#eris writes things

The sands of Perchling glisten under the light of the mid-afternoon sun. Waves lap at the shore, and the skies are a brilliant, crystal clear blue. A rare sight for autumn in Inys, where rain often collects in puddles and clouds conceal the sun.

That is something Ead has not missed about Inys. Even in the summer months, the isle is so wet, nothing like the dry heat that blankets Lasia. When she spent seven years in Inys, desperate for the familiar comforts of her home while learning to navigate the treacherous waters of the Inysh court, she had thought the heat of summer in Inys a particular kind of hell.

The air remains heavy even now, despite the cold carried in by a breeze of seawater that tangles her hair. Eadaz uq-Nāra stands upon the shores of Perchling and breathes in deep, allowing the sea air to fill her lungs, clear her mind. The bustle of the city doesn't reach her here, where the beach stretches for miles, undisturbed by workers and tradeships.

For ten terribly long years, she has dreamed of standing upon this beach.

Each one had passed achingly slow, and time refused her requests to move faster. Her promise to Sabran had not left her mind in that time, no matter how busy she found herself in the Priory. Even now, it comes to her mind as easily as their first kiss. Sabran's hand in hers, and a vow as weighty as those whispered between companions exchanging loveknot rings. Ten years from now, I will find you on the sand of Perchling, and we will find our somewhere.

She has held that promise close to her chest, even while the miles between them ached, temporarily soothed by stolen nights spent in one another's arms. Not nearly enough to stop Ead from wanting, her heart a traitorous, aching thing beneath her ribs—but enough to remember the promise of somewhere and find the strength to endure until the next letter, the next visit to Inys in the guise of diplomacy.

The last letter she received from Sabran sits in her pocket, the sword and crown of the Berethnet seal broken weeks ago. She'd opened it with fervour upon receiving it, the sight of the red wax sealing it shut making her heart flip behind her ribs. She has memorised its contents already and she can hear the words in her mind, spoken in Sabran's own voice.

Dearest Ead, my love,

Our tenth year since our defeat of the Nameless One approaches. By the time you receive this letter, I will have abdicated the throne in favour of Roslain. I trust she will serve Inys well, as I have, without the burden of the Saint to hang over her. I will leave her in the care of Loth and Marian, both of whom will support her in her transition to her new position.

It has been too long since I have glanced upon your face and held you in my arms, my love. Our somewhere calls to me, and I hope you might meet me upon the sand of Perchling, so that we might find it.

Yours, always,

— Sabran Berethnet

As though there has ever been any real doubt that Ead would meet her here. She’d read that final sentence in her room in the Priory, beside herself with joy and triumph, and immediately set things in motion for the next Prioress to take over. As soon as she oversaw the ceremony, she climbed atop Aralaq, who already knew where to take her. Across the world itself, to the person she spent a decade waiting for.

She knows Sabran has never doubted her conviction and her devotion to their vow. It is written across ten years of letters exchanged between the Priory and Inys, again and again. The word somewhere scrawled in Sabran's elegant hand became a familiar comfort on the nights Ead stared at the ceiling above her bed, wishing for nothing more than her love by her side, her bed achingly empty without her. Proclamations of adoration, well-wishes blanketed in longing, Sabran's recollection of recent events at the Inysh court—all of it kept her company on those nights.

Never had Ead known loneliness until returning to the Priory again, the sisters calling for her to be made Prioress. Growing up, she always had the sisters of the Priory and a duty to protect the orange tree, to honour the Mother and defend the world against the Nameless One as she once had. She'd had Jondu by her side, to train with, to hunt down the wyrms that slept undisturbed in the great many mountains around the mapped world, waiting for their master to call them to rise again. They were a family, all of them, and loneliness had no room to grow roots in her when her place in the world sat solely with the Priory.

She had not felt it even when serving the Mother in the court of Sabran Berethnet, a mere maid of honour in an unfamiliar court. While the customs were unfamiliar to her and many there saw her as little more than a heretic, despite her public conversion to the Six Virtues, she'd still had her task—protect the Queen at all costs, in case the Berethnets truly did keep the Nameless One chained as the Deceiver proclaimed. She'd found friendship in Marian and Loth, who welcomed her brightly, who taught her about court and cared not for her heretical origins.

But there, in the ten years spent as Prioress, Ead learned what it meant to be lonely. To want something out of her reach, and to look forward to something she could not yet have.

She endured, as she always knew she would. The Priory flourished under her charge. Prioress was never a title she expected to earn, though she had always dreamed of it, as every woman who grows up in the Priory does. She never imagined it would be her hand wielding the sword that would end the Nameless One, that she would hold one of the two keys that imprisoned him once more beneath the crashing waves of the Abyss, and that these actions would see her rise to Prioress.

Under her care, the Priory healed. Scars still remain; gorges upon stone where wyrms dug their talons, scorch marks that will forever remind them of what they almost lost at Kalyba’s hands.

With the Nameless One vanquished, Ead set her sights upon the remaining High Western. Her initiates hunted Fýredel to the ends of the known world, towards the Gates of Ungulus. With the defeat of the Nameless One and the loss of Yscalin, Fýredel withdrew to a cave within the mountains to slumber, and found his end at the hands of the sisters of the Priory. Many were made Red Damsels the day they returned, dying their cloaks with his blood as the first Red Damsels had.

And with the last High Western defeated, the Priory hunted down remaining wyrms, whatever hadn't been defeated on the Abyss—as many sisters as Ead could afford to send.

Throughout it all, she only wished she could have Sabran by her side to witness it all. She poured all she could into her letters to the Queen, in carefully written code, keeping her informed. Her love’s admiration and pride soothed the aches of her absence, but it was never quite enough.

