually the place of a friend or other close relative. The seating to the left and right are reserved for your actual conversation partners—not to say those you wish to converse with, but rather, those that give the greatest political advantages.
It was supposed to have been Hob catching his eye across the gourd-laden centerpieces. Brushing fingers as they passed the gravy boat. Sneaking little toe-nudges and ankle-kicks beneath the table.
For his sins, it is instead…
Desire.
Worse, it is Desire, who has been seated next to Prince Cluracan of Easter, both of whom could only be more thrilled with the situation if it included complimentary sex toys served between the soup and salad course.
"I've been rather enjoying Oxford, actually," Desire says silkily. "It's a privilege to be exposed to such mighty towers of higher learning."
"I've got a mighty tower I'd like to expose you to," Cluracan says.
"I find I learn best," purrs Desire, "with a hands-on approach."
Dream barely resists the urge to vomit into his roast chicken.
His other options at hand are not much of an improvement. To Dream's left: the King of Diwali, who is on the same page as his Lady Kaur and therefore presenting as much conversational opportunity as a witch in a web. And to Dream's right: the Queen of Mother's Day.
"Oh, here—this is the one I was telling you about earlier, him in the swing—just look at his little legs!"
"I see," says Dream politely.
"Just wait," Queen Lyta insists, as the video crawls past the twenty second mark. "Just wait until the end, he'll do that silly wave of his again—he's just such a ham!"
Prince Daniel, clad in Bluey pajama, swings contentedly in his baby seat on Queen Lyta's phone.
It is a four minute video.
Not for the first time, Dream's eyes subtly drift to the other feasting table in the hall that runs parallel to the main one, specifically to the far right end where the lesser dignitaries of the spring season have been seated.
"He loves this swing," Queen Lyta sighs. "But only at this speed—it can go slower or faster, but this is the speed that he likes."
"Mm," says Dream.
Hob's head is bent in conversation with the woman next to him—some cousin of a cousin of Good Friday, if Dream recalls correctly—but one hand keeps reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear. It hadn't ever been long enough to do that, back when such a task might have belonged to Dream. Hob had talked about growing it out once or twice. There had been a careless little sketch Dream had done on a napkin, one night, of a Hob with hair long enough to braid. He'd sworn that he'd seen Hob slip it into his pocket as Dream had been settling the bill.
Hob had probably thrown it away. If not later that week then certainly in the aftermath of what Dream had done to him.
Has there been anyone else, in these months, to tuck those errant locks behind Hob's ears? Anyone else to run their fingers through his hair in the late hours of the night, when Hob's sleep schedule has been upended by a deadly combination of alternating observatory shifts and poorly timed Rockstars? Has anyone else taken his head onto their chest, just as he likes it, and—
Hob meets his eyes.
Dream looks away so quickly it makes Queen Lyta jump and nearly drop her cell phone into the colcannon.
"My apologies," Dream says, even as his heart is trying to beat through his chest. "I. Did not mean to startle you."
Hob had looked at him.
Hob had raised his head, and looked directly at him.
Had he looked angry?
Had he looked, perhaps… pleased?
Dream does not dare lift his head again to see.
"Please," he replies, as Queen Lyta has responded to his apology with some generic sort of reassurance. "You were saying? About Daniel?"
She eyes him.
Dream reminds himself of their very, very short list of trusted alliances. Of all the people in Allhallowton who are relying on them—on him—to ensure the security of Halloween's future.
Of his duty.
"I would very much like," Dream forces himself to say, "to see the video you had mentioned. Of Daniel at his swimming lessons."
Queen Lyta lights up. "Oh, he loves his swimming lessons!"
And Dream does not look at Hob again.
He can't. He has a preponderance of videos to watch of a baby learning to swim.
The concert program for tonight was ostensibly chosen by Destiny—being as that it is being performed in his honor—but anyone who truly knows Destiny is aware that his preferred celebratory concert would have featured a vast quantity of glow sticks, fog machines, and a lineup of increasingly obscure EDM artists. Absenting this, he has made do with the likes of Rachmaninoff and Mussorgsky instead.
Dream has not been it much paying attention, regardless.
He is quite certain that even if somehow tradition had allowed Destiny to cap off his coronation day with a massive rave, he would still not have been able to pay attention.
They are in the royal theater box, and Dream has an empty seat beside him where Hob would have been if today hadn't been anything but a series of disasters and setbacks. The empty seat is a void in the corner of his eye, reminding him that Hob is seated somewhere else in this concert hall, watching the same performance, breathing the same air. It reminds him that very shortly after this Hob will be in the gardens. With Dream. Talking to Dream.
Dream is rehearsing the conversation in his head. Dream is remembering Hob's eyes from across the dining hall, and not daring to hope that it was affection he had seen in their depths. Most of all, Dream is trying so very very hard not to think about the monstrous disparity between what he longs for and what he actually deserves from Hob Gadling after—
And, so occupied, Dream does not see the arrow coming.
After a week of Florentine sunshine, Hob shines not so much golden in the dawn light, but a rich and mouthwatering bronze. The contrast is highlighted all the more by the white terrycloth of the robe he has shrugged onto his shoulders—although left untied at the front, because Dream has trained him impeccably over these last two years—and also the porcelain white cereal bowl in his hand, which if the attendant was to be believed, is part of a limited-edition series by some famed Italian ceramics artist.
"Twelve euros," Hob repeats, in an incredulous tone that rather spoils the Renaissance painting Dream had been composing in his head just now.
