words best written

In his defense—

No, there is no defense. What he plans is absolutely pathetic, and he should feel shame proactively for his future actions.

But Dream doesn’t feel shame. He merely sits on the garden wall and watches the man absentmindedly petting the cat in his lap as he reads a book in the warm sunshine. Dream’s scrutiny goes unnoticed by the man but not the cat. The smoky-gray feline stares through narrowed eyes at Dream, ears twitching and a smug gleam in her orange eyes with each stroke of the hand against her back. Dream lifts his head, pointedly turns away, and steps off the wall to land with boots on concrete. Brushing a bit of black fur from his shoulder, he strides into the New Inn with a facade of far more confidence than he truly feels.

Seeing the easy affection Hob Gadling showed the stray cat has triggered something unknowable in Dream, drowning in the depths of his existence. He cannot parse what exactly it is, but it sits heavily, unsettling and discommoding, on his consciousness. He shoves aside the sensation and stops at the bar to order two drinks—one for himself, the other for the man he’s come to see. Janine smiles slightly and points him toward the door to the patio. Dream takes a step away from the bar then turns back, belatedly thanking the woman. She waves him off, but he sees the newfound looseness of her grin.

Hob looks up from the pages as Dream approaches; a small smile tugs at the immortal man’s lips while he sets his book aside. The cat’s ears flatten for a second, then she slinks off of Hob’s lap and disappears into the bushes lining the garden. Dream watches the bottlebrush tail vanish in the bramble before he turns his attention to the man.

“Hello, Hob.”

“Sit, sit,” Hob says with a gesture to the place beside him on the bench. “What brings you by?”

Dream hesitates. He can no longer remember the exact reason for coming to the New Inn, though Hob’s company is usually reason enough. Since his escape and the rekindling of their rendezvous, albeit at a much more reasonable rate than once a century, Dream has slowly settled into the prospect of friendship with Hob. It shouldn’t feel like such an impossibility, but Dream knows his other… ‘friendships’ pale in comparison to the one he now holds with Hob Gadling. This one is true, steadfast, and not built upon what Dream can do for the other.

Hob accepts Dream’s silence easily, shrugging it off as if it is normal to have innocuous questions go unanswered. He does as he has for centuries: He takes control of the conversation effortlessly. Hob tells Dream of the goings-on in his life, the students he teaches and the employees he’s hired for the New Inn. He speaks of new menu items and hobbies he’s picked up for this iteration of life as Gil Hadlen and the stray cat he’s come to love.

Something sharp bristles inside of Dream at the mention of the cat. He forces the stiffness to leave his muscles, leaning against the back of the bench as nonchalantly as possible, and stares at the expanse of brilliant white-blue overhead. Hob doesn’t seem to notice Dream’s reaction; he merely continues chattering on.

Dream lets the heat of the day seep into his skin, ground him to this moment. The bright sunshine and warmth remind him he is free. He will never be held captive again. No one will ever subject him to shortsighted, selfish demands or the cruelty of being on display as a specimen in a zoo. Dream now chooses who sees him and how, and he breathes in fresh air that tastes of an eternity of self-autonomy.

Hob falls silent beside him. Dream blinks at the sudden quiet, turning his head. Hob stares back with soft brown eyes. There is a tiny divot between his brows, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His lips are pulled ever so slightly downwards.

“Are you alright?”

“I am,” Dream answers with a nod.

Hob doesn’t look convinced, but he lets it drop. Rising to his feet, he extends an invitation of lunch and heads inside without waiting for Dream to reply. Dream smiles. He appreciates the easy manner in which Hob treats him now, four months into their friendship. The first two months were filled with awkwardness and hesitance, as if Hob was afraid of somehow upsetting or offending Dream. Which is… a rather fair worry, Dream can admit. He had, after all, stormed away in 1889 because of something so trivial as a proclamation of friendship.

But Hob no longer acts as if the relationship is built of spun sugar. Dream finds this quite enjoyable, even if it means hearing Hob boast of superficial achievements on occasion. Humans do as humans are wont to do, Dream supposes.