Ead took every opportunity to visit Inys that she could, accompanying Chassar under the guise of diplomatic relations. Sabran Berethnet greeted her every time with a familiar gleam in her eyes that Ead so adored and a softening of her features, imperceptible except perhaps to those closest to her. Every time, the court and their responsibilities bled away until it was only them—the pretender and the Prioress, the blood of the Saint and the heretic. And every time, Ead snuck her way into the Queen's bedchambers where Sabran waited, as beautiful as ever, and they exchanged kisses that set Ead's heart ablaze until the candles burned out and sleep dragged them under.

Ead misses her like she missed the tree, the Priory, after spending seven years in the Inysh court. Her skin retains the memory of tender touches, her lips burn with the memory of Sabran's lips, and her bed is empty without Sabran nestled against her, head tucked under her chin and Ead's arms around her middle.

The Priory is her home, and it always will be—but Ead's heart has dragged her back to Inys, to Perchling as she promised. She has found a second home in the heart of Sabran Berethnet, and cannot keep herself from it any longer.

Ten years, and not one sunrise more. That was the promise they made, once they returned to normalcy after the battle of the Abyss.

When she hears sand shift under weight behind her, the excitement that had been gathering in her chest since first receiving Sabran's last letter unravels until she’s ready to burst with it.

She turns on her heel, her heart an aching thing in her chest. The sight of Sabran standing there, bathed in sunlight and draped in finery, is greater than all her dreaming, than anything her imagination could've concocted. The smile she wears is far more glorious than anything else Ead has witnessed in her life, reaching her jewelled eyes with an unrestrained joy the likes of which Ead rarely sees on her. In court, she kept herself guarded, for a Queen cannot be perceived as weak—but here, where only Ead may see, she allows herself to wear her joy freely, and the flower behind Ead's ribs blooms once more.

"How strange that I might find you here, Sabran," she teases, and amusement sparks in Sabran's eyes. Something holds her back. A need to ensure that this is real, perhaps. That they have made it.

"Ead," the last Berethnet replies, and Ead has missed her voice, the soft silk of it washing over her. Her name has never sounded better on any tongue but hers. "I heard rumour of a woman wearing a cloak red as blood who docked today, and had to see for myself if it was truly you.” She eyed the distance between them with distaste. “Do I have to demand you kiss me, lover?"

It is all she needs to fling herself across the small stretch of sand holding them apart. Her hands cradle Sabran's face, and her lips are soft as rose petals against Ead's. Sabran clings onto her with as much ferocity as she kisses with, and Ead cannot help the laughter that bubbles up, delight lighting her up like a sunray. It banishes the shadows that clung to her in Sabran's absence and her lungs burn for air and she is so wonderfully alive in a way she only feels in her lover's arms.

Breathless, Sabran pulls away to rest her forehead against hers. Their breath mingles in the small place between them, and Ead wants nothing more than to remain there until the tide comes in. This is her second home, and she has waited too long to have this.

"My love," Sabran murmurs. "My rose. I have missed you terribly."

"As I have missed you." Ead pulls away only far enough to meet Sabran's eyes properly, so that she might commit the wonder written so clearly upon her face to memory. She will revisit this moment a thousand times over, she knows that already. "Are you ready to find our somewhere?"

A sharp intake of breath, and another kiss, sweeter than even the fruit of the orange tree. "My dreams have been full of nothing else, Ead."

Ead takes one of her hands. Even now, Sabran's are still slightly cold, and she supposes the chill coming in from the sea doesn’t help matters. "Then let us find it."

Viktor has not attended any fundraising galas in quite some time.

It is not because he does not get invited to them—Jayce always extends the invitation when he gets them. While it started as Jayce's dream, it is now theirs; he wants Viktor to share the spotlight with him, like he deserves. None of it would've been possible without him, not a single bit.

Piltover does not seem to understand this, much to Jayce's own frustration. Most sponsers and potential investors he meets are under the impression that Jayce is the sole brain behind Hextech, that it is his genius that made it happen. This is only half true, and it grates on him each and every time.

Unfortunately, there is only so many times he can put a fake smile upon his face and correct them—"My partner helped, it's his creation too"—only to be ignored before his patience grows thin.

And thin it has gotten; he leaves this gala with a particular kind of frustration festering in his veins.

Though he doesn't know the reason why, he does know that Viktor does not enjoy the galas. He prefers to keep to the lab, keep to the more practical work.

The two of them only discussed it once; after their ideas were announced to the public, as excitement began to grow for their brilliant, impossible dream of Hextech. Eh, you are…better with the public stuff, Viktor had said with a half-hearted shrug. Well-liked, too. I'm better suited down here.

Jayce understands. After the many, many galas he has attended, he fucking understands. It's frustrating, the fact that he has to paint Hextech as something that might bring in money, that has the potential to line the pockets of aristocrats whose pockets were already lined with gold. It is not what either of them wanted, when Viktor approached him in his old, blown-up lab with a proposal of working together on the work that was nearly stolen from Jayce due to his own foolishness.

They wanted—they still want—to bring Hextech to the people. To make lives better, to fix the problems the Councillors seem unable to see and fix themselves. Piltover simply wouldn't let them, and fundraising—and thus, galas—are obnoxious hurdles they have to go through to achieve what they want.

It is what it is. Jayce only wishes that Viktor's determination to remain in the lab, working late into the night, instead of meeting potential investors with him, didn't inevitably lead to Viktor being written out of the story.

He knows that's not what Viktor wants, too. So after a too-long night of faux politeness and pointed barbs from Salo about how his partner hasn't shown up, again and correcting yet more aristocrats on the nature of his partnership in relation to Hextech, he brings it up. Unfortunately, the champagne he consumed has given him a pleasant buzzing in his veins, one that makes him feel a little—reckless, perhaps. He typically wouldn't bring it up otherwise, because Viktor is so Viktor. Stubborn, immoveable.