"It is room service," Dream says. "An upcharge is to be expected."
"We've been paying twelve euros every morning for a bowl of Coco Pops." Hob's mouth works soundlessly for several seconds. "I didn't even finish it, yesterday!"
Yes. Dream had been… rather distracting, yesterday morning. And following that, the cereal had gone soggy, and the halls of the Bargello had been calling. He'd bought Hob a croissant along the way to make up for it.
"I am told that breakfast is the most important meal of the day," Dream announces.
Hob, chewing Coco Pops, gives him a flat look. "Oh, yeah? Tell me, right now, what a box of cereal goes for at your average supermarket."
Dream wrinkles his nose.
Hob raises his eyebrows.
"Ten," Dream says.
"Ten pounds?"
"Euros?" Dream tries.
"I have taken you grocery shopping before," Hob accuses, jabbing his spoon in Dream's direction. "At least twice."
Dream's brow furrows. "Why would I have looked at the prices?"
Hob lets out an extremely dramatic sigh of exasperation—honestly, he's not even the one paying for the hotel—and digs his spoon into his Coco Pops. "Mental. Absolutely mental. Christ knows what your omelet cost, if the cereal was twelve euro."
Dream honestly could not say.
Presumably more.
Hob shakes his head, leaning back against the table opposite the bed and in turn parting the robe a little further. Warm light spills across the soft planes of his stomach, dark hairs glinting golden and lickable. A wine-dark bruise in the shadow of his left inner thigh, the shape of a mouth. The angle of his jaw, perfectly stubbled before the shave.
"Come back to bed," Dream says.
"Can't," Hob says, through a mouthful of food. He looks up at Dream, and jabs at the cereal bowl with his spoon. "S'eight euros' worth left in here still, pumpkin."
"It's my birthday," Dream complains.
It isn't.
Dream's birthday could never be celebrated in a quiet, sun-drenched hotel room, in a city where no one knows his name, on a day where no schedule binds the hours of his life almost too tight to breathe. But it is close to his birthday—as close as they could logistically manage—and also, it had been Hob who had introduced him to the concept of "birthday week" and "birthday month" in the first place. He has only himself to blame, if Dream has been rather free with the concept this trip.
Anyway, it is not some great suffering for Hob to grant him this wish.
If anything, this is a birthday wish for Hob.
Dream ought to be being thanked right now. Praised, even.
"Please?" he adds, head tilting, knee shifting just enough to make the sheet slip.
Hob swallows, and points the spoon at Dream. "Don't you dare."
Dream parts his legs, just a little further.
"No seductions until I've eaten my bloody Coco Pops," Hob says firmly.
"Tease," Dream accuses.
Hob splutters. "I'm—I'm not the one laying myself out like a bloody buffet right now!"
Hob does not understand.
Hob has never understood, despite two years' worth of best efforts.
Dream scowls, and settles back against the mountain of pillows, drawing his knees up to his chest and crossing his arms for good measure. If Hob does not wish to enjoy the splay of his limbs, then he shan't have to.
All this, over some cereal.
And Hob calls him the dramatic one.
"Would it make you feel better," Hob asks, between bites, "if I told you that I've got a birthday present for you?"
Dream perks up.
He, of course, has received for his birthday everything from Fabergé eggs to musical compositions to bat sanctuaries. He had once, for his fifth birthday, received an airplane. Death had been extremely jealous.
But those were presents for a prince.
"I picked it up the other day, while we were out," Hob says. "Just a little thing. Er. I thought you'd like it."
He is folding the robe back over his chest. His eyes keep averting.
"I will love it," Dream declares.
Hob had bought him a present. Hob had seen something that he thought Dream might like—Dream, the person, the boyfriend, the lover—and taken the time to purchase it and squirrel it away somewhere—for Dream.
Of course he will love it.
"Well if you don't, er, we can always return it," Hob says, voice threaded with uncertainty.
Ridiculous man.
Dream would sooner die.
"I hope you did not bring up this birthday present," Dream says, "only to then tell me there is still more accursed cereal to eat first."
"Two more bites?"
"Hob."
And Hob laughs, shoulders loosening at last. "All right, all right! Presents now."
Dream seats himself cross-legged on the bed, at the ready.
He watches as Hob digs a package out of the laundry bag, of all places—though in fairness, somewhere Dream would never have looked. He would sooner buy new clothing than re-wear an unwashed outfit. The package Hob produces, and then carries over, is about the same size as a box you'd use to gift a watch band, or perhaps a large necklace. They have been in so many stores and shops over the last week that Dream genuinely has no idea what it might be.
Hob seats himself across from Dream, bringing with him the dip of the bed and the scent of hotel shampoo. His robe is still wrapped shut, satin edges forming a vee just low enough to allow for a puff of chest hair. Like an ice cream cone.
A thing which requires licking.
"Darling," Hob says. "My eyes are up here."
Dream licks his lips, and meets warm brown eyes. They're crinkled in the corners. Dream does not think he will ever tire of the way Hob smiles with his whole face, joy and fondness and sunshine eclipsing every feature.
Every part of him, captivating.
How did Dream get so lucky?
"Your gift," Hob reminds him, box extended.
"I love it," Dream murmurs, reaching.
"What? You haven't even—"
Dream's hand grasps at satin, and tugs until Hob's mouth meets his own.
A gift, indeed.