Dream deigns to eat a meal with Hob then takes his leave. There are situations to handle in the Dreaming; his realm is still not quite what it was before 1916 happened. There is the Corinthian to remake and more Dreams and Nightmares to craft.

He makes his way to the Shores of Creation and stands, staring at the sands before him. His hands rise, curve into shape in preparation, and hang unmoving in the air. Water crashes onto the shore, but it goes unheard. Shaking his head, Dream forces himself to focus, to create as he has for billions of years.

Time passes with the ease of the warm ocean tide, ebbing and flowing. Seconds stretch to minutes to hours, rich threads connecting every moment that slips by. The edges of the Dreaming ripple with each dreamer that enters their dreamscapes.

A tuft of black fur hits the sand and rocks.

The cat is back in the garden of the New Inn. Dream barely spares a glance as the night air fills with a low rumble. She rises to her feet and trots away, tail twitching in agitation until she vanishes from view. He turns back toward the bench where Hob sat just this morning. The man is nowhere in sight, but Dream knows Hob enjoys watching stars appear in the expanse of deepening blue-black overhead. So Dream leaps up onto the wooden seat and waits.

True to his prediction, Hob appears moments later. A glass gleams in the dim glow of the street lamps in front of the building. A few drops of beer slosh over the rim and drip down the sides of the glass. Hob lets out a low chuckle then, whistling cheerfully, settles in on the bench. Dream waits a beat before slinking forward out of the shadows.

“Well, you’re a new one.”

Hob’s voice is soft, pleasant, warm. Dream doesn’t make a sound as he inches forward. Hob holds out a steady hand; his expression softens at Dream’s hesitance. He murmurs encouragement and wears a smile that grows when Dream presses the top of his head to Hob’s palm. The touch is tender, careful, and Dream struggles to maintain composure.

Life-rough fingers scratch gently behind Dream’s ear, massage at a particular tense area behind his front shoulder. A low grumble escapes him; Hob’s face brightens at the eruption of purrs. Dream feels no shame as he presses closer.

His world narrows to this. This touch. This comfort. This affection given freely. He closes his eyes and curls up beside Hob’s thigh. Warmth rushes through his fur to soak into his skin, and Dream feels something loosen inside of him.

Hob yawns suddenly, and Dream snaps to awareness. The sun has set, leaving nothing but stars amongst the wisps scattered across the sky. The city is closing its eyes, settling in to enter his realm. Lucienne can handle it, he thinks only to let out a small grumble when Hob stretches. Dream freezes at the sound then darts away.

Hob’s voice fades as Dream steps into the Dreaming.

Dream listens with half an ear as Lucienne tells of the needs, the desires, of Dreamers and denizens alike. Matthew perches on the tall back of the throne, surprisingly quiet as the Librarian speaks. As much as Dream cares for his realm, his mind is elsewhere.

It’s been nearly a week since he sat with Hob. Since he felt a touch that branded itself into his skin. Since he let himself sink into the reality of his need—

Need.

Dream shifts in his seat. Need. A need for touch. As if he’s a child held at their mother’s breast, seeking comfort in her arms.

“Sire?”

He blinks once, twice, Lucienne swimming into focus. Her dark eyes are narrowed behind her glasses, and her lips press tightly together. Matthew ruffles his wings before fluttering down to rest on Dream’s knee. Dream frowns at the unmitigated concern etched in every facet of Lucienne’s face, in the way Matthew says “Boss?”

Dream rises to his feet, ignores his raven’s indignant squawk, and vanishes.

Thick, humid air presses in on all sides. It smells of ozone and wet. Sticky grass clings, scratching, bowing beneath the weight. A bottlebrush tail vanishes with a sharp flicker. Leaves rustle in the gusts of heavy wind, and something thwucks. Dream looks around, sees nothing but half a body striding along the sidewalk, torso and above hidden by their umbrella.

