Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time he sees her, it’s because the chain on his bike dropped while going over that rough patch of cobblestones in the narrow passageway between gardens that he really has no business biking through, except that it cuts a solid five minutes off his route to work. While kneeling beside his poor bike, trying to pop the chain back on, he lifts his head and spots a brunette woman dressed in white looking out at him from a window one floor up in the house he has inadvertently stopped outside.

He wouldn’t think much of it, if it weren’t for the fact that she starts and drops the curtain she had been peeking through back over the window the second their eyes meet. That could be explained by the fact that it looked like she was wearing nothing but a chemise — no, wait, they’re called negligées or something nowadays — so maybe she just didn’t want him to see her in her state of relative undress.

He finally wrangles the chain back where it belongs and gets to his feet again. Great, there’s oil all over his hands now. With a sigh, he carefully extracts his trusted handkerchief from his pocket — yes, he is old enough that he still carries a proper handkerchief — and sacrifices it to the black grease, knowing it will be the devil to clean later.

Before getting on the bike and going about his day, he glances up at the window and finds that the woman is looking at him again, and this time she doesn’t startle when their eyes meet. He gives her a polite half smile, one of those little expressions that just says, “I acknowledge that we are two strangers who accidentally made eye contact”. She doesn’t smile back, but he doesn’t get the feeling that she’s being rude. She just seems… a bit sad?

A look at his watch tells him he needs to get moving, and so he does, pushing his bike past the cobblestones before he dares mounting it. Then he’s off, hopefully not late for his first lecture of the day.

He sees her on his way to and from work every now and then after that first time. Again, he probably wouldn’t think much of it if it weren’t for the fact that she’s always in the same window and in the same clothes. If it were just in the mornings that he saw her in the negligée, he would just chalk it up to it being her night clothes, that she just doesn’t get dressed that early in the morning. But to wear it all day, every day? In February? Well, that’s not unheard of, maybe it’s a comfort thing, and maybe they have very good heating, but it makes her stand out in his mind nonetheless, and he finds that he’s subconsciously starting to look at her window every time he passes the house.

Another thing that strikes him as odd is the way she looks at him. He can understand just enjoying looking out of the window. After all, the house has a pretty good view over the nearby park that he bikes through on his way to work. It’s just… It feels like the second she spots him, she doesn’t take her eyes off him until he’s gone over the cobblestones and disappeared around the corner of the next house. If she’s just admiring the view, why does she pay such close attention to him? Then again, why does he pay such close attention to her? Maybe she thinks he’s being creepy, staring up at her like that.

Two weeks or so from the day his chain dropped, his bike once again meets defeat at the hands of those damn cobblestones. This time he’s going a bit too fast, and his tires manage to hit the stones in a weird way that makes the entire bike bounce violently, sending his messenger bag flying out of the basket that hangs from the handlebars. As sheets of paper flutter through the air, he curses his life and strongly considers never using this shortcut again.

Jumping off the bike and leaning it against the fence around the garden, his first thought is for the laptop in his bag. Thankfully it looks to be in one piece when he picks up the bag and rummages through it to assess the damage. Problem two is collecting all the bloody paperwork that now lies scattered on the ground around him. Oh, great. The wind has carried some of it into the woman’s garden.

He looks up at her window to see if she would catch him jumping the fence. He didn’t see her while approaching the house, but she must have been alerted by the noise and swearing produced by his little accident, because there she is now, pushing the curtain away from the window and peering out at him.

Well, he needs his papers, so there’s not much he can do but shout, “Sorry about this! I’m just going to—” He gestures at the fence, and when she makes no attempt to communicate either approval or objection, he scales the fence and jumps into the garden, trying to be as efficient and unobtrusive as possible. When he’s done, he looks up at her again and gives her an awkward little wave with the hand clutching the papers.

“Sorry again! I’ll get out of your hair!” he calls, unsure of how well she can even hear him through the glass. Well, it’s the thought that counts.

This close to her, he can tell that the smallest of smiles is tugging at the corners of her mouth, even if her eyes are heartbreakingly sad. Another thing he notices at this distance is a small stain of something dark red or brown on her negligée. To his great shame, he manages to jump back over the fence (less gracefully now that his hands are occupied with paper), put everything back in the bag, wave at the woman again, and then bike almost all the way to work before realising that the stain looked very much like blood and that there was a shadow on her wrist that must have been a bruise.

Shit.

Hob has a very hard time focusing on his lectures that day, and when it’s finally time for his lunch break, he immediately heads for his office and opens his laptop. It’s a moment’s work to pull the woman’s address from a map and find out who lives there. God bless the internet. Pausing for a second of self-reflection, he ultimately decides that he’s not being creepy. He’s just a concerned citizen.

The only one listed at that specific address is a Richard Madoc. The name sounds vaguely familiar, and Google soon reminds Hob where he has heard the name before. His colleague, who teaches modern and contemporary literary studies, is always going on about him. Thus, Hob has resolutely refused to read any of his work, reasoning that if people say he’s that good, there’s no way the books can actually live up to the hype. Besides, he hears enough about the books in the staff kitchen that they’re more or less completely spoiled at this point, and it’s not like he has a lot of time left over for reading fiction written in this century anyways.

What Hob finds very interesting, and immensely concerning, is the fact that the internet quite unequivocally informs him that Madoc is both single and has no siblings. That would rule out both girlfriend and sister as possible explanations for why he keeps a woman in his home, and she certainly isn’t dressed like a housekeeper.

His gut feeling that something is terribly wrong only intensifies throughout the day, and when it’s time to go home, he has formulated a plan. He clears all the Post-it notes and scrawlings off the small whiteboard that hangs behind his desk and brings it with him down to his bike. It’s a bit too big to fit in the basket with his bag, but he manages to wedge it between the rear rack and the seat post. If the woman is at the window on his way home, it’s time to try some communication.

Unfortunately, she is not looking out when he passes the house. He briefly stops anyway, torn between if he should wait and see if she’ll show up, or if it would be suspicious of him to just loiter there, in case Madoc is home and sees him through the window. In the end, he continues on home, not daring to risk drawing attention towards himself. He’ll just keep bringing the whiteboard with him until she does appear again.

It’s two more days before Hob sees her again. He’s on his way to work on a Thursday morning when he spots a flash of white in the window as he approaches from the park. Right. Time to give this a try.

He stops outside the garden and dismounts. The woman looks confused and a bit skittish, like she might step back from the window if he makes any sudden moves, so Hob holds up his hands in a placating gesture before reaching for the whiteboard. She stays. Tugging off one of his gloves and fishing the whiteboard marker out of his pocket, he starts writing as large and bold as possible to be legible at a distance. Then he holds the board up to the woman, all the while looking out for any sign that Madoc is home and might catch him.

ARE YOU OK?

She looks startled, then scared, then sad as she processes this. At long last, she shakes her head. Fuck. As he suspected then. Erasing the text with his gloved hand, he pens another question.

DO YOU
NEED HELP?

Again, she takes a while to respond, as if carefully considering the consequences of her answer. Then she nods, hesitantly.

CAN I HELP?

She bites her lip and shrugs sadly.

SHOULD I CALL
THE POLICE?

A decisive shake of her head. Hm. Curious… Yet perhaps not wholly unexpected.

CAN I
COME IN?

She shakes her head and mimes the locking of a key with her hand. Christ… Not just emotionally trapped then… He thinks for a second, then makes a decision — which is no decision at all, really.

MAY I BREAK IN?
TO HELP

Surprise colours her expression, as if she wasn't expecting him to ask something like that. A second, then she nods, but she looks scared. Not of him, Hob thinks. No… For him, maybe. Well, she need not worry about that.

IS HE HOME
TONIGHT?

No.

I’LL COME THEN
TOO BRIGHT NOW

A nod of understanding.

I WILL HELP
HANG IN THERE

It’s hard to tell at this distance, but she might have tears in her eyes as she gives him a disbelieving smile.

Erasing his last message, he packs the whiteboard back on the bike and gives the woman a last smile and a wave. She waves back. Well, it’s a good thing he doesn’t have too many lectures today. Not getting distracted by the fact that he’s about to do some breaking and entering at the house of a very famous person tonight will be a challenge, for sure.

Hob heads home between work and his impromptu rescue mission that evening, waiting for it to get entirely dark, foraging for useful items in his flat while he waits. What he manages to scrounge up is, thankfully, his set of lockpicks (one does accumulate a startling number of hobbies after a few centuries, and he did use to be a bandit, after all), a Swiss Army knife, and an old ski mask that hasn’t seen action since he went skiing in the Alps that one time in the nineties.

It feels almost ridiculous to imagine himself sneaking in masked like a burglar in the dead of night, and he briefly wonders if he would not be less conspicuous if he just waltzed up to the door dressed normally, but he’s not that confident in his ability to pick the lock fast enough to avoid suspicion that way. It’s been a good few years since he last practised the art. In fact, he makes sure to hone his skill on a few of his own locks at home before he deems himself good enough not to embarass himself.

He waits until midnight before setting off on his trusted bike, any identifying features, such as the basket, removed in advance. It still feels a bit risky to use the same bike he rides past the house on every single day, but it’s a quicker getaway than running to the tube or something.

Perhaps he’s being more paranoid than he needs to be. If anyone catches him, surely he will just be able to point at the woman in the window and hope that she’ll make a thumbs up or something to indicate that he’s allowed there? That, or tell the truth. If she’s really locked in there, that ought to be very easy to prove to the police, right?

If worst comes to worst, he’s prepared to abandon his current life and start anew somewhere else, but he very much hopes it won’t come to that. It took him eight years to work his way up to a PhD and get this job, he’d really rather not throw it all away after only two years of lecturing. But to save someone from whatever fucked-up situation this woman finds herself in? It would still be worth it.

These are the kind of thoughts running through his head on his way to his destination. This isn’t exactly how he imagined spending a Thursday night, but now that he’s here, he can feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that used to accompany the first light of dawn on the day of a battle, or lying in wait by the side of the road for some posh, unsuspecting travellers during his less legitimate endeavours. This is a far nobler cause, though. Tonight will be more akin to rescuing a fair maiden from a tower. Aaand his imagination has officially run away from him. It's all that damn Arthuriana he's been teaching lately.

He parks the bike in an alley just around the corner from Madoc’s house, choosing to leave it unlocked, in case he has to leave in a hurry. If someone steals it from him while he’s off playing burglar, he will be very cross. Honour among thieves, and all that. Not that he’s actually stealing anything tonight.

Peering out from the alley, he can tell that the lights are out more or less everywhere. That’s one benefit of doing this on a weekday at half past twelve. Most normal people have gone to sleep by now, or at least gone to bed, trying to get there.

There’s no point delaying it any longer. He pulls the ski mask over his head and starts walking towards Madoc’s house. The woman is at the window, and when she sees him she smiles wider than he’s ever seen her smile before. Good, he’s not too scary in the silly ski mask then. Or maybe he looks ridiculous enough that she’s laughing at him. Either way, better amused than scared.

For the first time since he started taking this shortcut, he feels very grateful that the space between the small gardens is so poorly lit. His dark grey clothing blends in nicely against the sad backdrop that is an English garden in February. Jumping the fence is as easy as last time, and before he knows it, he’s at the back door and getting out his lock pick.

It’s not until the door swings open that Hob realises that he maybe should be worried by an alarm system, but he doesn’t hear anything, and so he slinks inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He sneaks through the ground floor of the house and into the hallway where stairs lead up to the first floor. No sign of an alarm anywhere. Hob frowns. Isn’t this guy famous? Doesn’t he worry about thieves? Or stalkers? Though, if you’re keeping a woman locked up in your house, you probably wouldn’t want anyone even remotely associated with law enforcement going there even if you were being robbed…

The house seems quiet, no sign of anyone else being home, so Hob heads upstairs. It’s immediately obvious which door the woman must be hiding behind, because only one is bolted shut from the outside. Hob feels the nervous adrenaline change into cold fury on behalf of the woman in white. Fucking famous people. You can never tell which ones are nice, down-to-earth people and which ones do fucked-up shit like this.

He knocks on the door, hands still gloved so as not to leave any fingerprints, but he does lift the bottom half of the ski mask up over his face. The woman already knows what he looks like, after all.

“Hi, it’s me. The, uh, bloke with the bike,” he whispers.

He hears footsteps behind the door, and, after a few seconds, a soft voice saying, “Hello.”

“I’m going to pick the lock, is that all right?”

“Yes.”

He does. It’s a much simpler make than the one in the back door, and it takes him no time at all to crack it. He slides the bolt to the right and opens the door.

There she is, sitting on the bed, waiting. The woman in the window. He had been wrong. This house isn’t very well heated, and her negligée doesn’t look like it brings any warmth at all. His fury grows even colder at the sight.

“Hi,” he says, unable to think of anything more clever at the moment.

“Hello,” she repeats, her smile warm but sad.

“I— Are you all right? No, that’s a stupid question. Um. Do you want to get out of here? I can take you wherever you want, a women’s shelter, or… Or the police, or a friend’s place?”

Her smile grows sadder still. “The police cannot help me,” she says, a hint of an accent to her melodious voice. “And I have no friends in this place.”

“You do now.” Hob smiles back at her, trying to look as reassuring and nonthreatening as possible. “Just tell me how I can help you, and I will.”

“I… I do not know that you can help me.”

“Of course I can, you just have to walk out the door, easy as that.” He tries to think of what he can say to make her believe that she can — and should — escape this horrid man, without sounding too pushy. “And if you need protection, I can offer that too, or take you to other people who can. I can even give you money, help you start a new life.”

She casts her eyes down to the floor. “I cannot be so easily freed.” She sighs. “Perhaps I should not have let you come. You are only a human, after all.”

Now that’s not what he expected her to say. He takes another good look at her. “You’re not. Human, I mean. Are you?”

She looks up at him, with doe-like brown eyes, dark and shining and a little frightened. No, not human at all.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ve met your kind before. I think.”

“Who?” she asks, surprised.

“Not sure, he never did give me his name. What’s yours?” Hob gives her a few seconds to answer, but she seems hesitant, so he figures he’d better start building trust by making himself as vulnerable as she is. “I’m sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? I’m Robert Gadling, but you can call me Hob. I’m six hundred and sixty-five, and I’m immortal. Human, but immortal.”

Her eyes widen. “I see. My… My name is Kalliopê.”

One does not teach Medieval Literature for two years, nor live through the Renaissance at a royal court without hearing the name Calliope, and Hob’s brain kicks into gear the second she says it. Calliope. Non-human. Imprisoned by an artist. An author, no less. Oh, Jesus wept.

“Forgive me if this question is a bit personal, but you don’t happen to be the Calliope, do you? The muse? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” He tries to keep his voice soft and calm, but inside he is trembling with rage. He’s going to fucking kill Richard Madoc.

“I am her,” Calliope confirms, after a moment’s consideration.

That explains the accent, Hob thinks, stupidly, trying to take in the fact that there’s a literal goddess sitting on the bed before him. This complicates things.

“Right, in light of all this, how can I help you? I’m beginning to get why I can’t just call the police.”

“I can only be freed by the word of the man who keeps me here. I am bound to him by the old laws, as he so often reminds me.” The hopeless look in her eyes has Hob’s heart aching for her.

“And if he… died?” he asks, slowly and carefully, studying her response.

Her fidgeting hands still in her lap, and she remains silent and motionless for a while, as if frozen, before saying, “I do not wish that fate on him, it would not erase what he has done to me. But… nor do I wish to remain here. If it were the only way… Yes. If he died, I would be free.”

Hob nods grimly. He’d really rather not have to kill this bloke, to tell the truth. He hasn’t actually killed anyone in over a hundred years. A century and a half, even. Killing someone in the modern day of forensics would be a far bigger hassle, he suspects. And when the victim would be a famous author to boot, one who happens to live only minutes from his own place of work? Forget it. The investigation that would cause… He’d have to move to Estonia or something, become a farmer for a few decades until the heat died down.

There are several reasons why that isn’t a very appealing idea, not least of all the fact that he doesn’t like to be too far away from The New Inn, just in case a certain someone shows up… But he’ll fucking do it if he has to. He’s not going to leave a muse trapped as a slave to this dickhead of an author.

He opens his mouth to ask Calliope when she thinks Madoc will get home, so he can come by and do… something to him. Exactly what, he isn’t sure yet. He doesn’t have to ask, however, because he suddenly hears the tell-tale sound of keys in the front door downstairs. Cursing quietly, he hurries to close the door behind him, shutting himself in with Calliope.

“I am sorry!” she whispers. “He said he was to come home tomorrow!”

Hob thinks. A few seconds ago, he didn’t have a plan, but now he does, more or less. Some improvisation may be required, but he always did perform best under pressure.

“Right,” he whispers back as he hears the door downstairs open. “We’re doing this tonight. I’m going to try not to kill him, but whatever happens happens.”

He pulls the ski mask over his face again and rummages in his pockets for the Swiss Army knife he had brought in case he needed any tools to free Calliope. This isn’t the kind of knife he would have picked for the purpose, but it will have to do. Folding out the sharp blade is tricky without taking his gloves off, but he manages just as he hears footsteps ascending the stairs.

He takes up position behind the door, very happy that it opens inwards. Calliope looks uncertain of what he is going to do, but she steels her expression into one of sombre neutrality, just in time, because there’s a rattling sound from the door, as if someone is trying to turn the key in the already unlocked door.

The doorknob turns.

Chapter Text

“I thought I locked this,” Hob hears a man mutter on the other side of the door as the doorknob turns. “Calliope? Are you still in there?” The door opens, and the man, Madoc, steps into the room. “Oh, you are.”

Hob can’t see him yet, the door still blocking the view, so he stays absolutely still, biding his time. He will only get one chance to take the man by surprise, and if he doesn’t, this could get messy very quickly.

“Where would I be?” Calliope asks, acting quite natural, her gaze not even flickering to Hob’s hiding place. “You know I cannot run.” The man sighs, and Calliope adds, “You are home early.”

“Yeah, I caught an earlier flight. The meetings went very smoothly, I really think the studio will bite. This is going to be amazing for our careers—”

“Our careers? You mean yours,” Calliope snaps, and Hob is strongly reconsidering his stance on just full-on murdering this guy.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Madoc groans, and then he finally steps far enough into the room that Hob can turn his plan into action.

In one swift motion, he closes the door and steps up behind Madoc. Before he has a chance to turn around, Hob wraps a hand around his mouth and raises the knife to his throat. The man’s cry of surprise is muffled by Hob’s glove, and when he instinctively tries to turn around to face his assailant, Hob tightens his grip, pulling him closer to his chest to inhibit movement while pressing the flat of his knife harder against Madoc’s neck.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he growls. “Not with a knife to your throat.”

Madoc whines in terror and the hands that had been clawing at Hob’s arm to try to loosen his grip freeze in place. Calliope is watching them intently, still seated on the bed.

“Good boy. Now, here’s how this is going to go. I am going to remove my hand from your mouth in a second, and you will use that time to say that you let this goddess go. If you do that, I will let you live. If you scream, there will be consequences. Understood?”

Madoc lets out another whine. Hob slowly lifts a couple of fingers from his mouth, still keeping his grip on his chin.

“You don’t understand I need her—” Madoc says, his voice high-pitched and breathless. Hob immediately covers his mouth again.

“I see how you could have misunderstood me. Let me clarify — the next time I let you speak, there will be consequences if you say anything other than the words ‘I let you go, Calliope. You are free.’ Do you understand? Nod if you do.”

He angles the knife to press the sharp edge against Madoc’s Adam’s apple to emphasise the sincerity behind his words. The author hesitates for a second or so, before very carefully nodding, obviously scared to move too quickly with a blade to his throat.

“All right. I’ll let you speak. But keep in mind that I would love an excuse to bleed you like a pig. It would make my life so much easier.”

It really wouldn’t, but Madoc doesn’t need to know that.

When he lifts his fingers this time, Madoc takes a shaky breath before speaking. “I— I let you go, Calliope. You’re free. I free you. I’m sorry—”

As Hob shuts him up again, he can hear Calliope heave a sigh of relief, and as she stands up from the bed, something about her changes. Beyond the obvious change of clothes and hairstyle, that is. She is now dressed in a white chiton, with the now shiny curls of her brown hair partially plaited and put up in a beautiful coiffure, but the biggest change about her is the warmth that has returned to her skin and the serene expression on her face. She looks like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, and she’s almost glowing, in some indistinct, non-literal way.

“Thank you,” she breathes, locking eyes with Hob. He nods at her, not able to emote very well in his mask. She turns her attention to Madoc. “You may spare me your apologies, since you do not mean them. Perhaps you will, in time, after reflecting on what could have been, had I given my gift freely.” Her eyes have gone cold while speaking to her captor, but their intoxicating warmth and mirth returns when she looks back at Hob. “You have done me a great kindness.”

“Don’t thank me yet, I still have to figure out what to do with this sorry twit so we can get out of here,” Hob replies, not moving a muscle to release Madoc, who whimpers pathetically in his arms.

“Let me,” Calliope says, moving gracefully across the floor to stand closer to the two men. Her contralto voice is soft and clear and hauntingly beautiful as she starts to sing:

Nύκτα θεῶν γενέτειραν ἀείσομαι ἠδὲ καὶ ἀνδρῶν
Ὑπνοδότειρα, φίλη πάντων, ἐλάσιππε, νυχαυγής
Νῦν σε, μάκαιρα, καλῶ, πολυόλβιε, πᾶσι ποθεινή
Εὐάντητε, κλύουσα ἱκετηρίδα φωνὴν
Ἔλθοις εὐμενέουσα, φόβους δ' ἀπόπεμπε νυχαυγεῖς

Hob’s initial bewilderment at her singing quickly turns into entranced rapture as he listens to the melody. It sounds as old as the language itself, and he tries to remember the Ancient Greek he had learned in his studies during the Renaissance, eager to fit in at court.

He only catches every other word or so, but from what he can gather, Calliope is singing of Nyx, the goddess of night, giver of sleep. She seems to be calling to her, asking her to listen to her prayer and to grace them with her presence. With this in mind, Hob isn’t too surprised when he feels Madoc go limp in his arms, as he falls asleep under Calliope’s hypnotic spell. He unceremoniously lets the unconscious author drop to the floor at his feet, not bothering to cushion his fall in the slightest.

The last notes seem to hang in the air long after the song ends, and Hob has a hard time tearing his eyes from Calliope, still spellbound by the music and her beauty. It is only when she smiles at him and quirks an eyebrow that he realises what a picture he must paint, standing there with a knife in his hand and a mask over his face just staring at a woman. He quickly folds the blade back into the knife and puts it back in his pocket.

Removing the ski mask and combing a hand through his hair, he says, “Sorry, I just… That was beautiful.”

“Thank you. It is part of a hymn I once taught my son.” A shade of pain seems to cloud her eyes at the mention of her child. She turns her eyes to Madoc’s sleeping body. “He will not remember you when he wakes.”

“Oh. That’s handy. Thank you.”

That takes care of that then. Perks of saving a goddess, he supposes. He should be fine as long as no one sees him sneak out of the house.

“No, I must thank you. Without your help, I could not have lifted a hand against this man, bound as I was by the laws. You had no obligation to me, you did not even know my name, yet you risked much, coming to my aid. It shall not be forgotten, Hob Gadling.”

His name on her lips sounds lovelier than a name like “Hob” has any right to, and he is briefly reminded of the way his Stranger manages the same feat. He blinks, aware that he has been just quietly looking at her for several seconds longer than is socially acceptable, again. Get it together, Hob.

“It was my pleasure. Genuinely. We immortals have to stick together, eh?” She smiles at his joking tone, but then he grows serious. “I’m just sorry it took me so long to realise that you needed help.”

Calliope frowns at that, and she steps over Madoc’s body, forgotten on the floor, until she is close enough to Hob to lay a hand on his arm. Her hand is almost unnaturally warm, even through the many layers of his clothing, and he can see that she has the hands of an artist, small and slender.

“I would not have you blame yourself for that, especially when I did not dare call for your help. I have been captive for over sixty years, most of them at the hands of another before this one. What are two more weeks in the face of eternity?”

Christ, sixty years? For fuck’s sake, what’s wrong with authors?! And to think that it all ended just because of those damn cobblestones wrecking his bike. He wonders if Calliope knows any hymns to Tyche, goddess of chance and fortune. She seems to deserve some praise in this situation.

What he says is, “Why didn’t you? Call for help?” As soon as he says it, he wishes he could take it back. From what he’s heard, it sounds like it can take a lot for a victim of abuse to even admit that they need help. But Calliope’s answer surprises him.

“I worried that I would be putting you in danger. My captor, he… He turned cruel, over the years, when once he was mostly motivated by selfishness. He would not think of himself as such, of course, but I did not want to risk your safety.”

“The man looks like he weighs ten stone soaking wet, and I’m immortal. I doubt I would have had much trouble even if I hadn’t had the element of surprise.”

“I know that now.” She smiles warmly and squeezes his arm.

“What will you do now? Go back to Greece? To Olympus?” Hob asks, trying not to lean into the touch too much. The goddess has an almost magnetic pull to her, and she is so warm.

“Ólympos is much diminished, and many gods have died. I think what I must do is to try to make sure that this never happens to anyone else ever again.”

“How?”

“I do not know. By inspiring humanity to want better for themselves and each other. By rewriting the laws by which I was held. Laws that were written long ago, in which my sisters and I had no say.”

Hob wants to lay a comforting hand over the one she is resting on his arm, but considering what she must have been through during these past sixty years, he will not touch her without her express permission, even if she is the one who initiated contact. Instead he smiles as reassuringly as possible.

“I wish you good luck. If anyone can do it, it would be a muse, right?”

“We can only hope. Fare you well, Hob Gadling. I shall never forget you.” She stands on her tiptoes and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek. Hob holds as still as physically possible, afraid to scare her away. “Perhaps our paths shall cross again.”

“With a bit of luck,” he breathes, disoriented by the kiss, and at risk of drowning in her dark, glittering eyes again.

“Then may fortune be with us both,” she smiles, and then she is gone, a warm breeze that makes the curtains flutter — and the burning sensation of lips on his cheek — the only sign that she was ever there.

Hob blinks. And then he falls a little bit in love. Ah, shit.

The little line at the top of the empty Word document is blinking in and out of existence, taunting him with every second that passes without him touching his keyboard and filling the blank page with words.

Hob groans and lets his head fall from his hands down to the desk, giving in to the urge to bang his head against the cheap wood a few times. Logically, he knows that he has to actually write the paper if he wants to be able to submit it for peer review and eventually get it published. It’s just that right now he’d rather just have written it than having to write it.

He’s done the research, he has a thesis, he knows what he wants to say, more or less, it’s just… Words! They’re not coming today. He bangs his head against the top of the desk once more. It may knock some of his brain cells together for long enough to form a sentence or two. For Christ’s sake, please, just let there be words.

“Hello, Hob.”

Hob lifts his head quick enough to almost give him whiplash. He locked the door to his office, he’s sure of it, not keen on the thought that a student might walk in while he is in the middle of the forehead-meeting-a-hard-surface stage of writing.

It’s not a student. Not even close. It’s Calliope, sitting in the visitor’s chair at the opposite side of the desk.

It’s been almost exactly three months since Hob broke into Richard Madoc’s house, and Calliope’s freedom seems to agree with her. She looks… Well, she looks amazing, of course, in her chiton and curly, elaborately plaited hair, almost glowing faintly with some divine energy. But more importantly, she looks happy. It’s only because Hob knows what she’s gone through that he can spot the hint of pensiveness that lingers in her eyes, but, overall, she looks so much more joyful and vivacious than last time he saw her.

“Calliope!” he exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

“You were praying to me. Did you not wish to see me?” Her brow furrows with uncertainty, and Hob is filled with a burning desire to smooth out every line that ever has or ever will appear on her face caused by negative emotions.

“It’s good to see you, of course! But I wasn’t prayi—”

He suddenly becomes aware that he has been absentmindedly rubbing the no-doubt red mark left on his forehead from his previous position, lying prostrate over the desk silently begging the universe to bring him the gift of words.

“Oh. Oh, I sort of was, wasn’t I?”

Her eyes crinkle with mirth. “Believe it or not, but banging one’s head against a table is a very old ritual associated with worshipping the muses.” Something in her voice makes it sound like she’s only half joking, but he laughs nonetheless. It’s hard to stay morose in Calliope’s company.

“I believe it.”

“I did not know you were a writer. You did not mention it when we first met.” Calliope’s head is cocked in curiosity.

“Ah, that’s because I’m not. Not in the way you’re thinking, at least. I’m a lecturer, and that comes with writing academic papers every now and then.” Hob reaches over the desk to tap the little name sign there. “People here at MUU know me as Dr Herbert Goulding, I teach Historical Linguistics. My specialty is Middle English, for obvious reasons, but I dabble in interdisciplinarity by giving lectures on Medieval Literature too. My current paper deals with the latter, or it will, once I, you know, manage to start writing it.”

“I see.”

Calliope stands up and angles her head to read the titles of some of the manifold books strewn across the desk. She thumbs at the corner of a stapled pile of paper — a shitty scan of a book that must have gone through at least five different photocopiers before being scanned once again, made into a PDF and lastly reprinted by Hob, almost illegible at this point. Hob leans back in his chair, intertwining his fingers and resting his hands on his stomach as he watches Calliope poke around in the mess.

“What is the subject of the paper?”

“A Barthesian reading of Chaucer’s narrative oeuvre, analysing the politics and depiction of social issues in his work as separated from what we know, or think we know, of Chaucer’s own views and biases. There’s so much speculation when you try to pin opinions on a man who has been dead for six hundred and twenty-two years. Forget the man, I say. What does the text tell us, you know? I’m looking especially closely at The Legend of Good Women and The Canterbury Tales.”

“Geoffrey Chaucer?” Calliope asks, and Hob nods. “He was one of mine.” She smiles fondly, and Hob gapes.

“Really?” He sits up straighter in his chair. He has a million questions, but the one that comes out of his mouth is, “Then how come he left so many of his works unfinished?”

“Not even a goddess could make that man sit still for very long. He always preferred to jump from idea to idea, and my gift is inspiration, not discipline.”

“Sounds about right,” Hob chuckles. “I’m pretty sure I saw him a few times, way back when. We frequented the same tavern for a time, but I never talked to him — we didn’t exactly move in the same social circles back then.”

Calliope hums and continues her journey around the desk, idly trailing her hands over books and stacks of used Post-it notes as if she could absorb the contents of the writings through touch alone. Who knows, maybe she can. The exact nature of the powers of literal gods and goddesses is beyond Hob’s expertise.

“Your paper sounds interesting.” She turns to face Hob, leaning carefully against the desk, avoiding sitting on his laptop or any sensitive documents. “Would you let me help you with the inspiration? As repayment for helping me?”

“No,” Hob says, a little too fast, perhaps. She looks surprised and confused, maybe even a bit rejected, if Hob isn’t mistaken. “Not as repayment,” he clarifies. “You don’t owe me anything. I—”

He pauses, wondering if this is the right time and place for what he was going to say, but he quickly decides that he needs to say it.

“I have lived a long time, not as long as you, obviously, but long enough to have made more mistakes than one person can manage in a normal lifetime. Really bad choices, I mean. Sometimes knowing they were bad even as I made them.

“I… I haven’t always been a good man, Calliope, and— and I’m not sure how good I am right now, truth be told. I really felt like killing Madoc that day, and I don’t know if that was righteous anger or vindictive fury, if it would have been right or wrong… Ah, fuck, I’m getting off track…

“The point is, I’m trying to be better than I have been, and I guess what I’m trying to say is that I don’t want to be the kind of man who expects payment in exchange for common human decency. Does that— Am I making sense?”