The necktie had been worn to a number of functions—not all of them, not even most—but as many as Dream could conceivably manage without raising suspicions—and then, these last thirteen months, it had stayed tucked in the back of a drawer, out of sight but not out of mind. Dream had not been worthy of it.
He is still not worthy of it.
(Perhaps, in truth, he has never been.)
And perhaps it was for the best, that Ferragamo had become business non grata today and thus prevented Dream from wearing their necktie—much in the same way that it has turned out to be for the best that the Earl of Corinth tried to sabotage Allhallowton's municipality application, and that the Lady Cripps had demanded an audience after the coronation ceremony. It… does not bear thinking of, how the day might have gone otherwise.
The entire theater had been evacuated, or so Dream has been told. He had barely had time to blink at the gleaming red arrow embedded in the seat beside him before security had swarmed, pulling him up and slipping him into the Shadows so deftly that it was not until he had emerged on the other side in the palace safe room that the pieces had come together:
The arrow buried in black velvet, at an angle rather than dead-on. Destiny, one row ahead and two seats down. The extra security concerns throughout the day.
An assassination attempt.
Valentine's are apparently claiming a frame job, but are not getting very far on the argument of "If we'd wanted to kill you we would have done it properly". An ill beginning to Destiny's reign, whatever truths emerge.
And now Dream is here alone, in the gardens, and Hob will be home, in his little flat above the inn, groaning about the long day and tossing his formal wear right into his ancient laundry hamper atop the chocolate-stained joggers and ratty band t-shirts.
Or is there someone there, right now, tutting as they rescue his suit from the general wash?
Is there someone pulling Hob in by his loosened tie, to kiss him hello, welcome home, I missed you today? Someone pressed up against the warm heat of his chest, and basking in the eye crinkles of his smile?
Is there someone, laughing, asking, so that rotten old ex of yours didn't give you any trouble, then?
Dream stares down at the necktie in his hands, burgundy studs in black silk just visible in the dim glow of the night garden, and swallows around the knife in his throat. He closes his eyes before the tears can fall.
He had been so excited, when Destiny had granted him permission to court.
So excited, that he had not even stopped to wonder whether or not he should.
If there is someone in Hob's flat right now, wrapping sandwiches in clingfilm for tomorrow's packed lunches and chatting about the price of groceries and gesturing with their hands and employing slang and wearing whatever clothes they bloody well please because every last piece of their person is not subject to public opinion—
If this is so.
If this is so, then it is for the best.
For Hob. The best man Dream has ever known, deserving of the greatest devotion and the most steadfast of companionship and the luxury of a life lived ordinarily.
There are a million, perhaps a billion people in this world that could offer these simple things—but Dream has none of them, nor will he ever. He cannot. All he really has to offer is a seat at the symphony, with an arrow embedded right where Hob's heart would have been.
It will be for the best for the family, too. Death may protest and Delirium may wrinkle her nose—to say nothing of what unholy glee Desire will unleash upon him—but at the end of the day, the benefits of a political marriage are inarguable. Dream is a desirable match. There will be no shortage of fine suitors. Likely, they will even enter the marriage with similar business-like expectations, and leave each other in peace whenever possible.
Dream will while away the years in loveless wedlock, serving his people, growing older and ever-lonelier.
Strange, how often the noble coincides with the tragic.
Dream should have known better than to ever think that he was meant for—
"Ah-hah!"
Dream jumps. Shadows gather and Nightmares rush and his Sight is already beginning to haze into being—when he realizes just who is standing beneath the chrysanthemum arch, suit rumpled, hands up in placation.
"Sorry," says Hob, apologetically.
Dream's heart is pounding. He holds the Shadows tight around himself.
Hob slowly lowers his hands, offering a tentative grin. "Didn't mean to scare you. Should have realized you'd be a bit on edge."
"What—" It comes out embarrassingly shaky. Dream swallows. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you," Hob replies.
Dream's chest constricts. "Me?"
"Yes, you. What, you think I'd drain the last dregs of my Joy sneaking into the royal gardens because I had some insatiable midnight craving for topiary?"
"…The last of your Joy," Dream repeats, appalled.
Hob rolls his eyes. "It's September. I'm lucky I had any left to use at all, and you know it."
"…I suppose," says Dream, who well remembers Hob's mid-summer pouting. He wonders if Hob has a plan in place to leave the gardens, now that he has used up all his Joy to get in, but he knows the answer before the thought has even finished.
Of course Hob has not considered this.
Heart first, head second. That's his Hob.
"You must have done well for yourself, this past year," Dream observes, "if your Joy has sustained you this far."
"More like, I've no one to show off for anymore," Hob replies with a lopsided grin.
Dream's heart skips a beat. "No one?"
Hob shrugs a shoulder.
His features flicker in the light of the jack-o'-lanterns, gold and bronze eclipsing the wash of silver moonlight. The candlelight catches his eyes, cinnamon warm. That lock of hair is still begging to be tucked behind an ear, and apparently there is no one else to whom the task might fall.
Irrelevant information.
Irrelevant.
"You should not have come," Dream says.
"Oh, piss off," Hob replies. "You've been trying to get me into this garden all bleeding day, and now that I've gone through the trouble of scaling a fifteen-foot wall, confounding half a dozen security guards, and almost dying via black cat—"
"I have not," Dream interrupts, flushing, "been attempting to—"
"Well let's see," says Hob, interrupting in turn. "First of all, I had not one but two private escorts to the palace today, including a one-on-one tour of the entire place by the chief of staff, and then a raven stalking me everywhere I went, and then two of the ushers at the theater had to have a hushed argument when I presented my ticket about whether I was actually meant to be seated in the royal family's box…"
Hellfire.