Dream leaps on silent feet to pad across the bench seat. Hob’s hand lands between Dream’s ears before the man looks down. An easy smile flickers on his lips, and his brown eyes sparkle. Dream gazes up at his friend—friend. What a novel concept, still, this friendship. No want of his gifts, only his company. A camaraderie so freely given. A companionship once claimed to be built on twin loneliness but has grown to be so much more.

A soft “mrew?” escapes when Dream finds himself suddenly scooped up into arms that speak of past work but a softer present, held to a breastbone beneath which a six-hundred-year-old heart beats. Dream hesitates then relaxes; it seems to be what Hob was waiting for. He chuckles, runs a hand over Dream’s back, and carries him inside.

For a full pub on a Friday night, it’s relatively quiet inside. Voices fill the air but none so loud as to be startling. Disarming. Hob speaks to nearly everyone he passes, but he doesn’t stop. His boots land on the stairs with easy, steady thumps, then a lock squeals as it moves out of place. Dream swallows against the tightness rising in his chest. His ears flick, tail swishing side to side in staccato movements. But then Hob steps over the threshold, and Dream’s apprehension fades.

“Silly one,” Hob croons softly, lowering Dream to the floor with ease. “You’ve chosen the wrong time for some scratches, haven’t you? About to be the storm of the year, they say. We can’t very well sit out in that, can we? Are you hungry?”

Hungry.

Hunger.

Dream is an anthropomorphic personification of a concept. Needs are nothing beyond his need for his realm. Hunger is nothing. But—

Dream is hungry. His stomach yearns not for sustenance, but he is. Starving. Needing. Craving.

For what, he knows not, but accepting the tin of tuna that Hob sets out is well enough.

The storm arrives with a rattle of windows and a thunderous crash through the heavens above. Dream sits with Hob on the sofa while the man watches the news then a gameshow. The hours wind away until Hob is stumbling down the short hall to his bedroom.

Dream waits until he hears snoring, until he feels the added presence in his realm, before he rises to his feet. Being within the walls of Hob’s flat had never once been an option for Dream. He would never impose like that. Even Hob, in all his affability and generosity, has limits. He deserves his own space on which no one encroaches.

Yet here stands Dream, hands folded together behind his back, as he examines the bookshelves lining one wall. The books are organized by no discernible pattern—Dream can make no sense of the sorting. Aged and newly-printed editions mingle amongst each other. He turns away at the gilded lettering on the spine of one book in particular: Metamorphoses. Acid dies, sharp, in the space between his ribs.

Innumerable plants sit on brightly-painted racks in front of the windows. Dream lets his finger run over the silken petals. Hob has done well, taken such care of these beauties. The love is shown in the flourishing. Frowning, Dream reaches out. Pale fingers pinch a misshapen yellowed leaf. It comes off easily, crumbles into nothingness on his palm. He brushes his hand on his jeans and moves on.

The living room is otherwise undecorated. It seems so unlike Hob to not show evidence of life, of his desire to greet each day and bid each night hello. There is nothing to prove that the man who resides here wishes to live. That he made a deal with Death in 1389 and both have abided by it since.

Dream’s feet carry him along the same path Hob took only an hour before. The immortal man lies, sprawled and snoring, across his bed. There is no moonlight here, only the occasional flicker of lightning to illuminate, but Dream doesn’t need it. He can see clearly enough what he hadn’t seen in the other room.

What Dream had been shown so long ago now sits, larger and in a delicate wood frame, on the nightstand. Eleanor and little Robyn stare back from the painting. It is within reach; all Hob has to do is stretch out one arm, not even to its fullest, and his fingers will grasp the frame. Dream pauses at the thought then discards it. And with it, goes the jealousy.

The roll of thunder morphs into the crash of waves, and Dream closes his eyes as he settles into the Dreaming. His hands rise, he inhales, and the grains of sand move into place.

A woman smiles back at him. He sees the familiar softness of the face, the gentle light in her eyes. He feels the home in her hand as she cups his cheek tenderly. The Dream, not quite but so very close to Eleanor, turns on her heel and walks away. She leaves the ghosts of forever love in her wake.

Dream watches her go, until she enters the Dreamscapes beyond the Shores.