Calliope kept still and quiet while Hob was speaking, or rambling, rather, but now that he is finished, she stands up straight and takes a step closer to Hob. He holds his breath as she bends down a little, taking one of his hands and holding it in her own, warm and smooth and delicate.

“I will not presume to make judgements on who is or is not a good man, nor on what it is to be one,” she says, voice low and calming. “But you offered to be my friend when I said I had none, and everything I have seen so far has made me feel comfortable in my judgement of you. Good man or not — you are a good friend, Hob Gadling.”

Her dark eyes feel like they are penetrating his very soul, and Hob gets the feeling that she can see everything that he is, every little part of him that has been hidden away under centuries of false identities and lies, big and small. Every aspect of him — the good, the bad, the ugly… It makes her words that much more meaningful, and he has to clear his throat before speaking.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice a little rough with emotion. “That means a lot, truly.”

“Then perhaps I might make my offer anew? Would you accept my help as a gift, freely given from one friend to another, as a token of appreciation?”

“Now, how could I say no to that?” Hob answers, giving her a big grin and trying to not let it show how hard his heart is beating.

Oh, he is so fucked. Falling in love with Greek gods and goddesses? Never a sensible idea, if the myths are to be believed. Then again, Hob has never been a very sensible creature.

She smiles in return and squeezes his hand once before letting go and taking a step back. Hob feels bereft for a second before he pulls himself together and tries to remember that he is a professional, grown up person who can rise above a little crush on a divine being.

“Good. I am sure we shall work very well together, even if this is a new side of writing for me. My sister, Kleiô, would be of more help in the field of Historical Linguistics, but I think I can manage Literary Analysis, especially when I was the one to inspire the literature in question in the first place.”

“Ah, Clio,” Hob says. “She is the muse of history, right? And your thing is more epic poetry and eloquence?” Prompted by Calliope’s raised eyebrows, he adds, a little sheepishly, “I, uh, googled you. I didn’t actually think I would meet you again. Though most of the stuff I read were things I had already learned but half-forgotten, both from my studies during the Renaissance and from what I read for work nowadays. Not that I know how many of the old stories are true, they’re rather contradictory at times.”

“Many of the stories shared amongst humans are true, perhaps a surprising amount, in fact. Others contain only a grain of truth, or are very loosely inspired by reality.” She gets a faraway look in her eyes as she speaks.

“In that case,” Hob says, weighing his next words carefully, “I’m sorry for your loss.” She looks back at him but says nothing. “The son you spoke of, the one you taught the hymn, it was Orpheus, right?”

She nods, biting her lip, the sadness returned to her eyes. Hob takes a breath, and very slowly, giving her plenty of time to move away, reaches for her hand again. She lets him take it.

“I’m sorry to bring it up, it’s just… I know what it is to lose a son, and if the stories do the truth any justice… I just wanted to say that if you ever need to talk about it, I’m here. I know that I wish I had someone to talk to about it, sometimes.”

Calliope’s eyes remain dry, but there is an indescribable sorrow behind them as she says, “How long?”

What Hob hears in those two words is How long ago did your son die? How long have you carried the grief with you?

“About four hundred years. He was only twenty when he was killed, my Robyn. And his mother, my wife Eleanor, died in childbirth a few years prior. The baby was going to be called Isolda, after my mother. You?”

“Close to three millennia.”

“The pain never really goes away, does it?” Hob dares to stroke his thumb gently against her hand, offering what comfort he can.

“No, but we learn to bear it. And a burden shared…” She squeezes his hand.

“Is a burden halved.”

Hob’s heart is filled with an aching that is half grief for the reminder of what was, and half joy for what is now. A hand in his, belonging to someone he can tell the full story to without worrying about obfuscating the details and the timeline, someone who has experienced the same thing, no matter the difference in circumstance.

“Thank you, Hob. One day, I should very much like to tell you about my son. It would be nice to speak of him again. His father… Oneiros refused to discuss the matter afterwards, and in my anger I blamed him for what happened and left him. I have not seen him since. Sometimes I feel that I never had the chance to mourn my son properly, with no one to speak to, no opportunity to turn my grief into words.”

“Yeah, me too. After a while, it was no longer safe to tell anyone the story, and I carried it inside for eighty years, falling deeper and deeper into despair before I finally had the opportunity to talk to someone about it.”

“Did it help?”

Hob thinks back to that day in 1689 at the White Horse tavern, spilling his heart out in front of his Stranger, speaking secrets he hadn’t told a soul for decades as the Stranger listened, not saying much, but with some sort of understanding apparent in his eyes. He thinks of how soon after that meeting, he had pulled himself together and started rebuilding his life, piece by piece, slowly but surely.

“Oh, yes. Even to just speak the words, regardless of the response… Yes. It helped.”

“I am glad.” Calliope smiles again, some of the sorrow eased from her expression. “Perhaps we can continue to help each other as we work together. Which reminds me, I should let you get back to work.”

No, please stay, Hob doesn’t say. “Right. This paper won’t write itself,” he says instead, releasing Calliope’s hand. “Speaking of, how does the whole inspiration thing work? Is it just like,” He wiggles his fingers, miming casting a spell. “Or how do you do it?”

She seems to mull something over for a moment, then she steps closer, looming over him where he’s seated in his office chair. He freezes in place when she cups his cheeks with her hands and bends down to his level.

“Like this,” she says, and then she presses a kiss to his lips.

It’s completely chaste, yet Hob is filled with a warmth that radiates from the goddess’ lips, permeating his whole body as if he is standing outside on a brisk spring day with the sun suddenly appearing through the clouds to cast its rays upon him, bathing him in light and heat. A gentle breeze fills the small office, making the scattered documents in the room rustle softly. It carries the scent of honey and fresh mountain air.

It only lasts for a second, then Calliope withdraws. Hob finds himself unwilling to open the eyes he had instinctively closed, as if keeping them like that would let the moment stretch out into infinity. But it does not, and so he opens his eyes to look up at Calliope, dazed and enamoured.

“Farewell, Hob Gadling. You will see me again very soon.”

Her beautiful smile is etched into his retinas for several seconds after she disappears without so much as a puff of smoke. A part of him wants to just sit there forever and memorise every second of the experience, but there’s a steadily growing urge welling up inside him, telling him to put pen to paper — well, hands to keyboard, rather — and so he shakes himself out of his reverie and wakes the long-neglected laptop on his desk.

Hob writes and writes and writes. And then he writes a bit more, until it’s time to go home, at which point he looks at the clock on the wall and then ignores it in favour of writing for a little while longer.

Chapter Text

Calliope shows up again exactly one week later, same place, same time. Perhaps Hob unwittingly called her there by staring too long at the heading that reads “The House of Fame and the Death of the Wronged Woman” without writing anything, or perhaps Calliope just intuited that Hob’s schedule best allows for writing on Tuesdays just after lunch.

Hob is happy to see her, he’s just not very happy about just having taken a sip of tea when she blinks into existence at the other side of the desk. He almost chokes, and only by the grace of god does he avoid spraying the liquid over his desk and Calliope. Thankfully, he manages to swallow most of it, only inhaling a small quantity.

When he finally stops coughing and spluttering, he croaks out, “Hi, good to see you, Calliope.”

“I startled you. Should I have entered by the door instead?”

Luckily enough, she seems more amused by Hob’s mildly embarrassing reaction than disgusted.

“Ah, that’s up to you. It might save me a heart attack, but something as petty as a case of cardiac arrest won’t kill me anyway.” He chuckles and tries to clear his throat from the last traces of invasive fluid. “Probably better to scare me than someone out in the corridor, though. I don’t quite know how I would explain a Greek goddess in a full chiton materialising out of thin air outside my office to my co-workers and students.”

“I can pass without trace, unseen by mortal eyes, if I so wish. This is not a problem. Nor is changing my state of dress, though I admit I have not had the opportunity to follow the evolution of human fashion very closely these past decades.”

“No, yeah. Of course.” Hob tries to come up with something to say to steer the conversation back to a safer subject again. He doesn’t want to upset her by reminding her of her captivity and what she has missed out on because of it, unless that’s what she wants to talk about. “Anyway, thanks for last time. I wrote my analysis of The Book of the Duchess in record time. And my lecture on the Great Vowel Shift the next day… I’ve never seen my students so attentive. I thought you didn’t do history?”

“I do not, usually. But eloquence transcends subject. What kind of muse would I be if I did not endow my protégé with the finesse necessary to become a great orator? Not that I question your prowess prior to our arrangement, I am sure you managed very well on your own.”

Hob loves watching the way the corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles at him, and the glint of playfulness in them as she lightly teases him.

“Is that what I am, then? Your protégé?” he says, reaching for the half-forgotten cup of tea on his desk and taking a careful sip.

“Yes. And my friend, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

They smile at each other in silence for a moment, Hob’s heart doing its best to jump out of his chest like in a cartoon. He always did fall in love too easily, but he will do his best to tame his heart so as not to scare Calliope away. He’d be more than content to just have Calliope’s friendship.

“So,” he says, at length, “Are you usually friends with your protégés, or have you had any that were just, like, business partners?”

“Well,” she replies, “There have been some with whom I shared my gift because I knew our collaboration would result in a beautiful piece of art, though I did not care much for the artists themselves. But most were chosen both for their artistry and their appeal as a person. And many were, of course, lovers.”

The heat rising in Hob’s cheeks is from the warm tea, nothing else. He takes another sip, stalling for time until his mind gets back on track and figures out something non-idiotic to say. Think, Hob.

“Do you want tea?” he blurts out. Well done. “I just realised I’m being a bad host — sitting here drinking my tea and not offering you anything.”

He gestures over to the corner of his office that is occupied by a filing cabinet. On top of it sits an electric kettle, accompanied by a couple of extra cups, teaspoons, and infusers. There’s also an assortment of tea tins, a jar of honey, and a box of sugarcubes.

“I go through too many cups a day to keep going down to the staff kitchen, and the tea the university buys for us is depressing, little more than sad bags of powdered leaves. I take my tea seriously.”

Calliope eyes the tea corner curiously. “It has been a long time since I last had tea. I should like to try it again.”

“Great!” Hob says, putting down his own cup and kicking against the floor to roll his office chair towards the corner. He turns the kettle on, the water still warm from just before Calliope showed up, then he gathers the tins in his arms and rolls back to the desk, presenting them to his guest.

“I’ve got a few different black teas, two greens and one rooibos. Pick your favourite. If you want milk, I can run down and get some.”

Opening tin after tin, Calliope takes her time sniffing at them all and assessing their aromas carefully.

“This one,” she says, after giving each option due consideration. She holds out one of the tins for Hob. “Just honey, I think.”

Hob’s fingers brush against hers when he takes the tin and looks at the label. “Black with elderflower and lemon. Good choice.” He rolls back to the tea corner and starts preparing her a cup, filling an infuser with the loose leaf tea from the tin.

“Are they not all good choices?” Calliope asks, amused. “If you ‘take your tea seriously’?”

“Ah, you got me there. I’ll mix in a few bad choices as well next time, put your nose to the test.”

Calliope laughs, and Hob has to pause pouring the reheated water to turn around to look at her. Her laugh sounds like a babbling brook, bright and clear, and the way her face shines up is nothing short of breathtaking. She throws her head back and closes her eyes as she laughs, and Hob can’t tear his eyes away from the slender column of her neck. Her teeth are white pearls framed by her red lips — and okay, Hob should really stop staring now, before it gets creepy. And for the sake of his own sanity, if he’s determined to not become a character in some Greek divine tragedy.

With a Herculean effort, he spins his chair back to face the tea and finishes pouring the water. He dunks the infuser in the cup, and brings it back to the desk together with the jar of honey and a teaspoon.

“Here you go, love. Sweeten to taste.”

Calliope puts a decent dollop of honey into the tea before sitting back a bit in her chair, waiting for the tea to finish steeping.

“Will you tell me your story while we drink?” she asks. “You told me you were human, and I am curious as to how a human came by immortality.”

Hob chuckles. “It’s a rather long story. For your sake, I hope there’s a bit of your gift of eloquence left from our last meeting.”

“Oh, how remiss of me. Come here.” She curls her fingers, beckoning him to lean forward across the desk. Hob obliges, half rising from his chair and putting his weight on his hands, splayed over the desktop. He is a little confused at first, but he soon realises what she means to do when she leans in to meet him.

The kiss is just as warm and divinely euphoric as the last one, but this time Hob is marginally less stunned and taken aback, and he can thus appreciate the moment in greater detail, even if he keeps just as still as he did last time. Her lips are impossibly soft against his, and he hopes his own aren’t too chapped. The magical breeze carrying the scent of mountain air and honey mingles with the honey and elderflower in Calliope’s tea, the aroma rising up with the steam from the cup they are leaning over.

It might be Hob’s imagination, but the kiss seems to last for a second longer than the last one, giving his racing mind plenty of time to come to the conclusion that if the price of kissing a goddess is risking getting tied to a rock and having your liver eaten by eagles every day, or having to roll a rock up a hill in perpetuity, or whatever fate befalls humans with enough hubris to consort with the Greek gods, then it’s worth it.

The second they part, Hob’s head is starting to flood with ideas and turns of phrases he could use in the retelling of his story. He is speaking before he’s even sitting down again.

“Our story begins in the early evening of the seventh of June, 1389. It was an unusually cold summer, though, as I would later find out, it would only get colder as we entered the Little Ice Age. I was having a drink in the White Horse tavern with the ragtag group of mercenaries I called friends at the time.

“Being quite in my cups already, despite the early hour, I went into a tirade on the subject of death, decrying the very concept and forswearing ever submitting to the cold touch of the Grim Reaper. Of course, at the time I was not blessed with the eloquence of the muses of Mount Helicon, and so I believe the phrase I uttered was something along the lines of ‘Death is stupid’. ‘I’ve made up my mind,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to die.’

“That is when a stranger walked up to the table — the Stranger, as I would come to dub him — and asked me if he had heard right. Did I have no intention of ever dying? When I confirmed it, rather bewildered at being approached at all by a gentleman in such costly clothing, he requested that I tell him what it was like — one hundred years from that day, at the very same tavern.

“My first thought was something to the effect that the man must be even more inebriated than myself, though the way he carried himself with absolute composure and poise spoke against that assessment. My second thought was that I might as well play along for a lark. Who knew, a man rich enough to dress in all black might have resources I could but dream of. He could be an alchemist, or a wizard, or Death himself—”

Only now does Calliope chip in, having quietly sat back, content to listen to the tale in silence while carefully sipping the hot tea.

“No. Death — or, as I know her, Teleute — presents as a woman, though she too wears nothing but black.”

“Really? Huh. I guess I can check that theory off the list then. Now, where was I—”

Hob goes on to describe his journey towards the realisation that he had, in fact, been gifted with immortality that day. He had received wounds that would kill any mortal man, lived to see friends go grey and wrinkled, started travelling to prevent them from seeing that he did not… He describes the fear that had gripped him then, that he might have bargained with the Devil and would one day have to pay the price.

He speaks of the second meeting with his Stranger, though he never uses the genitive, sticking instead to “the” Stranger, perhaps a little too embarrassed to admit that he thinks of the man as “his” in any sense other than “his friend”. He describes the relief he felt when the Stranger denied any association with Satan or the Dark Arts and told him there was no price or condition attached to the bargain, other than a centennial meeting to relay the human experience viewed through the lens of immortality.

He tries not to linger too long on the mundane details of his life, though as he reaches the second half of the 16th century, he dedicates a few minutes to his family, remembering them with fondness and a tinge of grief. Calliope breaks in with words of comfort at times, but it isn’t until he recounts the meeting with the Stranger cut short by a certain playwright that she truly interrupts him.

“Shakespeare? William Shakespeare? The Stranger made a deal with him?”

Her expression is hard to read, and Hob hesitates in confusion for a second before saying, “Yes. I knew him as Bill Shaxberd at the time, but yes. I confronted the Stranger about it later, asking him if he had sold his soul in exchange for his prowess and fame, but I’m getting ahead of myself—”

Calliope looks like there is something she wants to say, but she doesn’t, so Hob eventually goes on speaking, rushing past the dark days of the 17th century, preferring not to linger on his misery. What he does relate is the uncharacteristic kindness in the Stranger’s eyes as Hob spoke of the family he had lost at their next meeting, how his eyes had filled with tears as he asked the age-old question — “Do you still wish to live?” — and the look of relief and wonder when Hob told him he had so much left to live for.

Hob can’t help but notice that his story is affecting Calliope negatively in some way, though how and why he isn’t sure. The little gasp that escapes her at his retelling of the fight with Lady Johanna Constantine and her men, and how the Stranger cursed the woman, prompts Hob to ask if she’s all right. Calliope just squares her jaw and requests that he finish the story.

Growing steadily uneasier, Hob moves on to that fateful night in 1889 when he cocked it all up, making excuses neither for himself nor for the Stranger. He skips over everything that happened to him in between that meeting and the one in 1989 when he was stood up, keen on finishing the story so that he can ask Calliope what’s wrong. He drops more and more of the purple prose in order to speed things along.

“And that’s how I ended up founding The New Inn, though it’s more of a pub, really. We’ve only got the two rooms upstairs, in addition to my own flat. I try not to be away too long, just in case he shows up, you know? Now please, would you tell me what’s wrong?”

Calliope’s expression has hardened into a mask of cold neutrality, but there’s a spark of anxiety in her eyes that she can’t hide.

“I am sorry,” she says, putting her empty cup on the desk and standing up. “I have to go.”

“Wait. Who is he to you? You clearly know him. Just talk to me—”

“Goodbye, Hob.”

Hob is reaching out only to thin air as she disappears, and he slowly lowers his hand.

Fuck. There he goes again, scaring off his only immortal friends. Only this time, he’s not entirely sure what he did wrong.

The next week finds Hob sitting in his office, staring at the slowly cooling cup of tea he made for Calliope in the event that she would show up again this week despite the abrupt end to their last meeting. It’s only when the tea is cold and the clock strikes three that he decides that he has waited long enough, and must move on with the day, which, ironically, calls for waiting of a different kind.

He collects some tests and papers that need grading, quite a considerable amount, actually, and stuffs them in his messenger bag. After a moment’s hesitation, he hastily scribbles a message on a Post-it and leaves it stuck to the visitor side of his desk where it can’t be missed. Then he leaves.

The New Inn is relatively busy when he gets there, what with the influx of tourists that summer brings and all, but there’s a small sign that reads “Reserved” waiting for him at his usual table. The staff knows what day it is. He sits down, pulls out his paperwork, and waits — trying to not think too hard about how there’s now two people who probably won’t show up today.

It’s a bit harder than usual to concentrate on his students’ rambling analyses, but he makes a valiant effort, seeing as he really needs to get this done before the end of summer term, which is only about two weeks away. After that, he’ll be able to focus more on his own paper. It remains to be seen whether or not he’ll have to trudge his way through it without divine inspiration.

His brain vaguely registers the chiming of the bell above the door to the pub as someone enters, but it’s not until he feels the presence of someone standing in front of his table that he looks up.

He smiles. “You’re late,” he says, with no trace of bitterness or accusation in his voice.

“I am sorry, Hob. I should not have fled your company like that at our last meeting,” Calliope replies, smiling back at him.

She has obviously made an effort to fit in with the modern crown in the pub, because she is dressed in a beautiful ankle-length linen sundress that is decidedly of the 21st century, even if it bears a striking resemblance to her usual chiton with its white fabric, a draped cowl neckline, and a belt decorated with golden leaf motifs. He gestures for her to take the seat opposite him.

“I read your note,” she says as she sits down. “I am surprised to find you working in such a noisy atmosphere.”

“Ah, well, it’s not ideal. But today is the seventh of June, so…”

Understanding dawns in her eyes. “You are waiting for him.”

“Yeah.” Hob looks down and fidgets with the corner of a student paper. “You know, I think I figured it out — why he makes you uncomfortable, that is. But… he’s my friend. He might not see me the same way, and he can be a bit of an ass sometimes, but he’s been a very important part of my life, you know?” He stills his hands. “I’m right, aren’t I? My— The Stranger, he’s Oneiros? The god of dreams and the father of your son?”

He meets her eyes, and in them he finds all the confirmation that he needs, even before she nods. The sorrow in her eyes that had been gradually fading as they got to know each other is back, and Hob’s heart clenches. He tries to gather his thoughts, to put them into words that convey his feelings without revealing too much.

“Look, we don’t have to talk about him. I get that it’s awkward, spending time with your ex’s friend, or whatever it is that I am to him, but I… You’re my friend too, and I don’t want to lose that. I know we haven’t known each other very long, but you’re… important to me. And it’s not like I’m expecting him to actually show up anytime soon anyways, not after one hundred and thirty-three years.”

“You will not lose me, Hob Gadling.” There’s a compassionate look in Calliope’s eyes as she watches him start to absentmindedly fuss with his pen to occupy his hands again. “I regret leaving the way I did after hearing your story. I was overwhelmed with emotion and memory, but I have since had time for reflection, and I think we do need to talk about him. There are things you deserve to know.”

Hob leans back in his seat, observing Calliope. She still has an air of melancholy about her, but she seems determined to have the conversation now, and so he listens.

“I parted from Oneiros on bad terms, as you know. I was in mourning, and I think it blinded me from seeing that he was too, in his own quiet way. When he would not speak on the subject, I thought him unfeeling, and that angered me to the point that I blamed him for our son’s death and left, vowing never to speak to him again. Your story… What you told me of his reaction to hearing of your own loss… It made me realise that I had not taken the time to try to see things from his perspective, to consider how an Endless being such as him might express grief.

“Indeed, I realised I had made an effort not to think of him at all these past millennia, believing it would only bring me pain to remember him. But what you said about your experience of loss — that just speaking the words, regardless of the response, helped you heal — it made me reconsider. I did not just lose my son, I lost my husband as well. How can I heal from that if I will not think of it — if I will not speak of it?

“When I consulted my mothers, imploring them to free me, they mentioned him, and I told them I despised him, that I would not accept his help even if he offered it. I no longer know what I feel or who was in the wrong, if any one of us ever was, but I know that pretending as if none of it ever happened will not do me any favours. After all, was that not what I thought he was doing? The very reason I hated him to begin with? I realise now that without forgiveness, wounds will never heal, and I am tired of hurting.

“I do not know that Oneiros deserves a friend as good as you. Then again, I do not know that I do either. But you have offered your friendship to me nonetheless, and I would be a fool to throw it away because of any lingering resentment towards my former husband. So no, Hob. I will not hold your friendship to Oneiros against you, and I apologise for abandoning you last week. You are important to me too.”

“Are you crazy?” Hob murmurs the second her words sink in. He leans forward and lays his hand atop hers on the table between them. “Not deserving of having me as a friend? Surely it’s the other way around? Here I am — a former mercenary, bandit, and goddamn slave trader — and in front of me sits the muse of epic poetry, the goddess with the most beautiful voice in all the world… And she’s the one who’s not good enough? I don’t think so.”

She turns her hand to take his in a soft grip. “You flatter me. And I am a muse. Flattery will get you everywhere.” She looks a bit happier again, and Hob smiles and revels in the feeling of her warm skin against his. “There is one more thing I must tell you. About Oneiros. My mothers informed me that he too had been imprisoned by mortals, that he could not come to my aid even if he did not hate me for my part in our falling out.”

Hob freezes. “Imprisoned… When was this?”

“I found out four years ago, but I have only recently learned how long he must have been captive, for I was told his absence caused what you humans call the sleepy sickness.”

“But that started over a century ago!” Hob’s head is spinning by now. If his Stranger, Oneiros, has been captive for a century… Then he couldn’t have come to their meeting in 1989 even if he would have wanted to. Hob should have realised something was wrong, he should have started looking for him!

He stands up abruptly. “We need to find him. We need to save him!”

“Wait, Hob,” Calliope says, pulling him down back in his seat gently by the hand. “There is more to the story. He is already freed.”

“What? When?”

“The last survivor of the sickness woke up only a few days ago, and the divine planes were soon abuzz with gossip. They all agree — Oneiros is free. He has apparently been gathering his tools of office, regaining his strength and rebuilding his realm after his long absence.”

“Oh. That’s… good.” He rubs his thumb absentmindedly against Calliope’s slender fingers.

Hob feels almost dizzy with the quick turns of the conversation. He was just about ready to spring to action, to get out there and look until he had left no stone unturned in the search for his reluctant friend. Now that sudden wave of adrenaline has nowhere to go.

The revelation that his Stranger might not have intentionally missed their last appointment has likewise turned his whole world view upside down, causing him to reevaluate whatever feelings and conclusions the last thirty-three years of guesswork have resulted in.

He does not know what to think, even as his mind races on at a hundred miles per second. Perhaps that is why it takes him so long to notice the dark figure approaching their table. When he finally looks up, the man is almost upon them. His mouth falls open, and, for a second, he can only stare at the apparition standing behind Calliope.

“Speak of the Devil,” is all he can think of saying.

“I told you, I am no devil, my friend.”

It is unmistakably him, his Stranger, standing in the pub and looking — no, smiling, actually smiling — down at Hob. The new millennium agrees with him. Hob has never seen him look this casual, his hair this wild. It suits him, somehow, though it is at odds with Hob’s mental picture of him as the very essence of prim propriety.

My friend, he just said. Hob is rendered speechless as all the thoughts that have been racing through his brain during the last couple of minutes collide all at once and cause a massive pileup on the highway of his mind.

His Stranger — no, Oneiros — seems about to say something else, but that’s when Calliope turns her head to face him.

“Calliope—” he breathes as he looks down at her and recognises her, his smile faltering as his expression shifts into something like shock. Hob has never seen Oneiros shaken before.

“Oneiros,” Calliope replies, her voice carefully neutral. Hob can sense that she had not expected to run into her ex quite this soon.

Oneiros’ eyes flicker between Hob and Calliope, and then down to their clasped hands, resting on the table.

“Forgive me, I am intruding,” he says, and, without so much as a pop, he disappears.

Hob just sits there, stunned and staring at the point over Calliope’s shoulder where his friend had been a mere second ago, now gone again.

“Hob, are you all right?” Calliope asks, squeezing his hand.

“I— Uh. What just happened?” Hob says, slowly lowering his gaze to meet Calliope’s.

“I am afraid I scared your friend away.” Calliope looks a bit shaken as well.

“He did use that word, didn’t he…”

“I am sorry, had I not been here—”

“What?” Hob snaps out of it. “Never apologise for your presence. It’s always the highlight of my week.” Her smile returns. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon. And if he isn’t, I’ll just go find him. I know who he is now, I’ll be unstoppable.”

Hob gives Calliope a bright grin, and she laughs.

Chapter Text

During the week following Oneiros’ sudden return and immediately subsequent disappearance, Hob spends almost every minute of his free time down in the pub, waiting for him to show up again. A pair of good headphones ensure that he can keep up with the grading and his own writing despite the lively environment.

Monday afternoon finds him glaring at his laptop, tapping his finger against the pub table, and searching his mind for an academically acceptable way of saying that one of Chaucer’s critics is a moron with the most lukewarm takes on morality that Hob has ever had the misfortune of reading.

He has just typed “euphemisms for stupid” into the search bar of his browser when a pale finger appears at the top of the screen, pushing it down to close the laptop. Looking up, he is met with the vision of Oneiros sitting in the chair opposite him, wearing the exact same clothes as last time — a black coat that is far too warm for the weather and a t-shirt. He has no doubt that if he looked under the table he would see the same skinny black jeans and boots as well.

“Oneiros!” he exclaims, hastily removing the headphones. He wonders how long his friend has been sitting there without him noticing. “Sorry, uh, they’re noise cancelling.”

“Hello, Hob.”

“Hi.”

They sit there quiet for a few seconds, just looking at each other, and Hob realises that they have never had an awkward silence before. Awkward foot-in-the-mouth argument, yes. Silence? No. Well, there’s a first time for everything. Oneiros isn’t smiling this time, in fact he looks a bit tired, but there’s still something very different about him from their previous meetings. He looks more relaxed, less stiff and guarded.

“I heard what happened to you,” Hob says after a while. “I mean, not the specifics, but that you were captured. I’m sorry.”

“It was not your doing, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Actually, I feel like I do. When you didn’t show up in 1989… I should have realised something was wrong. I should have been looking for you instead of establishing a pub.”

Oneiros looks around at their surroundings. “You built this place?”

“I mean, not physically. But I bought the real estate and started the business, yes. The White Horse was getting condemned, and I wanted to have a place for us to meet, you know, if you ever decided to come back. It feels a bit stupid, now that I know why you weren’t there.”

“It is not stupid.”

The piercing gaze of crystal blue eyes that accompanies the words marks the simple statement as a ringing endorsement, if Hob isn’t mistaken.

Oneiros continues to look him over, almost analytically for a second before saying, “You would have looked for me, even after the way I treated you when last we met?”

“Well, yes,” Hob replies, knitting his brow. Then he realises what Oneiros must be thinking. “You didn’t think I’d change my mind, did you? I thought I made it very clear that I was determined to be your friend, and you should know by now that I’m stubborn as a mule.”

The corner of Oneiros’ mouth twitches in amusement. “Quite. Then it seems I owe you an apology. I have always heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting. It was ever my intention to attend our centennial meeting.”

“It’s forgotten, my friend.” Hob’s smile is easy and genuine.

“I include in this my departure last week, as well. I intended to return earlier, but I was unavoidably detained by the birth of a Dream Vortex that threatened to unravel the fabric of the universe. It has now been dealt with.”

Hob blinks. “That… Sounds more important than meeting me, yes.” He does his best to take it in stride, even though every word of that sentence went way, way over his head. This is apparently what you have to deal with when you befriend the old gods.

“I admit…” Oneiros fiddles with a stray pen that has rolled away from the mess of papers surrounding Hob’s computer. “I was not expecting to see Calliope with you. I would have stayed, but she had sworn never to speak to me again. I only meant to honour that wish. You are her new protégé? Have you picked up the art of storytelling? Outside of our arrangement, that is.” He looks strangely tentative, as he asks his questions, unsure in a way that Hob has never known him to be. Perhaps it’s just the awkwardness of speaking about one’s ex.

“Um, yes and no. I teach, literature among other things, and she’s been helping me with a paper I’m writing. But it’s more than that—”

“Yes. You are romantically involved,” Oneiros says, nodding sagely.

“What?! No!” Hob sputters. “No, I was going to say that we’re friends. Just friends!”

“You were holding hands…”

“Friends can do that nowadays, you know,” Hob says, perhaps trying to convince himself more than his friend. Oneiros still looks vaguely dubious. “We met by chance, and I helped her— Actually, I think that’s her story to tell.”

“She will not speak to me.” Oneiros looks out the window, his mind seemingly far away.

Hob hesitates, then softly says, “I’m not sure about that. I don’t want to say too much, it’s not my place to meddle in your relationship, but…” He pauses and considers his words. “I believe that she thinks you hate her.”

Oneiros’ gaze snaps back to Hob. “I do not… hate her.” He lowers his eyes to the table, fidgeting with the pen again. “Once, perhaps, there was resentment. But I have learned much in recent times, and… No matter. I do not hate her.”

His words hint at something bigger underneath the surface. A deep change, caused by his experience of captivity, if Hob had to guess. It’s not hard to see just how different his friend is from before, while still being very much… him. He suspects the old Oneiros would have been more upset about Hob associating with Calliope. He does not doubt that there has been a millennia-old grudge on Oneiros’ part too, held until very recently.

“I think she might want to hear that. From you, not me. And…” Oh god, is he about to fuck up again? Too late, here he goes. “I think maybe hearing her side of the story could be good for you too.”