Hob raises his eyebrows. "So I had gathered, I think pretty reasonably, that you were looking to speak with me."
"It was nothing," Dream says stiffly.
"Didn't seem like nothing."
"A—misunderstanding, then."
"A misunderstanding," Hob repeats.
"Yes."
"You wanna tell me which part I misunderstood?"
Dream does not reply.
"The tour? The bird? The customized invitation to arrive at the palace two hours before everyone else did?"
Silence.
Hob waits. His arms are crossed and his hip is cocked and his jaw is set, and you'd think he was confidence itself if it weren't for the way his lower lip is moving, just a hair—just enough to betray the way his teeth are worrying at the inside of it.
Dream's silence stretches on longer—and longer still.
Hob's shoulders, slowly but surely, begin lose their confident line.
And Dream remembers another Hob, a year ago, and the way his face had collapsed when all the you can't do this to us's and the please let's just talk's and the but I love you's had run out and still Dream had stood there, cold and ruinous. He had watched Hob's heart break in two, before his very own eyes, and said nothing. Done nothing.
Dream swallows. "I should not have troubled you, today." His eyes flicker down to the ground. "I had foolishly—"
"What?" Hob prompts, when Dream does not continue.
Selfishly.
Foolishly, selfishly.
Dream shakes his head. "I had only hoped," he says, as loudly as he can manage with a steady voice which is not very loud at all, "to—apologize. For the manner of our parting, when last we spoke."
An owl hoots.
Leaves rustle in the breeze.
"You mean," says Hob carefully, "when you unilaterally decided that it would be in my best interest for us to break up after two whole years together, and gave me absolutely no say about it one way or the other?"
Dream swallows once more.
"It maybe wasn't your best moment, yeah."
There had been a speech, that Dream had written—and written, and rewritten, and rewritten once more—and still, even last night, he'd read the words over and found them wanting. He had told himself that he would know what to say, when the time came, because Hob has always somehow brought out the best in him.
But here Dream stands, and the words are still lacking.
He is lacking.
"I am sorry," Dream says—awkward—trying, because Hob at least deserves this much. "I. I had only meant… That is to say. Whatever my intentions. You were owed better than my actions that day. You are owed better than my actions now, too, and I am all too aware—that is—I know—"
I was so scared.
I still love you.
Dream takes in a careful breath. "It brought me no pleasure, to hurt you as I did. And. I would disgrace myself only further in asking your forgiveness now. So I shall not. But I am profoundly, and most earnestly, sorry."
The voice crack on the last word has him clamping his mouth shut, and swallowing down hard.
Cool silk bunches between his fingers.
He's still holding the fucking tie.
"Thank you," says Hob, gracious where he should be accusing. Furious. Righteous. But instead his expression is soft, and softer still as he steps forward with a crunch of autumn leaves. "But also, as it happens, I do forgive you."
"You shou—"
"I met an interesting woman from Iceland, at New Year's last year," Hob says.
Dream freezes.
"Something about books on Christmas, I couldn't pronounce her actual holiday even if I could remember it, which I can't, but—"
"Jólabókaflóðið," Dream says woodenly.
"Yeah," Hob agrees. "That. Anyway, we were put at the same table in the corner—y'know, Holidays That Make You Go Oh I Saw A TikTok About That Once—and of course we got to talking because I'm me, and then we got to drinking because it was New Year's, and she said that—"
"I can imagine," Dream cuts in, heart pounding, voice sharp as a blade, "what Alianora had to say about me, and my family. And my decision to subject another innocent person to that risk."
"Dream," says Hob, dark eyes shining in the lantern light.
"She is correct," Dream says, for his words keep tumbling out, faster and and faster still. "Whatever her words, they will have been true, they will—she—she needs no exaggeration nor falsehood to rend her tale into a tragedy."
When had Dream started to tremble?
When had Hob gotten so close?
"Listen. What your mother did to her is horrifying," Hob says, shaking his head. "Absolutely horrifying. It was—you were both still at school, for Christ's sake."
"I ought to have told you," Dream whispers.
"You tried."
Dream shakes his head, as his eyes begin to prickle and his vision begins to blur. "I was selfish. I was thoughtless, I-I endangered you, I was—"
"Darling," says Hob. "I think you were fucking traumatized."
The pressure of Hob's fingertips at his elbow has Dream going absolutely rigid, his whole body snapping with the shock of it, and somewhere between the gasp of air into his lungs and the thudding of his heart against his chest, a tendril of Shadow shoots out to snake around Hob's wrist and Dream cannot pull it to heel. He cannot. There is no taste or warmth through Shadows, no physical connection, and yet Dream can feel some steady pulse of Hob in his gut that was not there before and he—
He has missed this.
Hob is here.
Hob is here.
"I only meant to protect you," Dream says helplessly. "I only meant—I—she had asked about you over dinner, Hob, she knew your name, s-she knew who you were, I don't—I don't know how, I—"
Hob shushes him, gentling him with a hand. "It's all right, love. I told you, I'm not angry. It's all forgiven."
"You ought not."
"I have, though."
"You ought to leave. You—Hob, you—" Dream closes his eyes against the tears. He draws in a shaking breath. "For all the lofty titles and fine jewels in my keeping. I have nothing to offer that would equal even half your worth. Nothing."