“Sire?” Lucienne moves closer, her steps sure even on the rocks. “Is everything alright?”

“Quite.”

Hob can’t hide his alarm when Dream tells him, only days later, that the Corinthian has been remade. That the Nightmare—the mirror of humanity’s darkest—exists once again. Hob asks if Dream is certain he made the right decision.

To his surprise, Dream doesn’t walk away from the offense. He merely assures Hob that he knows what he is doing—now. He’s taken counsel from those closest to him, those whose wisdom he trusts. Lucienne, Merv, Matthew, even Rose Walker have given him plenty to think about. They’ve taught him more than he thought he needed to learn. Hob may not look totally convinced by the time Dream takes his leave, but he at least no longer argues against the decision.

So it goes. Dream divides his time as equally as possible, between the Dreaming where he creates but never unmakes, walking amongst the dreamscapes of his Dreamers—because they are his, aren’t they, after all?—and in Hob’s arms with a gentle hand stroking over his fur. It’s an easy way to exist, Dream has to admit.

The need grows ever larger despite Dream’s best attempts of allaying it. His existence is calm; his realm is operating smoothly. He has learned to listen and heed advice. He has friendships beyond the ones forced to be within his presence.

Dream has changed, become better in his flaws.

He still craves.

Dream glares at the man who has his elbows on the bar, an effortlessly charming smile on his handsome face. Yes, this is a face many would dream of, would wish to see more often. Many, but not Dream. The man ducks his head, laughing at something Hob has said.

Dream cares for Hob, there is no denying that. But funny, Hob is not. Not in the “guffaw until your lungs ache” sense of the word. A small smile, maybe a huff of laughter, a Good one, Hobsie.

And Hob…

Dream hasn’t seen this sort of expression on Hob’s face since 1789, when Hob asked if they should take their chat to another location after Lady Joanna interrupted—this interested, hopeful thing, a baby bird at the edge of its nest, wings lifted and fragile body poised.

The skin splits beneath the sharp tips of his teeth. The man yanks his hand back with a shout, and Hob lunges for napkins. Dream clings to Hob’s thighs with his claws, with everything in him.

“I’m so sorry,” Hob says, dabbing at the blood on the man’s hand. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s never bitten anyone before, that I know of.”

Dream purrs—perhaps a bit smugly—when Hob refuses to toss him outside like the man suggests. The man scoffs and shoves his way to the door. Hob watches him go then lets out a heavy sigh. His finger scratches behind Dream’s ear even as he swallows a mouthful of ale with his free hand.

Once Hob has slipped off to sleep, to his own dreamscape, Dream settles in on his throne. He rests his chin against his knuckles and inhales shakily. The touch lingers on his skin, muted but warm, Hob’s hand just this side of felt through the thick fur. Dream suppresses a shudder, a shiver, the electricity that threatens to run down his spine.

He still craves.

The craving, the unadulterated need, swells. It rushes ever closer. And Dream can fight it all he wants, but he will drown in the weight crashing over him. He will suffocate in the desire to be touched—really touched.

“Boss? Mind, uh, shutting off the waterworks?”

Dream’s eyes snap open at the first droplets of water splattering against his cheeks. Matthew shakes his feathers once more, though it does no good: Rain still falls from the thundering black cloud overhead. Dream scowls, and the rain doesn’t stop.

Fingers, ghostly and nonexistent, brush across the back of his hands. Down his back. Along the shell of his ear. He swallows.

“I have made a grievous error,” he admits hoarsely.

Matthew hops closer, flutters upward to rest on Dream’s knee. The rain seems to not bother him now; he’s too intrigued by the confession. “How so?”

Dream hesitates—will this vulnerability prove disastrous? A mistake? But no, Matthew has had his chances to double-cross Dream. He could have allowed Lucifer to win the Oldest Game by not fomenting Dream into his last play. He could have led Dream astray at any point. Instead, Matthew has been as much a confidant and guidance as Lucienne and Merv.

So Dream tells the raven about the last month and three weeks, of slipping into the Waking to lie as a cat on Hob’s lap. Of the need threatening to overwhelm him.