Oneiros stiffens for the briefest of seconds, and Hob thinks that this is it, he’ll storm off again, saying something about how Hob dares assume what’s good for one such as him, but then the moment passes and he slumps back in the chair. Hob releases a breath he wasn’t aware that he had been holding.

“Perhaps. One day.”

Hob must have learned some restraint during the past century, because he does not press the subject further.

“She has told you one of my names,” Oneiros says after another brief pause. He is still looking at the pen, apparently trying to figure out how to extend the point. Hob doesn’t blame him for failing, it’s one of those where you click the side clamp-thing, not the end.

“One of them?” Hob asks. Then he remembers something. “Right, the Romans called you… Morpheus? Is that right? They changed the names of almost all of you lot when they assimilated you into their own pantheon.”

Oneiros looks up at him, pen momentarily forgotten. “I am not of the Greek pantheon, nor the Roman. They adopted my function, giving me their own names while wholly misunderstanding my true nature.”

“Which is?”

Hob half expects his friend’s reply to be interrupted by the ghost of Lady Johanna, or by a meteorite annihilating the pub or something. Shit like that always seemed to happen just as Hob was about to get some answers. He thought he knew who and what Oneiros was now, but apparently there’s more to the story, and Hob would dearly like to hear his friend tell him something about himself in his own words for a change.

“Endless,” is what he says, and Hob groans inwardly. Cryptic bastard.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Surprisingly enough, Oneiros does. No meteorites or anything. It must be Hob’s lucky day.

“I have received many names and titles from gods and mortals alike over the aeons of my existence. My truest one, the one I was born with and which best represents me and my function, is Dream of the Endless. I am no god. I am far older and vaster than any such creature, surpassed in age by only a few beings, among them two of my Endless siblings.”

As he speaks, it looks like he is somehow drawing in shadows around him. The pub feels like it’s growing darker, though none of the other patrons seem to notice. His eyes gradually go dark, until they are pools of night, out of which shine twin stars, pale pinpricks of light against the black backdrop. His voice seems to drop even lower than usual, a gravelly base that almost makes the window panes rattle.

“When the first living being dreamed, I was there to guide them as the personification of the very concept of dreams itself. That is my domain, my purpose, and my function. Mine is the Kingdom of the Dreaming, and there I rule over the dreams and nightmares I create to serve the dreamers who visit my realm as they slumber. That is the nature of the being you call ‘friend’, Hob Gadling of Essex.”

Hob gets the distinct impression that Onei— Morph— his friend is putting on this show on purpose, to scare him, for some reason. He just can’t understand why. Not until he notices something in his friend’s eyes — black as they are — and his posture, his bearing… Something that says that the way Hob reacts will set the tone for their friendship going forward. This is some kind of test.

Oh… He doesn’t want to scare Hob, he wants to know if Hob is scared of him. Hob tries to keep his face neutral as he processes.

“So,” he says at length, “What do your friends call you?”

His friend blinks and the shadows slowly retreat, his eyes turning blue again. He opens his mouth, then hesitates.

“Dream,” is his response, finally. Hob wonders if his difficulty in answering the question came from indecisiveness or if he just doesn’t have many friends to choose from. His reaction in 1889 would suggest the latter.

“Dream, then.” Hob smiles, and after a second or so, his friend — Dream — smiles back. It’s a small and tentative smile, but it definitely qualifies. “So, Dream, what do you think of 21st century London?”

“Hm. It is noisy and grey and it is taller than it was. But it smells marginally better.”

Hob laughs. “That it does. Marginally.”

Dream finally manages to click the pen he has been continuously fiddling with, and he inspects it curiously, as if he’s never seen anything like it before. Perhaps he hasn’t, if he’s been free for barely two weeks. A part of Hob itches to ask about Dream’s captivity, but he doesn’t want to bring the mood down again. He’d much rather try to make Dream smile again. It’s a novel and intoxicating sight.

“My sister says hello.”

“Oh? Who is she? Have I met her?”

“Not in a way that you can remember. She is Death. The one who gave you your immortality by sparing you her gift.”

Hob opens his mouth to ask one of a million questions that pop up in his head after hearing Dream so casually deliver information that makes Hob question everything he knows about his life, but Dream goes on speaking as if he’d just announced what time it is, or something mundane like that.

“You said you teach literature? Is that your new vocation?”

Right. The Death conversation will have to wait apparently.

“Yes, I finally put a ‘Dr’ in front of my — admittedly fake — name. I lecture at a university — Historical Linguistics and Medieval Literature.”

“A man of letters. How did that come about?”

Hob raises a finger in mock-offence. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been a man of letters since I worked with Caxton. And that’s actually kind of connected to how I got into academia, in a roundabout way. See, I was at this party with all these boffins a few years ago, and this one bloke, Leopold, he started talking to me about Arthurian legends. Now, I’d had a phase around about 1580, or thereabouts, when I was obsessed with Arthuriana, and another phase in the mid 19th century too, come to think of it, so I felt like I could probably hold my own in an academic discussion on the subject.

“So Leopold asked me if I had read Le Morte d'Arthur, and I wanted to say ‘Read it? I helped William Caxton print the first copy!’, but of course I couldn’t say that, so I just said yes. Then he kept asking me about more and more obscure works until he asked if I’d read Perceforest. When I said yes to that too, he said ‘Ah, but have you read it in the original Middle French? It can be a bit of a challenge to those unfamiliar with the language, but I prefer the integrity of the source material over the translation’.

“Again, I was tempted to tell him that I learned French in 1380 during the raids and siege under the Earl of Buckingham as we marched from Calais to Troyes and Nantes, but that would be a bit too much to handle for the young lad, so I just replied, ‘Oh, do you mean La Tres Elegante Delicieux Melliflue et Tres Plaisante Hystoire du Tres Noble Roy Perceforest?’ You should have seen his face!”

Dream actually laughs at that, just a small huff, but still. “And this lead to lecturing how?”

“Oh, yeah. I got a bit sidetracked there. Leopold told me he knew a fair bit of Middle English, and I got curious if I would remember how to speak like I did in my youth, so I asked him to test me. It just took a few sentences for everything to come back, sort of like when you move abroad and start losing your accent, but then you come back home and it’s like you never left.

“Anyway, we ended up snogging and speaking Middle English for the rest of the night, to the annoyance of our friends, making up our own words when we needed to talk about modern things like phones and whatnot. Turned out he was a lovely chap behind the snobbery. We lived together for three years after that, actually, during which he encouraged me to take a couple of courses on Literature and Linguistics at uni. He thought I had a ‘gift too good not to share’, and here I am, sharing it with my students ten years later.”

“And Leopold?”

“Moved to Germany for family reasons. I didn’t follow, obviously. Didn’t work out in the long run.”

There’s a gleam in Dream’s eyes as he looks Hob over, as if evaluating him in a new light.

“I was always fond of the Arthurian legends. They have fuelled countless dreams.”

“Oh yeah? You’re into literature, then? I wasn’t sure if the Endless had time over for reading. Sounds like you lot have busy schedules.”

“I always have time for the narrative arts. ‘The Prince of Stories’, I was once styled. My library in the Dreaming is what one might call ’extensive’, and I have inspired many an author through their dreams.”

“Like Shakespeare?” Hob asks.

“Yes.”

The Prince of Stories, huh? That explains Dream’s interest in the then mediocre playwright as well as anything, Hob supposes. Right. Let’s not dwell on that meeting. Focus on the here and now, and on the future. Hob weighs his words, searching for a casual way to bring up the question he has wanted to ask for a couple of centuries now.

“You know, if you like Arthuriana, I’m holding a lecture the day after tomorrow that might interest you. One of the last before term ends and my vacation starts. It’s on the phenomenon of medieval fiction purporting to be historical fact, with a focus on Geoffrey of Monmouth’s De gestis Britonum. You’d be welcome to come and listen. Then you could tell me everything I got wrong about the history over a pint afterwards?”

There it is. “Would you like to meet up more often than once a century?”, veiled in the excuse of academic interest. Now to see Dream’s response. His friend looks mildly taken aback. Not good, but not horrible either. This could still go either way.

“That would not be part of our arrangement.”

Goddammit, Dream. Read between the lines.

“No, but that arrangement was made between strangers. Friends usually meet a bit more often.”

Okay, good, that didn’t sound too desperate. Not that Hob would describe himself as desperate, but it would be good to have more friends to see on a regular basis that he wouldn’t have to abandon after twenty to thirty years to keep his secret safe. He has Calliope now, of course, but Hob has always been a bit greedy, and not only for life.

“I see. And is that what friends do? Attend each other’s lectures?” Dream looks thoughtful, but not entirely off-put by the suggestion.

“In academic circles? Definitely. Everyday people do things like hitting the pub, having dinners, game and movie nights, going on excursions…”

“Holding hands?”

Hob almost chokes on thin air. Holding Dream’s hand, now there’s a thought. It’s not like he hasn’t considered it before — and more… Dream had looked very good in 18th century finery — but it’s still best to nip that thought in the bud. He’s busy trying and failing miserably to not fall in love with another divine being.

Then he sees the cheeky way Dream is raising his eyebrows, and he realises he’s being teased. Oh, right, Hob did say that thing about holding hands with Calliope earlier. He just wasn’t expecting to be teased by Dream of all people.

It’s really hitting him just how different this Dream is to the man he knew before. More… human? No, he’s just as ethereal and otherworldly as always. But he’s… softer. That’s the word. Not as sharp around the edges, relaxed, conversational, nice. Yes, Dream is almost nice now. Who’d’ve thunk it?

“Holding hands is not mandatory,” he manages to say, trying to tease Dream right back. He’s not sure if he’s pulling it off or if it sounds like he’s really bad at flirting. That would be a travesty. Hob is really good at flirting, thank you very much. When he means to do it, that is.

“Hm. Very well. Attending your lecture would be amenable.”

Dream gives him a serious nod, as if sealing an important deal. In a way, Hob supposes they are. This is definitively taking their relationship in the direction of actual friendship, instead of whatever they were before.

“Will… Calliope be there?” Dream asks, hesitantly. He looks down at his hands, putting the nib of the pen against his palm. He looks mildly fascinated by the fact that it leaves a black line on his pale skin.

“No,” Hob replies. “We don’t usually meet on Wednesdays.”

Dream looks like he’s not sure how to respond to that, so Hob takes pity on him and changes the subject for him. The afternoon turns into evening as they talk about everything between heaven and earth, including what Hob has been up to for the past two centuries — they hadn’t actually gotten around to discussing the 19th century before their fight back in 1889.

They speak long enough that Hob has to order food for himself. Dream, of course, declines sustenance. All in all, it’s probably the longest meeting they’ve ever had, and it leaves Hob with a skip in his step as he ascends the stairs to his flat after their parting.

Calliope shows up just as the kettle boils the next day. Their usual Tuesday afternoon meetings are back on then, it seems. She’s wearing the same modern version of her dress that she wore to the pub.

“Oh, hi, love. Perfect timing, I was just about to make some tea, do you want some? Same as last time?”

“I would like to try the red one, I think,” she replies, taking a seat.

“One rooibos, coming up!” Hob starts filling their infusers. “You know, some people might say the middle of June is too hot for tea. Cowards, I call them. I’m not going to let a little heatwave stop me from enjoying the nectar of the gods.”

“In my time, we called that ambrosia, not tea.”

“Mm, well, I couldn’t find ambrosia at Waitrose, and times change, my dear friend.” Hob rolls back towards his desk, carefully balancing a cup in each hand.

“So they do.”

Calliope takes the proffered cup and stirs the water with the infuser, leaning over it to breathe in the scent of vanilla rising with the steam. She looks pensive. Not necessarily melancholy, just… Thoughtful. Hob decides it’s probably best not to beat around the bush and just get straight to what’s on both their minds.

“I saw Dream yesterday.”

She stills briefly, almost imperceptibly, then continues stirring. “So he finally gave you a name.” Her voice is neutral and calm, but she looks down at the tea, not at Hob.

“He gave me several, but he asked that I call him Dream. That is what you call him too, isn’t it? Only in Greek?”

She nods. “Did he… seem well?”

Hob doesn’t know exactly how to answer that question. “‘Well’ might not be the right word. He seemed… Looser? Less tightly wound.” Hob puts down his own cup on the desk and leans forward in his chair. “He was so different, Calliope. Whatever happened during the last century — it changed him, somehow. He even laughed at one of my jokes.”

Calliope looks up at him then, her big brown eyes slightly widened in surprise. “A big change, indeed.” She bites her lip, then asks the question that seems to have been on her mind since they started talking. “Did he mention me?”

Hob sits back against the back of his chair. “Yes. He told me he left the pub when he saw you out of respect for your wish never to speak to him again.”

She looks away. “I am not sure if that wish still stands.”

“I told him that too.” She frowns. “Don’t worry,” he adds hastily, “I didn’t say much more than that. I don’t want to meddle in what’s not my business. I just— I’ll say one last thing on the subject, and then I’ll leave it alone forever if you want, but… He does not hate you.”

“He said that? Or do you just believe that?” She looks at Hob intently.

“He said it. His own words entirely. Something about having learned much recently — in his captivity, I would guess. I’m telling you, it’s like he’s a new man.”

Calliope hums in vague agreement, but says nothing.

“So, full disclosure, he’s coming to my lecture tomorrow.”

“You are breaking the agreement, then? Seeing each other more often?”

“I think the agreement was broken by whoever imprisoned him anyway, but yes. Now that we both agree that we’re friends, I think I have managed to convince him to meet on a more human timescale. And again, if this is awkward, if you’re uncomfortable with any of it, I can promise to never mention him again, if that’s what you want. But—”

“But he is your friend and you want to spend time with him, I know. I am glad, Hob Gadling, that you have found in each other some form of comradeship. And, if he is as changed as you say… Then perhaps I too would benefit from meeting him once again, at some point. Would you ask him to consider it?” There’s a pleading tone in Calliope’s voice, which surprises Hob.

“Yes, of course. If you want me to.”

“Thank you. Could you pass me the honey?”

And just like that, the subject is changed and eventually turns to Hob’s paper and Chaucer instead. Hob tells Calliope that even with her inspiration, work on his paper has slowed a little lately as he struggles to keep up with grading and student submissions. He’s looking forward to the end of term, which is in just over a week. He intends to work on the paper more diligently over his vacation.

“It’s going to be good to be able to make my own schedule, finally. Who knows, I might even have time to do something fun, for once.”

“And what does Dr Herbert Goulding do for fun?”

“Travelling, the theatre, hiking, dancing… You name it. Speaking of dancing, I’ve actually been meaning to take a class this summer. Widen my repertoire a bit from the minuets, quadrilles and waltzes from yesteryear, you know.”

“Oh, I adore dancing!”

“Really? Do you know Lindy Hop?” She shakes her head. “Me neither, maybe we should take a class together?”

The suggestion slips out before he has the chance to run it by his brain for approval, and he instantly worries that it’s too forward, that she’ll read something into it that he had not intended. Even if they have explicitly stated that they are friends, they haven’t even spent time with each other outside of their meetings yet, not counting the delayed meeting at the pub last week. And, while it’s not unheard of for friends to take dancing lessons together, of course that’s a thing you can do, it could still be interpreted as a proposition with romantic connotations. Not that he wouldn’t like to go dancing with… connotations… Hob fervently tries to shut his brain up.

“I would love to,” is Calliope’s answer, thankfully. She pauses for a second. “What kind of dance is that?”

“It’s a swing dance— Actually, come here. I’ll find a video. That’s probably easier than explaining a dance I don’t know yet.”

Hob opens his laptop and opens the browser. He makes sure to add the word “intermediate” to his search, remembering the frankly wild moves he saw the professional dancers perform when he looked it up for himself. He hadn’t been moving in quite the right circles to come across Lindy Hop “in the wild”, back when it originated.

Calliope rounds the desk, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the screen. Hob finds it hard to focus on what’s happening in the video clip with her face so close to his. Her long hair brushes against his cheek, and her hand is resting on his shoulder, heat radiating from her skin through the thin fabric of Hob’s shirt. He feels a little like the sun itself is hovering beside him, hopelessly ensnaring him with its gravitational pull.

“That does look fun,” she says, turning her face slightly towards Hob as she addresses him. They are close enough that he can feel her breath ghost across his skin when she speaks.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes involuntarily flickering between her eyes and her lips. He clears his throat. “Yes, it does,” he repeats, a little steadier.

“I would be delighted to take a class with you,” Calliope says with a soft smile, still close.

“Right. Um. Good. I’ll see if I can find one with any openings, then.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

The corner of Calliope’s mouth twitches, as if she is holding back a laugh. Hob notices it very well, because he can’t stop looking at her mouth. Then Calliope glances back at the laptop.

“I should let you get back to your paper.”

“Mhm?” Hob hums, distracted by the movement of her lips as she speaks.

“Farewell, friend,” she says.

This time, when she leans in for their inspirational parting kiss, she brings her hand to Hob’s face, gently angling his head up to meet hers by placing her index finger under his chin, her thumb coming to rest just under his lower lip.

With their previous kisses, Hob has generally kept as still as possible, either out of surprise, or to make sure he didn’t make Calliope uncomfortable. It is just a way of delivering inspiration, after all, just a magical means to an end. He doesn’t want to make it weird, not after what Calliope must have been through at the hands of those horrible men. It’s just hard for his poor human brain to compartmentalise, to separate the sensation from the purpose. Especially since the rush of warmth and ecstasy that floods his entire body as the wave of inspiration hits him is almost indistinguishable from… Well, love. Among other things.

Hob can’t help it, this time he kisses back. It’s not like he’s going wild or anything, it’s just that instead of keeping his face completely still and just receiving the kiss, he lets his lips relax, parting ever so slightly as they move to meet Calliope’s. He closes his eyes as their lips touch, slotting together in a very different way than before. Her full lips feel even softer now that his own aren’t as tense and frozen, unbelievably supple and tender as they move lightly against his.

As the now familiar rush of heat and inspiration sweeps through him, Hob has to grip the armrests of his office chair tight with his hands to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like reaching up to brush Calliope’s hair behind her ear or cupping her cheek. So much of his willpower is consumed by this that there is none left over for stopping a soft sigh from escaping his lips when they part, after what could as well be hours as seconds.

He is mortified for a millisecond, before opening his eyes and immediately being too enchanted by the glittering pools of warm darkness that are Calliope’s eyes to even remember what it was he was ashamed of.

“Farewell,” she repeats in a low voice, not moving her face more than a hand’s width away from Hob’s.

Hob lets out a shaky exhale the second she disappears, accompanied with the usual breeze that makes his curtains billow. He realises he still has the armrests in a white-knuckle grip, and he slowly lets the tension bleed out of his hands, letting go.

Hob might be a bit thick at times, but he’s not actually stupid, and it’s becoming abundantly clear that he has not only caught feelings for Calliope, he has very possibly caught Feelings. Capital F and everything. That presents him with two choices.

The first one is deciding that pursuing the Feelings is a bad idea, regardless of whether Calliope shares them. In that case, things have already escalated to the point that he really should ask Calliope to stop kissing him, or getting over said Feelings will be nigh on impossible. He would simply have to finish his paper the old-fashioned way, without divine inspiration.

The second option would be deciding that pursuing the Feelings is a good idea. This would mean making them known, in some way that won’t scare her off, if the Feelings are unrequited. Hob doesn’t want to risk their friendship. There would have to be careful wooing to judge her reactions so that he could back down before ruining it with a premature confession if she seemed averse to his advances.

So which is it? Good or bad? Either way, it probably isn’t a wise idea for a human to knowingly seek to involve himself with a Greek goddess. According to the myths, such things seldom work out well for the human in question. Or is it different if you’re an immortal human? Regardless, though he is an academic with six and a half centuries of life experience under his belt, Hob is too enthusiastically foolhardy to truly be called wise.

No, it doesn’t matter much to him if it’s wise or not. Does it feel right, is the question. Does Calliope feel the same? He already knows that some of her protégés were her lovers, so there’s clearly no professional rule against the concept. But he wouldn’t be pursuing her as a protégé. Her gift of inspiration is inconsequential to his feelings. He would be pursuing Calliope the woman in the role of Hob the man, not Calliope the muse in the role of the protégé. So the question remains — what does Calliope feel for Hob?

Is he imagining the kisses getting longer and longer? Did he imagine her eyes with their dilated pupils flickering down to his lips as she said farewell? Is he reading too much into their relationship just because his human senses are blinded by his physical reactions to the kiss and the cultural connotations of the act?

Christ, thinking like this won’t get him anywhere. Either she shares some measure of his feelings, or she doesn’t. Either way, the only way to find out is to go for it. There’s no use denying his heart, Hob should know that by now. Quite frankly, it’s an exercise in pointlessness sitting here debating the question with himself.

He knows what his heart wants, and he knows nothing short of rejection will quiet it. Even then, the feelings may take a while to mellow despite conscious efforts to suppress them and channel them into friendship instead. No, Hob will just have to commit to his heart and start wooing Calliope and see where that takes them.

He does spare a thought for how this might impact his relationship with Dream. Then he actually physically cringes as the words “Bro Code” show up uninvited in his mind. God, what is he? Fourteen? If Calliope does requite his feelings, and that’s a big “if”, then Dream can bloody well think whatever he likes about it. Not that he’s too worried about it. Hadn’t Dream plainly stated that he had interpreted their relationship as romantic when he first saw them at the pub? And yet he had shown up again a week later, still calling Hob “friend”. Hob has a feeling the New Dream would find a way to deal with it far better than the Old Dream would have.

The real issue with having Dream back in his life again has more to do with the fact that Hob is blatantly attracted to the man. Even his dour and mercurial moods of the past centuries couldn’t distract Hob from Dream’s looks. He is ethereal much in the same way that Calliope’s is, yet the two people couldn’t look less alike. One warm and soft, one cool and angular. Both with the same gravitational pull that has Hob risking temporary death by drowning when he meets their eyes.

And with Dream’s newfound, more personable personality… Actually, that makes it sound like Hob didn’t like him before now. He did, of course he did. Despite the metaphorical spiked armour Dream used to wear to keep himself distant from others, Hob had still looked beyond it to find the gleam in his eyes that spoke of a reluctant fascination with humanity.

He had seen the tears in Dream’s eyes as he thought Hob might turn down his immortality after eighty years of hardship. He’d seen them, just as he had seen the tears threatening to spill as Dream abruptly rose from their table in 1889, denying he could ever need Hob’s companionship. That was one of the reasons Hob had gone to the trouble of founding The New Inn in the first place, so that Dream would have a place to return to when he finally admitted to himself that he needed a friend. Because those weren’t tears of rage, they were tears caused by Hob’s words hitting a little too close to home.

In truth, Dream is the catalyst for so many good things in Hob’s life. His immortality, getting back on his feet after Eleanor and Robyn, realising his folly and cruelty in participating in the slave trade. Dream has, in a quite literal sense, made Hob who he is today. A man he can look at in the mirror without wincing, and, seeing himself, think “This is who I want to be, a better version of the man I was yesterday”.

So yes, Hob had liked Dream all along, even with the spikes. That’s why he’ll have to be extra careful now that they’re gone (well, mostly gone). He can’t afford to fall in love with two gods, or god-like creatures. Especially not when they’re bloody divorced. From each other. No good could come of it.

Chapter Text

There’s a part of Hob that half suspected that Dream wouldn’t show up to the lecture, some part, perhaps, that had grown cynical from the universe’s many attempts to cut their meetings short or prevent them altogether. But there he is, front row and everything.

He’s wearing the same clothes, again. If he were human he would be boiling in that coat. The only reason Hob keeps his blazer on is honestly so the audience won’t see the sweat stains under his arms when he raises them to write on the whiteboard. Bloody summer term.

On the topic of summer term, Hob is a bit surprised at the turnout for the lecture. The last week before the summer break usually sees a majority of students skipping lectures in favour of cramming for the last exams, or catching some much-needed shuteye in between them in some study corner. But today there’s a veritable crowd, relatively speaking, of course. Most of the students who are supposed to be here are, and there are even a couple who should probably be somewhere else.

It seems his gossiping colleagues were right. The rumour has spread around campus that Dr Goulding’s lectures are worth attending. He hasn’t made any drastic changes to the curriculum since last year, so it’s obvious that it’s thanks to Calliope’s gift of eloquence that attendance is booming. His students will be so disappointed if he fucks that relationship up and has to go back to holding informative but unexciting lectures.

Hob feels almost nervous lecturing with Dream in the audience. The man’s eyes stay locked onto him with a laser focus from the moment he starts speaking. Hob wonders if he’s even blinking. He really hopes his research passes muster, even if he had made the disclaimer that Dream could correct him afterwards. It would be embarrassing if the all-knowing, billion-year-old cosmic entity had to sit there inwardly groaning at Hob’s mistakes throughout the whole lecture.

Despite the nerves, the lecture goes just as well as all the other ones he’s held since he started working with Calliope. He even gets a small applause after he rounds off the lecture, before moving on to the time allotted for questions.

When it’s all over and the students start to leave, Dream hangs back, waiting for Hob to finish answering some last-minute questions about exams and hand-ins from nervous and sleep-deprived students, some of whom would quite frankly have been better off skipping this lecture in order to focus on their own work. Out of the corner of his eye, Hob can see Dream step up to the whiteboard and touch it, seemingly fascinated by the way the letters vanish beneath the finger he curiously runs across them.

“Right,” Hob says, heaving his bag onto his shoulder as the last of the students leave. “I’m all packed up here. I just have to dump some stuff at the office, then we can head out to… Wherever.” It dawns on him that they never settled on what they were going to do after the lecture.

“Very well,” Dream replies, absentmindedly crumbling the remains of the whiteboard marker between his fingertips.

“So, how did I do? Not too many historical inaccuracies, I hope?” Hob asks as they make their way to his office.

Dream puts his hands in the pockets of his coat, looking like he’s trying to make himself smaller as they weave through the crowd milling about in the building. Something gives Hob the feeling that he’s avoiding eye contact with the people around them. He frowns at the thought. Dream may be less spiky than before, but he also seems less sure of himself, and not entirely in a good “less arrogant” way.

“No, it was remarkably well researched, given your no doubt limited human resources. The only thing that stood out was the claim of it being impossible to know whether King Arthur was a real historical figure or not. Are mortal records so deficient?”

“All right, lay it on me, real or not real?”

“Real, naturally.” Dream pauses to look at Hob pumping his fist in a victory gesture, bemused. “Though the name he was born with has undergone a metamorphosis. And most of the deeds the legends ascribe to him are little but fantasies.”

“I knew it!”

“But you said in your lecture…”

“Yeah, I know, but I always had the gut feeling he was real, in some capacity or other. I just can’t go around saying stuff like that to the students without credible sources. You know, if you could get me tangible evidence he was real, I would become the most celebrated academic in the country. I would probably be promoted to professor on the spot.”

“Is it prudent to draw such attention to yourself?” Dream asks as they ascend the stairs to the next floor.

“Oh, not at all, which is one of several reasons I won’t ask you to.”

Dream glances at him with the smallest of smiles. “You have grown wiser in recent years, it seems.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” Hob laughs. “You might want to reconsider. Give it a few more centuries, maybe.”

As they reach the top of the stairs, they run into Dr Müller, one of Hob’s colleagues from the German section. She greets Hob with a friendly nod and a smile, then her eyes move over to Dream. The smile dies and she averts her eyes and keeps walking past them without further greeting. Hob frowns and glances at Dream, who once again looks as dour as ever. He wonders if he should make a comment, but they have reached Hob’s office, and he’s distracted by the search for his keys.

When they enter the office, however, Dream himself brings it up. “People smile at you when they meet you,” he says, and Hob doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just starts putting his things away in silence, waiting for Dream to continue. “At my sister too. You are both good with them. The mortals.”

Dream starts moving around the perimeter of the small room, idly poking at Hob’s belongings.

“I guess. It becomes easier the longer you live, I think. You learn how to connect with different types of people.”

“Not for me. I am older than this universe itself, and yet the same people that smile at my sister shy away from me. But not you. Why?”

Dream looks up at Hob with piercing blue eyes that bear a trace of vulnerability. Hob gets the feeling that he’d better choose his words carefully.

“Well, I already like you. I know you.”

“You did not when we met in 1389. Yet you smiled at me then while your companions did not.”

Hob sighs. He puts down the papers in his hands and rests his arms against the back of his office chair, giving Dream his full attention.

“You want the honest answer?” Dream nods. “All right. You have this air of… Otherness to you. A larger-than-life, non-human aura, you could say. That’s not a bad thing, I actually think it’s part of your charm, but regular mortals who don’t know much about the supernatural may be intimidated when they subconsciously pick up that vibe without understanding what it is.”

“But not you? Even before you knew what I was?”

“Oh, Dream. Don’t you see?” Hob gives his friend a soft smile. “I’m too stupid to be scared of you. Always have been.” Hob raps a knuckle against his skull, making a knocking noise with his tongue to indicate hollowness.

Dream responds with a small incredulous huff that sounds a little like a laugh. He’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “You think I am charming?”

“I— What?” Hob blinks stupidly.

“You said it is part of my charm.”

Ah, he did say that.

“I… think you can be. When you relax and forget to be scary.” Hob winks, and Dream frowns. “You know, I think that’s the key. If you want people to smile at you, you have to learn to relax, and maybe try smiling back, on occasion. People are less inclined to smile if you look at them as if they just turned into a cockroach in front of you.”

“I know how to relax.”

“I say this with all the love in my heart, my friend — I don’t think you do. But come round for a visit often enough and I bet I could teach you.”

Hob goes back to filling his bag with paperwork, trying not to think too hard about what he might have meant by that last sentence.

“Hm,” Dream hums, without further comment, then continues his turn about the room. He trails a hand over the visitor chair by the desk. “This is where you meet Calliope,” he says. A statement, not a question.

“Um, yes? But with summer break approaching I’ll probably move to my home office.”

“I could hear her in your voice today. You were… eloquent. Impassioned.”

“Yeah, uh, she was here yesterday. We meet on Tuesdays. My lectures are always at their best the day after seeing her. She deserves all credit for the fact that none of the students fell asleep today. Not that I think I was bad at my job before I met her, but it certainly hasn’t hurt student engagement.” Hob closes his bag, but he hesitates before slinging it over his shoulder. “She would like to see you. Someday, when you’re ready. She wanted me to ask you to at least consider it.”

“I… will. Consider it.”

“Good.” Hob picks up the bag. “Shall we?”

They end up walking in a nearby park. Dream looks even more out of place outside in the sun, his all-black outfit and coat contrasting against the people around them who have, more sensibly, decided to leave their outerwear at home. Hob spots an ice cream van and immediately decides that’s what’s needed if they’re going to spend the afternoon outside. He tells Dream to wait on a nearby bench, and soon returns with two ice cream cornets.

“Before you say anything — I know you don’t eat, at least not when I’m around, but it’s hot out, and it’s ice cream. Everyone likes ice cream. And if you don’t eat it, it will melt and make a mess. So. Chocolate or vanilla?”

The corner of Dream’s mouth twitches slightly, even as he looks at the proffered ice cream with scepticism.

“Vanilla,” he decides, at last.

“Very good, Your Majesty.” Hob bows his head and hands Dream the cornet with a flourish.

“My subjects call me ‘my lord’,” Dream says, deadpan.

Hob sorts that titbit away in the folder of his brain marked “Dream trivia” as he sits down beside his friend. He licks his ice cream. Ah, that’s the stuff. Bless the invention of the freezer. It truly is the little things in life, like getting to have ice cream in the summer, that makes life so rich.

He watches as Dream carefully sniffs his own scoop, before poking his tongue out just the tiniest bit to touch it to the ice cream, not a proper lick by any standards. It reminds Hob of a cat getting its tongue stuck halfway out its mouth. What is it the kids call it? A blep? Yes. Dream is “bleping”, and Hob can’t help but find it adorable. He’s not sure he’s ever thought of anything Dream has done as adorable before. A new man, indeed.