A thumb brushes under his eye. "Well, first off—Dream, love, look at me—first off, that's rubbish. I'm a human being, not a Monet painting up for auction. I don't have a prescribed value."
"You—"
"Shh," says Hob. "Second of all. I did, after two plus years as your boyfriend, pick up on the fact that your life is sort of insane. Your Google calendar looks like a Sunday crossword puzzle. Your idea of a beach read is municipal expenditure reports. You have a family protocol for the ironing of shoelaces."
Hob had found out about this last one six months or so into their relationship, and had thereafter brought it up with some regularity as a source of self-entertainment.
It is unfortunate to find that a year apart has not changed his feelings on the importance of smart shoelaces.
"But," says Dream.
"Also, if you recall about five minutes ago, when we talked about how you unilaterally made decisions about our relationship and how that was a bit not good?" Hob asks, raising an eyebrow.
"This is different."
"It is not."
Dream shakes his head. "You don't understand what you would be agreeing to, what—what your life would become—"
"Then let me find out!" Hob cries, throwing his hands up in the air. "Tell me what you're worried about! All the things you think I'll hate, the parts you think I'll be rubbish at, tell me everything and then let me make a choice about it!"
Somewhere, somewhen, another tendril of Shadow has slithered out and wrapped itself around Hob's ankle.
Probably while Dream was busy trying not to think of what it would be like to be announced in the ballroom and have Hob's name follow his own. To have Hob across from him at every banquet table. To sleep every night and wake every morning and never again know the chill of an empty bed.
Hob takes in a deep breath and then blows it out, exasperation collapsing back into something like fondness. "Also," he says. "Fourth of all. I think we're on four?" He tilts his head. "Right. Well, fourth of all. Even if I did have some arbitrary price tag attached. I'm pretty sure that doing an entire bloody garden installation in my honor would cover the cost of me and then some, eh?"
Hellfire.
Hob's mouth quirks up. "Or is that not my favorite constellation planted in violets over there?"
Hellfire and brimstone.
"…They are pansies," Dream mutters. "Violets bloom in the spring."
"Sorry, right. Pansies. Oh, and over there—that's Taurus. And Eridanus! And I'm pretty sure you're standing under an arch of vines that are supposed to… supposed to be the Butterfly Nebula?"
They are. There is also, amongst other wonders, a topiary sculpted into a lunar module, a set jack-o'-lanterns exquisitely carved into the planets of the solar system, and an antique garden telescope set picturesquely amongst a swirl of asters. All of it sketched out on long, lonely nights, only made into a reality with Mervyn's landscaping connections and no small amount of personal savings drained.
There is no denying that this was built for Hob.
That Dream had built it for Hob.
"It's incredible," Hob says, head swiveling from the bed of galaxy petunias to the rows of stargazer lilies that surround the little Yoda topiary. He reaches out, sight unseen, and runs a hand down Dream's forearm. "Incredible."
It may be all that keeps Dream from levitating right there on the spot.
"I had meant. For you to see it in daylight," he manages.
"Great thing about the sun," Hob says. "Comes back up again every morning."
So it does.
"You'll just have to show me around again tomorrow," Hob adds, flashing a grin.
Dream's heart skips a beat.
Hob's eyes are soft and dark, sparkling with moonlight and jack-o'-lanterns and an unguarded affection that Dream has starved himself of for far too long.
He is here.
He is here.
"I still—" Dream blurts out, and then stops. He flushes, deep enough that Hob can probably see it even in the darkness. "I—that is—" He tries to recover. "I had meant to say that. That."
"Dream," Hob says gently. His hands find their way to Dream's shoulders with the lightest of touches. "I know." His eyes are positively shining. "I still do, too."
Dream lets out a wordless, choked little noise.
"Hey," says Hob, one thumb rubbing slowly back and forth over Dream's clavicle. "Can I tell you a secret?"
Dream blinks wetly at him. He nods.
"I've got your mother's obituary clipped out of the newspaper, back home," Hob says.
Dream's mouth drops open.
The corners of Hob's mouth twitch. "S'on my fridge. I flip her the bird every morning while I make my coffee."
The laugh, strangled by horror, comes out mortifyingly goose-like. "You do not."
"Hand to god, I do," Hob says, with a rueful shrug and a grin that belies it "I know she's your mum and you've probably got, y'know, all sorts of complicated feelings about her that I'm ready to respect. But for me, all I care about is that she hurt you. Repeatedly. On purpose. The best thing the old cunt ever did was drop dead, and good riddance to her."
Hob pauses, after this emphatic statement, and then almost imperceptibly winces.
"Er. Sorry. Probably a little soon for you to hear that."
Dream slowly shakes his head. "My feelings for my mother are…" He considers. "As you say. Complex. But I believe—if I cannot find it within myself to hate her so wholly—then I can at least find comfort in the assurance that someone else has taken up the task in my stead."
Hob laughs outright, and hooks a stray swirl of Shadow with a finger, drawing it into a spiral down his arm with a practiced twist.
Dream's breath catches.
"Now that's a job I can get behind," Hob says cheerfully.
His hands are on Dream's shoulders. His mouth is soft, and kissably close. He is wrapped in Shadows and Dream can feel the thrum of Hob Gadling in the marrow of his bones and the sockets of his teeth and in the pulsation of his heart down into the diaphragm that inflates his lungs.
Is it possible to overdose, on another human being?