“Sounds like you’re touch-starved,” Matthew supplies helpfully, and Dream pauses. Matthew cocks his head. “When’s the last time you’ve been touched like that as yourself, not a cat?”

Only one moment stands out—Lucienne clutching his hand upon his initial return to the Dreaming, when he was weak and grateful for escape. He’d clung back just as hard, desperate for the touch, near tears at the relief of contact.

“What should I do?”

Matthew shrugs as much as a raven can. “Talk to Hob, I’d say.”

Matthew flaps his wings, launching off of Dream’s knee, in time for Dream to rise and disappear in a swirl of fine sand.

Water drips from his clothes as he stands outside of Hob’s flat. His hair is plastered against his forehead, and he allows himself a slight shiver at the chill. Accepting the humanity in himself has had wondrous if unfamiliar effects. Dream watches his hand rise as if of its own volition. The knock echoes in the silence of the upstairs.

Thunder cracks outside, but Dream is more focused on the face that appears when the door swings open. Hob blinks a couple of times, gaze sweeping over Dream’s drenched form, then he steps back. Dream crosses the threshold; memories assault him as he looks around.

A book sits on the coffee table. Metamorphoses. Dream swallows thickly then averts his gaze. The flat smells of roasted meat and potatoes, and rain patters against the windows. Hob clears his throat.

“You’re soaked through. Let’s see if I can find some dry clothes for you.”

Dream makes to protest, but the words die on his tongue. He waits while Hob enters the bedroom, waits for the man to return. Return he does with a bundle of fabric in his hands. He shows Dream to the bathroom then closes the door.

The outfit is too large for Dream, but Dream doesn’t mind. In fact, he finds he enjoys how the shirt hangs on his frame—and how it smells of Hob. He breathes in the scent clinging to the fabric before emerging.

“So what brings you by?” Hob asks as Dream steps into the kitchen. Two teacups are on the table. Steam rises from the liquid inside in delicate swirls.

“I…” Dream closes his eyes, draws in a breath that trembles. He has never been so nervous as to struggle this way. He is the crafter of Dreams and stories. He has always known words. “I have not been touched in over a century.”

“Touched?”

Exhaling slowly, Dream closes his eyes. The expression on Hob’s face is too much. “Touched. As you would a cat. With gentleness and kindness. I have not known such things since before my capture. I felt myself above them. After all, how would a ruler benefit from vulnerability?”

“Oh, love.”

“I was wrong.”

The admission hovers in the air, almost palpable in its weight and sincerity. Hob blinks owlishly, and it is only through immense willpower that Dream doesn’t squirm. How odd, this so human urge to show discomfort. How strange to feel discomfort.

“Is this why you came to me as a cat?”

This time, it’s Dream’s turn to blink. “You knew?”

Hob chuckles, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Of course I did. Cats don’t have stars in their eyes.”

“Why did you never say anything?”

“Why didn’t you?” Hob counters before shrugging. “To be fair, it took me three visits to realize. Couldn’t believe it for another couple times you came.” He pauses. “May I… May I touch you?”

Dream nods.

He squeezes his eyes closed as strong arms come up to wrap around his shoulders. Hob carefully, so gingerly, pulls Dream closer. The wet in his eyes surprises Dream—another human reaction. But one so expected after such a desperate wish come true.

“Come, love,” Hob murmurs, and Dream follows where he leads. The bedroom.

The mattress dips, molds around his body, as he lies down at Hob’s gesture. There is no hesitation before Hob stretches out beside him. A rough hand brushes a tear from Dream’s cheek; warm lips press to his forehead.

Dream breaks into a million galaxies.

This is everything he never before dared ask for.

“Rest. I’ve got you.”

Dream trusts Hob.

Dream needs no sleep, but it is easy to pretend he does. Here in Hob’s arms, tucked against his chest, no longer an ancient concept but something made mortal in action. Hob cards fingers through Dream’s hair, whispers gentle nothings, and just holds him.

“Thank you,” Dream murmurs, voice soft and small.