He stifles a chuckle, instead saying, “So? Does it live up to your royal standards?”

“It is tolerable.”

Dream seems to be analysing the microscopic amount of ice cream he actually put in his mouth with scientific precision.

“I’ll tell the vendor. He can put the quote on the side of the van. ‘Tolerable ice cream sold here. Purveyor to the Court of the Dreaming’.”

If Hob isn’t mistaken, Dream is hiding a smile by taking a proper lick of the ice cream. He really wishes he hadn’t been paying so much attention to Dream’s mouth as he does it though, because the sight of his friend’s tongue running over the slowly melting scoop, coming away coated in white cream, does things to Hob. Things that compromise his resolve to ignore his attraction to the man. Exhibiting truly heroic amounts of willpower, he turns his attention to his own cornet.

“You seem happy here. Teaching.”

Hob hums in response, his mouth busy saving his hands from a rivulet of melted ice cream that escaped his cornet while he was staring at Dream.

“I am,” he says when the danger is dealt with. “It’s a nice break from my days as a businessman. It feels good, you know, working to further the lives of other people instead of working just to fatten my own wallet even more.”

“You have changed, Hob Gadling.” There is something unidentifiable in his expression as he looks at Hob with eyes that seem darker than before. “Even more so now than last time.”

Hob lifts an eyebrow. “Will you run away on me again if I say that you have too? Even more so than last time.”

Dream lowers his eyes, pensive. “No. I am done running. You were right, that day. I was lonely. It took a century of being imprisoned in a glass orb, speaking not a word in all that time, to make me recognise the feeling properly.”

Hob has been avoiding asking too many questions about Dream’s time in captivity. The subject still seems a bit too raw for Dream, and the timing doesn’t feel entirely right now either, but Hob is having a very hard time keeping silent. A glass orb? A century of silence? What the flying fuck happened? No wonder he’s different.

“And… now?” he asks instead.

Dream meets his eyes. “I am beginning to see that my loneliness was not for a lack of company.” He’s almost smiling again, if a bit self-deprecatingly. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps coming here more often, spending time with humanity, with you, would benefit me. I was recently reminded that the Dreaming— That I exist because mortals dream, not the other way around. It seems I lost touch with humanity somewhere along the way, that I started thinking of humans only as dreamers rather than beings living full and meaningful lives out in the waking world. All this despite our centennial meetings. They were, in hindsight, too few and far between.”

“Amen to that, my friend,” Hob says, raising his cornet as if making a toast. Then he sobers. “In all seriousness, you’re welcome any time. Any time at all. Even when I’m working, if you just want to hang around and relax away from whatever duties you have in your realm.” Maybe it’s Dream’s clear-blue eyes made darker by wide pupils looking at him so intently that finally pulls it out of Hob, properly this time, “I’ve actually wanted to ask if you wanted to meet more frequently for— Christ, almost five hundred years by now.”

“How often did you have in mind?”

Hob lets out an almost inaudible sigh. “I’ll take what I can get. But you know me, I’ve always been a greedy man. I’d see you every day if I could.”

That’s about as close to a confession as Hob is comfortable with at this time. A confession to what exactly he doesn’t know. He’s not at all sure what he’s feeling in this moment, distracted by blue eyes that feel like they could look into his very soul if they so chose.

“That, I am afraid my duties would not permit. But… Perhaps once a week. At least for a time. Like—” Dream cuts himself short, hesitating.

“Like Calliope?” Hob says, finishing the sentence.

Dream’s eyes wander across Hob’s face, as if studying it, looking for the answer to a question he’s asking himself. Hob isn’t sure if he finds it or not, but his gaze comes to rest just a bit to the right of Hob’s mouth. Dream turns his body to face him more directly on the bench, and then, inexplicably, he leans in closer and brings a hand up to Hob’s face.

Hob uses his, by now familiar, coping mechanism for when divinely beautiful beings unexpectedly get close to his face — he freezes. Dream swipes his thumb over the spot between Hob’s mouth and cheek once, then twice. The pad of the thumb softly brushes against the very corner of his mouth on the second swipe, and it shoots a tingling feeling through his entire body. Dream’s hand is cool, despite the sweltering weather and his ridiculously warm coat.

When Dream withdraws his hand, there’s a smudge of ice cream on his thumb, and Hob’s brain slowly starts to catch up with what is happening. But then it promptly shuts down again when Dream looks at the stain curiously and licks it off.

“Hm. Next time, I may try the chocolate.” He rises from the bench, his own melting ice cream cornet still in hand. “Until then, Hob Gadling.” He’s gone before Hob manages to get his mouth and his brain to cooperate enough to form a response.

What the fuck just happened? Was that the first time Dream ever touched him? And he goes and does that? Hob can do nothing but sit there, mouth half agape, for several minutes as he processes.

At the end of the day, Hob is only human, and while the spirit was willing to try to ignore his physical and emotional attraction to Dream for the sake of not complicating his life even further, the flesh is weak. Very weak.

Christ’s wounds, if falling in love with a Greek goddess is possibly ill-advised, what would you call falling in love with a billion-year-old eldritch Nightmare King? And both at the same time? Because that’s what’s happening. He can actively feel his heart constructing a new chamber, painting the walls black with silver stars, and putting a sign on the door that reads, “Dream’s room”, right next to the door with the sign saying, “Calliope’s room”.

God, Hob is absolutely and completely buggered. Just entirely fucked six ways to Sunday.

For all he knows, though, this might be a non-issue, as long as he can keep his own emotions in check. He has no idea if Dream is interested in men, or even humans, come to think of it. When it comes to Calliope, at least he knows she has had relationships with humans, but literally the only thing he knows about Dream’s love life is that he once married Calliope, a goddess.

Yesterday, after meeting Calliope and having almost the same inner debate about his feelings for her, he had felt a sense of relief when he finally decided to go for it, that he would follow his heart and start wooing her. And now, one single day later, his heart has split in two, and both halves are tugging at him in opposite directions.

What now? Does he follow his plan to woo Calliope? Judging by what he knows, he’s got a way better shot with her than with Dream, but thinking of matters of the heart like it’s a numbers game, a matter of strategy, feels incredibly crass. It cheapens the sentiment. Choosing between them like that rubs him the wrong way, but can he in good conscience flirt with them both knowing that, if he’s lucky and his feelings are requited, he can have only one of them?

Unless… He could have both? In the very hypothetical scenario that Hob, the puny human, managed to get both a goddess and a cosmic entity to fall in love with him — and dear lord does Hob feel conceited even thinking the thought — could there be a scenario in which he wouldn’t have to choose?

Hob is a man of the world, he’s been around long enough to know monogamy isn’t the be-all and end-all for romantic relationships. In the past, he himself has had lovers who, with his knowledge and endorsement, kept lovers of their own. He just hasn’t been in the middle of such an arrangement before. Usually, when he falls in love, he does so with so much of his heart that none is left to share with others. This time… This time it still feels like that, but duplicated, somehow.

No, it’s not that there isn’t a solution to his problem, it’s just that the thought that the people involved would agree to such an arrangement feels even more far-fetched than the idea that he could get them both to fall in love with him to start with. He’s not sure about Calliope, but Dream doesn’t feel like a man accustomed to sharing anything, and with so much history between him and Calliope…

Hob catches himself straying too far into the land of speculation and tries to shake himself out of it. He’s an academic, for Christ’s sake! He should know better than to try to confirm a hypothesis with no concrete evidence to support it. Credible sources only, Hob. Your idle musings don’t count.

He’s already concluded that fighting his heart is a fool’s errand. He wants them both, and he will never know if that’s possible if he doesn’t try. Flirting with both of them it is then. And if one of them bites, he‘ll just have to be honest and tell that person the truth — that his heart is split in two. And if that’s a dealbreaker, then so be it.

Having made his decision, Hob gets up from the bench. Before he can turn and walk over to the nearest bin to throw away the forgotten cornet that is half full of now entirely liquid ice cream, a big black bird lands on the bench and gives him a look. Hob stares at it. It stares back, then pointedly looks down at the ice cream cornet.

“You want this?” Hob asks, then realises he’s talking to a bird. He shrugs and tips the remainder of the ice cream into his mouth before gingerly holding out the empty cornet to the bird — a raven, he thinks. “Here you go.”

The bird takes it in its beak and does something weird with its head that looks a bit like a nod, then it flies off, leaving Hob bemused on the ground. Shaking his head, he starts heading home, and his thoughts return to matters of the heart and the potential intricacies of courting divine and Endless beings.

As he walks, he considers changing his nickname. Robert “Hub” Gadling, he should be called. Short for Hubris.

Hob is starting to perfect the timing of having the kettle reach the boiling point just as Calliope arrives in his office. He’s also getting better at not getting a heart attack when she materialises from thin air.

“Black, green, red?” he asks.

“Green, citrus,” she answers.

Their domestic little routine makes Hob’s heart flutter, and he doesn’t bother hiding the smile spreading over his face as he rolls off to the tea corner.

“Have you had any luck finding a class for us?” Calliope asks as he prepares the tea.

“Mm, yes. There’s a class starting next week, not too far from The New Inn. There weren’t actually any vacancies left for followers, but they made an exception if you registered as a pair, so I went ahead and signed us up. It’s Mondays and Thursdays, does that work for you? If not, I can always call and strike us from the list.”

“It works.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask, actually,” Hob says as he returns to the desk with their cups, “What do you do when you’re not here with me? The first time we met you said something about rewriting laws, if I remember correctly?” He reaches back for the jar of honey without needing to be asked.

“Yes, I— Thank you.” She takes the jar from Hob’s hand, her fingers brushing against his. “I have been searching for my sisters, that we may work together to rewrite the laws of the ancient mysteries, but they are spread far across the mortal and the divine planes. And, I fear it will take a long time, even with all nine of us, to find a way to alter the laws. There is a lot of waiting involved, and I would gladly spend that time dancing with you.”

Hob answers her bright smile with one of his own, then startles when someone magically appears in the room at Calliope’s side.

“Jesus fuck, Dream, I almost spilled my tea!”

Calliope jumps out of her seat and turns to their guest. “Oneiros!”

“My apologies, Hob.” Dream gives him a small nod before turning his attention to Calliope. “I am sorry for intruding on your… meeting, but you said you wanted to see me, and so I came as soon as I heard.” He looks deeply troubled by something.

“Heard what?” Calliope asks, her voice a little shaky with residual shock from being so suddenly confronted with her ex-husband.

“I spoke to the Kindly Ones, your mothers, regarding an unrelated issue.” Here his eyes flicker to Hob for some reason. “They told me what you were forced to endure these past six decades.”

Calliope’s expression softens, and Hob clears his throat. “Should I leave? Let you talk alone?”

“No, please stay,” Calliope says, before addressing Dream again, “They told me you had been imprisoned too, just like me.”

“Not like you.” Dream’s brows are tightly knitted in concern. “My suffering was nothing compared to yours.”

“Don’t say that. Comparing our suffering only compounds it.” Calliope gives him a sad smile. “It pained me to hear of your misfortune. I am glad that you are free.”

Dream looks down, then turns his head to Hob. “It was you who saved her?” He’s looking at Hob like he is a marvel.

“Yeah, I… Saw her through a window. When I realised something was wrong I snuck in and convinced that maggot of an author to let her go.” Hob feels a little breathless under the weight of Dream’s intense gaze.

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing really. Knife to the throat, some death threats… Then Calliope put him to sleep and we just left him there on the floor.”

“That is all?” Dream asks, indignant.

“Dream,” Calliope says sharply, and he turns back to her.

“He must be punished.” Dream’s voice is low enough to be a growl, filled with ice-cold fury. The last time Hob heard that tone was in 1889, and it was directed at him, though perhaps not quite as severe as it is now.

“How? What punishment could be enough? Even his death would not bring back what he has taken from me.” Her voice is rough with strong emotion, roused by the reminder of her ordeal. She pauses, exhales, and gives Dream a small, wistful smile as she shakes her head. “He is nothing. He is just a man.”

“I cannot allow him to go free,” Dream replies, the fury in his voice now tinted by uncertainty.

“Why? Because I was once yours?” Calliope’s expression hardens.

Dream wavers, and when he speaks again his voice is tender and ardent. “Because he hurt you.”

Calliope softens again, and Dream takes a step closer to Calliope, bending his head down to keep eye contact this close to her. Hob feels like he shouldn’t be witnessing this. It feels a bit weird, voyeuristic even, to just be sitting here in his chair like an audience to the intimate scene playing out before him. The weight of almost three millennia of unspoken feelings lies heavy over the room.

“You would forgive him for what he has done?”

“I will not forgive what he has done, but I must forgive the man. Not for him. For me. If I do not, I will not be able to let go of the pain, and then he shall have power over me forever.”

Dream studies her expression for a beat, then he murmurs, “I believe I understand.”

Calliope cocks her head slightly, studying Dream in return. “Hob was right. You have changed, Oneiros. In the old days you would neither have cared to avenge me, nor understood why I would ask you not to.”

Dream glances at Hob again, who tries to look as collected and neutral as possible, pretending like the powerful emotions in the room aren’t affecting him almost as much as they are Dream and Calliope.

“Hob has been right about many things of late. When he… suggested we may both benefit from a meeting, I had my doubts. After all, the last time I saw you, you said you would never speak to me again. Then, when he told me you wanted to see me, even after all this time…” He looks down at his feet, swallowing the rest of the sentence.

“My feelings have changed, Oneiros. I have changed, just like you.” She gives him a small smile. “After our son… I was angry. But no more. I wish to apologise for the things I said in that anger. I could not see that you were hurting too, and I mistook your silence for heartlessness. I am sorry.”

Dream looks up at her, eyes shiny. “No apology necessary. I… could have done more to acknowledge your pain. To show you I cared.”

As apologies go, that one was fairly tame, but Hob and Calliope both know Dream well enough to know how far he has come to be able to say that.

Calliope relaxes, looking more at peace. “May I visit you in the Dream Realm sometime? So that we may finally talk about our son, and… grieve him properly? Hob told me how much speaking to you of his own loss helped him.”

Dream opens his mouth, then hesitates. At long last, he almost whispers the word, “Yes.”

With a soft sigh, Calliope lays a hand on Dream’s chest and steps in to lean her forehead against his cheek. As they both close their eyes, Hob automatically averts his eyes out of respect for the moment they are sharing, a moment he plays little part in. He still feels like he shouldn’t be intruding on this kind of conversation. Maybe having an audience is of no concern to such vast beings as Dream and Calliope, but Hob’s human sensibilities have him very much feeling like a third wheel.

“Thank you, Oneiros,” Calliope says, stepping back from Dream after a few seconds that felt to Hob like years.

Dream nods, slowly opening his eyes. “I should leave you to it. Goodbye, Calliope.”

“Fare you well.”

“Hob,” Dream says, turning his head. Hob can see there are still traces of unshed tears in them. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

Ah, so Wednesdays will be “their” days, it would seem. Hob clears his throat, finding his voice again after a long silence and overwhelming emotions.

“Sure. Term ends on Thursday, so I’m doing last-minute paperwork all day, then I’m free for the evening.”

Dream nods and disappears, leaving Calliope and Hob alone in the office. Calliope closes her eyes and exhales, her shoulders sagging a little. Hob leans his arms against the desk and looks up at her, concerned.

“Are you all right? That was… a lot.”

“Yes…” She opens her eyes again and turns to face him. A serene smile is slowly spreading across her face. “Yes, I think I am. Thank you, Hob.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything.”

“You have made all this possible, my dear friend. Without you, it is likely that I would never have seen Oneiros again, that I would have carried the past with me forevermore, never giving myself a chance to face it. Meeting you has brought only good things into my life, and for that I am grateful.”

The look she gives him is so warm and sincere that Hob has to look down at his hands and do his best not to blush.

“Oh, well, um, you too. To my life. I mean— Yeah…”

“I should go too. I have much to think about.”

Hob lifts his gaze from his hands to Calliope, and on the way he notices the forgotten cups of tea. A thought hits him.

“Oh, fuck, I forgot. Just, wait a second.” He rises from his chair and walks over to the tea corner, opening the top drawer of the filing cabinet that also serves as a table. He pulls out a small box of chocolates. “I, uh, got us something to have with the tea, but there were more important things happening, so… You should take them with you.”

That statement is mostly true, with the small omission that Hob specifically bought chocolates because that is more traditionally romantic than an offering of, say, jaffa cakes.

He holds the box out for Calliope, who rounds the desk and accepts it. She looks down at it for a few seconds, then she puts it aside on the desk and wraps her arms around Hob’s waist in an embrace. Hob returns the hug as soon as he recovers from his initial surprise.

Calliope is just as warm as always, and it radiates from her entire body, pressed against his. She is warm much in the way that sunlight is, rather than the sticky heat of a feverish person. She rests her head against his shoulder, being half a head shorter than Hob.

“Thank you, Hob Gadling. For everything,” she whispers, emotion once again colouring her voice.

“My pleasure,” he murmurs back.

Just because it feels right, he angles his head slightly to press a comforting kiss to the top of her head and rubs his hand in soothing circles against her back. She hugs him tighter. Her hair is soft as silk against his cheek and lips. Hob wonders if Calliope can feel how fast his heart is beating in his chest.

Aeons later, and yet far too soon, Calliope pulls away slightly, just enough to free one of her arms. She reaches up and lays a hand on the nape of Hob’s neck, gently tugging his head down to meet hers, pulling him into a kiss. He obeys more than willingly.

This is the first time she has kissed him on the lips when Hob isn’t sitting down, he realises, and certainly the first time they have kissed while hugging. The familiar rush of inspiration has nothing on the feeling of having Calliope in his arms, her lips on his, her body soft and warm and so, so close. He wishes they could stay like that forever.

After a moment, Calliope’s lips part just a little more than usual, and Hob imagines he can feel the lightest touch of her tongue against his lower lip. He allows himself to relax and melt into the kiss completely, sparing only a sliver of willpower to prevent himself from sliding his hands into her hair and deepening the kiss even further. He won’t push his luck. He’s already luckier than most.

All good things must come to an end, so also this kiss. They eventually part, but Calliope doesn’t break their embrace just yet. She leaves her hand on Hob’s neck and rests her forehead against his cheek, mirroring her moment with Dream just minutes ago.

They simply breathe together for a little while, then Calliope says, “I will see you on Monday.”

Hob has lost all concept of time and space, but it slowly comes back to him. Monday. Right, the dance class.

“Yes,” he mumbles against her hair. “Meet me at the pub around half past six?”

She nods against his cheek, then finally takes a step back, extricating herself from Hob’s arms. After picking up the box of chocolates again, she smiles at Hob, almost shyly.

“Goodbye.”

Hob knows he must look absolutely love-struck as he smiles back, but he doesn’t bother trying to hide it anymore. He’s committed now.

“Érrhōso, eis aûthis,” he says, hoping the hours he spent online brushing up on his Ancient Greek has resulted in passable pronunciation.

With a quiet but delighted laugh, Calliope raises her hand to his cheek, caressing it softly as she says, “Khaîre, phoînídion.”

Then she’s gone, and only the phantom sensation of her touch lingers on Hob’s cheek as he tries to translate her words. Goodbye, little phoenix. He lays a hand over his heart, certain that it’s going to jump out of his chest at any moment.

There had been a moment during Calliope and Dream’s meeting when Hob had thought that he might not have a shot with either of them. The emotional tension that filled the room whenever they looked at each other could have been cut with a knife. The unresolved feelings and persisting affection bubbling under the surface was plain to see, and Hob could easily envision a future where the two of them simply got back together, leaving Hob out of the equation entirely. Unless… They would still be interested…

Calliope certainly kissed him like she was. Surely that was more than an inspirational kiss between creative collaborators and friends? Surely he’s not imagining the progression from their first chaste kiss to this… whatever this was? No, Hob isn’t that thick. This almost felt like the gift of inspiration was an afterthought, the kiss the main event. Maybe.

Right. The land of speculation. He’s already decided that’s a dangerous place to stray. Time to focus this jittery energy into writing his paper rather than guessing. Then paperwork tomorrow, and then he’ll see Dream. If he can keep his courage up, he ought to test the waters there — try to flirt a little with Dream too, to see if he’s at all receptive to it…

With a vague plan for the future, a heart full of love, and a brain brimming with inspiration, Hob sits down with his laptop and writes.

Chapter Text

Hob groans when he returns to his office after lunch on Wednesday and is met with the sight of the same paperwork on his desk that he left there before he went to eat, as if it would have magically sorted itself out while he was gone. As much as he loves teaching, the administrative parts of it can be a bit of a drag, especially on days when he’d rather just skip straight to the afternoon, as he is expecting a visit from a certain someone.

He sits down at his desk and opens his laptop, pulling up the checklist of things he needs to get done today. As soon as he opens the document, he gets a peculiar feeling. He closed the windowless door behind him, and he’s on the second floor, so why does it feel like he’s being watched? He’s used to supernatural entities coming and going with complete disregard as to the purpose of a door, but he would have noticed if Calliope or Dream suddenly appeared.

He lowers the screen of the laptop again, peering over it, and there, on the visitor chair, sits an unexpected guest. The reason he didn’t notice the visitor before is because they are much smaller than his usual non-human but person-shaped friends.

It’s a cat. A quite large one. Its long, fluffy black fur blends in almost perfectly with the black chair, the blue eyes the only thing that stands out against the background. Hob wonders just how long it’s been there. Did it sneak in when he went to lunch?

“Hi there, beautiful,” he croons at it, automatically slipping into the soft, singsong voice that cats inspire in humans. “How did you get in here? What are you doing on campus?”

The cat rolls its eyes. Hob blinks. That’s not on the list of things he expects cats to do. It meows, giving him an imperious look that feels eerily familiar.

“What… Who…”

The cat does something that sounds weirdly like a human sigh, then its eyes change. Gone is the icy blue as they start glowing white, eyes shining against the blackness of its fur like stars in the void of night.

Realisation hits him embarrassingly slowly. “Dream…? Are you Dream? Meow twice if you are.”

The cat’s eyes go back to blue and it rolls its eyes again, but it does meow. Twice. Then it nods for good measure.

Right. Okay. Hob can work with this. He’s experienced weirder things in his life, believe it or not.

“Well, Dream. Hi, I guess. There’s a couple of hours before I can get out of here, but you’re welcome to stay, of course.”

The cat — Dream — jumps onto the desk with a graceful leap and finds the only spot not covered in the mess of paper and pens and cups that has accumulated on its surface during the day. He promptly lies down, curling in on himself until he’s just a circle of black against the desktop. He rests his head on his paws and closes his eyes, looking comfortable in the way only cats can. Dream’s intentions are becoming a bit clearer to Hob.

“Is this your way of interpreting me saying that you are welcome to hang out and relax even when I’m working?”

Dream looks up at him and blinks slowly in reply, and Hob takes that as an affirmative.

“You know, I wasn’t expecting you to do it in cat form, but I guess nothing can relax quite like a cat can. Very well. Make yourself comfortable and, uh, meow if you need anything. I’m guessing speaking English is hard without proper lips. Makes the bilabial plosives a bit tricky, eh?”

Dream just closes his eyes once more and shifts a little, finding the optimal position. Hob can’t help staring a little. It’s surprisingly hard to get his brain to reconcile the cat with the man he knows. He instinctively wants to coo at it and scratch it behind its ears, and he has to tell himself very firmly that he should do nothing to Dream the cat that he wouldn’t also do to Dream the humanoid. Not that he wouldn’t like to run his hands through regular-shaped Dream’s hair too, but that’s not really where they’re at in their relationship, however much Hob might wish it.

He forces himself to get back to his work, opening the laptop once more. At the start, he keeps getting distracted and glancing over to his feline friend, but after a while he grows used to it and comes to appreciate the special kind of company the presence of a cat brings.

It’s been a long time since he last had a cat. Maybe he should consider getting one again… Sure, they are not particularly long-lived, but, with the proper care, they can last about as long as his human relationships do before he has to move away and start a new life. It’s all about perspective.

Dream doesn’t seem to be sleeping, just resting, so Hob starts commenting aloud on his work every so often. Not because there’s an uncomfortable silence, but because it just feels natural. He’s spending time with a friend, after all, even if his friend is currently silent, and, uh, a cat.

Looking over the proposed curriculum has him muttering things like:

“I can’t believe they’re still trying to make me teach Shakespeare. I know what you’re thinking, and no, I don’t still hold a grudge for him stealing you away all those years ago, it’s just that he’s about a century too late. I do Medieval Literature, not Early Modern. Hang on, I have to write a polite but firm email.”

and

“Oh, Christ, they’ve saddled Mr Bennet with Translation Studies and Practical Criticism and Critical Practice? Poor sod.”

Going through the last of his students’ essays, he asks Dream, “Do you know if Thomas of Hales was left handed?” Dream blinks an affirmative. “Right, I’m going to leave a comment to my student that I believe them but that they have to cite their sources if they’re going to make claims like that. Also to consider how on earth that information is relevant to their analysis of Love Rune.”

It’s not long before Hob starts craving a cup of tea. As he rolls over to the tea corner, he asks Dream, “I’m guessing you’re not particularly interested in tea in your cat form?”

Dream lifts his head and shakes it, but he keeps it raised as he observes Hob going about the business of making himself a cup, as if the process fascinates him somehow. Hob eventually returns to the desk with his cup, but he allows himself a little break while he waits for it to steep and cool to drinking temperature, leaning back in his chair.

Dream gets up on his paws, stretching in a way that makes Hob jealous. If only he could do that to his own back. It looks like it feels incredible. He’s about to ask if Dream is going somewhere when his friend strolls over to him, walking across scattered sheets of paper before jumping into Hob’s lap and settling there instead, casual as you like.

Again, Hob has to actively remind his brain that this isn’t actually a cat, it’s his friend Dream, for whom he has feelings, and he’s lying in Hob’s lap. Right. Okay. Just a normal Wednesday afternoon. He tries to relax, but he’s not quite sure what he’s supposed to do with his arms.

“Hey, weird question, but… Can I pet you?” He feels a blush coming and hastily adds, “Human instinct when there’s a cat in your lap, sorry.”

Dream looks at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nods. Hob tentatively lays a hand on his back, feeling the impossibly silky fur beneath his fingers. Dream’s cat body is a little colder than he would expect from a normal cat, but he is still generating some pleasant warmth against Hob’s lap.

Hob pets him gently from the neck to around mid-back, which feel like the safest areas to touch. He really has no idea what Dream would consider inappropriate in a situation like this. Then again, he was the one who jumped into Hob’s lap, which would certainly have made Hob raise his eyebrows if Dream were in his human form (though he likely wouldn’t have protested), so perhaps normal cat rules apply. Dream isn’t human, after all, he just chooses to appear that way around Hob. Perhaps his feline form is no less authentically him than his humanoid one is.

Feeling a little more daring, Hob gives Dream a little scratch behind the ears, and, when he doesn’t protest, he moves his attention to the top of his head. When he rubs the spots right above the cat equivalent of eyebrows with his thumb and index finger, Dream eagerly leans into the touch, closes his eyes, and actually starts purring.

Hob has to hold back a surprised laugh. His usually sombre and serious friend, whom Hob has always had to go to great effort to even get to smile, is purring in his lap. If he’d known it was that easy to please Dream, Hob would have offered him a head massage years ago.

With a fond smile, Hob reaches for his cup of tea, careful not to startle Dream and scare him away, and making sure not to hold the cup directly over him, in case he spills. He leans back again, sipping his tea and idly petting Dream. They pass Hob’s entire tea break like that, just resting in companionable silence, enjoying each other’s company and touch, Dream purring softly all the while. Hob feels like he could easily fall asleep like this, had his chair been a tad more comfortable.

Eventually, the tea runs out, and Hob has to force himself to get back to work. He puts his cup down and straightens a bit in his chair. Dream lifts his head with a questioning look in his eyes.

“I’m just going to scoot a bit closer to the desk so I can work, you don’t have to move.” Hob lays a calming hand on his back to emphasise the implied please don’t move.

Appeased, Dream rests his head against his thigh again as Hob rolls closer to the desk, half pulling himself towards it with his arms to avoid jostling his legs too much and disturbing Dream.

That’s how they spend the rest of the afternoon while Hob works — his left hand resting on Dream’s back, feeling the comforting rhythm of his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath and the soft purr that never really seems to cease. He only removes his hand when he needs both of them to type something on his laptop, then quickly replaces it along with the occasional complimentary head scratching.

Every now and then there’s a knock on Hob’s door from someone coming to hand him some paperwork or asking his opinion on their own, but Hob can simply roll even closer to his desk to hide Dream under it, thus avoiding having to explain why he’s got a cat on campus. Luckily there’s nothing that requires him standing up.

When it’s finally time to go home, Hob almost feels disappointed. He’d started the day just wanting to get it over with, in no small part because he expected to see Dream at the end of it, but now he’s very reluctant to do anything which involves Dream leaving his lap. It’s been cosy, having him there for quiet but tactile company, and it made the dreary paperwork less daunting.

“Time to go home, love,” he says softly as he closes his laptop.

Dream seems almost as reluctant to move, but he stands up in Hob’s lap and stretches, headbutting Hob’s hand affectionately when he goes for a last pet.

“Do you want to keep hanging out?”

A nod.

“All right. I took the bike here, so you’ll have to either meet me at home, or, if you want to stay in cat form, I guess you could ride in the bicycle basket. Who knows, could be fun! Either way, you should probably do your teleportation thing to get out of the office, I’m afraid a cat in a university building will draw a bit too much attention.”

Another nod, and Dream is gone, leaving Hob’s lap empty. Hob mourns the loss of contact, but he quickly gets up and gathers his things so as not to keep Dream waiting, wherever he went.

When he gets out of the building, he finds Dream waiting for him at the bicycle stand, somehow having intuited which bike belongs to Hob. Hob puts on his helmet and unlocks the bike, keeping his messenger bag on him instead of putting it in the basket as he usually does. It will be marginally less comfortable to bike with, but that’s fine.

Without thinking, Hob scoops Dream up and places him in the wicker basket. The look Dream gives him can only be described as outraged, but he still leans into the touch when Hob laughs and pets him, apologising. Then they’re off, heading home.

Ever since Hob rescued Calliope, he’s taken the long way around the neighbourhood where Madoc lives. Not only in case the man would recognise him, against all odds and Calliope’s reassurances, but also because Hob doesn’t trust himself not to try to run him over with his bike if he saw him. It makes his route a couple of minutes longer, but that’s life.

When they round the neighbourhood and reach the park, Dream perks up. He places his front paws on the edge of the basket and stands up. For a second Hob is afraid that he’s about to jump out — which would be a mistake at the speed they’re going, Endless or not — but he just stands there, presumably enjoying the wind in his whiskers as they roll along beneath the tree canopy like Hob’s bicycle basket is the bow of the Titanic.

When they reach The New Inn, Hob is very warm. The sky is overcast, but it’s still hot and humid, and Hob finds himself almost missing the Little Ice Age. Summer in London is quickly becoming a goddamn ordeal. They go round the back of the pub, where a flight of stairs leads up to Hob’s flat.

Hob jumps off the bike and places it in the bicycle stand by the stairs. “Now,” he says, addressing Dream, “Would my lord like assistance to get out of your lordship’s basket, or will you manage on your own?”

Dream responds by disappearing. “I can manage,” he says, now standing behind Hob in human form.

Hob is very proud of himself for not flinching, slowly getting used to Dream and Calliope’s teleportation habits, but it’s a near thing. Dream is standing very close. Back to human then. That’s probably good if Hob is going to be able to follow his plan of testing the waters with him. Bit awkward to flirt with a cat.