Jayve loves that about him, even if it does get a bit frustrating. It is an important part about his partner and he would not wish for anything else, even if sometimes he hopes that—just this once—Viktor might be inclined to accept help when his leg hurt, that he might let Jayce in instead of dealing with everything by himself.

Stubborn, and immoveable, and so fucking determined.

"Viktor," he begins that night. Perhaps he should've gone home after the gala—it was late, quickly approaching midnight, and he had more work to do come morning—but something in him just…couldn't. There is too much fire in his veins and too many questions in his head and he doesn't imagine he'll get much sleep anyway, not with this particular problem floating about in his head.

Coming to the lab was the obvious choice, and Jayce is already glad he made it. Viktor, naturally, has been awake the entire time and still works now. He'd spared a curious glance at the door upon Jayce's entrance, and a greeting, before turning to his work once more.

Jayce wonders if he's had anything to eat. Wonders when he last slept. Stops himself from asking those questions out loud, because he's learned that asking after Viktor's health makes him look…not annoyed, not angry. Frustrated. Makes him clench his jaw and look away from Jayce with something like shame in his gaze.

"Yes, Jayce?" He does not look up from his work as he speaks, but that's okay. Viktor's always been good at multitasking.

"Why don't you come to the galas with me?"

The question is clearly a surprise; he sees it in the sudden stiffness of Viktor's shoulders and the momentary pause in his work, before he sets down his pen and swivels in his chair to face Jayce. "You know why."

He thinks he should. He should know why. Should've asked more questions, when Viktor began declining invites. "Tell me again, then."

His partner sighs in a way that suggests he doesn't really want to have this conversation. "I am a cripple from Zaun. They do not look at me the same way they look at you."

"They don't know you," Jayce says softly. "You're brilliant, Viktor. Anybody can tell that after just one conversation with you!"

"They don't want to see my brilliance, my part in Hextech. I am not the perfect poster boy for Hextech, not like you are, Man of Progress."

There's a sharpness to Viktor's words. Jayce frowns, because he never…never noticed any of this, honestly. But perhaps that is his failing. Perhaps he needs to do better.

"You deserve credit for Hextech, too." You deserve to be more than a footnote in our story, he doesn't say, because he knows Viktor's feelings on legacies. On his own legacy, and how he will be remembered. It is important to him. Jayce wouldn't play that card against him. "I want people to know you're my partner. I want them to know this is our creation, not mine." I want them to stop erasing you.

Silence falls over them. Viktor's expression is carefully blank. Once upon a time, Jayce used to think his partner unreadable like this, but over time he's learned. Learned to identify the look in his eye when he's truly, genuinely considering something, and to not mistake it for having accidentally pissed him off.

"This…matters to you," his partner says eventually. It's careful, prodding.

Jayce thinks, it does to you, too, but says, "Yes."

Shoulders slumping, Viktor sighs. "I will go to the next gala with you. If it will satisfy you."

A smile beams across Jayce's face. It's more than he imagined to get out of this, honestly, and he's glad for it.

+

The next gala rolls around far too quickly for Jayce's liking, though at least this time, attending is made easier by Viktor's presence beside him.

He's excited, perhaps more so than he should be. Really, he's just happy that Viktor will finally, finally be given the credit he is due. Jayce is more than willing to give him all the credit for the wonder and brilliance of his mind—but he thinks Viktor deserves it from the rest of the world, too.

Though he didn't make any such request—Viktor wouldn't dare, too determined to take on the rest of the world by himself if it meant he didn't have to ask for help—Jayce sticks by Viktor for most of the night, providing what he hopes is a solid rock of support by his side. It's glaringly obvious, at least to him, that his partner isn't exactly comfortable here, and Jayce understands—as a newer face to these things, he has been the subject of many stares.

"They're like vultures," Viktor grumbles as he grabs another flute of champagne from a passing waiter with a murmured thank you. This champagne is downed as fast as the others; Jayce wonders if his plan is to get too drunk he can't remember this come morning, and hopes that isn't the case.

The comparison is quite apt, honestly. Jayce always feels similarly. It's easier with Viktor by his side—one person who doesn't want something from him.

Sticking by Viktor inevitably gave him the joy of introducing his partner properly. It brought him some kind of satisfaction, to give Viktor this. The acknowledgement.

"Jayce Talis," an unfamiliar voice interrupts, and beside him, Viktor tenses. "The Man of Progress himself! I've been looking for you."

Jayce hasn't a single clue who this person is; he figures that doesn't really matter, either. The man clearly has money—he's very good at flaunting it, with his expensive, tailor-made clothes—and anybody who calls him the Man of Progress approaches him for Hextech.

A potential investor, then.

"It's lovely to meet you. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Why, yes. I've been meaning to talk to you about Hextech's future with you for a while now—your creation is incredible! Certainly, it has a lot of potential here in Piltover—"

"Our creation," Jayce interrupts, and the flash of satisfaction that flares when the man's eyes shine in brief outrage at the interruption is so worth whatever they might lose.

"Pardon?"

With pride strong enough to topple mountains, Jayce gestures to Viktor, who seems to have been watching this exchange with blatant amusement. "This is Viktor. My partner, the other half of Hextech. Without him, none of this would even be possible."

"I'm sure," the man murmurs, sizing Viktor up. "It is an honour to meet you too, Viktor."

"And yourself," Viktor replies, with the air of somebody who doesn't really mean it. There is a reason Jayce is typically the one to attend these things; Viktor hasn't the patience for politics and fake niceties.

