“That Shakespeare! The poet,” Hob’s eyes met Dream’s own for just a second, sharp and intense before softening again, “you remember. We have to talk about him every new term. Five centuries and not forgotten; it’s quite amazing.”

Dream only nodded, guilt of his past weighing heavy. He had left Hob for Shakespeare, much like he left Hob at every one of their meetings. Hob’s smile fell as his eyes looked down; he leaned back in his seat, running a nervous hand through his hair.

“Anyway, I actually wanted to apologize.”

“You need not—” Dream began.

“No, I do need to.” He hesitated before taking a deep breath and continuing. ”Our last meeting I— I made assumptions about you, about your feelings instead of asking you. I didn’t need to be so presumptuous, you deserve better than that.” Hob's eyes settled on the table in front of him. As if he was worried that Dream would be gone when he looked up again.

“I accept your apology, my friend, but I too should apologize for that night,” Dream spoke sincerely, leaning towards Hob. “You were correct, and while I was caught unawares by your words, I should not have left in such a way. You too deserve better.”

Hob smiled gently, meeting Dream’s eyes before resting his hands on the table. Dream took a moment to take in Hob’s appearance. He looked comfortable, younger somehow than he had before; this century suited him. The silence continued and Dream realized he was staring, snapping his eyes back to Hob’s own. When their eyes met, Hob had a soft, puzzled look on his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, instead let his chin fall, frowning at his hands.

“May I ask you a question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” 

Hob’s worry was tangible and Dream desperately wanted to reassure him, to show that he would not run away. He reached over and placed his hand on Hob’s own. Hob’s deep brown eyes snapped back to Dream’s .

“Please, ask.”

“Could you tell me your name?” Hob’s worried expression melted and a hopeful glow replaced it. 

“Dream.” He paused, feeling another twinge of guilt for making Hob wait so long for one word. “I have many names, but those closest to me know me as Dream.”

“Dream,” Hob whispered, wonder in his voice, beaming at him. ”Thank you, I will be glad not to have to call you ‘My Stranger’ anymore.” A blush formed on the tips of his ears.

“Your Stranger?” Dream teased, though he was pleased with the title. Hob’s Stranger.

“Well, you have been the only constant in my very long life, and in that time I have never met another being like you. I treasure our meetings.” He was looking down at the table again, blush now creeping up his neck; a strand of hair had fallen forward, hiding Hob’s face. Dream felt a sharp pang of affection, reaching up and tucking the hair behind Hob’s ear. His fingers [passed] idly down to his friend's chin, raising Hob’s face so their eyes met again. Dream let his hand fall back onto the table, his eyes following, surprised by his forward behavior.

“I too treasure our meetings, Hob, more than you know.”

“May I ask you one more question?” Hob asked breathlessly, “Again, you don't have to answer.” Dream looked up at Hob through his lashes.

“You may ask more if it pleases you.” Hob’s eyes brightened.

“May we meet more often than once a century? It doesn’t have to be very often, but I would like to know you better, my friend.”

“Aye, we may.” They shared a smile, Hob reaching to place his hand on Dream’s hand, squeezing gently.

“You said I could ask a few more questions?” It was more of a statement than a question. Dream only nodded, not sure what to expect. “May I get you a drink?”

If he could blush, Dream would be tomato red. He was reminded of their meeting in 1789; he had wanted to accept Hob’s invitation, but his pride had not allowed him. He would not make that mistake again.

“Yes.” He winced slightly, remembering the last human drink he had at the White Horse Inn. “Anything but ale.”