“Good for you.” He locks his bike and removes his helmet, freeing his somewhat sweaty hair. “Let’s hurry up and get inside, I have air conditioning.”

Dream lets him lead the way up the stairs, staying close behind as he unlocks the door and they step into the decently cool flat. Hob offloads his bag onto the clothing rack and kicks off his shoes. Dream observes him and follows suit without Hob having to ask him to remove his shoes. This reveals that he is apparently walking around barefoot inside those boots, the madman. Hob fervently hopes that he’s got some kind of Superman-invulnerable-skin thing going on for the sake of his poor feet.

“You make yourself comfortable, help yourself to anything you want. I just need to take a quick shower after that bike ride, won’t take a minute.”

Hob herds Dream into the living room, pointing out the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom and the office on the way. It’s not the biggest flat, but it has everything Hob needs for his current life and he likes it well enough, not least for its proximity to his and Dream’s meeting spot.

As he leaves Dream browsing the multiple bookcases using up most of the wall space in the living room — filled with an unholy mess of books, both fiction and non-fiction, almost half of which pertains to his career in linguistics and literary analysis — Hob is faced with a choice. Get a fresh set of clothes and bring it to the bathroom? Or, shower first and then make the trek to his bedroom for the clothes, having to walk right past Dream in nothing but a towel? Well, he has given himself a mission, hasn’t he? He’s not going to wuss out now. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He heads straight to the bathroom.

It’s a relief to rinse off the sweat from the journey home, and Hob keeps the water cool and refreshing, almost to the point of too cold. As amazing as it feels, he doesn’t let himself linger too long, he does have a guest. He towels himself off and dries his hair as best he can before wrapping the towel around his hips. He takes a look in the mirror. Not too shabby. Biking to work almost every day has the perk of keeping him in decent shape. He takes a deep breath, then leaves the bathroom.

When he enters the living room on his way to the bedroom, he stops in his tracks. He’s not sure what it is but…

“Something is different,” he says, looking around trying to pinpoint the feeling.

Dream turns away from the bookcase he had been inspecting, about to say something. He closes his mouth when he sees Hob, eyes flickering down to his bare chest, then blatantly roaming over Hob’s body. Hob suppresses a smug grin. Interesting.

“I… I reorganised your library,” Dream says after a silence that was a second too long to be natural.

Hob blinks. “You what?”

“Organised, rather. There appeared to be no order at all to start with.” Dream looks back up at Hob’s face and cocks a teasing eyebrow.

Marry me, Hob doesn’t say, instead opting for, “That was quick.”

He couldn’t have left Dream alone for more than five minutes. He wonders if Dream ran around moving books at superhuman speed like the Flash, or if he simply waved his hands and magically willed it so. Hob still doesn’t have a good grasp on what Dream’s “powers” can actually do, outside of the vague concept of “making dreams” and teleporting around. Today he can add “turning into a cat” and “reorganise hundreds of books according to the Dewey Decimal System in under five minutes” to the list.

“I suppose.” Dream looks back at the books as if it hadn’t occurred to him that this was a remarkable feat.

Hob stares at the bookcases for a bit before remembering what he was doing. Clothes. Right.

“I’ll be right back,” he says and slips into the bedroom. He’s fairly sure he feels Dream’s gaze following him right up until he closes the door. Hob’s little gambit seems to have paid off. That’s one point in favour of “potentially interested”.

He re-emerges a minute later in a pair of relaxed linen trousers and a linen button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His AC may be working, but it can’t perform miracles, so linen it is. It’s a travesty how hard it is to find good linen clothing these days. Has humanity forgotten everything they once knew about the properties of different fabrics?

He finds Dream curled up on the sofa like the cat he apparently sometimes is, reading a book. On closer inspection it turns out to be Pride and Prejudice, which he is already about a third of the way through. If Hob hadn’t just seen him do what he did to his library, he would have guessed that Dream simply picked up the book and opened it to a random page. Now, he’s not so sure.

His friend paints a curious picture where he lies, casually draped over the sofa and barefoot, but still wearing the coat that any normal human would have put away for the season in mid-spring.

“You know you can take that off, right?” Dream looks up at him, questioning. “Your coat. It’s usually considered an outdoor garment.”

Dream seems to consider this, then he sits up and shrugs out of it. Hob holds out a hand.

“Here, I’ll hang it in the hallway.”

There’s a hint of reluctance in Dream’s eyes. Hob can’t quite figure out why, but before he can rescind the offer, Dream visibly relaxes and hands him the coat without a word. Hm. Strange. He walks away and puts it on a hanger, making sure to hang it in such a way that it’s still partly visible from the living room. It feels important somehow. The lining looks like it’s made of the night sky, and Hob wonders if his hand would just keep going if he tried to touch it.

When he returns, Dream is reading again, but still sitting up on the sofa. He has pushed back the sleeves of the long-sleeved black t-shirt he was wearing underneath the coat, and Hob allows himself a second to lean against the wall and take in the view. This is the least amount of clothing he’s ever seen Dream in, a far cry from the myriad of layers of yesteryear.

He already knew Dream was slender, but now he can see just how thin his friend is. If it weren’t for the surprising amount of muscle suggested by the tight-fitting shirt, Hob might have worried about malnourishment. If that is even an issue for the Endless.

The pushed-back sleeves reveal wiry pale arms which look strong despite their thinness, all sinew and muscle. They are completely hairless, reminding Hob of artfully sculpted marble. Without the turned up collar of the coat in the way, Hob gets a good view of the long, slender neck, likewise statuesque. God, Dream is gorgeous in profile, all angles and curves combined to perfection.

Hob searches for something to say. “Where’s your ruby?” is what he comes up with.

“It was destroyed,” Dream says without looking up from the book.

“Oh, that’s… a shame?” Dream doesn’t seem too upset about it, but it still feels like the right thing to say. “What happened?”

“It was taken from me when I was captured, along with my other tools. A man altered it, turned it against me, then destroyed it, thinking it would kill me.”

“It didn’t, I’m guessing.”

Dream glances up at him, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Astute, as always. No, it released the power I had stored in it, returning my strength to me to an unexpected extent. It was, perhaps, the best possible outcome.”

“That’s good, then. I’ll miss it though, it brought a pop of colour to your outfits.” Hob winks to communicate that he’s joking. Mostly. “What about your other tools? What are they? Did you get them back?”

“My helm, my pouch of sand…” Dream closes the book, his eyes darting towards the hallway.

Sand… A memory stirs. Was it sand Dream had blown in Lady Johanna’s face that day in 1789? He had pulled out a handful of glittering dust from… Oh. From his coat. He must still be keeping the sand in his coat. No wonder he was reluctant to give it away to Hob, if he lost it once.

“The sand I found here in London. The helm in Hell.”

“I’m sorry, Hell?!”

“Hell.” Dream sounds completely casual, like he’s not even aware that he’s absolutely turning Hob’s entire world view upside down.

Hob just stands there, eyes unfocused, staring into the void as centuries of repressed Catholicism comes crashing down on him from beyond the dam he built over the years as he grew more and more agnostic, finding plenty of evidence of the supernatural, but very little of the existence of Heaven and Hell.

“I’m opening a bottle of wine. White or red?”

Dream seems to consider the question with the weight he gives every decision and statement.

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, but I sure as — well, hell — will.”

“White.”

“Grand.”

Hob turns back into the hallway, heading for the small kitchen. He grabs a bottle of white from the wine cooler — yeah, bougie, he knows — and gets two wine glasses from the cupboard. When he turns around, he sees that Dream has silently followed him to the kitchen and is standing in the doorway. Hob puts the glasses on the counter and opens the bottle.

“The existence of Hell bothers you.” Dream’s intonation presents the statement as a question.

“Um, yeah. I guess you could say that.”

“Why? Is that not still a common belief in your culture?”

“Of course it is.” Hob’s hand is a little shaky as he pours himself a substantial amount of wine and Dream a small measure for tasting. “It’s just that I personally had dismissed it as fiction, up until tonight, that is.”

He hands the glass to Dream, who sniffs it and tastes it, contemplates it, then nods and hands the glass back. Hob pours him a proper glass, his hand not any steadier.

“Why? You were ready to believe me a demon and a devil once. And you invoke the name of the Christian Messiah often enough.”

“Well, yes, but that’s just how we used to swear back in the day. God’s bones, Christ’s wounds, et cetera. The swearing you grow up with sticks with you. And it’s precisely because you weren’t a demon or a devil that I gradually started to doubt the scriptures. Whatever you were, and whatever I was, we didn’t seem to have a place in the Bible, you know. Especially not me, with my, uh, gender-blind proclivities. Then the Reformation came, and I more or less had to choose between becoming an Anglican or remaining a Papist. I chose neither.” Hob takes a swig of wine. Having a minor religious breakdown in his kitchen wasn’t how he saw this night going.

“The Bible is a faulty document, written by mortals.”

“Tell me about it… You know what? You don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be fine. It’s just my inner medieval peasant having a reverse crisis of faith. Just… Answer me two things, will you?” Dream nods. “One. Is God real? I mean, obviously gods are real, we know a goddess, but, like, the Christian God.”

“In a sense. There is an entity older even than I am that goes by many names, among them ‘The Creator’. There are many similarities between this entity and the god described in the Bible, just as there are many things your holy scripture gets wrong.”

Hob sips his wine as he processes this. “Right. Okay, I can deal with that. Question two, then.” He pauses, drinks, then clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “If… If I ever do die, and that’s a big ‘if’, will I… Will I go to Hell?”

“This is what troubles you?” Hob nods hesitantly. “Rest assured, you will only go there if you believe that you deserve to.”

“Right.”

Dream’s blue eyes are piercing as he looks at him, and Hob is sure that he can see right into his very heart. Whatever he sees in there makes him narrow his eyes and set his glass down on the counter. He steps closer to Hob. His expression is sombre and earnest.

“Do you believe you deserve to go to Hell, Hob Gadling?”

“I don’t know,” Hob breathes, drowning in six centuries of Catholic guilt and two blue, blue eyes. “I— I’ve committed every cardinal sin, more times than I can count. I’ve broken most of the ten commandments. I’ve killed more people than I care to remember, not always sanctioned by war. I’ve hurt so many people — out of greed, out of nonchalance, out of personal convenience… I… I just don’t know.”

Dream steps even further into Hob’s personal space. “And do you believe that one’s past will forever define one’s character? That no living creature can move past their mistakes, that nothing they do to atone can qualify them for even a crumb of, if not forgiveness, then at least redemption? If so, then I too deserve Hell, for my ten billion years of accumulated mistakes and transgressions. Is there nothing I can do to atone? To redeem myself?”

“I— Of course there is.”

“And have you attempted to do the same? To better yourself, to take responsibility for your mistakes and work to set them right?”

“I try…”

“Then I will ask you again, Hob Gadling,” Dream raises a hand to cup Hob’s cheek, “Do you think you deserve to go to Hell?”

Hob closes his eyes and exhales shakily, leaning into the touch. “No.”

“Then you will not. Even if you should one day accept my sister’s gift. I hope that day is far away.”

“Don’t worry,” Hob says, opening his eyes again. “I’m just getting started. Now that I’ve befriended both an Endless and a goddess, the real fun can begin.”

Dream’s gaze flickers down to Hob’s lips, and he almost absentmindedly strokes his thumb against Hob’s cheek.

“Hm.” The moment stretches on for another second, then Dream lowers his hand and picks up his glass again. “This wine is excellent.”

And just like that, the spell is broken, and Hob smiles and says the first thing that pops into his head.

“Do you want to order curry and watch Pride and Prejudice?”

Chapter Text

Hob is officially on summer break. The next term is months away, and god did he need this vacation. The last weeks of the summer term are always a bit hectic, but this year he’s had to balance his work with a fairly significant shake-up of his personal life. Strangely enough, it turns out that falling in love with two higher beings at the same time affects one’s ability to focus on grading essays and planning lectures.

He spends the weekend resting and writing, and when Monday comes and Hob doesn’t have to go to work, he celebrates by doing something very uncharacteristic. He tidies his flat. Perhaps Dream’s organisation of his books rubbed off on him, making him want the rest of the flat to match the neatness of the bookcases, or perhaps having Dream over a couple of days ago reminded him that his flat will probably (hopefully) see many more visits from his friends, especially since his inspiration meetings with Calliope will likely take place at his home office from now on. Or, possibly, waiting for the evening’s dance class to come around just has him restless enough that he needs to work it off by cleaning.

The minute the clock strikes half past six, the doorbell rings. Hob was just on his way out, having asked Calliope to meet him at the pub without specifying exactly how to get up to his flat, but when he opens the door, there she is. She’s in white, as always, but today her dress reaches to just under the knee instead of to the ankles, presumably for ease of movement.

“Khaîre, ô agapētḗ,” Hob says, heaving his bag onto his shoulder. He feels daring today, going for agapētḗ instead of the safer phílē.

Calliope smiles brightly. “Gode euenynge, myn biloued freende,” she replies, her Middle English pronunciation miles ahead of Hob’s halting Ancient Greek.

Hob beams back at her, touched by the gesture. He leans down slightly to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, realising that there’s been a table between them every time they’ve greeted each other so far, excepting the very first time they met at Madoc’s. He steps outside and locks the door behind him.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering Calliope his arm.

“With pleasure.” She lays her hand in the crook of his arm, and her touch sends warm tingles through Hob’s body. He still hasn’t quite figured out if his physical reactions to her touch are simply due to his infatuation, or if her divine nature plays a part in it as well.

The dance studio isn’t far enough away to warrant taking the bus or tube, so they set off on foot. Hob quickly realises that he should have thought of bringing an umbrella. The skies look heavy and dark, though the heat of the day lingers. With a little luck, the rain won’t start until after they return from the dance class.

“I spoke to Oneiros,” Calliope says, as they set off towards the studio. “He let me visit him in the Dreaming for the first time since we parted.”

“Oh,” Hob replies, carefully. She doesn’t seem upset, that’s a good sign. “How did it go?”

“Well. Surprisingly well, one might say. To finally speak about our son… Our experience… It was a catharsis long in coming.”

“How do you feel?”

She takes a moment to consider. “Lighter. Happy. At peace. Hopeful.”

“All good things. I’m glad.” Hob covers the hand on his arm with his free hand and gives her a smile. “Are you two… reconciled, then?”

“Yes,” She sounds almost surprised by her own answer, “Yes, I think so. Certainly on my side. I believe he feels the same.”

“Happy to hear it. You know, I keep thinking that it would be a shame if I couldn’t invite both of my dearest friends in this world to the same event.” Or to my bed. “Do you think you’re in a place where that wouldn’t be… I don’t know, awkward?”

She laughs. “I am sure you can guess that Oneiros is always awkward, at whichever social event he attends. However, while I cannot speak for him, I would not mind. In fact, I should quite like to see him in your company. I am beginning to understand that you bring out the best in him. He speaks very fondly of you.”

Hob tries to fight down an incriminating blush. What’s with him lately? He’s been blushing like a schoolboy. He usually likes to think of himself as rather suave when it comes to matters of the heart. Perhaps it’s the fact that the objects of his affections this time around are not only vastly older than him — it’s usually the other way around with humans — but also beings of immense power, operating on a plane he can barely comprehend. The stakes are significantly higher than they are with any old romance with a mortal, which are inevitably rather short lived, relatively speaking.

They are nearing the studio, and Hob suddenly remembers something. “Right, so the way this class usually works is apparently that the leaders and the followers rotate between different partners every so often, but I called ahead and asked if it would be okay for us to stick together, in case… Well, in case you’d rather dance only with me than with a bunch of strange men. They said that would be fine.”

“Oh, I had not considered that.” Calliope bites her lip, thinking. “Yes, I would rather dance with you.” She looks up at him. “Thank you for thinking of this. For asking.”

“No worries. Ah, I think that’s the place!”

They’re just early enough to the studio that Hob has no trouble finding time to take the instructors aside to confirm that they will dance only with each other, just giving them a vague reason of there being a “thing” in their past. They seem to understand well enough without further explanation.

Hob changes into the dance shoes he brought with him in his bag, while Calliope simply changes from sandals to sensible shoes with a thought when no one is looking. Nifty thing, that, being a literal goddess. Hob also brought water bottles for them both. He has no idea if goddesses get thirsty, but he sure did just by watching the dancers in those video clips.

The water turns out to have been a good idea, because even Lindy Hop at their very basic level definitely qualifies as exercise. Moving your legs continuously for an hour and a half in the middle of summer is thirsty work.

At the start, it’s exhilarating to get to be so close to Calliope, her hand in his, her arm resting against his shoulder, his on her back. Then they move on from closed position to open, and add figures and moves, and soon there’s not much room in Hob’s brain for thoughts other than rock step, triple step, rock step, triple step, swing out and rock step, triple step, triple step.

While Hob hasn’t really danced with any kind of regularity since the last World War, he did use to enjoy it, and there was a time when it was hard to move in any kind of sophisticated circles without attending balls every now and then. All in all, he has a few centuries of experience under his belt to help him get to grips with the new moves.

Calliope, of course, dances with the same grace and ease as she does anything, but it’s gratifying to find out that even a goddess sometimes slips up and does a rock step when she should have done a triple step.

When the steps start to turn into muscle memory, Hob finds he can let a bigger portion of his brain take a backseat and just observe and enjoy the sight of Calliope dancing — and laughing when they make a mistake. Her cheeks are flushed with exertion, and a couple strands of her hair have slipped out from her side plait, framing her face beautifully in all its messiness. Hob’s heart is soaring with both exercise-induced endorphins and affection as they weave between the other couples on the dance floor.

After they feel that they’ve got the basics down, they start shaking things up by switching between leading and following when it’s time for the other couples to make their rotation and change partners. It’s surprisingly hard to get his legs to switch over to take the first rock step with his right foot after finally learning the reverse, and as such they bump into each other more than once, making them giggle like children. Hob hasn’t felt so alive in years.

They are still laughing as they leave the studio after class, their water bottles empty, cheeks flushed, and legs sore (Hob’s are, at any rate, he can’t speak for the goddess).

“Oh god, I haven’t moved like that in ages, I’m so sweaty. I just feel sorry for you having to touch my back. I can’t believe you’re not sweating.”

“Perks of divinity, my dear,” Calliope says, eyes glittering with amusement.

“Cheating, more like!” Hob wraps an arm around her shoulders, reasoning that if she had strong objections to touching a sweaty Hob, she would have left halfway through the class. Calliope just throws her head back and laughs again.

That’s when the first raindrop falls, quickly followed by its friends, and then an entire army. With very little warning, the rain starts pouring — cats and dogs and the whole menagerie. They start running for Hob’s flat with gleeful shrieks, still several streets away. It’s readily apparent that they will be soaked to the bone no matter how fast they run. At least it’s still warm outside, so they won’t catch a chill.

“I won’t judge you if you decide to just teleport away, you know,” Hob calls out over the deafening roar of the downpour. “Save yourself, my lady!”

“And leave you here to drown? Never, good sir knight!” Calliope hollers back with a bright grin. She grabs his hand. “Hurry up! We can make it!”

They race along the waterlogged pavement, splashing through the rapidly forming puddles, not caring if their shoes get wet. They’re already well past saving, anyway. When they finally round a corner and spot the back of The New Inn, there’s nary a dry spot left on them.

Running is technically meaningless at this point, but they’re too worked-up to stop their jog until they get up the stairs to Hob’s flat. Hob gropes around for the keys in his bag and tries to unlock the door with slippery fingers.

“Come on! Yes!” They tumble into the hallway the moment the door opens, dripping water on the carpet. Hob closes the door behind them and leans back against it, taking a breather. “Phew! And I thought I was done exercising for the day.” He kicks off his shoes, wincing at the feeling of wet socks being exposed to the cooler indoor air.

Calliope laughs and wrings out the water from her plait as Hob unceremoniously dumps his bag on the floor. He looks at her, then quickly averts his eyes, trying not to linger on how the soaked white linen of her dress clings to her thighs, half transparent with the rain. His own light blue shirt probably isn’t doing much better, sticking to his arms and chest like it’s been painted onto him.

“Good news,” he says, “I no longer need a shower.” He ducks his head and shakes his hair like a dog, water droplets going everywhere.

When he looks up again, Calliope is right in front of him, crowding him against the door. She reaches up and pushes Hob’s mid-length hair out of his face, combing it back with her fingers until her hands cradle the back of his head, then she stands on tiptoe and kisses him.

Recovering from his surprise, Hob kisses back, wrapping his arms around Calliope’s waist and pulling her close. She wastes no time in deepening the kiss, running her tongue along the seam of his lips, coaxing them open. Though somewhat caught off guard, Hob gladly obliges, letting her in and meeting her tongue with his own.

The kiss is exhilarating and intoxicating, like always, but it feels different from their earlier ones somehow. Calliope’s hands are wreaking absolute havoc on Hob’s hair, and he responds by snaking an arm up her back and resting his hand against the nape of her neck. She is impossibly warm, even as her rain-damp skin ought to be cooling off now that they’re inside the air-conditioned flat. He’s grateful for the warmth radiating from her body as his own wet clothes are starting to feel cold wherever she’s not touching him.

They break apart for air, and Hob searches Calliope’s deep brown eyes, made darker by blown pupils.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but that wasn’t a regular inspirational kiss, was it?”

Calliope laughs and rests her forehead against his shoulder for a second before looking back up.

“No, agapēté. No it was not.”

A slow smile spreads over Hob’s lips. “Good.”

On a whim, he tightens his arms around Calliope, lifting her lithe frame with ease and twirling around out of sheer joy. She hangs onto him by his neck, and shrieks in delight. She’s kissing him again before he has even put her down.

Allowing himself to fully kiss back without reservation is a heady experience, and Hob lets himself melt into it completely, revelling in the feeling of warm, plump lips moving against his own, of a soft body pressing up against his. That is, until his brain comes up with a reservation. Ah, Christ. All right, he did tell himself he would do this, and Hob is a man of his word even when it’s a promise made only to himself.

With great reluctance, he breaks the kiss again. “Wait, wait. There’s something I need to say,” he pants.

“What?” Calliope asks, eyes fixed on his lips.

“I— God, I’m about to fuck this up, aren’t I?”

“We will never know if you do not say it.”

He can’t argue with that logic. Right, best to rip off the plaster in one go. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Calliope leans her head back a little to get a good look at him. “But…?”

“But…” Hob closes his eyes. “I think I’m also in love with Dream. I’m sorry, I know that makes everything complicated, but I just— It’s the truth, and I thought you ought to know. And if that’s a dealbreaker, I fully understand, it just feels unfair to keep secret.”

“Oh, phoînídion, I know.”

He opens his eyes. Calliope is looking at him with a fond smile. “You do?”

“I suspected as much, at the very least. I have seen the way you look at him, heard the way you talk about him, and,” She cups his cheek with one hand, “You turn such a lovely shade of red whenever I mention him.”

He just stares at her until his brain finishes computing. “Then… You don’t mind? That I have feelings for your ex-husband?”

“No. Not if you do not mind that I do too, in addition to my feelings for you.” A hint of uncertainty sneaks into her voice at the confession.

Hob smiles. “Oh, myn drewe, I know.”

“You do?”

“Suspected as much. And no, I don’t mind. How could I, when we’re in the same boat?”

“Well then.”

“Well then.”

They look into each other’s eyes for a moment longer, then Calliope angles his head down and stretches up to press a fervent kiss to his forehead, then to his cheek, his nose, his mouth. The kiss is unhurried at first, but it soon grows heated and passionate.

Hob’s senses are under onslaught as he takes in everything he’s feeling. The warm, slick slide of lips against lips, the cool, damp fabric of his shirt clinging to his arms and torso, the teasing pressure of Calliope’s hip against his groin, her hands in his hair, the rapid beating of his heart… It’s overwhelming and invigorating and more than a little arousing.

Calliope breaks contact for a second to murmur, “Help me out of these wet clothes?”

“It would be my honour,” Hob replies, happily going along with the pretence that Calliope couldn’t just change into dry clothes with a single thought. Besides, he strongly suspects that the point of them taking off their clothes right now isn’t so that they can put new ones on. Not right away.

Calliope hooks a finger into the neckline of Hob’s shirt, the top two buttons left unbuttoned, and gently pulls Hob along as she starts walking backwards through the hallway, all the while kissing him. Hob takes it upon himself to try to make sure that they don’t walk into anything as they stumble along in the direction of the bedroom.

It’s not easy to concentrate on walking straight when Calliope’s hands start busying themselves with undoing the buttons of his shirt, and it gets even harder when he raises his own hands to get to work on the buttons on the front of her dress, his fingers brushing against the soft swell of her breasts every now and then.

Somehow, miraculously, they make it to the bedroom, and Hob sends a silent thank you to his past self for tidying up and changing the sheets of the bed. He has a bad habit of slipping into a — let’s say bohemian — lifestyle whenever he lives alone for too long. There are just too many amazing things to experience in this world to spend all his time keeping things tidy if he’s the only one who is going to see the mess. But right now, it’s looking like he might not have to be alone for much longer.

Calliope turns them around so that she’s the one backing Hob up against the bed until the back of his knees hit the side of it, tugging his shirt free from where it was tucked into his trousers, then pushing down gently to sit Hob down on the bed. She quickly climbs into his lap, hiking up the wet skirt of her dress as she straddles him with her thighs.

With Calliope now looking down on him, Hob takes advantage of the change in angle by mouthing at her neck, running his tongue along the tendons of the sun-kissed column of her throat and nipping at her clavicles. She shudders and pushes his shirt off his shoulders, the damp fabric peeling off his skin with great reluctance. He lets go of her waist for a second to help free himself from the stubborn garment, then returns to her, running his hands up her bare arms. While his skin is still a bit clammy, hers is already mostly dry, courtesy of her unnatural warmth.

“Calliope,” he breathes, peppering her skin all over with soft kisses— the dip between her collarbones, the point where her chin meets her neck, the pulse point in her throat… “Tell me if I do something you don’t like. Just say the word and I’ll stop, I promise.”

“I will.”

She bends her head down and catches his mouth with hers, cradling his cheeks in her hands. He moves his own hands to her legs, slowly pushing her skirt further up her toned thighs until he can rest his thumbs against her hip bones, lightly brushing them against the edge of her knickers. She responds by grinding down on his lap, granting him brief but glorious friction against the erection straining against the fly of his trousers.

“Tell— Ah, tell me what you want me to do, love.”

She reaches down and grabs his right hand, bringing it back up to the buttons of her dress.

“Undress me.”

He obeys, lifting his other hand to help make short work of the remaining buttons that he hadn’t had time to undo during their journey to the bedroom. One by one, they give way, the edges of the fabric gradually falling away to reveal more and more of Calliope’s chest. With enough of the buttons undone, Hob pushes the straps of the dress off of her shoulders with slow, deliberate hands, following them down her upper arms in a steady caress.

Calliope’s breasts are small but full, pert and beautiful, just like the rest of her. With a glance up at her to check in and see that it’s all right, he ducks his head and brushes his lips along the soft curves, pressing a light kiss to a nipple, feeling it stiffen under his lips. His hands come to rest on her waist once more, now touching skin rather than fabric.

“Your tongue…” she whispers, and Hob complies, tenderly lapping at the hard nub, then taking it into his mouth properly, swirling his tongue around it and lightly sucking.

She moans as he catches the nipple between his teeth and gives it a gentle tug. Then he moves on to her other breast, repeating the performance. Her hands roam across the muscles in his back as she shivers under his attentions, up into his still-wet hair, then down to palm at his biceps. After a moment, she gets off his lap, stepping back to let her dress fall to the floor, giving Hob a marvellous view of her body.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” He lays a hand on his belt. “Do you mind if I…?”

She nods for him to go ahead, and Hob unbuckles his belt and gets to his feet for a moment to push his trousers down to his thighs. He groans as he sits back down and tries to pull them the rest of the way off. Getting out of wet trousers is never fun, and he heaves a sigh of relief when they’re off, giving his legs a chance to finally dry. Calliope looks on in amusement as he removes his socks too, making a bit of a show of it.

“You know — as romantic as getting caught in the rain is — next time I’ll bring an umbrella and you’ll just have to come up with a different excuse to take off my clothes.”

Calliope just laughs and says, “I am sure I will think of something.” She steps closer and lays her hands on Hob’s shoulders, pushing them back and lowering him down onto the bed. “In the meantime, we had better remove these too.” Her hands wander down Hob’s prone body, catching at the edge of his briefs. With a little assistance from Hob, she manages to pull them off, leaving Hob entirely bare against the sheets of the bed.

As Calliope climbs back onto the bed, Hob adjusts his position so that he’s lying along it rather than across it, resting his head back against the pillows. Calliope lays down beside him, trailing her hand from his cheek, down his neck, over his shoulder and along his side until she stills her hand at his hip, using her grip as leverage to pull herself closer to him. Their bodies slot together like pieces of a puzzle and her body heat is a blessing against Hob’s cold legs.

He lets her rest her head on his bicep, placing his other arm around her waist, his hand stroking a trail along her back, from her neck and down to her still-clothed buttocks. She bucks her hips against his, drawing out a moan from him as the silky skin of her abdomen rubs against his cock.

Slipping a finger under the hem of her knickers, he asks, “May I?”

“Yes.” She allows him to tug the fabric down her hips and the swell of her buttocks as best he can, then she helps him get them off the rest of the way and disposes of them over the edge of the bed.

Hob runs his fingers reverently through the shock of curly dark hair covering her pubic area. He looks up at her, making sure to make eye contact before slowly reaching further downward. She nods and parts her legs slightly for easier access, her eyes dark and lustful as he slips his fingers between the folds of her sex, there encountering a slick wetness.

Gently exploring, he slides his fingers back and forth, paying attention to the soft sighs it elicits from Calliope when he moves over her clitoris, teasingly pulling back before returning and circling the swollen nub over and over again. Her breathing grows more and more ragged as he continues, his touches tantalisingly light and slow to begin with. When she grabs his face between her hands and kisses him, desperately rocking against his hand in search of more friction, he increases pressure and she rewards him with a mewling sound.

Working his thumb in irregular figures around her sensitive bud, he inches his index finger ever onward, carefully circling her opening.

“Can I?”

“Please, yes…”

Her body readily gives way for his probing finger, and he slips it into her with ease in one long gliding motion, accompanied by her moans against his mouth. Slowly drawing back, then pushing back in, he starts pumping his finger in and out at a languid pace, which he does his best to match with the thumb caressing her clitoris. He lets his middle finger join the index in the slickness of Calliope’s hot cunt, experimenting with curling them against her walls, every now and then rubbing against a spot inside her that has her crying out and shuddering.

As she gets closer and closer to her climax, she clings to him, tighter and tighter, her nails running down his back in delicious scratches as she switches between giving him urgent, sloppy kisses and getting her mouth on any part of him that she can reach — his throat, his neck, his earlobe.

“Faster, please,” she moans, urging him on with the twitching of her hips, practically pushing herself down on his fingers.

The arm Calliope’s head rests against is half immobilised, but Hob manages to raise his hand enough to bury it in her hair as he speeds up the movements of his free hand, fucking into her as deep as his fingers can go, his thumb rubbing down on her clitoris relentlessly until, at last, she lets out a cry of ecstacy as her orgasm hits her and her muscles contract around his fingers. Hob has never heard a sweeter sound in his life, and he sends a silent prayer, to whichever god feels like listening, that he may hear it many times over in the future.

A familiar feeling of invigorating warmth washes over Hob when she comes, and though he is rather preoccupied at the moment, he recognises it as divine inspiration. Huh.