It means the world that he chose to turn up to this one. Even if Jayce had to convince him to do so. It wasn't a hardship.

Before anybody can say anything else, they're soon interrupted by Mel, who says simply, "Jayce. Might I have a word?"

"Of course, Councillor." He shoots Viktor an apologetic look, who, in turn, glares at him with enough fire that it might've killed a lesser man.

Mel, never one to miss something, assures, "I'll steal him only for a few moments. Come, Jayce."

With a look he hopes says I'm so sorry, Jayce turns to follow, falling into step besides her. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes. Only, I wished to talk to you about a…misunderstanding." She inclines her head forward. "Viktor has not been present for one of these in quite some time. And many seem to be under the impression that he is your husband, not just your lab partner."

And just like that, Jayce's mind short-circuits.

Husband?

His husband?

Somehow, somewhere, Jayce has apparently gone very, very wrong. Wrong enough to have somehow foolishly implied that Viktor is his husband.

He is not sure how he managed that. And truthfully, he doesn't hate the idea. Likes the way it sounds, actually—and that, he will analyse later, when he's alone and can think about the implications.

"How?" he asks meekly, and he just knows his face burns that much more when Mel raises a brow that suggests the answer is very much obvious. "Viktor is—he's my partner only in Hextech. Not—not my husband."

As well-versed in politics as she is, Mel does not do something so undignified as laugh. But she does find the situation entertaining; he recognises the slight smile that graces her face. "I know that. Everybody else, apparentlym does not."

He only just stops himself from groaning out loud. "How do I…" Somehow, he has to stop Viktor from finding out. What if Viktor thinks it intentional? And then he hates Jayce, and he loses the best partnership he's ever had, and—

His heart drops to his stomach. Fuck. He has to fix this.

"You'll figure it out," Mel assures him, and he's grateful for her more than he could possibly state right now.

"I have to find Viktor."

+

Though he'd left Viktor alone for a handful of moments—not even a fulll five minutes, if he had to guess!—the man had somehow managed to disappear entirely, sending a bolt of panic that seres only to make him move faster through his veins. Thankfully, he manages to brush off any other interactions with a quick and easy, I'm sorry, I'm looking for my partner, and realises just how he gave so many the wrong impression.

In the end, he finds Viktor away from everybody else lurking in a shadowed corner with another flute of champagne. He looks up as Jayce approaches, face carefully unreadable.

"Hey, Vik," he says, and prays to whatever higher being may exist that somehow Viktor hasn't already discovered his very stupid mistake. "Should we get out of here? I think I need some air, do you need some air? There's a balcony over there, if you want to join me."

Admittedly, he doesn't really have a plan. And coming up with one on the fly isn't really working, if the way Viktor's eyes flash in concern is any indication. "What has gotten into you?" his partner asks, but he follows Jayce still, regardless of said concern.

Thank god for that. Maybe if he gets Viktor away from the prying eyes and misunderstandings, none of this has to be a problem. Maybe he's lucky, and nobody has mentioned it to him, and all his worrying is for nothing.

"Nothing has gotten into me!" he says, but his voice is perhaps higher than it should be for somebody who's perfectly fine. The fresh air, at least, helps calm him down. A soothing balm against his frayed nerves.

Viktor remains unconvinced, he can see that. Jayce is grateful for the fact that he doesn't push, unsure what he might say. The entire gala believes we're married. Probably because I speak of you very highly. That, or I forget to call you my business partner and often skip straight to partner.

Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't really blame anybody for the conclusion they came to. He has…not been subtle, has he? Though he's never admitted it to himself, a rather large part of him has always admired Viktor. How could he not? He's brilliant, with his sharp mind and sharper wit and dry humour, with all his well-earned confidence. Truly, he's the best lab partner Jayce could've asked for, and he's never been quiet about it. Why would he?

My husband, he thinks again, and it fits nicely. Too nicely. In another, different timeline, perhaps it was more than a hypothetical misunderstanding. Perhaps.

"Is this about most of our potential investors being under the impression that we are married?" Viktor asks suddenly, amusement dancing in his eyes and a smirk upon his face.

Jayce does not hate the idea of being married to him. He really doesn't. He thinks he is rather unlucky to be in a timeline where he isn't. "No! Well, yes." He sighs, a heavy thing, and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Listen, I'm…sorry. I didn't mean to…You're my partner! And I'm proud of our work together and I hated when people brushed you aside and I should've been more aware of my wording, I guess. I just wanted your part in Hextech to be acknowledged too! I didn't mean for people to think we were married."

Curiously, Viktor tilts his head. There's something in his gaze, sharp and analytical. "You don't need to defend me like so. I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

Snorting, Jayce nods. "Obviously." He has been the unfortunate victim of Viktor's cane early on in their partnership when he made the mistake of offering help during a bad pain day. He'd learned, since then, to wrap offers of help in a desire to be useful—it's not about Viktor, it's about Jayce, about his way of showing care.

Viktor sees through it. Of course he does. But he knows it's not entirely a lie, that Jayce does like to make himself helpful, so he begrudgingly allows Jayce to do small tasks for him on occasion.

Independence is important to him. And he's more than capable of taking care of himself, that much Jayce has never doubted.

"I know. Just…you weren't there. And you matter. To…to Hextech. And to me. You're my partner." He sighs again. "I do wish I hadn't let everybody believe we were married, though. I'll have to figure out how to…fix that."

A frown, faint but there. "Is it so terrible, to be fake-married to me, Jayce?"

