Chapter Text
It’s late morning when Dream wakes up. He doesn’t sleep exactly as Hob does, but he’s long since gotten in the habit of resting, allowing his consciousness to float untethered in the Dreaming when Hob stays over. Hob’s side of the bed is empty, but rumpled sheets and the warmth there indicate he hasn’t been up long.
Dream pulls on his deep red silk robe that Hob has said time and time again makes him look like Dracula. (Still it delights Hob every time he sees it and Dream hardly minds.)
Moving past the fireplace mantle, Dream's eyes are inexorably drawn to the two masks that sit there. Neither have been worn in years. Neither have needed to be.
Dream finds Hob where he nearly always does, sitting on his sofa in the library. His long hair is a mess, pulled back from his face with little to no care.
There’s the beginnings of gray hair around his temples that he’s been recently growing out and he’s wearing one of his oversized knit jumpers. That paired with his reading glasses that have fallen low on his nose makes him look older– the intended effect of all the subtle changes Hob’s been cultivating.
He’s grading papers, red pen in one hand, a student's essay in another.
Hob glances up, and his crow’s feet crinkle at the corners when he spots Dream, a smile breaking out across his face, bright and warm as the morning. “Good morning, love.”
“Good morning.” Dream says, crossing the room to press a kiss to the corner of Hob’s mouth. His face is stubble rough, but his lips are as soft as always.
“Just trying to get some work done. Don’t want to be bogged down when we finally get the whole weekend together.” Hob says, taking off his glasses and putting the papers and his red grading pen down on the coffee table.
“Are they any good?” Dream sits down next to him.
“It’s a wild crowd this term. All over the place in terms of writing ability, but what I will give them is that they all seem to be deeply engaged in the material,” Hob considers his next words before continuing, “Even if some of their opinions are categorically wrong.”
“Wagner?” Dream asks, already knowing the answer.
“I have three separate Wagner apologists in my class.” Hob bemoans.
“I’m sure they’ll leave your class thinking differently.”
Hob huffs, “They’re allowed to enjoy his music, I suppose, if operas that can be three hours or five depending on the conductor’s tempo is their cup of tea. But–” Hob shakes his head, “I’ll stop there. You already know why I despise him. I’ll save my lecture on that backstabbing antisemite for Monday.”
“Seeing as it’s not Monday… We could get back into bed,” Dream suggests, nosing at Hob’s messy hair.
When he moves back Dream sees that Hob’s eyes have darkened. Still, Hob doesn’t make any indication he’s planning on moving in that direction.
“And get caught in the act by Death and Lucienne when they’re expecting lunch in less than an hour?”
“You assume we wouldn’t be quick?”
“Not quick enough to fuck and get ready in time. I think it’s one or the other dearheart.”
Dream’s sullen silence makes Hob laugh. “Come here,” he says affectionately, opening his arms.
Dream strandles Hob’s lap and relishes the feeling of Hob’s sturdy arms around him. Well that, and it gives Dream access to press a kiss to one of the marks he left on Hob’s throat last night, the skin still slightly pink and raised from where he’s bitten him.
Hob shudders, leaning into Dream’s touch, making a noise in the back of his throat when Dream deliberately drags his fangs gently over Hob’s pulse point.
There’s a long contemplative pause.
“How quick do you think we could be?” Hob asks in a rush.
“Quick enough.”
“And you’ll magic us both clean before they get here?”
“It’s not magic, but yes I swear.” Dream hides his smile against Hob’s neck.
“Not magic, he says,” Hob repeats hotly, even as he reverently runs a hand up the vertebrae of Dream’s spine. “Well then, we better hurry.”
Dream pulls away, up and off of the couch, taking Hob with him.
They move as fast as they can to their bedroom, tripping over each other in their enthusiasm.
“We’d have all the time in the world and then some if I had my way.” Dream gripes as Hob pins him down to the mattress.
Hob shakes his head disbelievingly and the ruby earring he wears catches the sunlight, as red and bright as blood.
Dream reaches out and holds it gently in his palm. He suddenly feels a wave of nostalgia for the night he gave it to Hob.
“You almost always do.” Hob reminds him.
“Hardly. You’re well aware I’m weak when it comes to anything to do with you.”
“Yeah, I am.” Hob tangles their fingers together, eyes just as bright as the day they met.