His hand slows down as she comes down from her peak, but he keeps his fingers gently slipping in and out, his thumb brushing lightly over her clitoris every so often, until Calliope’s breathing starts to even out and her body goes slack against his. Even then, he keeps his fingers inside her, enjoying the way she clenches around them, her insides throbbing with residual pleasure.

“Hob…” She opens her eyes and gazes into his for a second, then leans their foreheads together and huffs out a small laugh of breathless joy. Hob joins in, her elation contagious. With a last caress of his fingers against her sex, he retrieves his hand, perfunctorily cleaning it by wiping off her fluids on his own thigh. He’s going to need a shower, after all.

As soon as Calliope catches her breath, she rolls Hob over onto his back and straddles his stomach, bending down to kiss him. Her by now very messy plait slips over her shoulder and almost hits Hob in the face. Distracted by laughing, he almost doesn’t notice Calliope reaching behind her as she sits back up, and his laughter turns into a startled gasp of pleasure when she runs her hand over his cock, which lies heavy against his hip, still aroused, but not urgently so. That all changes under the teasing touch of Calliope’s fingers.

“Do you have a condom?” she asks, and Hob nods.

“Yes, in the bedside table.” She starts to lean towards the side of the bed, but Hob stops her with a hand on her hip. “Are you sure? We don’t have to.”

She pauses, considering. While she thinks, she runs her hands over the curves and planes of Hob’s torso, almost petting the dark dusting of hair on his chest. Her nails catch on his nipples and Hob’s breath hitches. Calliope’s eyes grow dark at the sound.

“I want to.”

“One hundred percent sure?”

“Yes. I feel safe with you, agapēté.”

Hob raises himself off the bed, balanced on an elbow, laying his other hand around the nape of her neck and tugging her into a kiss. He tries to put everything he feels for Calliope into the kiss, to convey through touch alone what she means to him, and what it means to hear her say that she trusts him.

“Then by all means,” he says as they part.

Calliope smiles and gives him another quick peck on the lips before climbing off him to be able to reach the bedside table properly. Hob lets himself fall back against the sheets, turning his head to watch her as she rummages around in the drawer. He gives his cock a few light strokes to prepare for what’s coming. Calliope returns with a small packet, handing it to him. He opens it, flinging the plastic covering over the side of the bed for later disposal, and puts the condom on.

Gracefully swinging a leg over Hob’s hips, Calliope straddles him once more, then, bracing herself with her hands against his chest, she slowly lowers herself down onto him, inch by inch, maintaining eye contact.

Dream must indeed have managed to convince Hob that he doesn’t deserve going to Hell, because he’s fairly sure he’s entering Heaven right now. Calliope is so goddamn warm.

The Heaven theory only gets more plausible when Calliope starts moving, the muscles in her thighs shifting under Hob’s hands as she lifts herself up, only to come back down and then do it all over again. The sensation, coupled with the sight of his cock sliding in and out of her, is almost too much, and Hob has to close his eyes and throw his head back against the pillows to try to retain some measure of composure, a moan escaping his lips.

Calliope interprets this as an invitation to bend forward and lick a stripe along his throat, which she does without even breaking rhythm. It’s all Hob can do to wrap his arms around her shoulders and cling on for dear life as she simultaneously rides him and sucks marks into the side of his neck that he knows will linger for days, even with his rapid healing.

If Calliope’s touches had been driving him insane before, being in bed with her takes it to a whole new level of intoxicating pleasure. He could become addicted to the feeling of her mouth on his neck, her skin against his, the tight heat around his cock… He feels like he’s losing touch with the concept of time passing, living only in an eternal moment of sensation.

“Fuck, Calliope, I— Ah!” Whatever he was about to say is forgotten as Calliope’s hands find their way into his hair and tighten there. The sensual tingle it causes wrings a desperate whine out of him and his hips snap up reflexively, driving his cock deeper into Calliope, who gasps in return. “Yes… Please…”

Accurately reading his broken pleas, Calliope tightens her grip on his hair further, using it to angle his head back, thus gaining even better access to his neck. The sharp, delectable sting of his hair being pulled, combined with Calliope biting down hard on the flesh at the crook of his neck, sends Hob over the edge with a strangled sob.

A turbulent wave of pleasure, inspiration, passion, and emotion floods his senses, and the rhythm of his hips becomes erratic. Calliope continues to keep her pace, working her body up and down his shaft until she has squeezed every drop of cum out of him, and he goes limp beneath her, every muscle in his body relaxing at once.

“Christ, Calliope,” he whispers, voice hoarse as he feebly reaches up with a weak arm to pull her into a kiss.

“Wrong religion, my dear.”

He chuckles breathlessly. “‘By Zeus’, then?”

“Hm, no. Let us not talk about my father while we are in bed,” she replies with a cheeky smile. She moves to get off him, and Hob brings a hand between them to hold the condom in place.

“Fair enough,” Hob says as she collapses at his side. “There’s really only one deity whose name I feel like invoking in bed, and she’s already lying in it.”

She giggles and rests her forehead against his shoulder. “You are terrible, Hob Gadling.”

“Terribly lucky,” he murmurs and kisses the top of her head. She hums happily in response. “Are you doing all right? This wasn’t too much?”

Angling her head to look up at him and raising her hand to his cheek, she says, “This was wonderful. Thank you for asking.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles back at her, then a thought occurs to him. “The condom, is that— I mean, can we even…” He searches for the right words, but Calliope seems to understand the question well enough.

“I will not give you some divine sexually transmitted disease without it, no. Nor could you give me a human one. But if you are asking whether there is a risk of pregnancy in a relationship between a human and a goddess, then yes, very much so.”

“Oh, all right. Good to know. Guess there are plenty of myths that could have told me that.”

“It is good you asked, nevertheless.” She rests her head against his shoulder once more and lays her hand on his chest.

They lie like that for a little while, just basking in each other’s company, until Hob has to excuse himself to go deal with his little situation in the bathroom. He has a quick shower to wash off the sweat from both the dance class and the more intimate workout that came after, before returning to the bedroom.

“Will you stay the night?” he asks as he slips back into bed beside Calliope.

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. He thinks for a second. “Is it weird that I really want to write on my paper right now?”

She chuckles and runs her hand over his chest. “It is quite natural.”

“Mmm, I won’t, though. Not when there’s a goddess in my bed. Tomorrow. We should probably talk then too. About us, and about Dream, I think.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Waking up to the sight of Calliope sleeping beside him makes Hob question whether he’s truly awake or still dreaming. Her hair is a halo around her head, spilling over her pillow like a flood of melted dark chocolate, messy and beautiful. A glance at the clock tells Hob that it’s way past nine, and so he gives in to the temptation to brush a curl of her hair behind the ear, gently caressing her cheek.

Eyelids fluttering open, it takes a second for her to focus her eyes on him, but when she does, she smiles blissfully.

“Good morning, Hob.”

“Good morning, sweetling.” He leans over and gives her a soft kiss. “Sleep well?”

“Mm, very.”

“I wasn’t sure if goddesses slept.”

She stretches languidly. “I do not have to, but I like to, every now and then. Just as with food.”

“Good to know. Would you like some breakfast, then?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

After another kiss, Hob rolls out of bed. As he does so, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, noticing a very distinct hickey at the crook of his neck, surrounded by a few smaller friends. Good thing it’s summer break and he doesn’t have to hold any lectures. Wearing a turtleneck in this heat would be absolute murder. He smiles at the reminder of last night’s activities and heads over to the wardrobe, picking up the hastily discarded clothes of last night on his way there and putting them in the laundry hamper. Looking at Calliope’s dress on the floor, he hesitates.

“Do you need to wash your clothes, or do they just — poof — disappear when you change into something else?”

She responds by getting out of bed, gloriously naked one second, then suddenly clothed in a floor-length dressing gown of white silk, her hair a well-combed waterfall down her back rather than the mess she woke up with. Her previous dress is gone.

“That answers that, I suppose.” Hob grins and turns to select his own clothes for the day. “You know,” he adds as he digs around for his favourite linen slacks, “That magic thing seems awfully useful. Maybe I should become a wizard or something. Is that a thing?”

“It is,” Calliope laughs, “But I am not sure you would find the price of sorcery worth paying just to avoid laundry.”

“Nah, you’re probably right,” Hob says as he pulls on a mint-green button-down shirt. “Better not mess with that sort of thing, I’ve already been drowned as a witch once, and that was enough.”

Calliope looks at him aghast, but he only winks and heads out in the direction of the kitchen.

Hob wants to spoil Calliope, so he points her in the direction of his extensive tea collection and makes them both omelettes while she curiously sniffs her way through each and every available option. He laughs as she opens the tin with lapsang souchong and makes a face, asking him if that is the bad choice he had joked about sneaking in for her to test her nose. When the omelettes are ready and the tea chosen (not the lapsang, surprise surprise), they sit down at the small table by the kitchen window and dig in.

“You said yesterday that we should talk. About this, about us,” Calliope says between bites.

“Mm, yes,” Hob replies, washing down his omelette with some tea. “I think… Well, I’m not saying we have to put a label on it, necessarily, but I guess I would like to know what you want this to be?” He fiddles with his fork, suddenly a little nervous. “I think I pretty much laid my cards on the table yesterday, you know, admitting to being in love with you and all, but yeah… I’ll take whatever you want to give me, no pressure, but you should know that… that I’m yours for the taking. All of me.”

Calliope’s eyes are molten gold in the morning sunlight as she looks at Hob with enough affection to make his heart stop in his chest. She reaches out to still his fidgeting hand.

“I share those feelings, agapēté. I would gladly take all that you would give me, as I would give you all that I am, and more.”

Hob ducks his head, a wide smile spreading over his face. “Well then.” He drops his fork and takes her hand properly.

“Well then.” She returns the smile.

“Then there’s the matter of Dream. I’m not sure exactly what you feel for him, but… Would you be open to… including him? In this? Us? In the extremely hypothetical case that he would be interested?”

She nods thoughtfully. “I do not know if he would take me back. But I would, if he asked. I… I have missed him, dearly, and I believe trying again could result in something beautiful. Not if it meant letting go of you, of course.”

“And I’m not sure he’s even interested in me, or if the way he’s acting is just him being, well, as intense as he always is. But if he asked, I’d say yes. Unless it meant letting go of you.” She squeezes his hand. “So the way I see it there are a few alternatives. One would be that he’s not interested in either of us, and this discussion is a moot point. Then we’ll just have to live with the pining, I guess, and take solace in one another.”

Hob lays a hand melodramatically over his heart, and the corner of Calliope’s mouth twitches in amusement.

“Or, he’s interested in only one of us but won’t share, in which case it’s his loss. Or, he is all right with sharing, and one of us gets an extra boyfriend. I don’t know about you, but if you two want to give it another shot and I get to tag along holding your hand? That’s more than fine by me. So, you know, if you get the chance, shoot your shot, as the kids say.”

“Likewise. It would gladden my heart to see you two find comfort in each other.”

Hob runs his thumb over Calliope’s knuckles, a loving caress. “Thank you. But, if we’re lucky, there’s the final option, which I must say is the most attractive. He wants us both, and we both get to have him. Together.”

“If we are lucky,” she smiles. “I agree, that is what I would wish for.”

“That settles it, then. We have a clear task ahead of us.”

“Which is?”

“Seducing Dream of the Endless, King of the Dreaming and the Nightmare Realms. Easy peasy.”

She laughs. “Well, when you put it like that… With our combined charms, how could we fail?”

“Exactly. If we’re sticking to our schedule, I’ll be meeting him tomorrow. I could suggest that we do something together, the three of us. Give us a chance to work our magic on him together.”

The plan thus established, they enjoy the rest of their breakfast happily chatting about anything and everything. Hob invites Calliope to stay as long as she wants, his only plans for the day being to write on his paper. She accepts, and Hob sets up an improvised workstation in the living room, opting to write on his laptop rather than the desktop in the office, allowing him to work from the sofa with Calliope curled up beside him reading a book. His back won’t thank him for it, but it’s worth it to be within arm’s reach of Calliope at all times.

If he thought writing on the paper after getting Calliope’s kiss of inspiration was a breeze, then the previous night’s lovemaking and the proper snog he gives him right before he starts writing makes it feel like he’s just a conduit for the words flowing through him. They still feel like his own words, but he hardly has to think about them at all before writing them down, and he only really has to pause writing when looking up citations and things of that nature.

They spend a large portion of the day like that, taking breaks for discussing the paper or Calliope’s book, kissing, having lunch, kissing, talking about interesting things they’ve experienced in their long lives, and more kissing. It makes Hob realise how much he has missed living with someone, and while he’ll wait a little longer before asking Calliope to move in, that’s definitely on his to-do list for the future. When they have sorted out the whole Dream situation, perhaps.

“What will you do after I’m done with this paper?” he asks at one point, realising that at this rate, the paper will be finished well before the end of summer break, which he had initially set as a deadline for himself. “Move on to another protégé and just see me as part of your personal life rather than in a professional capacity as well?”

She glances up from her book. “Are you not planning on writing more papers? That is expected from lecturers, no?”

“Sure I am, but I wouldn’t want to selfishly hog your time and deny other potentially worthy authors out there your gift if you want to go out and do your thing. Or do you sometimes keep more than one protégé at a time?”

“Hm, every now and then I receive prayers from several authors whom I find deserving, and though I prefer to focus on one at a time, I do sometimes keep a second, in special cases. I am planning on spending a significant amount of time with you either way, so I am sure we would have time for some inspirational work even if I did find another protégé to assist on the side.”

“A significant amount of time, eh?” He grins. “I like the sound of that.”

Calliope’s expression grows unexpectedly serious, and she says, “Yes. Dream and I… When we fell in love, we decided not to live together, to see each other only now and then. In theory, this would keep our meetings more special, when we finally did meet. In hindsight, it only made it easier to grow apart.”

Hob blinks, opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He closes his laptop and turns to face Calliope more full-on on the sofa.

“I mean no offence — truly, I don’t — but that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

That startles a laugh out of her. “Is that so?”

“Yeah! I don’t how it works with you gods and Endless beings and all, but when humans fall in love, it usually means we want to see the other person as much as possible because we enjoy spending time with them. The idea that spending ‘too much time’ with the one you love will make it less special is the most defeatist thing I’ve ever heard, it’s like you’re assuming things will fail from the start. Sounds like a perfect recipe for drifting apart if every time you feel like going to see the other party you’re thinking ‘I’d better not, or I’ll only hasten the demise of the relationship’.”

Calliope sighs. “Yes, I believe you are right. I only wish I had realised sooner…”

“To make things abundantly clear and make sure we’re on the same page, you’re welcome here whenever you want. I’d even give you a key, but with your powers you don’t exactly need it to get into my flat. I would love to see you as much as humanly, or divinely, possible, whenever you have time over for me. Hell, you can move in, if you’d like. I’m not sure where your home is in the divine planes or wherever it is you live when you’re not on Earth, but you’ll always have another one here, whenever you want it.”

All right, so he managed to wait for about one hour between having the thought and suggesting that Calliope move in. He’d been thinking he’d last a couple of weeks or so, but that’s just how it goes sometimes. He’s never been known for his self-restraint, anyway.

Luckily, Calliope doesn’t seem off-put by him moving things along “too fast”, because she just smiles and says, “Duly noted.”

That may not be a “Great, I’ll move my stuff in tomorrow”, but at least it isn’t a “hell no”. Does she even have stuff? Do gods need material possessions?

Hob lays a hand on her ankle and turns back to his laptop, but then he has another thought.

“When you and Dream were married, what did he think of you and your protégés?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, just— Was he all right with you kissing other people every now and then? For inspiration?”

She just looks at him with an utterly blank face that gradually softens into an expression of amusement mixed with affection.

“Oh, my dear, innocent, naive Hob.” She shuffles closer to him on the sofa and cradles his cheeks in her hands. “I do not actually have to kiss people to grant them inspiration, my sweet. I do not even have to touch them.”

Hob stares at her. “But— You—” Then it dawns on him. “Oh my god, I’m an idiot.” He ducks his head, resting it on Calliope’s shoulder and hiding his face in the crook of her neck in shame. “Call the university and tell them to scrub off the letters in front of my name from the sign on my door, I don’t deserve a PhD.”

“Ô phoînídion, and here I thought that you were perhaps just a little shy.” She wraps her arms around his shoulders, and Hob can feel her chest shake with poorly suppressed laughter.

“I don’t think I’ve been called shy in all my life,” he protests, his voice muffled against her hair. “I just didn’t want to assume. I don’t know how all this magic shit works.”

“You are right, I did not explain it. It is my fault for being too subtle.”

“No, I’m still an idiot. You were not subtle.” He’s laughing himself now, and he lifts his head from her shoulder to look at her. “Thank god you had the sense to just jump me. I was just getting started on my plan to woo you. Who knows how long it would have taken us to get to this point had I been allowed to faff around trying to woo someone who was already kissing me on the regular.”

“Mm, you are still allowed to woo me, Hob Gadling.” She kisses him on the cheek, then leans in further to whisper in his ear. “After all, it is customary for artists to worship the muses, vowing service and devotion in gratitude for the gift of divine inspiration.”

Hob removes the laptop from his lap, stowing it away safely on the coffee table. “Oh?” he says. “Then perhaps tonight I can take you out to dinner. But for the worshipping part… Well, best keep that private. I could get on my knees, for example,” He slides off the sofa, settling on his knees on the floor in front of Calliope, “And then raise my hands to the skies…”

His hands slip under the hem of the dress she had changed into after breakfast, trailing up her calves, caressing the bend of her knees, then pushing their way up her warm, smooth thighs.

“After that, I would beg my favourite muse to grant me the chance to show her just how eloquent my tongue can get, with her favour and permission.” He strokes his fingers along the insides of Calliope’s thighs, gently nudging them apart, his hands asking a question rather than giving a suggestion.

She lets her legs spread open in answer, looking down at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Well then, my devotee. You have my favour, my permission, and my heart.”

Hob pushes the dress up around Calliope’s thighs. “Happy is he whom the muses love,” he murmurs, pulling her closer to the edge of the sofa by her hips.

“Sweet flows speech from his lips,” Calliope whispers, finishing the quote.

Hob bends his head in prayer.

Hob isn’t sure what it is that wakes him up on Wednesday morning. Perhaps there was a noise outside? A quick glance at his alarm clock tells him that it isn’t even seven o’clock yet, and there’s no way he’s voluntarily getting up before eight when he’s off work. He lays his head back on the pillow, intending to go back to sleep, but then he feels movement in his bed, which is weird, seeing as Calliope had to meet one of her sisters and thus didn’t spend the night.

He opens a bleary eye, squinting against the light of the too-bright room as he investigates. The culprit turns out to be a big, black cat walking towards him across the sheets.

“Dream?” he mumbles. “You’re here at an ungodly hour.”

The cat sits down at arm’s length and meows. Hob has no idea what it’s supposed to mean, and he’s too tired and dazed to ask.

“You can stay, love, but I’m going back to sleep for at least another hour.”

Dream simply nods, then gets on his paws again and pads over closer to Hob, laying down beside him and curling up against his chest. Hob lays an arm over Dream’s feline form, smiling even as he slips back into unconsciousness.

When Hob starts coming to again, he can tell some time has passed from the way the light has changed in the room, but that’s not the only thing that’s different. The black shape in his arms is much bigger than before, far less furry, and decidedly humanoid. This doesn’t bother Hob in the slightest, half-asleep as he still is, so he only closes his eyes again and pulls the man closer, murmuring, “Good morning, Dream.”

“Good morning, Hob.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

Hob stifles a yawn. “I guess that’s late enough to get up even for me.”

“You need not rise on my account. I am perfectly content here.”

That makes Hob peek out from under a heavy eyelid. Dream, whose face is really rather close to his own, does look quite comfortable, and more relaxed than Hob has ever seen him in human form. He looks younger like this, somehow. Not a day over a billion years old.

“Did you sleep? Do you even sleep?”

“I do not.”

“Can you sleep?”

Dream frowns adorably. “Of course.”

“Then why don’t you?” Hob absentmindedly rubs circles into Dream’s back, still not fully committed to waking up entirely. Dream has, thankfully, opted out of the coat, wearing the same long-sleeved T-shirt as last time.

“As with food, I do not need to. Thus, I tend not to.”

“So? It’s nice. I do things I don’t need to all the time just because they’re nice. You didn’t need to stay here in bed with me, you could have come back when I was awake, but you stayed. Why?”

It’s mostly a rhetorical question, but Hob would actually like to know exactly what motivated Dream to get into bed and cuddle with him. Because this is cuddling. Dream laying in his lap as a cat? Plausible deniability, being in feline form. Dream lying in his arms in bed like this? Cuddling.

As he has learned from Calliope, Hob is apparently less able to take a hint than he thought, at least when it comes to supernatural god-like people, so now he’s more inclined to allow himself to read into Dream’s behaviour. Nevertheless, it would be nice to have it confirmed.

“Because this is nice. I concede the point.” Dream gives him a soft smile with plump lips that Hob aches to kiss.

“Good. You deserve nice things,” Hob mumbles, his hand coming to rest at Dream’s narrow waist. He closes his eyes, still struggling a little with the concept of being awake.

He almost opens them again when he feels the touch of cool — but not unpleasantly so — fingers ghosting across his face, but he keeps them closed, revelling in the sensation of Dream’s fingertips wandering over the cleft in his chin, up the curve of his cheek, across his forehead, smoothing out the shallow wrinkles that froze there centuries ago, never to deepen.

“You are nice. I do not know that I deserve you.” Dream pushes a strand of hair behind Hob’s ear, then his hand settles, cupping Hob’s cheek.

Hob opens his eyes then. “You do,” he says, ardent and sincere.

Dream’s eyes are darker than usual, the usually light blue iris approaching midnight. They are fixed on Hob’s lips. Perhaps Hob should play it cool, follow the vague plan he and Calliope made yesterday, to invite Dream to hang out with the two of them and slowly seduce him somehow. But then, they did also say to take the chance if an opportunity revealed itself, and Dream’s lips are so very kissable and oh so close right now…

Dream solves Hob’s dilemma by closing the distance between them himself, suddenly surging in to kiss Hob with a fervour that almost takes Hob by surprise. He quickly gets his wits about him, however, and then he responds in kind, using the hand on Dream’s waist to pull him in closer and deepen the kiss.

He had been right about how soft Dream’s lips would feel against his own, but he hadn’t expected the urgent zealousness with which Dream kisses him, like Hob might disappear if he stops for even just a second. It’s just as easy to drown in this kiss as in Dream’s eyes, and Hob allows himself to lose himself in Dream’s embrace for a time before his conscience rears its head and reminds him that they should probably — no, definitely — talk before continuing like this.

Hob raises his hand and wraps his fingers around Dream’s wrist, gently pulling his hand away from the side of his face and tearing himself away from Dream’s addictive mouth.

“Wait, Dream,” he says, panting softly as he comes up for air.

“Is something wrong?” Dream’s brow furrows as he sees Hob’s serious expression.

“No, not wrong, exactly.” Hob searches for the right words while catching his breath, but Dream cuts in quicker than he can find them.

“Do you not want this? Are you rejecting me?”

“What? No! Bloody hell, Dream, I want this — want you — more than I can say.” Hob raises himself up a bit in the bed, leaning on his elbow. This feels like a sitting conversation. He opens his mouth to speak again, but, again, Dream is faster.

“What is that?” He’s staring at the side of Hob’s neck that was previously obscured by the pillow. Reaching out to touch the spot where Hob’s shoulder meets the neck, he says, “Calliope made this.” A statement, not a question.

Oh, the hickey.

“Yes—”

“You said you were not romantically involved.”

“We weren’t until two days ago, but Dream, listen—”

“Now you are a couple.”

“Yes, but—”

“You would betray her with me?” Dream looks furious, and Hob is seriously considering gagging him so he can get a word in edgewise.

“No! We—”

“I am disappointed in you, Hob. She deserves better.” And just like that he disappears.

“—both want you… you absolute moron! For god’s sake!”

Hob flings himself back against the pillows and stares at the ceiling, having flashbacks to their meeting in 1889. How the fuck did he cock that up so quickly? Christ. Well done, Hob. Marvellous work, as always.

He replays the conversation in his head and tries to figure out what he could have done differently. Except for not raising his head and showing the hickey, there wasn’t much he could have done with Dream refusing to let him speak and jumping to conclusions like that. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Dream kiss him at all.

Then there’s the fact that Dream thinks that would be something Hob would actually do? That almost bothers him the most. Hurts, actually. To be fair, he’s done much worse things in the past, but doesn’t Dream know how hard Hob is working to do better? To be better than he was?

Right. He’s wide awake now, and there’s no sense lying here brooding. Unlike in 1889, he knows who and what Dream is, and though he himself isn’t sure how to find Dream and make him listen, Calliope surely knows how to contact him. He gets out of bed and gets dressed, only then realising that he’s not sure of how to contact Calliope either. The first time she showed up in his office, however, it was because he had accidentally prayed to her, so that seems like his best bet.

He clasps his hands and closes his eyes. “Calliope? It’s Hob. Can you hear me? I need to speak to you. Uh, amen.”

He opens his eyes. Nothing, like he suspected. Okay, maybe a less Christian approach is needed. He thinks for a while, and then he heads out to the kitchen. He fills the kettle, and while he waits for it to boil, he does some research on his phone. He can’t say he’s finding much that looks legit, but it’s worth a try.

Hob prepares a cup of Calliope’s favourite tea — apple and cinnamon with a generous dollop of honey — which he places on the kitchen table. Then he sits down on a chair and raises his hands to the heavens. He feels a little silly, but here goes.

“O divine Calliope, goddess, daughter of Zeus… Hear this prayer and accept this offering from your devoted acolyte and lover, Hob Gadling. I call you to hear and attend me, that we may speak. Great lady of poetry and song, hearken to me, o Muse.”

Finishing his prayer, he bangs his forehead against the table three times, remembering Calliope’s comment about it being an age-old tradition for artists summoning the muses. He’s not sure how serious she had been, but he’ll try anything if there’s a chance it works.

For a second, there is nothing, but then the curtains flutter with a warm breeze, and Calliope appears in the chair opposite him. She’s dressed in her chiton, so she must have come directly from some higher plane.

“You made me tea as an offering?” she asks, amused.

Hob rubs his forehead. “Yeah, I had to improvise. I was fresh out of baby goats to sacrifice. Sorry.”

“I think I prefer tea. Of what do you wish to speak?”

“We… have a bit of a situation on our hands, I’m afraid.”

Calliope listens to Hob’s retelling of the events of the morning with increasing consternation while she drinks her tea.

“Oh, Oneiros,” she says when Hob finishes his story. “You hot-headed fool…”

“Yeah,” Hob rubs his eyes wearily. “Nice of him to defend you, I suppose.”

Calliope hums. “I think it best we act quickly, before he has too much time to construct his own explanations for what has happened.”

“I agree. Do you have a way to contact him?”

“Yes. Can you bring me a pen and paper?”

Chapter Text

“I call to you, Oneiros, that you may hear me and come to me when I say your name out loud.”

Calliope holds the piece of paper on which she has written Morpheus over the candle on the coffee table. The paper catches fire, and she lowers it to the plate Hob got out for safety reasons.

“Morpheus. Please, attend me.”

The last of the paper is devoured by the flame, shrivelling up and leaving only white ash on the plate. Hob waits with bated breath for Dream to appear, but nothing happens.

“Did it work?”

“Yes. He will have heard it.” Calliope bends down to blow out the candle. “Now we wait until he is ready to speak to us.”

“And how long do you think that might take?”

“Minutes. Days. Years. I do not know how deep his hurt runs.”

Hob combs his hands through his hair, leaning back against the sofa and staring at the ceiling. He is equal parts annoyed at Dream for not letting him speak and afraid that he might have scared Dream off for good. None of the scenarios he and Calliope had considered in regards to their possible relationships with Dream had included losing his friendship. It was — is — unthinkable. He won’t have it.

He has to make this right somehow. Hopefully it will be as easy as explaining the misunderstanding, but he can’t stop his mind from running away from him with fears that Dream won’t accept Hob choosing to stay with Calliope, if he’s not prepared to share. That it will ruin their friendship beyond repair. He tries to quiet his brain, but it proves difficult. He needs something to do while they wait.

“I’m making breakfast. I can’t wait on an empty stomach.” He gets up from the sofa. “Do you want anything?”

Calliope just shakes her head, her lips pressed together in a thin, anxious line. Hob hates seeing her like this. Dream better get his skinny arse down here quick so they can get this over with.

Hob has time to both make, eat, and digest his breakfast before Dream shows up. When he does, Hob is back in the kitchen, washing his plate and taking the opportunity to quietly freak out while Calliope can’t see his face. That’s when he hears voices in the living room.

“You came,” Calliope says.

“You called,” Dream’s unmistakable voice replies.

“We must speak.”

“Yes, we do. I have regrettable news regarding your paramour. Where is he?”

“The kitchen. But you are wrong, Oneiros. He has done nothing wrong.”

“He is not the man I took him for.”

Hob enters the living room then, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. Dream is standing close to Calliope, and when he hears Hob coming, his head whips around to look at him. His eyes are brimming with tears and emotion. There’s a blend of hurt and fury in his expression that makes Hob’s heart sink.

“You’re right. I am not,” he says, throwing the towel onto his shoulder for safekeeping. His voice is surprisingly measured and calm, not betraying his inner turmoil. He is still frustrated with Dream, but that emotion is rapidly giving way to sympathy and anxiety. “You took me for a man who would betray the woman he loves, a man who is unfaithful, dishonest, and duplicitous. I say I am none of those things.”

Has he told Calliope he loves her before? Does it count to say that you’re in love with someone? No matter. It’s out there now.

“You—”

“—will not let you interrupt my explanation again. You will stay here and hear me out — hear Calliope out — without disappearing on me again. Do you understand?”

His words are perhaps coming out a bit harsher than he means to, but he is not going to let Dream run away from this, and, if he does, Hob will bloody well figure out a way to lay siege to the Dreaming itself if he has to.

Dream looks briefly riled by Hob giving him a command like that, but Calliope lays a hand on his arm and says, “Listen to him, Oneiros. There is no need for conflict, no cause for anger,” which seems to calm Dream somewhat.

“Speak, then.” Dream’s voice is curt, but he does look at Hob attentively, which is progress.

Hob sits down on the armrest of the sofa, taking a deep breath before speaking. “This morning, I did nothing that was not part of the agreement Calliope and I have made. I should, perhaps, have stopped you from kissing me to begin with, so that I could have explained all this beforehand, to let you make an informed choice. But you took me by surprise, and when I broke the kiss to speak, you wouldn’t let me.

“What I was going to say to you, before you jumped to conclusions and left, was that Calliope and I are a couple, that’s true, but that the feelings I have for her, I also have for you. I was going to say that she knows this, and accepts it. And…” He gives Calliope a look, giving her the choice to reveal her own feelings.

“And,” she says, “The same is true for me.” Dream’s gaze snaps to Calliope. “All that I feel for Hob, I feel for you also.”

“You see, Dream,” Hob continues, “We’re both yours for the taking, if you would have us. Either one of us, or both at once.” All of the annoyance Hob might have felt for his friend is gone by now, and he is left only with sincere emotion. “We would love to both be with you, of course, but, if you want only one of us, that’s all right. As long as Calliope and I get to be together too. And, if you decide you don’t want to be a part of that, that’s also fine. As long as we don’t lose you. You’re important to us, and we want you in our lives, in whichever way you will have us.”

There it all is, both of their hearts laid bare before Dream, his to take or spurn. Dream looks as overwhelmed as Hob is, still stunned into silence now that Hob has finished talking. He takes a moment to contemplate before turning to Calliope, who looks calm but sombre.