"What? No, no!" He shakes his head frantically, eyes wide. "Only, I thought—I thought you wouldn't want people to think you were married to me! I—"

Without another word, Viktor crosses the distance between them and cuts him off with the press of his lips against Jayce's, and for a moment, the world staggers to a halt. Because Viktor is kissing him, and it's so unexpected yet so welcome. He's warm and soft but determined, as unyielding in this as he is in everything else, and it takes nothing at all to kiss him back when the world restarts itself and he finds himself in control of his body once more.

"You," Viktor breathes when he pulls back, "are a foolish man, Jayce Talis."

"And you should kiss me again," Jayce suggests.

Found out perhaps wasn’t the right word. Hob…didn’t have anything to do with it, really. He didn’t go digging for information. He merely invited his friend inside for a drink, some food if he felt like it, without expectation.

Dream looked tense, the day he brought it up. Shoulders coiled tightly, jaw clenched so much it looked almost painful, eyes somewhat distant. That was enough to worry Hob, who had never seen his friend distant before. At least, not that he could recall.

And in the end, Dream merely turned to him without prompting and told him, voice severe and terribly serious, “I would’ve returned to you. In 1989.”

And—and that made something in Hob ache. He waited so long, the day of their meeting, only to be met with silence and absence. And then he waited another thirty three years, because what else could he do? He was Hob Gadling, with almost seven centuries to his name and therefore far more patience than any typical human. Waiting felt like the only natural response at the time, and, indeed, it paid off, because Dream sat beside him. Because Dream returned to him, walked across the threshold of The New Inn and called Hob a friend.

Such a simple word, that. Enough to change the rest of his day, though. The rest of his century, even—friendship with Dream was a high he knew he’d ride for decades to come.

He’d tilted his head, curious and somewhat terrified. I would’ve returned to you, Dream said. And yet he had not. And yet Hob Gadling spent that day alone, drinking away his sorrows and waiting for a friend who wouldn’t return for three decades later.

”Then why didn’t you?” Hob asked, his heart in his throat. His eyes stung and he scowled, blinking the tears away. Truthfully, he thought he was over that by this point. It had been thirty three years. More than enough time to nurse the wounds of being thoroughly abandoned on the 7th June, 1989. The sting lessened even further when Dream called him friend, when he apologised for his absence.

(It returned on occasion, usually when he least expected it. It liked to…to wait in the wings, until the moment Dream turned his back on Hob to leave. He’ll return, Hob told himself, because he would now. All he saw in his head was the sight of Dream’s back turned away from him in 1889, though, as the rainfall fell around them both but didn’t touch his friend in the slightest.

It came back in those moments, and he often found himself swallowing a question. You’ll come back, right? or Would you stay a little longer? or Might I be selfish and request more of your company tonight?

Dream would not abandon him again. He knew that much. His heart and his stomach seemed to be taking a little longer to get the memo, however, and the dread that accompanied Dream’s leavings was often irrational.)

Ocean deep eyes stared at him. They were shadowed, those eyes, full of ghosts Hob couldn’t hope to understand. He could drown in those depths easily, and even then wouldn’t understand his friend in his entirety. “I was…captured,” he said, after some hesitation. “By a magician named Roderick Burgess.”

There were many things Hob could’ve said in response to that small and ugly revelation, and all of them would’ve been appropriate. All of them no doubt would’ve been various ways of saying What the fuck, are you alright? and Do you want me to kill the bastard? Because I will.

In the end, Hob didn’t say any of that. Instead, he focused on the frustration that hid underneath the layers of forced calm, the rage that lurked beneath the surface of Dream’s voice, and he ached. He ached, because Dream had been captured.

He didn’t need to know anything more than that to pull Dream into a hug.

A light one, because captured echoed inside his head like it was an empty cavern. It was the only thought he found himself capable of thinking. He didn’t know what it entailed, but—captured. God.

They could’ve hurt him. Hob wasn’t sure Dream could be hurt—Endless seemed rather important, even if he didn’t know what it meant properly—but the idea was terrible enough that he had to force himself to keep his arms around Dream loose, had to force himself to concentrate on his friend instead of the anger bubbling in his veins on his friend’s behalf.

In his arms, Dream tensed further. Hob…hadn’t thought that possible, after seeing how tense he was before this. Immediately, guilt struck him like a blow. His friend had been captured, and he didn’t bother to ask if a hug would even be alright.

Before he could pull away, apologies and pleas for forgiveness ready to spill from his tongue, Dream moved faster than Hob thought should’ve been possible. His arms found themselves around Hob’s waist, clinging tight enough it knocked the air right out of his lungs, but that was alright. He didn’t mind, not when Dream clung on so tightly. Not when he seemed like he needed it desperately, like he hadn’t been offered such a thing before.

He ignored that thought, for it made him ache with a desperation he hadn’t felt before, a desire to make sure his friend knew he was loved, and ran a soothing hand down his friend’s back. He pretended he couldn’t count the knobs of his friend’s spine even through his coat. Dream had always been lithe, yes, all elegant limbs and graceful movements—but this. This, he thought, was tangible proof of his friend’s hurt. This was what captured meant.

After—after Dream released him, slowly and carefully like he truly didn’t want to, like he wished to remain in the circle of Hob’s arms for the foreseeable future, which Hob wouldn’t have had a problem with, not at all—this, somehow, became a regular thing.

Dream continued to appear once each month. The day and the week varied, but it was always once a month. Hob didn’t know when to expect him, but that certainly wasn’t a problem—Dream didn’t turn up when he was teaching, and every other second he had to his name was his to take up. He could take up all of Hob’s time, and Hob thought he wouldn’t even care. Not if it was Dream.

And, with each month, Dream would touch him. Hug him. Tentatively, at first, like the motions were unfamiliar. Like gentle brushes of skin against skin and little nudges, touches so casual that they were easily a part of Hob’s every day life, were strange to him. Like he didn’t know what to do with it, with touches that were made for the sake of contact.