"So," Hob says, knuckles brushing over Dream's cheek.
Dream tries very hard not to spontaneously combust into a thousand bats.
"All forgiven. All sorted. All oppositional monarchs deceased." Hob's finger pauses in its trail down Dream's neck, and his gaze flickers upward. "Unless your brother's planning to object?"
Dream thinks about Destiny, insisting that he meet with the Lady Cripps after the coronation ceremony, the hand on his shoulder and the parting words he'd been given: It will be for the best, in the end.
The hasty rearrangement of Hob's seats at both the banquet and concert.
The arrow embedded in red velvet cushion, right where Hob's heart would have been.
"I believe," Dream says slowly, "that my brother is actually. Quite supportive."
"Brilliant," says Hob. His finger, having resumed its southward path, runs over the starched shirt and satin lapel and then snags the swath of silk still clutched in Dream's hands. "Can't believe you still have this, by the way."
"It is the very best birthday present I have ever received," Dream replies.
"Didn't you once tell me you got an airplane for your birthday?"
"Yes," Dream says.
Hob rolls his eyes and, shaking his head, he loops the tie around Dream's neck, although instead of tying it in place he just holds the two ends loose in one hand. The silk is a cool, constant pressure against the back of Dream's neck.
Shadows rise around them.
Hob grins, small and secretive. "Got you."
Dream reaches up and, at last, tucks that errant lock of hair behind Hob's ear. Stubble catches against his palm as it finds the once-familiar angle of Hob's jaw. Thirteen months might as well have been an entire lifetime. He feels he had not appreciated, before, all the shades of brown that shone within the depths of Hob's eyes, nor the slight crook of his left incisor, nor still the steady heat of his body and the steady heart that beat inside of it, courageous and fierce and far more forgiving than Dream deserves.
Dream will appreciate it this time.
Every day.
Every minute, of every day, and he will make sure Hob knows it.
There are no more stars overhead, when Dream's hand gently angles Hob's face and guides him in, when the pull of silk at the back of Dream's neck draws him forward in turn, and at last, at last, at last—their mouths meet.
It is a gentle, slow kiss. Hob's fingers run between the crease of the tie and the skin of Dream's neck, his stubble scraping, his nose brushing, every point of contact a universe exploding into being.
Dream's body is a werewolf's howl. A banshee's screech. The lightning bolt that galvanizes the dead back into waking.
Hob laughs softly against him. "Darling," he murmurs. "You're vibrating."
The world is gone, when Dream opens his eyes, reduced to a shimmer of purples and blacks. Nightmares swim at the edges of his vision. Shadows swirl. He blinks, sightless, and he can taste sweet fear on his tongue and scent the horror on the wind, a billion restless minds in the throes of their darkest dreams.
But still, something warm and solid in his arms.
Dream kisses him again.
Or, he tries to. Blinded, he knocks their foreheads together, then noses, but winds whip and Shadows dance and hands clutch and Dream bites his way down to his prize. He claims.
Hob pulses against him, within him, his mouth wet and hot and shockingly real when Dream is not quite sure his body exists anymore. He has been split open. The world is darkness and Nightmare and the roar of the wind and Hob.
"I love you."
"I love you, too."
"I have—missed you. Unspeakably missed you. My Hob."
A thumb brushes under one of Dream's eyes. "Well then don't send me away again, you berk."
Hob is beginning to appear again, a dim outline amongst a haze of ink and byzantium. Dream can feel silk against the back of his neck, cool and grounding.
"Okay," Dream whispers. He's trembling. He blinks, and blinks again. "Okay."
"There you are," Hob says softly.
His eyes shine like lanterns, just for an instant, and then Dream blinks again and they are a tumble of autumn leaves calling him home.
"I love you," Dream says, hoarse and helpless.
The Shadows have receded, now, their winds dying down and the stars twinkling back into existence above them—but for the little tendrils that ripple and wrap their way around Hob's limbs possessively.
Hob quirks a smile. "I know."
Dream stares.
"Ow," Hob complains, but he's laughing even as he swats the Shadow away from his neck. "Come on! Like I was going to let that opportunity pass me by?"
"You could have tried," Dream sighs.
"Do or do not," Hob says immediately. "There is no—mmph!"
Dream misses the steady pressure of the tie around the back of his neck, but the way Hob's mouth looks when it's stretched out around the band of silk—more than makes up for the loss.
"'inkh-hee!" says Hob, delight apparent even through the makeshift gag.
Dream rolls his eyes, but relaxes the Shadows holding the necktie in place.
"You missed me," Hob says cheerfully. "You missed my Star Wars references."
Lucifer help him, Dream had.
"Come," he says instead, taking Hob by the hand and wrapping a gentle cloak of Shadows around him. "We have business elsewhere, this night."
Hob frowns. "We do?"
"Urgently," Dream replies. "We must away."
"Where?"
Dream tilts his head, and allows one corner of his mouth to twitch upward. His Shadows are at the ready to steal them away, and just before he slips them into darkness, he looks to Hob and answers with all gravity:
"To a galaxy far, far away."
By which he of course means, his bedroom.
Dream wakes to fingers scritching through his hair.
It is… pleasing.
"Darling," Hob murmurs. "Time to get up."
Dream makes a face.
"Come on. They already came by with your notes, and breakfast is on the way."
Dream grunts.
He can feel Shadows that have, at some point in the night, gently coiled themselves around Hob. He lets them wrap just a little tighter. Lets them pet at strong thighs and a furred chest. Mine, he thinks sleepily. Mine, mine, mine.