“Is this true? After all these years, you would take me back?” His voice is quiet and vulnerable.

“Yes, agapēté.” Calliope tentatively takes Dream’s hand in hers. He makes no attempt to draw back. “Seeing you, getting to know you all over again and learning how the years have changed you — changed me… It has reawakened feelings I once thought dead and buried, but which I now know lay merely dormant while I avoided thinking about what passed between us.”

“I see.” He looks down at their intertwined hands, brow furrowed. “I— May I have some time to consider your proposition?”

“Yes, of course, love,” Hob says, voice soft. “Take all the time you need. We’re all immortal here, time isn’t an issue.”

“We will hear your answer whenever you are ready, Oneiros.”

“Thank you. I… I will let you know when I have reached a decision.” He looks up at Hob. “I must apologise for my earlier behaviour. I was so troubled by the thought of you betraying Calliope’s trust that I did not pause to let you explain yourself. My perceived misjudgement of your character… It hurt, when in reality I shamed myself greatly by misjudging you even more severely. I should have known better — known to trust you. For that, I am sorry.”

The genuine remorse in Dream’s voice and eyes washes away any residual indignation Hob felt at the idea that Dream would even think that he would do something like that to begin with.

“It’s forgiven,” Hob says, and he means it.

“Then I shall take my leave of you both for the time being. I know not when I will return, but return I shall.”

“That is all we ask, Oneiros.” Calliope squeezes his hand, then lets go of it and takes a step back.

Dream’s expression of vulnerable uncertainty feels foreign to Hob, so unlike the Dream of the past centuries. He gives them each a nod and disappears, leaving Hob and Calliope alone in the flat. They stay silent for a while, processing.

“That could have gone a lot worse,” Hob says finally.

“Yes… Whatever he decides, we have at least cleared up the misunderstanding. I am glad he answered our call instead of clinging onto his hurt.”

“What do you reckon he’ll choose?”

Calliope walks up to Hob and rests her arms around his shoulders, looking down at him where he’s sitting.

“I truly do not know. I have never seen him quite like this.”

“Yeah, me neither…” Hob wraps his arms around Calliope’s waist and leans his head against her chest, a bit emotionally drained. “I’m really happy that I’ve got you, you know that?”

“I did start to suspect it,” She cards her fingers through his hair as she speaks, “when you said you love me.” Hob can hear the smile in her voice.

“Well, I do. Love you. I’m sorry if it’s a bit too soon to say it, but it’s the truth.” He hugs her closer, listening to the cadence of her heart beating. Perhaps it’s his imagination, but he thinks he hears it quicken at his confession.

“Then I am sure you will not mind me telling you that I love you too. Even if it is ‘too soon’, by some — no doubt human — metric I am unaware of.”

Hob lifts his head and beams up at her. “No, I don’t mind.”

“Good. It is the truth.”

Hob seriously considers changing his career as he looks into Calliope’s eyes, because what he sees in them makes him feel like actually having a go at this epic poetry thing, just so he could describe the impossible chivalric deeds he would do for her if she asked him to. Slaying dragons, moving mountains, cancelling his Sky broadband package… You name it, he’ll do it. Perhaps in his next life he’ll try his hand at authorship.

“I think that officially makes me the luckiest bastard on Earth,” he says, fondly. “Now, do you need to go back to whatever you were doing before I summoned you here, or do you want to go get lunch somewhere?”

Calliope pets his cheek apologetically. “I should get back my sisters. We have still not been able to contact Ouraniê and Kleiô, but Euterpê thinks she knows how to find Polymnia. I hope she is right, it would be good to be back together again, all nine of us.”

“Can’t you speak to each other through prayer or something? If I could reach you with just an offering of tea, could I pray to the sisters you’re still missing? Tell them you’re looking for them?”

“I am afraid it is not quite so simple. You and I have a preexisting bond, and not all of my sisters have been as active on the mortal plane as I have this past millennium. Some have grown unaccustomed to listening to prayers, sometimes because there are none to be heard. It saddens me to see them so diminished.”

“I see.” Hob gently runs his hands up and down Calliope’s back, trying to offer what comfort he can through touch. “Then I’d best let you get back to your sisters. I hope you find them all soon.”

“Thank you, my sweet. I will come by tonight, if I can.”

“Sounds great.”

Calliope kisses Hob goodbye and leaves Hob alone with his thoughts.

He lets himself slide backwards onto the cushions of the sofa, his legs still hooked around the armrest. He actually feels strangely calm, now that everything is out in the open and Dream is no longer angry with him. He wonders, of course, what Dream will choose, but he has a gut feeling that everything will turn out all right in the end, whatever the choice. They will find a way to make it work, he knows it.

His fears thus more or less assuaged, Hob reflects on the events of the morning before the point it all went to shit. Until now, said shit had kind of overshadowed the fact that Dream had kissed him. That he had let Hob take a nap while actively cuddling him, first as a cat and then as a man, before kissing and kissing and kissing him. For half a minute or so, it had been heaven, and every part of Hob hopes fervently that he will have a chance to do it again, properly this time.

It’s a bit funny to think that it took them six hundred and thirty-three years to get to that point, while Hob and Calliope got to I love you in a matter of months. Though, to be fair, he and Dream only met a handful of times during those years.

Counting on his fingers, he reaches the conclusion that he only really met Dream about eleven or twelve times before they kissed, and Calliope maybe seven before getting together — not counting the waving through the window part before he rescued her. And so many of his meetings with Dream had been cut short by various circumstances…

All in all, the amount of time he’s spent with Dream is actually more or less comparable to that which he has spent with Calliope. And if he’s lucky — which he has been so far, give or take a few hiccups — he’ll get the chance to spend much more time with them both in the future. He hopes so, at least.

Yes, despite everything, he feels hopeful. He smiles and considers yet another nickname to add to the list. Robert “Hope” Gadling.

Hob and Calliope try to go about their lives as they normally would while they wait for Dream’s decision. They go to their dance class, and Hob devotes most of his time to his paper while Calliope is off with her sisters doing god knows what to change the ancient laws. Try as he might, the inner workings of the divine are all rather beyond Hob’s understanding, but his paper is coming along rather nicely and might soon be ready for editing. Though he suspects there will be less corrections to be made than usual, courtesy of Calliope.

The Wednesday after their talk, Hob is on tenterhooks all day, waiting to see if Dream shows up. Meeting on Wednesdays is sort of part of their new agreement, and it’s not like Dream to bail on a meeting voluntarily, but then there is the even newer agreement that he would show up when he was ready to give them an answer, so there’s a distinct possibility that he might not do so today.

Even knowing this, Hob feels a pang of disappointment when the day turns into evening turns into night with no Dream, but he does understand. It’s a significant proposition they’ve made. Still, Dream is very much on his mind when he goes to bed that night.

When Hob opens his eyes, a few minutes later, he’s not sure where he is or how he got there. He’s outdoors under a sky filled with heavy clouds, threatening rain. He stands on a bridge that is held up over a body of water by a pair of enormous stone hands. At one end of the bridge is a small town, seemingly pieced together by buildings from vastly different eras and geographic locations. At the other end lies a vast castle, likewise diverse and inconsistent in its architecture while somehow still giving a coherent impression.

Hob turns to the castle and starts walking, drawn to it in a way he can’t describe. As he nears the huge gate, three figures resting atop its arch stir and look down at him.

“Who goes there?” says a… Dragon? No. Wyvern.

“Friend or foe?” continues a gryphon.

“What is your purpose here?” finishes something that looks like a pegasus, but which Hob instinctively knows to be a hippogriff, despite it not looking much like one.

“Oh, uh…” Hob rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “The answers to your question are, in order: Hob Gadling, probably a friend, and no idea. You wouldn’t mind telling me where I am, would you?”

The three creatures exchange a look which Hob can’t quite decipher.

“You stand before the gate of the Palace of the Dreaming,” the wyvern says.

“Home to lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares.” The gryphon puffs out its feathered breast in pride.

“Do you request entry?” the hippogriff asks.

“I’m dreaming?” Hob exclaims, and as soon as he does he feels something shift in his mind, and he suddenly feels a lot more lucid, more awake, somehow. Yes, this is a dream, but not just a dream. This is the Dreaming, Dream’s home. “I— Yes, I suppose I do request entry. I’m here anyway, so might as well.”

He tries to restrain himself, but if Dream is in there, then of course he’d love to come in and see him. If Dream feels like it, that is. He doesn’t want to make it look like he’s pressuring him to make a decision.

The figures are quiet for a moment, then the gate slowly opens.

“Your request is granted.”

“You may enter.”

“Welcome, Hob Gadling. Do not stray from the path.”

Hob half expects Dream to meet him when he steps inside, if he’s the one who approved his entry, but there’s no one there, and as the gate closes behind him he’s left alone in an echoing entrance hall carved out of marble. Corridors stretch out from the hall on both sides of him, but Hob picks the one straight ahead of him, hoping it might lead him to the heart of the palace, and to Dream.

The corridor seems to stretch out into infinity, and every now and then it branches off to the sides, but Hob keeps going forward only, mindful of the ominous warning not to stray from the path. Some of the hallways leading away from the main corridor emanate strange vibes that give him the willies, while others tempt him with the sound of distant music and the delicious smell of baked goods and flowers. Still he goes on, forward, forward.

Hob has lost track of how long he’s been walking when he finally runs into a living creature in the otherwise deserted corridor. Just off the main path, there’s a scarecrow painting the walls of one of the hallways. Hob can’t help stopping to take a better look. It’s got a pumpkin for a head, a cigar in its mouth, and the paint roller in its twig hands covers the wall in an elaborate pattern instead of just plain paint.

“What’re ya looking at, buddy?” it gruffs around the cigar.

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to stare, it’s just— Fascinating paint you’ve got there.” Hob peers into the bucket of paint on the floor. It looks like it’s patterned even in the bucket.

“If ya think that’s fascinating you should try watching it dry.” The scarecrow says, wryly, then looks surprised when Hob laughs at the joke, in as much as a carved pumpkin can express surprise. “What’s a human doing loitering in the palace anyway?”

“I’m not loitering. I was let in, I’m just not sure where I’m going.”

“What’s your name, sonny?”

“Hob Gadling.”

The scarecrow puts down the paint roller. “Well, fuck me. Really?”

“Yes, why?”

“You’re a bit of a celebrity ‘round these parts, ya know. I’d better take you to Loosh, she’ll know what to do with you. Follow me.”

The scarecrow sets off down the side hallway, and Hob briefly considers whether following would constitute straying from the path, but he’s not getting any particularly weird vibes from either the hallway or the scarecrow, so he does as he’s told and tags along.

“A celebrity?” he asks as he catches up with the scarecrow. “Does Dream talk about me, then?”

It laughs, a raspy and not altogether kind laugh. “Talk about you? Nah, the opposite. You’re his lordship’s dirty little secret. So, naturally, everyone knows all about you.”

“Naturally,” Hob mutters, not sure how to feel about being called a dirty secret.

“No offence, but you look so… boring. Like you’re just some guy. I heard you were a knight.”

Some offence taken, actually. A little offence. Just a bit.

“That was over four hundred years ago, and I wasn’t exactly the kind of knight that went around slaying giants.”

“Got it. I’m Mervyn, by the way. Mervyn Pumpkinhead.”

“You don’t say.”

They round a corner and reach a door labelled “Library”, but that really doesn’t prepare Hob for what awaits him when they step inside. He recalls Dream describing his library as “extensive”, but that’s a grave understatement. The place is vast. Endless.

The rows of bookcases stretch on and on forever, and when they enter a sort of atrium, Hob looks up to discover that they’re standing on the first of possibly infinite floors. The open space just goes up and up and up, until the floors that enclose it disappear in the haze of the atmosphere and he can’t count any further.

He’s so taken in by the view that he doesn’t notice the quiet approach of a woman until Mervyn says, “Loosh, we have a guest. You take care of him, I’ve got work needs doing.”

As Mervyn leaves, Hob looks down to see an elfin-looking woman with very closely cropped hair and glasses. She’s holding a book and looks politely curious to see Hob.

Library. Loosh. The penny drops.

“You must be Lucienne, the librarian! Dream has told me so much about you. I’m Hob, lovely to meet you.” He sticks out a hand in greeting.

She blinks in surprise, then hesitantly shakes his hand, using only her thumb and index finger like it’s a completely foreign concept.

“Lord Morpheus has mentioned me?”

“He speaks very highly of you. Told me what happened to the Dreaming while he was gone, and how much you did to help, before and after he came back.”

Lucienne ducks her head bashfully and adjusts her glasses. “Oh, I only did my duty, sir.”

“And then some, it sounds like.” He takes a look around at the library again. “I must say, it’s hard to think all this was rubble just a month ago.”

“Yes… His lordship has worked very hard to restore the realm.” She leans in conspiratorially. “Maybe a little too hard, between us. Though I was apprehensive to see him spend more time in the waking world than absolutely necessary after his… absence, I must admit that his excursions to meet you appear to have helped him relax a little in between his duties. Until now, that is—” She puts a hand to her mouth, as if she hadn’t meant that last bit to slip out.

“Until now?” Hob asks, concerned. “You mean since last week, don’t you? Is it that bad?”

“I— I’m not sure. He has spent much time on the Shores of Creation lately, working in isolation. I don’t know what happened between you, nor would I presume to speculate on Lord Morpheus’ mood, but…”

“But what?”

“But it has been consistently cloudy in the Dreaming for a week. Though, curiously enough, it has not rained.”

Hob isn’t entirely sure what that’s supposed to mean. Does Dream’s moods affect the weather here? And if so, what does clouds but no rain mean?

“I see,” he lies. “Just so you know, nothing actually bad happened, it’s just… a bit complicated at the moment. Do you think he wants to see me?”

She looks at him appraisingly, then she gives him a small smile. “I doubt he would have let you into the palace if he objected to your presence. I believe he’s in the throne room, if you would like to speak to him.”

“I think I’d better.” Hob strokes his chin thoughtfully, then he forces himself to relax. “Besides, it would be a bit rude to show up at your friend’s house without even saying hi, wouldn’t it?” He grins, trying to lighten the mood.

Lucienne nods. “I’ll send someone with you to show you the way. The corridors of the palace can be treacherous for dreamers to wander alone.” She turns her head and calls, “Matthew!”

Hob isn’t sure if the raven that lands on Lucienne’s shoulder came from somewhere in the library or if it just popped out of thin air, but there it is.

“Will you please show our guest to the throne room?”

“Oh, hi Hob,” the bird says, as if they already know each other.

“Hi, uh, Matthew, is it?” Now, he can’t be sure, but he thinks he’d remember if he’d met a talking raven before.

“Are you kidding me? You don’t remember me?” It — he — puffs up his breast in indignation.

“Have we met?”

“Uh, yeah, you gave me an ice cream cone.” Hob’s blank look prompts the bird to continue, “That day when you and Dream walked in the park? You had fucking insane levels of UST. He basically licked ice cream off you, dude.”

Lucienne tries, not terribly successfully, to turn a laugh into a cough while Hob racks his brain for the memory in question. To be quite honest, the sexual tension of the ice cream incident more or less eclipses any other recollections he might have of the day, but now that Matthew mentions it, there had been a weird bird there, begging for his ice cream cornet. How was he supposed to know it was a magic talking raven when he didn’t say anything?

“Right. I remember. Wait, were you spying on us?”

“Yeah, of course I was. I’m Dream’s raven! His eyes and ears in the waking world! I’m supposed to go where he goes, he just keeps sneaking away from me, so I had to follow from a distance, didn’t I?”

Can’t imagine why, Hob thinks, but says, “Well, nice to meet you properly, Matthew. Can you take me to the throne room?”

“Since you ask so nicely, I guess.” Matthew flies over to Hob’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Hob waves Lucienne goodbye and under the guidance of Matthew they leave the library and head into the labyrinthine corridors of the palace.

“So what happened?” Matthew asks in between directions. “Dream was so excited to see you a week ago, and then he returns after no time at all and all hell breaks out, fucking thunder and lightning and full-out storms for an hour or so before he leaves again and the weather just suddenly stops when he comes back. There’s a bunch of gossip, but no one actually knows.”

Hob winces quietly to hear of the effects last week had on Dream. Thank fuck he answered Calliope’s call so that they could clear everything up.

“That’s private. All I’ll say is that there was a misunderstanding, Dream thought he had cause to be angry — rightfully so, had it been true — and then we fixed it.”

“Then why— Take a right here. Why isn’t the weather back to normal, then? It was all sunshine and roses for the last couple of weeks before this.”

“You’re really inquisitive for a bird, you know that?” Hob says, with a bit of a bite. He doesn’t want to say too much without the permission of Dream and Calliope.

“Geez, sorry.” Matthew shifts a little on Hob’s shoulder. “I’m just asking because I care about him, man. You probably know this already, but he’s not exactly the greatest at letting people in, so he won’t tell me this stuff himself. Just wanna know if there’s something I can do.”

Hob’s hackles lower, and the tension seeps out of his shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s good to know he has people who care about him here in the Dreaming. That man needs every friend he can get.”

“Ain’t that the truth. That’s why I like you, Hob. I hear it’s thanks to you that he’s not allergic to the word anymore.”

“Where do people get all this gossip about me and Dream?”

“I don’t know, the dreams and nightmares that visit you at night sometimes talk about your dreams if they’re interesting. Then there’s the books in the library, but Lucienne tries to chase away most people who try to read your books. Pretty sure she’s read some of them herself, though.”

“There are books about me in the library?”

“There are books about everyone and everything in there.”

“Who writes them?”

“I dunno, the library? If you wanna know how that magic shit works, you gotta ask Lucienne. I’ve only been a raven for like a month.”

“What were you before?”

“Human. We’re here.”

Hob’s reaction to the revelation is interrupted by their arrival at a grand set of double doors that presumably lead into the throne room.

“Right. Thanks for showing me the way.”

“No biggie. Try to get us some sunshine, won’t you?” The raven flies off his shoulder and lands on the head of a nearby statue.

Hob smiles. “I’ll try. No promises though. You know, I think I like you, Matthew.”

“Thanks, bro.”

“But if you ever spy on me again I’m taking you to a taxidermist.”

Hob opens the doors without waiting for a reply.

Chapter Text

Hob pushes the double doors open and enters the throne room of the Palace of the Dreaming, trying not to make his sudden nerves show. He’s not sure if talking to Dream before he has made his decision will help him, or make him feel like Hob and Calliope are getting impatient. He’ll have to tread carefully, be mindful of Dream’s boundaries.

The grandeur of the room he finds himself in does help to distract him from overthinking. It’s incredible. The roof is either not there at all, or it’s some kind of magical projection of the overcast night sky outside, because there are clouds moving above him.

The room is bigger than any cathedral Hob has ever been in, but with similar stained-glass windows, depicting scenes that Hob could stare at forever. But even the beauty of the windows can’t compete for Hob’s attention with what awaits him at the end of the room.

A curved staircase leads up to a platform, upon which sits an ornate throne, but Hob is more interested in who sits on the stairs. Dream is hunched over on the steps, barefoot and in a long black coat or robe that lies so perfectly arranged around him that Hob almost suspects Dream of deliberately having posed himself like this for dramatic effect.

Dream doesn’t look up as Hob approaches, his gaze fixed on his hands, but he says, “Hello, Hob.”

“Hello, Dream,” Hob replies, as if this is just a normal meeting.

He pauses as he reaches the stairs, but then he ascends them and sits down slightly below Dream, leaning his elbow on the step his friend is sitting on in an easy pose that belies his emotional turbulence.

“Nice place you’ve got here. Bet the heating bill is a bitch, though.”

The corner of Dream’s mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly, but his gloomy demeanour remains as he looks down at his fidgeting hands.

Hob gives him a minute to say something, but when he doesn’t, he asks, “Are you all right?”

“I am always all right.”

“No, you’re not. But you will be.”

Dream glances up at that, just for a second, but it’s enough to show Hob that there are traces of unshed tears glistening in his eyes. His heart clenches.

“You sound very certain.”

“I am.” He is. “Because people like you and me? We can make it through anything with a little patience and some smarts. This too shall pass, and all that. So why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, and we’ll see if we can’t find a way to get through it a bit faster.”

Dream sighs. “I do not know that talking will help.”

“Can’t hurt.” Hob waits for a reply again, but none seems to be forthcoming. “Dream,” he says softly, “Why am I here? In the Dreaming?”

“What do you mean? You have been to the Dreaming more than two hundred and forty-two thousand times in your six hundred and sixty-five years of life.”

“No, why am I here? In the palace? Lucid? I’ve never dreamed like this before.”

“I— I suppose I regretted not visiting you in the waking world today. It was our Wednesday.”

“So you had me visit your palace instead? Why not just bring me right to the throne room?”

“I wished to give you the choice to enter the palace of your own volition.”

Hob frowns. “Did you think I wouldn’t? This place is incredible, I’m happy you let me see it. And I’m happy you let me see you. You’re right, I did miss you today.”

“Is that why you chose to come in?”

“Yes. I thought about staying outside, though.” Dream meets his eyes, looking alarmed. Hob hurries to add, “I didn't want to make you feel like you had to see me before you were ready. Because I’m not here to ask for an answer. I’m just here to see you, and to tell you that your subjects worry about you. I worry about you.”

“Worry? Why?” Dream looks baffled by the very thought of someone showing concern for him.

“Well, I met Lucienne — she seems great, by the way — and she told me that the sky has been overcast for a week. But I don’t need to look at the sky to see that you are troubled. And that troubles me, in turn. I hate the thought of you feeling pressured into making this decision.”

Dream straightens up a bit, no longer avoiding eye contact. “That is what worries you? My emotions, not fear that you might not like my choice?”

Hob shakes his head. “I’m not afraid, Dream. Sure, I’ll be disappointed if you decide that you don’t want me after all, that you only want Calliope, or neither of us. Of course I will. What I feel for you—” His voice breaks, and he pauses, clears his throat. “But I won’t be offended, or anything like that. I understand if this is too much, I really do.” He tugs on his ear with a shaky smile. “I’m not sure what you wanted when you kissed me, but I can’t imagine it was something this complicated.”

Dream’s eyes darken as he says, “I wanted… everything.”

Hob stills his hand and shivers under the intensity of his gaze. “You can still have it,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. “You can have me. If you still want me.”

Dream searches Hob’s expression, clearly concerned by what he sees. “You think I would not, that my feelings might have changed.”

“I’m hoping not, but the pressure—”

“You keep using this word. I do not feel pressured.”

Hob blinks. “Then what part of this does upset you? The sharing? Or is it Calliope? I thought perhaps you might still feel something for her, but maybe I was mistaken—”

“You were not. My love for her still lives. The issue—” Dream hesitates, visibly fighting against some deep-seated instinct that prevents him from talking about his own feelings. After a moment’s struggle, he looks off into the distance, a faraway look in his eyes as he says, “I have, in the past, been accused of quickly ‘losing interest’ in my paramours. Nothing could be further from the truth. What might be interpreted as lack of interest… is perhaps fear of the inability to maintain the other party’s interest.”

He pauses, searching for his words and looking back down at his hands again.

“Past the initial rush of infatuation… I am unsure of what to do in a relationship. The things I say, they seem to come out wrong, and so I retreat into my work, thinking that the less time I spend with my partner, the less opportunity there is to commit mistakes. I am beginning to see the folly in this, yet I know not what to do instead. I am not good at this, Hob.

“So you see, you may not be afraid, but I am. The reason that I have not yet given you an answer is not that I am unsure of my emotions. I know what it is that I feel, but I am afraid that I will inevitably lose both of you if I let myself have you. I have already lost Calliope once, how could I be certain this time would be any different? How could I bear reliving that loss, made double by losing you too?”

A lone tear falls to Dream’s cheek, and Hob can hear the pitter-patter of light rain starting to fall against the stained-glass windows.

Christ, that’s a lot. That’s what Dream has been carrying around this past week? No wonder the weather’s been bad in the Dreaming. Hob takes a moment to process, and as he does, something sticks out to him.

“If that is what you fear… Why did you kiss me? What made you think it was worth taking the chance?”

When Dream looks at Hob, his expression makes it seem like he’s witnessing the second coming of Christ, stepping down from the clouds with a halo and everything.

“Because I cannot seem to scare you away. These past six centuries, I have made every mistake possible with you. I have treated you with arrogance and superciliousness, I have deserted you for other company, I have denied you my time and my friendship. Yet when I run away from you, you follow. When I do not show up, you build me a pub, that we may have a place to meet when I return.

“You are a wonder, Hob Gadling. I think, perhaps, that you would not let me retreat. That you would run after me, yet again, and tell me what my mistakes are when I make them. Teach me how to make them right instead of just waiting for me to realise that I have done something wrong in the first place. That is what makes loving you less intimidating. But you might not stay if I ruined things with Calliope.”

Overcome with emotion, Hob shuffles up the steps of the stairs to sit level with Dream. He wraps an arm around Dream’s shoulders, bringing his other hand to Dream’s cheek to turn his head towards Hob’s. He leans their foreheads together and runs his thumb over the cool cheek to wipe away the fallen tear. Dream leans into his touch with his whole body.

Hob isn’t sure how Dream can be so unimaginably old and vast and Endless, how he can carry so many accumulated years of hurt and mistakes, and still feel so young. Perhaps his time in captivity caused the rebirth of this new Dream, who has apparently undergone some kind of emotional renaissance that has resulted in a willingness to show previously unthinkable vulnerability. Two weeks ago, after a couple of glasses of wine, Dream had told Hob more about what his experience in the Burgess basement had been like, and Hob can’t imagine how anyone could do anything but come out of that fundamentally changed.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m always going to run after you, even if I’m angry or hurt. Because I know you will eventually try to set things right. I won’t let you retreat further than I can reach to pull you back out again. I’m not going to sit quietly and wait for you to realise your own mistakes. If you make me angry I might shout a bit, sure, but then I’ll calm down and tell you what to do to fix it. As I would expect you to do for me. There’s only one flaw in your reasoning, the way I see it.”

“Pray tell.” Dream’s voice is quiet, but steady.

Hob leans back so he can look into Dream’s eyes. “What the hell makes you think I’d just sit back and let you do all these things you’re afraid of to Calliope? You think I wouldn’t help you if you fucked up with her? That I would just say ‘not my problem’ and let you drift apart again? We’d be in this together, love. All three of us. The perfect blend of the divine, the Endless, and the human perspective.

“And don’t forget that Calliope has changed too. She’s learned from your previous relationship just as much as you have — learned from both her and your mistakes. I think it would be a disservice to her to think that she’d let you both make them all over again.”

“Perhaps…”

Hob moves his hand from Dream’s cheek to softly run it through Dream’s hair, remembering how relaxing cat-Dream had found being petted. Dream closes his eyes with a silent sigh. He doesn’t start purring, but Hob suspects it’s a near thing.

“Look, I’m still relatively new to this whole being-immortal thing, at least compared to you and Calliope. As much as I want it to, I don’t know if I can promise that our relationship would last forever, or at least stay the same forever. I don’t know if anything really does. We’ve both changed so much in the past centuries, but steadily for the better, I think. But I can promise that I would do my very best to make sure that any changes would be just that. For the better.

“A thousand years from now, we will almost certainly be different people than we are now, but I truly, deeply, believe that whoever we’ll turn into will be people who still love each other in some way or another, and who are willing to put in the work needed to maintain that love. Do you believe that? Do you believe me?”

Dream opens his eyes and meets Hob’s. Whatever he sees in there seems to light a spark in his eyes, and he lifts his hand to gently trail his cool fingertips across Hob’s cheekbone.

“I do.”

“I told Calliope not too long ago that you need to believe a relationship will succeed for it to actually do so. That if you go into it from the start with the fear that it will end, it’s all too easy to accidentally sabotage it. So I’ll ask you again — Do you believe this could work? The three of us?”

“Yes,” Dream breathes. “You make me believe in miracles, Hob Gadling. But, perhaps more importantly, you make me believe that no miracles are required to make this work.”

“No. No miracles. Just us.” Hob smiles brightly, his heart soaring with hope. “So, what do you say? Are you willing to give this a try?”

“I would be honoured. May I kiss you again?”

“God, yes—”

Hob barely has time to assent before Dream’s mouth is on his. Dream kisses him eagerly, but not as hurriedly as the first time. He takes his time to map out the terrain of Hob’s lips, before requesting access by running his tongue along them. Hob readily opens up for him, delighting in the slick slide of tongue against tongue, lips against lips.

Dream’s hands cup Hob’s cheeks as he deepens the kiss, and Hob slides his other hand into Dream’s hair, joining its twin in combing through the unruly mop, almost certainly not making it less tousled. He doesn’t care. He likes how wild Dream’s hair is this century, and he loves the soft sighs his hands elicit. He briefly wonders if Dream likes having his hair pulled as much as he does, but he’ll save that thought for the bedroom.

Dream’s kisses are gradually turning more intense, and the way he clings to Hob makes it seem like he wants to get as close to him as physically possible, confirmed by him suddenly moving to straddle Hob on the steps of the stairs. Hob moves his hands from Dream’s hair to his hips, to steady him. The position can’t be comfortable, the steps aren’t deep enough to fully accommodate his shins. On the other hand, Dream’s ethereal form weighs almost nothing in Hob’s lap, so that might not be an issue.

Between Dream’s vigorous kisses and his body pressed up against Hob’s like this, it feels almost like he’s trying to climb inside Hob — and Christ isn’t that a thought — like he wants to devour him. Hob would love nothing better than to give himself over wholly to Dream, to let him take control and ravish him, but there are things that need to be done before that can happen, which is why, when Dream rolls his hips against his lap, Hob pulls away with great reluctance.

“Wait…” He leans his forehead against Dream’s shoulder, catching his breath. “We need to speak to Calliope, before we—” He looks back up and immediately loses track of what he was saying, distracted by Dream’s red, kiss-swollen lips.

“You are right, of course,” Dream says, hooded eyes likewise fixed on Hob’s mouth. He drags his fingers in a caress along Hob’s cheek, down to his mouth, brushing his thumb against his lower lip.

Hob shudders. “Come by my flat tomorrow morning. We’ll call her, I’ll make us brunch — which you don’t have to eat if you don’t want to — and we’ll talk. Then you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Whatever I want, you say?” Dream’s fingers drop to Hob’s throat, gently stroking their way down the side of it, then up to graze his Adam’s apple. Hob swallows. “That is quite the list.”

Hob wets his lips with a quick dart of the tongue. “Well, we have all the time in the world, don’t we?”

Dream gives him a smile that can only be described as wicked. “Even so, we would have to be very… industrious… if we should attempt to get through the whole list before the end of the century.”

Dragging Dream’s head down by the back of his neck, Hob pulls him into a crushing kiss, then leans their foreheads together.

“For god’s sake, man— You’ll be the death of me. Morning can’t come quick enough.”

“It is still a few hours away, I am afraid. What do you propose we do to fill the time until then?”

“Except try to keep our hands off each other?” Hob laughs, a little breathless. “You could give me a tour of this Dreaming I’ve heard so much about. I’ve only seen the library and the outside of the palace so far, and I bet the rest is just as mind-bogglingly spectacular.”

“Very well,” Dream says, rising gracefully from Hob’s lap. “Then let me show you my realm, Hob Gadling.”

He holds out a hand to help Hob to his feet, and, as he looks up at Dream, Hob thinks he may remember the picture he paints for the rest of his life — a pale arm reaching out from black robes, outstretched towards Hob, his slender frame silhouetted against the backdrop of the sky-ceiling which is now entirely cloudless and absolutely chock-full of glimmering stars and galactic formations.

Hob’s heart skips a beat, and he takes the proffered hand, letting Dream pull him up like he weighs nothing.

“Where to first, my lord?”