Even after a couple more months, the touches were still hesitant. Always, always, there was something holding Dream back, some of that old reserve returning and keeping him from taking what he wanted.

Hob didn’t push.

He wanted to. God, he did. He wanted to lay everything he had—time, the ability to provide contact, conversation and space and every amount of money he had to his name—at Dream’s feet and announce, Yours, it’s yours if you want it. If you want to take it, you can. It’s yours.

That—that would be too much. He refrained. He kept the questions at bay—refused to say the words Is this enough? and Do you want more? and You know I’ll gladly give you everything you ask, you know?—and he continued to tell stories in an attempt to make Dream smile faintly, to perhaps make things…easier to deal with. And, gradually, the hesitance bled away into something a little more like confidence, and Hob was glad for it.

After all of that, Hob somehow found himself sat on his couch a year later, with Dream’s head in his lap as the two of them watched a movie. Lord of the Rings, naturally—Sorry, you haven’t seen it? Hob had said last month, and despite Dream’s protests that usually took the shape of I am the Prince of Stories, I do not need to watch it to know the story, he decided they’d watch it together the next time Dream appeared.

He tried not to think too hard on the way Dream appeared so comfortable. He took up the rest of Hob’s sofa, boots and coats abandoned, loose-limbed as though this was where he belonged. There was no tension in his body, at least that Hob could see, and a part of him ached at that knowledge. He did that. He made his friend comfortable, gave him a safe space to take up room. He was the one who Dream let himself relax with, and wasn’t that a fucking thing? A glorious, wonderful thing. Tangible and real proof of their friendship.

Hob…Hob didn’t know how they got to this point, not really. He didn’t know how he managed to bridge the distance that always felt so terribly large so easily, to the point where Dream felt comfortable enough to use his thigh as a pillow. He didn’t know when the idea of threading his fingers through the strands of his friend’s raven hair became a temptation he had to resist, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

At some point, Dream ended up sitting up. Hob missed him immediately, the absence of his weight on Hob’s thigh almost a physical pain.

A frown tugged at Dream’s lips slightly, and his eyes narrowed. “You are…thinking. Loudly.”

Hob, who still wasn’t sure Dream couldn’t read his mind—he didn’t ask questions, for all he really wanted was a name—blinked at him and offered a small smile. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “It is just. Strange. To see you like this. After we spent so long meeting only once a century.”

This, naturally, had the undesired affect of making Dream tense. All of that loose-limbed ease disappeared as though it was never there in the first place, only for his lips to purse and for Dream to look away from him. “I. Apologise,” he said slowly, carefully, as though he’s committed some terrible offence. “I did not mean to make you. Uncomfortable, in any way, or to take more than you were willing to give.”

He almost laughed at that, but managed to hold it back. His heart was a thing of yearning and daydreams of finding out of Dream would kiss him softly or with fire, if Dream’s fingertips would caress his skin gently or a little rougher, if Dream’s voice would sound just as lovely and velvet-soft uttering the words I love you as it did anything else. ‘More than you were willing to give’ didn’t exist to him, not for Dream. Never for Dream, who owned his heart entirely.

What he did instead was shake his head. He made to take Dream’s hand but thought better of it, letting his own fall onto the sofa between them. An invitation, if Dream felt like taking it. “Dream,” he said gently, and his friend’s eyes flooded with silver tears he didn’t allow to fall. “What are you apologising for? You didn’t make me uncomfortable. I don’t have a problem with any of this, I promise. The opposite, in fact. I would’ve told you, if I did.”

Dream didn’t look at him again. He said, voice low and carefully even, though that wasn’t enough to disguise the pain underneath it, “I have often been deemed. Too much. When it comes to offering affection.”

Affection, Hob thought, I am worthy of Dream’s affection. “You’re not too much.” He never could be.

This time, his gaze did return to Hob’s, ocean eyes cutting like steel. “I am,” he announced, and the heaviness, the certainty, with which he said it made Hob ache anew. “And I. Apologise. For inflicting my own desires upon you.”

”Oh, Christ, love,” Hob said helplessly. He did take Dream’s hand this time, clinging on for dear life, and was thankful when Dream didn’t pull away. He thought about the way Dream seemed so surprised when Hob hugged him the first time, the way he continued to hesitantly continue with small and casual contact over the last year. He thought about the way he seemed comfortable with such things, the way he seemed to need that first hug so much. Did he have nobody else who would offer him a fucking hug?

Surely he did. Surely Hob was not his only friend. As much of an achievement as that would be, he couldn’t cope with that idea. His friend deserved to love and to be able to love without—without worrying about being too much. “Please,” he said softly, and Dream stared at him with an expression he’d call blank if he wasn’t aware of how much sorrow there was in his gaze, “never apologise for wanting to be loved, Dream. This—hugs, you laying on me, whatever the fuck else you’d want—all of that, you can have. I don’t mind. I offer it freely, because I want to. Because you deserve to have that, okay? You’re not too much for wanting to be touched, especially after everything.”

Dream tensed further, somehow. His brow furrowed, as if this baffled him entirely. Christ, and Hob thought he made himself and his feelings towards Dream obvious. “You. Do not mind,” he repeated slowly, like that was a foreign concept.

Hob had half a mind to find whoever made him decide that wanting something as human as contact and ask them a couple of questions. With his fists. And maybe a knife.

For now, he just shook his head. “Not one bit,” he promised. “You can lay on me any time you like. Understood?”

For a couple more moments, Dream simply continued to stare, before he swallowed audibly. Hob thought he didn’t need to do that. He wondered if that small play at humanity was another product of his capture. “I believe,” he said slowly, voice hardly loud enough to be heard over the movie still playing in the background, “that I might be. Beginning. To understand.”