Eventually, he stretches like a cat on a fence such that he arches his back right into Hob's lovely, solid form. He hums a little, pressing into the warmth, and then relaxes completely into Hob with a contented sigh. His Shadows give a little squeeze.
These mornings are his favorites. Next week it will be Hob's turn to work the observatory again, and given the hours he keeps for it Dream has conceded to spending those nights at Hob's flat instead. And while Dream has managed some discreet upgrades to Hob's mattress, sheets and pillows in the last few months (he will do much for love but he draws the line at polyester), it also does usually work out that Dream is asleep before Hob is home, and awake and away before Hob is even stirring. It is, from a certain perspective, of no net benefit to either of them for Dream to be there at all.
But Dream hates waking alone.
He has never told Hob this.
This particular morning, in his room, with the sound of spring rain pattering at the windows and the watery dawn bathing the walls gray—Hob indulges him. His fingers trail up and down Dream's side, over his hips and across the flat plane of his stomach, unhurried and tender. He presses a kiss to the back of Dream's shoulder, and presses his forehead there moments later.
Perhaps Hob hates waking alone, too.
"Pumpkin."
Dream groans.
"It's almost six. Come on."
Twenty-six years of his life, Dream has spent waking to alarms all on his own. Thousands of mornings, he has dragged himself out of bed without even the indulgence of a snooze button.
But a mere nine months of waking up with Hob, and this is what he has been reduced to.
He would not change a single thing.
The dining room in Dream's apartments has, for most of his time here, been more of an academic construction rather than an actual room for dining. What few meals were not accounted for by either his function or his family were usually eaten in either his office or—more often than not—skipped entirely.
Enter Hob, who had objected most strenuously to this, especially when he had discovered the percentage of Dream's meals that consisted entirely of granola bars. Hob had also then not been swayed by the subsequent assurance that they were at least a very nice granola bars. Dream had them flown in from an organic bakery in America and everything.
Failing any ability to modify Dream's schedule or alleviate his workload, though, Hob has instead taken it upon himself to ensure that Dream at least starts each day with a full breakfast on board.
Presently, Dream's porridge is going cold as he scowls down at the folder of notes that had been delivered earlier this morning.
"They've added on a meeting with St. Lucian's," Dream complains, flipping between the schedule and page about three quarters of the way back with the meeting notes. "I told them to keep my three o'clock open, why would—this isn't even urgent."
Hob swallows a mouthful of Coco Pops. "I saw that. Don't worry, I'll be all right."
Dream is irritably scrolling through emails on his phone. "I promised I'd be there."
"Actually," Hob says nudging his ankle under the table. "As I remember it, you promised that you'd try, and I said that the whole point of me having my first public appearance without you was to have my first public appearance without you, so really, it was fine if you gave it a miss."
Hob is not incorrect.
Dream is also now staring at last month's meeting minutes and realizing that several key deadlines for the LBN initiative appear to have been neglected by St. Lucian's House. Presumably, this is why they've requested an urgent meeting two weeks ahead of schedule.
"And," Hob adds, "it's not like you're leaving me all on my lonesome—I'll be with Death! She's lovely. You know she'll look out for me."
Dream bites his lower lip.
Hob reaches across the table and gently pushes Dream's notes down. "Dream," he says. "Darling. It's just a Headless Horsemen polo match. All I have to do is walk into the stadium behind your sister, sit down, and then be politely engaged in sport for two hours."
"And—"
"And always walk a step behind your sister, knee-brush deportment, hands at sides, glide don't grip the banister, chin up, your sister sits last and rises first, cell phones are for emergencies only and I am to have absolutely no engagement with press or public," Hob reels off.
Dream presses his lips together.
Hob raises his eyebrows.
"…You are welcome to smile at the press and public," Dream mutters, at last.
"Oh, do you suppose?"
Dream glares.
Hob gives him a crooked grin that is nothing like the camera-ready expressions their etiquette coach has been drilling into him—uneven and soft and rooted in so much affection it makes the thing rabbiting inside of Dream's chest begin to still.
"Eat," says Hob, and with the wave of his hand, the bowl of porridge rises slowly into the air, floats over, and then rests itself squarely atop Dream's folder of notes.
Dream exhales. "You ought not waste your Joy on—"
"On what? The love of my life?" Hob asks.
Dream rolls his eyes, and snatches the spoon laden with porridge that is hovering before his mouth. He eats it, all on his own, because he is not a child that requires spoonfeeding.
"May fourth comes but once a year," Hob says, shrugging as he returns to his cereal. "Let me enjoy my Joy while it lasts, eh?"
Ridiculous creature.
Even now, when he has a perfectly functional spoon—an heirloom antique, even, with a porcelain inlay painted with exquisite little Boschian figures—Hob is instead gleefully levitating individual Coco Pops into his mouth.
"Perhaps you could consider it practice for this Saturday," Dream suggests.
"What, going a few hours without using any Joy?" Hob asks.
Dream inclines his head. "Unless you would risk accidentally revealing the existence of Holidays to everyone at your cousin's wedding. And subsequently encountering the wrath of the Council."
"Do you know," replies Hob. "I go to my very normal, non-magical, mortal job five days a week—and then sometimes out to the mortal pub, or to mortal parks, or on holidays with my mortal friends—have done for years—and I somehow manage to contain myself all right."
This is true.