“I think perhaps Fiddler’s Green.”

“Fid— Fiddler’s Green? Of sailor fame? Are you joki— That’s here?”

Hob gapes at his soon-to-be lover, his mind racing with memories of folk tales told onboard the ships he owned and sometimes sailed on during his many, many years in the shipping business.

“Yes, and I believe he would like to meet you.”

“I— He?”

Chapter Text

When morning finally comes and Hob wakes, he dares not open his eyes for a couple of seconds, half expecting his dream to be just that — a normal dream and nothing more. But he knows that it can’t have been. It felt all too real, quite unlike any dream he’s ever had before.

Any doubt is quickly dispelled by the fact that when he does open his eyes, he’s met by the sight of Dream lying beside him, fully clothed on top of the covers.

“Good morning, Hob. Sleep well?”

“Mm,” Hob says, reaching out to touch Dream’s cheek. “I had the most wonderful Dream. And I dreamt a bit too.”

“You are horrible, Hob Gadling.” Dream rolls his eyes, but he can’t hide the small smile on his lips.

“You know you love it.”

“I do. Love you.”

There’s nothing else to do but to kiss Dream when he says things earnestly like that, so Hob does just that, pressing his lips to Dream’s mouth, cheeks, and forehead.

“You too. Now, let’s get out of bed and tell Calliope the good news, shall we?”

Hob bounces out of bed and gets dressed, trying not to focus too much on the feeling of Dream’s appreciative gaze roaming over his body. Later. Focus.

A glance at the clock tells him that it’s past ten in the morning. They must have gotten carried away during their tour of the Dreaming. Well, all the more appropriate to go for the brunch plan, then. But first, talking.

“Do you have an easy way of calling for Calliope?” Hob asks as they make their way out into the living room. “The way I did it last time was a bit of a process.”

Dream just blinks and says, “It is done.”

He really has to ask for an easier way to contact both of them in future, Hob thinks as they wait for Calliope’s answer. They need not wait long, because Calliope shows up within the minute, resplendent in her chiton.

“Oneiros,” she says, looking between the two of them, her expression a mix of hope and trepidation. “You called me. Does that mean… you have an answer?”

“Yes,” he replies, taking a step towards her, “I do.” Another step. “Yes. To you. To Hob. Yes to everything.”

He reaches her and raises a hand as if to touch her shoulder, but lets it hover mere inches from her skin, as if unsure where he wants to touch her, or waiting for permission to do so.

“I know not how I came to be fortunate enough to be loved by you. To be given a second chance… But I would be a fool not to take it, for I love you both, with all my heart.”

Calliope grasps his hovering hand and presses a kiss to the palm. “As you are loved in return.”

Dream’s eyes flutter closed. “My decision was… delayed by fears that despite having learned from old mistakes, I might not know how to prevent myself from making them anew. Hob has assuaged those fears by telling me he will help me see how to set things right, should I accidentally misstep. I pray you would show me the same grace.”

“Of course, agapēté. As I hope you would me.”

“Always.”

Calliope holds Dream’s hand to her heart and he raises his other one to cup her cheek. As one, they lean into each other — Calliope angling her head up towards Dream, who bows down to meet her in a kiss that knocks the breath out of Hob.

He is abruptly reminded that these ethereal beings are not human, because this is the most beautiful kiss he’s ever seen. It looks almost staged, like some director is just waiting behind the scenes to yell “Cut!” and pronounce it a perfect take. This kiss ought to be set against the golden rays of a setting sun with music swelling in the background, seen through a soft-focus filter that blurs the edges.

What was that quote from The Princess Bride? Something about the top-five most passionate and pure kisses ever? Westley and Buttercup would have to practise for a few centuries to even come close to this.

They part after a moment, leaning their foreheads together.

“I have missed you, Oneiros,” Calliope whispers.

“And I you.”

Calliope wraps her arms around Dream’s neck and holds him close in an embrace. When she meets Hob’s eyes over Dream’s shoulder, she gives him a beaming smile and beckons him over. Hob is hesitant to interrupt their moment, this reunion after thousands of years apart, but he obeys and approaches the couple.

Calliope pulls Hob into the hug. It’s a bit awkward to arrange all their limbs at first, but they soon settle into a semi-comfortable three-way hug. Hob’s arms are wrapped around his partners’ shoulders, and he takes the opportunity to rest one of his hands against the nape of Dream’s neck, sneaking his fingers up to play with the downy hair there. His other hand gently squeezes Calliope’s upper arm, his thumb caressing her warm skin, exposed by her chiton.

He presses a kiss to Dream’s cheek, then to the side of Calliope’s head. “What the hell did I do to deserve something as good as the two of you?” he murmurs, a little emotional.

“A good friend once told me that I deserve nice things. I would say the same to you.”

“Oh, just a friend, was it?” Hob teases.

“Soon-to-be lover, I am hoping.”

Dream response is delivered in a low tone that Hob can feel rumbling through his chest where their sides are pressed together. He turns his head so his lips are brushing Hob’s ear.

“Very soon,” he adds in a husky voice, the absolute bastard. Dream has to know what that voice does to Hob.

He takes his revenge by tugging at the lock of hair currently wrapped around his fingers, just this side of too hard, satisfied by the quiet but sharp intake of breath it draws from Dream.

“I’m sure your friend would be amenable, as long as Calliope is too.”

Hob can feel Calliope’s hand tightening on his waist. “She is. Enthusiastically so. And what is more, she would quite like to participate.”

Hob suppresses a shudder, and in an impressive show of self-restraint, he says, “Then so it shall be. After brunch. I’m famished.”

Dream groans something about humans as Hob extricates himself from the hug.

“Is he always this keen?” Hob laughs.

Calliope smiles. “You have no idea.” She strokes Dream’s arm. “Patience, Oneiros. He will be well worth the wait.”

Hob feels his face go red, and he flees into the kitchen before his resolve breaks and he decides to ignore the hunger gnawing at his stomach in favour of satisfying a hunger of a very different kind. If Dream fucks like he kisses, he’s going to need the energy.

He takes stock of the contents of his fridge and pantry, racking his brain for ideas. The problem with deciding while dreaming that you want to have brunch in the morning is that you don’t have much time to go to the shops to make sure you have everything you need.

Calliope and Dream follow him into the kitchen and Hob asks, “Pancakes all right?” after checking how many eggs he has left.

“It sounds lovely,” Calliope replies, while Dream, predictably, shrugs.

As Hob starts making preparations, Calliope puts the kettle on and introduces Dream to Hob’s extensive tea collection. Hob is pleased to see that Dream makes the effort to actually sniff at least a couple of them before making his choice, instead of just picking one at random or denouncing tea as “unnecessary”.

It’s very cosy, puttering around in the kitchen and discussing teas, and Hob’s heart is full almost to bursting with the sheer domesticity of it all. To have these two stunning beings, Endless and divine, here in his flat and in his life, and they’re discussing whether or not Dream would prefer his tea with or without milk? It’s baffling. Unbelievable. Amazing. To think that this is his life now…

Their tea prepared, Dream and Calliope sit down at the same side of the small table, hand in hand, speaking softly to each other. Hob is happy to let them have a bit of a moment to themselves, an illusion of privacy even if he can hear them well enough as he moves around the kitchen, preparing the batter.

He’s had plenty of time alone with them both to talk things through, after all, and while Calliope told Hob that she and Dream were reconciled at their meeting in the Dreaming — after speaking of their past and their shared grief — that conversation had hardly been had in a romantic context. So, he gives them a bit of space and keeps quiet as he cooks, touched by the love he can hear in their voices and the things they tell each other.

He must have become engrossed in flipping pancakes, because he definitely missed what they said that just made Calliope giggle and Dream make his little huff-laugh that Hob has come to love so. He glances over at them and sees that they are looking at him.

“What’s so funny? Are you talking about me behind my back already?” He waves his spatula accusingly at them and winks.

“I only asked for the story of your coming together, and Calliope informed me that she had to kiss you six times before you realised her interest in you.”

“Seven, if you count the first kiss on the cheek.”

Hob clutches his imaginary pearls. “Lies and slander, all of it! I’ll have you know I was starting to suspect as much. I’m not that unobservant.”

“Your pancake is burning,” is Dream’s deadpan reply.

Hob whips around to see a bit of smoke coming from the frying pan, rather undermining his claims. He swears and flips it. It still looks salvageable.

“My point stands.”

He finishes frying the rest of the batter, then goes to prepare the toppings. A memory of something he tried a long time ago hits him, and he smiles. Calliope will love it. He puts a saucepan on the stove and gets to work. It takes no time at all to come together, and he turns off the heat, putting a lid on the saucepan to keep its contents warm as he slices up a lemon and starts setting the table.

“Voilà,” he says when everything’s in place. “British-style pancakes à la Hob. Your toppings today will be lemon and sugar, strawberry jam, Nutella, or the pièce de résistance,” He lifts the lid of the saucepan. “Honey-cinnamon syrup.”

As expected, Calliope’s eyes light up at the mention of anything honey, and her delighted reaction has Hob silently vowing to spend the rest of his indefinite life looking for ways to get her to make that expression as often as possible. The soft look on Dream’s face as he watches Calliope tells Hob that he’s probably thinking something along the same lines.

“Well, don’t just sit there. Dig in!”

They do. Or, rather, Calliope and Hob do. Dream seems satisfied by tasting a small bite from their plates every now and then, declaring the simplicity of sugar and lemon as a topping the winner in his book. Calliope, of course, sings the syrup’s praises, while Hob is rather partial to the decadence of the chocolate-hazelnut spread.

Feeding Dream pancakes from his own fork is not something Hob ever thought he’d live to see, and the sight isn’t one he’ll soon forget. The way his rosy lips close around the tines of the fork before he pulls back, far too slowly not to be on purpose, all the while maintaining intense eye contact…

It goes straight to Hob’s groin, which Dream must know, because he repeats the performance with Calliope not long after, with the addition of licking his lips afterwards to catch a drop of honey syrup that escaped the rolled bite of pancake.

Hob doesn’t miss how Calliope — perhaps subconsciously — mirrors him by wetting her lips with a quick dart of her own tongue, her gaze obviously fixed on Dream’s mouth. Meanwhile, Dream traces the veins on the back of the hand Hob is resting on the table between them, his touch light as a feather. He’s being about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

Hob clears his throat and says, “I feel quite full all of a sudden.” It’s not a lie, though he would more than likely have eaten more if he wasn’t about to bed two celestial beings.

“You have half a pancake left on your plate. Are you sure you are full?”

The look Dream gives him is somewhere between teasing and obscene. He clearly sees right through Hob.

“Yup. Positively stuffed. Couldn’t eat another bite. How about you, Calliope?”

Calliope’s eyes are still stuck on Dream’s lips. “Oh yes. Not a bite more. Very full, indeed.”

“Then may I suggest you join me in the bedroom?”

Dream stands up without waiting for an answer, and walks off in the direction of said room.

Hob meets Calliope’s eyes, both dumbstruck for a moment, then they scramble to get up from their chairs, Calliope far more graceful and dignified than Hob.

“Am I going to survive this?” Hob whispers to her as they follow in Dream’s footsteps. “This is it, right? The thing that finally kills me?”

“Ô phoînídion, I have no doubt you shall rise from the ashes. It is only the little death that awaits you.”

As if her words weren’t proof enough that Calliope is a terrible, terrible (wonderful, wonderful) person, she gives Hob a light shove into the bedroom, straight into the arms of the waiting Dream. He barely has time to regain his balance before he is pulled into a passionate kiss. Dream’s hands clutch at Hob, cradling his head and tugging him close until their bodies are flush against each other.

Dream’s hard, angular frame is juxtaposed with the soft curves of Calliope that Hob can feel press up against his back, her hands roaming over his sides and slipping under the hem of his button-down shirt. The unnatural warmth of her hands is starkly contrasted by Dream’s abnormally cool fingers, also finding their way beneath the fabric of his collar to stroke his neck.

Hob is breathless when Dream lets him come up for air, but he doesn’t get too much time to catch his breath before Calliope grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around so she can kiss him too. As she does, he feels Dream’s hands settle on his hips, his soft lips mouthing at Hob’s neck, sending shivers down his spine. He is trapped between the bodies of his lovers, and there’s no other place he’d rather be.

Calliope breaks the kiss and moves her attention to Dream, standing on tiptoe to kiss him over Hob’s shoulder. Given this brief respite, Hob pants for air, revelling in the feeling of being perfectly enveloped by these two incomprehensible beings, the solid firmness of Dream at his back, the soft warmth of Calliope rubbing up against his front…

Sinking back to her heels, Calliope draws back the barest amount to be able to look Hob over. He has no doubt he’s already looking flushed with excitement, and there is no way she cannot feel the hardness of his erection trapped between them, just as he can feel the outline of Dream’s arousal grinding against his buttocks.

There’s a flash of mischief in Calliope’s eyes, and she looks at Dream and says, “He likes to have his hair pulled.”

“Is that so?” In an instant, Dream’s hand is in Hob’s hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging — not painfully, but definitely not gently. “Is that why you have kept your hair so long throughout the centuries?”

Hob wants to say, “Yes, actually,” but all that escapes him is a frankly embarrassingly loud moan. Dream uses his grip on Hob’s hair to tip his head back, giving him unfettered access to Hob’s neck and throat. He immediately sets to work licking and nibbling and sucking, seemingly intent to make his own mark on Hob’s skin, to match the one Calliope made over a week ago, long gone by now. If it weren’t for Dream’s grip on his hip and his hair, Hob is sure his knees would buckle under the onslaught of Dream’s mouth.

Calliope, meanwhile, is making quick work of the buttons of Hob’s shirt, and soon her hands are roaming over his chest, his stomach, his sides. As she leans in to press her own mouth to the unoccupied side of Hob’s neck, he thinks that yes, this is how he dies. But what a way to go.

He clutches at the fabric of Calliope’s chiton, and fumbles for Dream’s hand on his hip, just to have something to grab onto, to ground him. Dream responds by angling Hob’s head to the side so he can devour him with a kiss that is all tongue and teeth. His mouth swallows Hob’s moans when Calliope’s wandering fingers find his nipples on the way down his chest, giving them a sharp tweak before moving further down to work open the fly of his trousers.

“Tell me,” Dream says as he pulls his head back to look into Hob’s eyes, “How I may love you.”

Hob’s full-body shudder has as much to do with the low base of Dream’s voice and his intense gaze as it does the fact that Calliope’s hand has slipped beneath the fabric of Hob’s open trousers and is palming his aching cock through his pants.

“Will you—” He clears his throat. “Will you fuck me?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with lust. “Please?”

Dream smirks, his eyes dark and voracious. “I was hoping you might say that.” His gaze moves to Calliope. “And what about our dear muse? What would you do for her while I open you up for me?”

Calliope’s eyes are just as dark as Dream’s as she watches Hob intently, waiting for his answer while slowly tracing the outline of his erection with light, teasing fingers.

“I— Ah… I would worship you on my knees, with my mouth, my tongue, my fingers…”

A hungry smile spreads over Calliope’s lips. “What kind of a goddess would I be if I refused to let my most dedicated devotee serve me thus?”

She punctuates her sentence with a firm stroke of her hand, and Hob groans.

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asks, deciding that if he doesn’t hurry things along, these two sex fiends will either make him come in his pants or drive him to the brink of madness with their teasing touches before a single orgasm is achieved. He reaches around Calliope’s waist and undoes her belt, letting the folds of her chiton hang freely from her shoulders.

In turn, Calliope pushes Hob’s trousers down, sinking to her knees to help him step out of them, while Dream takes a step back and pulls Hob’s open shirt down over his shoulders and then fully off. Hob takes a second to bend down to get his socks off too, and when he stands again, turning to Dream, his lover’s shirt is already on the floor.

Hob’s already aroused cock twitches excitedly when he lays eyes on the pale, hairless chest before him, slender, yet muscled. Dream looks like he’s cut from a block of pure marble, and Michelangelo himself could not have done a better job of it.

His haste forgotten, Hob reaches out almost hesitantly, as if his mundane, human fingers might soil the pristine, unnatural paleness. Though somewhat cooler than that of a human being, Dream’s skin is, of course, soft and supple rather than hard like stone when Hob does touch his chest. Calliope is likewise transfixed by the sight. She walks up to them, laying her hand beside Hob’s over Dream’s heart.

Dream lowers his head to kiss Calliope, at first more chastely than he had kissed Hob, but soon growing more heated and urgent. Hob moves around to Dream’s back, trailing his hands over the muscles that dance under the skin as Dream lifts his arms to pull Calliope closer, and to, with a single deft hand, unclasp the fibula brooch that keeps her chiton gathered onto her shoulder. The floaty white fabric flutters to the floor as she helps to shrug it off, and Dream’s pale hands touches her tan skin just as reverently as Hob presses his lips to the too-prominent ridges and valleys of Dream’s spine.

With Calliope and Dream momentarily distracted by each other, Hob takes it upon himself to free Dream from his tight trousers (skinny jeans, because the man is apparently intentionally trying to send Hob into an early grave). From his position at his back, Hob lets his hands wander from Dream’s sides, over onto the flat stomach, then down to the fly of the trousers.

Despite the slightly awkward angle, Hob manages to undo the top button and pull the zip down. Then his brain short circuits for a moment as he discovers that Dream is wearing no underwear. In jeans. Perhaps he should have expected as much from a being who walks around in combat boots without socks. Clearly the word “chafing” isn’t in Dream’s vocabulary.

Hob shoves Dream’s trousers down far enough to gain him decent access — quickly realising that peeling jeans that tight all the way off will take some teamwork — then he wraps his fingers around Dream’s erection. He is rewarded by Dream gasping against Calliope’s mouth as he gives him a slow stroke, blindly mapping out the length of him, his forehead resting against the nape of Dream’s neck.

The skin of Dream’s cock is silky under Hob’s fingers, and he trails them along the stiff length up to the head, smearing his thumb through a drop of precum. Then, dipping lower, he finds that Dream really is completely hairless below the neck. The sound of Dream’s muffled groan when he cups his balls has Hob rolling his hips against the cleft of his arse in search of some friction, some relief.

“Bed,” Dream growls, tearing his lips from Calliope’s, “Now.”

Neither Hob nor Calliope need to be told twice. Hob delays climbing into bed only long enough to get out of his pants. A glance back Dream’s way makes Hob suspect that he has somehow magicked himself out of his jeans. There is no dignified way he could have gotten out of trousers that tight in the few seconds that Hob was looking away.

Hob is almost distracted enough by the full-frontal sight of a fully nude Dream that he forgets about getting into bed, but he pulls himself together and crawls onto the mattress, following Calliope who is getting settled in against the pillows.

“There’s stuff in the bedside table,” he tells Dream, who alters his course to go examine said stuff. “Do— Do we need a condom?”

Hob hopes his constant asking about the necessity of condoms doesn’t come off like he’s opposed to the concept, he’s just rather curious about the physiology of the divine and the Endless and how it interacts with that of humans.

“No,” is Dream’s simple answer as he picks up the bottle of lube Hob keeps in the drawer.

Well then. Hob turns to Calliope and takes a second to admire the view. Christ, how did he end up with not one but two lovers this gorgeous? If Hob was the self-conscious type, his own obvious humanity compared with their ethereally good looks would be enough to give him a complex. Luckily, he’s not — just a glutton for beauty, happy to consume it in whatever shape it takes.

He leans over Calliope and kisses her, first on the mouth, then her cheek, her neck, her collarbones, her breasts, her ribs, her belly button, her hips, her thighs… By now, Dream has climbed onto the bed to join them, and as Calliope scoots a bit further up against the pillows to make room, Hob sits back on his haunches and turns his head so he can catch Dream’s mouth with his own before it gets otherwise occupied. Dream lets his free hand travel across Hob’s torso as they kiss, scraping a nail against his nipples, brushing long fingers against his erect cock, then gripping his hip tightly.

Breaking the kiss, Dream moves his mouth to Hob’s ear instead, nibbling at the earlobe before murmuring, “Our muse awaits your attention. Will you not prostrate yourself before your goddess?”

Fucking hell, if Dream is going to talk like that, Hob might just pass out from arousal before even being properly touched. Better get to it.

“Yes, my lord,” he breathes, noting with great interest how Dream’s hand tightens possessively on his hip at the address. Something to remember for the future…

He bends down between Calliope’s legs, trying to find a position that he thinks he can hold for some time. Bracing himself against the mattress with one arm, he manages to settle in so that his other arm remains mostly unrestricted, his legs slightly spread, and his arse offered up to Dream, who kneels behind him. This is going to require some strength and stamina, but no pain, no gain.

Hob glances up at Calliope with a wink and gets to work. Spreading the folds of her sex with two fingers, he dives in and presses the flat of his tongue to her, firmly licking his way from her opening up to her clitoris, there switching to the tip of his tongue, circling the stiff nub almost teasingly.

Calliope’s moan drowns out the sound of the bottle of lube clicking open and shut, so Hob is almost surprised when Dream spreads his cheeks and rubs a slickened finger against his puckered hole, gently, exploratory. Dream must have performed some weird Endless-magic, because his hands are not at all as cold as before, instead much more human in temperature, for which Hob is grateful. It makes it all the more pleasurable when Dream starts working a long finger into him, very slowly and carefully, contradicting his recent impatience.

Hob gasps at the sensation, but does not let it distract him from his task of administering to Calliope’s needs. Never let it be said that any circumstances could make Hob Gadling give mediocre head, not after centuries of practise. He makes sure to keep a steady pace, alternating between licking, sucking, and gingerly nibbling at her clitoris, and when Dream’s finger in his bum is joined by a second, Hob slips one of his own into Calliope to stimulate her inside and out.

It’s a good thing he has a duty to focus on, because between Calliope’s delicious moans and the feeling of Dream’s fingers scissoring and sliding in and out of him with increasing ease, Hob might just have come on the spot if it weren’t for his concentration on the task at hand. Or, rather, at mouth.

His self-control is tested, though, when Calliope’s hands find their way into his hair and clench there just as Dream’s fingers brush up against the perfect spot inside him. His moans are muffled against Calliope’s sweet cunt, his pace faltering for the briefest of moments before he picks it up again.

When Hob is breached by a third finger, he decides that he’d better speed things up a bit with Calliope. Skilled as he is, keeping this up while being fucked with more than a few fingers would be a challenge. No longer teasing, he starts massaging her clit in earnest, with broad, firm swipes of his tongue. He fucks into her with two fingers, curling them slightly every time he draws back, every now and then brushing against the sensitive spot that makes her cry out his and Dream’s name, along with other wordless sounds of ecstasy.

As she approaches her climax, she gestures for Dream’s less occupied hand to join hers on top of Hob’s head. He is vaguely aware of their fingers intertwining with each other and his hair, pulling ever so lightly at first, then harder when the wave of orgasm washes over Calliope. As she writhes under Hob’s diligent tongue, her moans and gasps of pleasure mix and mingle with Hob’s own, spurred on by the hands in his hair, the fingers in his arse, and the rush of inspiration that Calliope is, perhaps unwittingly, sending through his body as she comes. A quiet gasp from Dream behind him seems to indicate that he too feels its heady effect.

God’s passion, Hob needs to get fucked now.

He continues to work Calliope through her orgasm, backing off in intensity as she starts to come down, but only fully stopping when she gives him the by now familiar tap on the head to signal that she’s reaching a stage of oversensitivity.

Hob withdraws and props himself up on his elbows, pressing a few kisses to the inside of Calliope’s thigh before she leans forward to catch his mouth with hers in a sloppy kiss. She motions for Dream to bend over Hob’s back so she can reach him for a kiss as well, before flopping back against the pillows, spent and sated.

“It would seem our dear doctor is as skilled at coital linguistics as he is historical.”

Hob groans and cranes his head back to look at Dream, who is fucking smirking, the smug bastard.

“Christ’s sake— First time you make a pun and it’s with your fingers up my arse. Hurry up and fuck me already.”

Dream doesn’t stop smiling, but he does withdraw his fingers and reaches for the bottle of lube again. Hob turns back to Calliope.

“Where do you want to be for this?”

Calliope is obviously stifling a laugh, the traitor, but she considers his question. “Would I fit between your legs? Underneath?”

Hob nods with an anticipatory grin. Fuck, this is going to be a night to remember. He straddles Calliope and shuffles forward enough that he can reach to brace himself both against the headboard and the mattress. He jumps a little when Calliope loosely wraps her fingers around his long-neglected cock, stroking it idly as Dream slicks himself up behind Hob.

Dream straddles Calliope’s legs and presses himself up against Hob’s back, reaching to turn his head back over his shoulder for a kiss that strains Hob’s neck but is completely worth it.

“Are you ready, beloved?”

Hob shudders, partly at the term of endearment, but also because of the intense look in Dream’s eyes when he meets them, dark and voracious, like he wants to consume Hob.

“God, yes.”

Hob bends forward, one arm bracing against the headboard, the other reaching down to caress Calliope’s cheek.

When Dream pushes inside him, slow and steady, every thought is wiped from his mind except those focused on the feeling of Dream of the Endless, his Stranger, filling him up like he’s trying to make a home inside Hob’s body. He gasps as Dream slides in, further and further, until he can feel his sharp hips against his buttocks, then stays there, still for a moment until Hob’s breathing evens out.

Reaching around Hob, Dream finds Calliope’s unoccupied hand and they intertwine their fingers, resting their hands in a joint grip on Hob’s hip as Dream finally starts moving. It feels like a loss when Dream slips out of him, withdrawing almost to the tip, but he quickly returns with a smooth roll of his hips that draws a blissful moan out of Hob. He can feel his lovers’ hands tighten on his hip at the sound, and Dream’s hips snap forward a bit more urgently the next time.

It’s all Hob thought it would be, and more, feeling Dream move inside him. It’s amazing and overwhelming. It’s too much, and not enough. Meanwhile, Calliope’s warm hand is a teasing presence around his cock, not risking hurrying things along too quickly, for which he is grateful. He never wants this to stop, wishes it could go on forever, that he could live in this moment for the rest of eternity.

Perhaps most of all, he wishes he could turn his head like an owl so he could look at Dream properly, because he longs to see what Dream looks like while making the sort of sounds Hob hears coming from behind him. A stream of quiet gasps and moans pours out of Dream as he fucks into Hob, and Hob amends his list of life goals to include, at the very top, fucking Dream long and hard enough that he loses whatever restraint is holding him back from fully giving voice to his pleasure.

He envies Calliope, who is able to see Dream over Hob’s shoulder. Her gaze flits between them, evidently liking what she sees, if her blown pupils and the way she keeps biting her lip is anything to go by. Hob ducks down to kiss her, and his slight shift in angle suddenly has Dream’s cock brush against Hob’s prostate at every thrust. Hob’s ecstatic cries are muffled against Calliope’s lips, but audible enough for Dream to pick up on. Dream increases his pace, driving into Hob harder and faster, while Calliope’s hand tightens around his cock, stroking him in earnest.

Dream’s free hand — which had until now been wandering over Hob’s back, his stomach, his chest, everywhere he could reach to caress Hob’s skin — now buries itself in Hob’s hair again, and Dream pulls his head back with a tight grip, careful not to affect the perfect angle as he continues to slam into Hob. His throat thus laid bare, Calliope wastes no time in latching onto it with her mouth and teeth, the unforgiving rhythm of her hand never faltering.

Hob is caught in a hurricane of sensation, trapped between the bodies of his lovers, fully at their mercy, and he savours every single second of it. Between the pounding of Dream’s hips, the glorious sting of his scalp, Calliope’s mouth on his exposed throat, and her relentless hand, it’s a miracle that Hob manages to hold on as long as he does before going over the edge.

Calliope had joked about the little death before, la petite mort, but it really does feel a bit like dying when he is hit full force by his orgasm. Hob should know, he’s intimately acquainted with nearly dying, he’s done it dozens of times — at the business end of a blade or gun in countless wars, drowning at the hands of a scared mob accusing him of witchcraft, drowning yet again in shipwrecks, blown to bits and crushed by rubble during the Blitz — he just hasn’t gone all the way yet, so to speak.

Like now, dying is often accompanied by a sensation of falling apart at the seams, of falling in general, a light-headed surge of adrenaline, the sound of blood rushing in his ears, his heart beating impossibly quick, then slowing down suddenly as everything goes black for a moment… Yes. All of this, he feels now, as he dies. A little.

But when his senses return to him and he comes to, it’s not to the sight of blood, the sound of a battle raging around him, or the feeling of wounds slowly knitting together. Instead, he sees warm, brown eyes beneath him, hears a strangled cry behind him that sounds a bit like his name, and feels the stuttering of Dream’s hips as he buries himself in Hob and spends his seed there.

Little or no, this is the only kind of death worth living for, if you ask Hob.

Gasping for breath, he sags a bit, putting his weight on his elbows on the mattress at either side of Calliope, leaning his forehead against hers. Dream, likewise, slumps over Hob’s back, going limp in a way that feels very human, somehow.

They stay like this for a moment, just breathing together, until Hob’s arms begin to shake a little under the combined weight of his and Dream’s bodies. Dream then slips out of him with a quiet groan and falls to the side, leaving Hob just enough room to collapse between him and Calliope.

Rolling onto his back, Hob looks up at the ceiling, searching for something intelligent to say, but all he comes up with is, “Fuck.” Not his greatest work, but even Calliope’s gift of eloquence has to work with what it is given, so — since that’s the only thought bouncing around in Hob’s brain at the moment — that is what he says.

“Quite,” Dream’s ragged voice agrees, muffled against a pillow. He throws an arm across Hob’s chest, nestling in close by his side.

Calliope — perhaps the most collected of the three of them at the best of times, and now with the advantage of having had time to recover from her own orgasm — just laughs and reaches for a wet wipe from the bedside table, cleaning off the semen Hob had spilled over her hand and stomach. When she lies back down, she takes the hand Dream is resting on Hob’s chest and intertwines their fingers, much like she is tangling her legs with Hob’s.

“I told you he would be worth the wait,” she says, dropping a kiss to Hob’s shoulder.

“Indeed he was,” Dream mumbles in reply, still sounding absolutely wrecked.

“He’s also right here, you know,” Hob chips in, unable to keep his amusement out of his voice. He lays a hand on top of the ones his lovers have clasped over his heart.

“And what a blessing that is.” Calliope rests her head on his shoulder, and Hob melts a bit.

His mental faculties returning to him bit by bit brings on a realisation. “Fuck, we have dance class tonight,” he groans. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to walk tonight, let alone dance.

“Mm, I am sure we can take one night off without missing too much,” Calliope says, apparently reading his mind.

“You dance?”

Hob turns his head towards Dream, whose face is half buried in a pillow, one eye peeking out curiously through a mop of hair even more messy than it usually is.

“Yes, Lindy Hop. I have a feeling you would hate it.”

“Oneiros does not dance.”

Hob raises his eyebrows. “What? Not ever?”

“Not even at our son’s wedding.”

Calliope’s voice is neutral, devoid of judgement, but Dream frowns slightly. “Not participating does not preclude enjoyment of the art. I should like to see the two of you dance, sometime.”

“Then we’ll show you,” Hob murmurs, bending his neck to nuzzle into Dream’s wild hair. “Whenever I regain the use of my legs, that is.”

Dream huffs a laugh, and Calliope smiles, saying, “No rush. We have all the time in the world.”

Calliope’s words are heartwarming, and, better yet, entirely true. Three immortals, sharing a bed, a love, a life… Time is on their side, yet Hob feels like an eternity of loving these two would still be far too short. He’ll have to live on and find out if there’s something even longer than forever, and then, perhaps, his greedy heart might be satisfied. Maybe.

“That we do,” he whispers, squeezing his lovers’ hands. “That we do.”