Hob smiled, relieved. This, he thought, wasn’t the end of it. And it didn’t have to be—he would assure Dream that he was never too much time and time again, if he had to. “Good. Good. I’m glad, love.”

And after another momentum’s hesitation, Dream wound his arms around Hob’s shoulders. His movements were stiff, almost awkward, but Hob hardly cared.

Perhaps he’d have to bring it up later. He’d like to. He’d like to bring this up again, to show Dream that Hob could be just as much when it came to his own affections, that he had been exercising every amount of self control he had over this last year. He’d like to show Dream that, for Hob, he—he was it. His closest, oldest friend. His longest love. Dream could take as much as he wanted, and Hob still wouldn’t care. It was all for him anyway.

For now, Dream pressed himself against Hob’s side and sighed softly. He didn’t unwind his arms from around Hob’s neck.

For now, that was enough.

------

Today, Dream appeared in his apartment—only, this time, he did so before Hob was about to sleep.

Which…wasn’t a problem. Not at all. Sleep didn’t matter, not when Dream was there. He would gladly drop anything and everything, if Dream wanted him to. If his friend wanted his time and his energy. All of it was his anyway; he needed only to ask.

(And he did ask, these days. Indirectly, naturally—Matthew somehow gained the job of messenger raven, and would often fly to the Waking world for the sole purpose of seeing Hob and delivering a message.

The message was usually short. A quick, Boss asks if you’re free today?, and Hob would reply, Let him know I am before quickly cancelling his plans.

Dream still didn’t ask for what he needed. But he still asked, in a round-about Dream kind of way, and Hob? Hob was proud of him. He remembered all too easily the pain on his face when he thought he burdened Hob with his affections; he could only imagine what it took for his friend to be able to ask whether he was busy or not, after that.)

“Dream,” he said, blinking at the being who materialised at the foot of his bed. To his credit, his heart didn’t so much as stutter, proof that he was used to Dream simply appearing out of nowhere. Proof that they truly were friends, now, after so many centuries of him wanting exactly that.

(They were friends. He couldn’t quite believe it, sometimes. They were friends, and Dream didn’t shy away from that title when Hob gave it to him. If anything, he seemed proud of it, like the title of ‘friend’ was an honour.)

(It certainly was for Hob, at least, so he understood that.)

Dream stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly, cat-like. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see Hob underneath his duvet, which—seemed fair. He still didn’t have much of a clue what Dream was, for it didn’t matter, but he knew now that it had to do with a place called the Dreaming—his realm, which certainly gave Hob a bit of an existential crisis the first time he heard that—and sleep. Perhaps he had a second sense for when people were about to sleep. It wouldn’t be the strangest thing Hob had seen him do.

”Hob,” he said, then frowned. Some of that old hesitance kept him from saying much else for a moment, but he eventually asked, “I did not think…Is this a bad time?”

Progress, Hob thought, and shot a grin in his friend’s direction. Dream was making progress, small and still so, so important, and he was simply glad to be a part of it. “Not at all,” he promised, because this was Dream. Dream, who owned his heart entirely by this point, who Hob would gladly dedicate every waking moment of his days to if he could. If his friend would appreciate that, if he would even want that.

That hesitance held him in place for a second longer, but that was all. His floor-length, high-collared coat disappeared, shadow replacing the impossibly soft material of it before vanishing entirely, leaving Dream in a long-sleeved top (black, of course) that felt so casual on him.

(He’d seen Dream without his coat many times before, now. Another testament to the fact that Dream felt comfortable—safe, even—with him. It still startled him, though, and it never failed to make warmth bloom behind his ribs. This—this vulnerability, his desire to abandon armour when with Hob—was another display of trust, and Hob wouldn’t get over that any time soon.

Dream trusted him. It was a fragile thing, that trust, not at all suited for Hob’s bloodied and calloused hands. He’d had many years to practise gentleness, though, and he used it with this; with Dream’s trust, a gift offered so painstakingly.)

And then Dream was moving, climbing onto the bed and tucking himself into Hob’s side. One half of his body ended up entirely on top of Hob’s, his face buried into the crook of his neck, and let out a soft, contented sigh.

It tickled the skin of his neck a little, but Hob hardly cared. How could he, when he turned his head to the side and found himself face to face with Dream’s feather-soft hair, when Dream’s arm came to wrap around his waist?

He chuckled softly. His heart felt so full, all of a sudden, his fondness for this strange and lovely creature lay on top of him almost overwhelming. There wasn’t enough room behind his rib cage for it all, for the adoration pouring from his heart in waves. He brushed his fingers through Dream’s feather-soft hair, the smile on his face growing wider as his friend burrowed further into him, and, without thinking, he said gently, “Yeah, dove, I love you too. And I missed you dearly.”

Missed you dearly wasn’t quite enough. It didn’t explain the way he missed Dream like an ache, in those two weeks he was off doing whatever the ruler of an entire realm did. But it was true enough, so he let the words hang in the air. Dream deserved to know he was missed when he wasn’t around; deserved to know Hob thought about him, even in the louder moments where his head was so busy. Missed you dearly didn’t quite fit, but it said enough.

It was only when Dream’s head snapped up in a movement faster than anything Hob had seen from him before, ocean eyes almost comically wide and lips parted slightly, that Hob realised what he said.

I love you too. It wasn’t a lie. He didn’t think he was capable of that, even subconsciously, when it came to Dream. Always, his heart has been laid bare before him, every little thing it contained inside free for his viewing. Hob made little attempt to keep it hidden. His fondness, his adoration, always slipped into his voice unbidden. Experience told him every attempt to mask it would fall short; there was simply too much to keep it trapped behind his ribs. It was always his friend’s choice whether or not he took it at face value or not.