That Hob has lived most of his life—indeed continues to live most of his life—as a mortal, is a regular source of bewilderment to Dream.
"If anything," Hob continues, "I think we should be worried about you."
"Me?" Dream repeats, offended.
"Well, yeah."
"I," Dream says, "who have been trained by the finest magical scholars in the world since birth?"
Hob gives him a pointed look, and nudges Dream's foot with his own.
It takes Dream a few beats to realize that he's let a Shadow begin to creep up Hob's ankle.
"I can pass as a mortal when I wish to," Dream says stubbornly, not withdrawing the Shadow because this would make it perfectly obvious that he had not meant for it to go there in the first place. "You have just rarely seen me with need to do so."
"So that time in Florence, with the Vespa—"
"It almost killed you."
Hob hooks Dream's ankle between his own, and grins. "Of course it did, love."
"It came within a foot—"
"Inches, probably."
"—going at least ninety kilometers an hour—"
"Oh, at least."
Dream sniffs. "Perhaps I shall let it hit you next time."
"Luckily, I don't think we'll encounter too many rogue motor scooters this weekend," Hob replies. "Although I can always check with Anna, to be safe."
Dream takes a spoonful of porridge, and does not reply.
Jessamy knocks at seven o'clock sharp.
Dream, still fastening his cuff links, glances over at the door and makes a face. He then looks over at his yet-unpacked briefcase, and the tablet still charging on the counter, and his tie—
"Just a mo'!" Hob calls, appearing from nowhere to gather things up at the speed of light.
"Thank you," Dream murmurs, securing the second little silver pumpkin into place.
"One could argue that it's my fault you're running late in the first place," Hob replies, dropping the briefcase on the antique Georgian side table and then looping today's necktie around Dream's collar.
Indeed.
Someone had been rather distracting while Dream had been dressing for the day.
"By the way," Hob says, as months of practice manifest into a flawless Windsor knot. He smooths it down, clipping in the tie pin, and looks up at Dream slyly. "Nice tie."
Dream's chest is a cauldron, bubbling over.
He can't believe he gets to have this.
"Thank you," Dream says, sliding a hand over Hob's, slotting their fingers together. "It was a gift."
Hob kisses him. "Love you."
"I know."
Hob beams.
Dream kisses him again, and as he pulls back, he notices the mug of tea Hob had hastily abandoned in order to help, left on the very edge of the table. A discreet tendril of Shadow pushes it back. He also directs it to plug the charger into Hob's phone, while he's at it. Hob never remembers to charge his phone.
A third tendril snakes toward the door, and swings it open to reveal Jessamy.
"Good morning," says Dream, straightening and taking up his briefcase. "My apologies for the wait."
"Good morning, your Highness," Jessamy replies, inclining her head. A second, shallower nod is directed at Hob. "Sir."
"Ma'am," Hob replies.
She grins, and turns back to Dream. "By your leave, Sir. The city planning committee await."
As they step out into the hallway, Hob calls out a Have a nice day at work, darling! that makes Dream imminently grateful for both Jessamy's discretion and that his apartments are quite far from any sibling currently in residence at the castle.
Jessamy opens her portfolio, and flips several pages in. "Shall we review on the walk over, Sir?"
"Please," says Dream.
She nods, and falls into step when he begins to walk. "Rebecca Cross."
"Mother of the bride," Dream replies. "Hob's maternal aunt, third youngest of four, retired primary school teacher and enthusiast of Mediterranean cruises. Divorced but on such amicable terms with her ex-husband Clive that they are attending together."
"Good," says Jessamy. "And Clive Cross?"
"Father of the bride, of course. Only child. Retired plumber. Football fan, particularly Crystal Palace. Also has three dogs and has begun to take up running as a sport."
Jessamy nods. "Henrietta Gadling?"
They move briskly down the hallways, her quizzing and Dream responding readily, as they have done every morning this week.
Later, Dream will check his phone as he is being driven to Allhallowton City Hall, and find a text there waiting that says Miss you already xx. He will smooth a hand down the black silk tie Hob had gifted him only months prior, and he will get bats in his stomach thinking about a day when perhaps every necktie he owns will have such memories. Birthdays. Holidays. Anniversaries. I just saw it and thought of you.
A day when perhaps Dream will carry a little piece of Hob with him always, no matter the function or the occasion, because a wedding band is forever.
Don't forget your leftovers in the fridge, Dream replies, because Hob has a very strange complex about not wasting food.
Literally was stepping out the door. Don't know what I'd do without you <3 <3 <3
Attend far fewer polo matches, I presume
I have every confidence that you will do wonderfully this afternoon
And even if you do misstep, large or small, I will love you no less for it. It is your efforts, and not your successes, that I hold most dear to my heart.
Love it's only half seven you can't go making my cry already
I'll have puffy eyes in all my pap photos
Dream frowns.
He pulls his briefcase up onto the seat, flicks the latches, and slips his fingers into a few pockets until he finds a set of his favorite Chanel under-eye patches. He always carries an extra set, for emergencies.
He snaps a ghoul into existence, and sets the packet delicately between its withered fingers. "To Hob Gadling," he says.
Jessamy gives him a side eye.
Three and a half minutes later, Dream's phone vibrates.
OH SURE SEND ME A FUCKING GHOST AT HALF SEVEN TOO
SCARED THE JESUS OUT OF ME
*BEJEESUS
*BEJEEZUS
TBH PROBABLY JESUS TOO
You're insane and I love you