He did love Dream. Loved him like he loved life; endlessly, with more depth than he thought himself capable of putting into words. Though he wasn’t much of a poet, he would try, if Dream asked that of him. He would do much for his dearest friend, his Stranger, if only he asked.

”Love me,” Dream murmured softly. He sounded almost disbelieving, as though he hadn’t thought of himself as something able to be loved. That thought rang too true for Hob’s comfort; he had to stop himself from holding Dream closer, unwilling to make him uncomfortable in an attempt to offer comfort. “You have. Said this before.”

Not in quite so many words, Hob thought, but yes. He had. Never apologise for wanting to be loved, he told Dream, and that was another admittance in and of itself, wasn’t it? It was an I love you, and I’m happy to do so, and a request; Let me love you, I want, it was always yours anyway.

Fear coiled in his stomach, a poison almost potent enough to stop him from answering entirely. But he met Dream’s gaze and saw the impression of new stars within them; he met his eyes and saw a fragile kind of hope. Fear or not, his dearest friend deserved to know he was loved.

“Yes,” he answered gently. Perhaps he’d run, now, leave Hob as he had in 1889. That, Hob thought, would be alright. It’d hurt, but it’d be alright. Dream would come back to him, just as he had once every month before, and now every fortnight. That knowledge was just enough to make the worst of that fear melt away, and to loosen his tongue. “I love you dearly. With everything I am. Doesn’t have to change anything if you don’t want it to—I don’t want anything from you that you aren’t willing to give, I promise you that.”

A furrow appeared between his friend’s brow. That hope didn’t leave his eyes, even despite the confusion that joined it. “Why would you tell me this, then, if you did not want reciprocation from me?”

Hob ached, suddenly, at the confusion in Dream’s voice. Had nobody loved him without expectation before? Had nobody loved him simply for the sake of loving him, because they couldn’t do anything else? “Let me rephrase,” he said gently, and he sat up. Dream frowned further at being disturbed, though said frown disappeared fast enough when Hob cupped his face. “I would kill to have you feel the same for me. It would be so many centuries of pining resolved in a mere moment; I would love for nothing more than you to love me back. But I don’t expect you to. I didn’t tell you I love you expecting you to say the same. I told you I love you simply because you deserve to hear it; nothing more, nothing less.”

Silence hung heavy between them for a moment, in which Dream simply stared at him without moving a muscle at all and Hob grew increasingly conscious about the fact that he was still very much holding Dream’s face in his hands.

He was about ready to let go, no doubt followed by an awkward apology, but Dream said slowly, “You are. A strange creature, Hob Gadling. I continuously find myself baffled by you.”

Quietly, Hob laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment then, love.” His hands fell from Dream’s face, only for his friend to catch them by his wrists.

”And,” Dream continued, slow and stilted, and Hob froze. Dream’s skin against his, not quite a normal body temperature, was different when initiated by Dream himself. It meant more, somehow. “And. You are not alone. In your feelings.”

Hob was fairly sure his heart stopped in his chest at that. Just for a moment. In his defence, this moment did feel particularly heart stopping. Important enough to fling his own world off its axis.

When he found himself capable of thought again, he asked, barely able to contain the joy pouring from his heart in waves, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Dream?”

”I am saying,” he said heavily, severely, like this moment was as important to him as it was to Hob, “that I adore you, Hob Gadling. That you are a comfort I did not expect to find. That your arms are a place of safety, that I find comfort in your presence, that you are a fresh breath of air after so long spent underwater. I am saying that your continued friendship is an honour, one I am eternally grateful for; I am saying that you baffle me entirely, your joy for life and your willingness to love me, and that love is too small a term to label the depths of my feelings towards you, but it is enough for now.”

Hob stared at him, wide-eyed. His heart spilled over, everything it contained too much, and all of it Dream’s. All of it, shared by Dream, too. “Christ, love,” he said, his voice light with elation. A sob caught in his chest as his hand, still held by the wrist in Dream’s grasp, came up to play with the raven hair at the nape of his friend’s neck, as he pulled Dream into a kiss.

It was gentle. Barely a hint of pressure at all, for fear he’d perhaps misunderstood. But Dream made a noise against his lips, surprised yet pleased, and kisses back eagerly, an answer to a question Hob didn’t realise he’d asked.

Eventually, though everything in him screamed against it, too lost in the sensation of Dream’s mouth against his own and Dream’s hands clutching at the thin top he wore for bed, he pulled back for breath. Dream gazed at him, eyes so dark they were almost black. Hob could see the stars so clearly, now, and found himself breathless for another reason entirely.

Awed, he said, ”You’re beautiful.” His thumb stroked the skin underneath Dream’s eye, reverent and worshipful, and Dream practically preened.

At some point, he lay back down, taking his friend—Dream, his Stranger, who he had loved for centuries and who loved him in return—with him. He tucked himself against Hob’s side, knee wedges between Hob’s legs and an arm thrown over his waist. The duvet was pulled over up to both their shoulders, and Hob let himself kiss the crown of his head.

He needed to sleep. He was tired, his head a little foggy. But elation kept his chest light, and there was enough joy in his veins to last a lifetime. They’d have to talk tomorrow, Hob knew that, but they’d figure that out.

For now, this—this was enough. More than enough.

”I love you,” he said again. His eyes slipped shut. 

Sleep would come difficult, with the way his heart felt so full, but that was alright. A small price to pay for the way Dream shifted against him before pressing feather-soft lips against his cheek, whispering, “And I you, beloved,” before settling back in place again.