Archive of Our Own ^beta

Hob tried—he really really did—but in the end he just couldn’t help it.

He sneezed.

And Dream stared.

It seemed the universe had apparently deemed it fit for Hob to have been unlucky enough to sneeze while Dream had been speaking. His friend had been part way through a sentence crooned in his lovely voice when he’d been interrupted, and for a moment there was silence. Hob watched in fascination as affront soured his friends expression, disapproval rising at the fact that something as mundane as a sneeze had dared to interrupt him. It wasn’t quite confusion, or alarm, but the bemused disgust was close enough that Hob hurried to reassure him.

“S’ok, just a cold.”

“A cold.”

The tone demanded justification.

“Yes.” Hob sniffled; more than a little miserable, more than aware that his explanation hadn’t seemed to improve the situation at all. He tried again, found himself using the same words, unable to do anything other than repeat what he’d said and hope for a better result. “A cold.”

It was far from the worst illness Hob had ever had.

It was far from the worst illness he’d ever seen—memories of plague still vivid, images that rotted with the stench of death, unsafe to touch even in his mind—this new century a place of relative safety. For all there were still dangers it was so clearly a new world, a world where medical advancement had eradicated so many things that could kill.

“Hm.”

Dream raised a brow, pale eyes flicking over him coolly as if to assess the truth of this for himself, a piercing sweep that was perhaps revaluating small details he’d initially discounted. Well, it was either that or Hob looked sicker than he had this morning, which he had to admit was definitely possible given how awful he felt. After a moment Dream nodded somewhat decisively, verdict reached, the pronouncement of it delivered in a tone just as primly affronted as when Hob had sneezed that first time. “I believe you have the flu.”

Hob squinted at him. “How do you know the difference?”

It sounded a lot ruder out loud than it had in his head.

However it was apparently a lot less rude in comparison to daring to sneeze in his presence because now Dream only laughed. There was no affront at this, only a tantalising gentleness, and yet Dream still managed to sound unrepentantly condescending as he smirked.

“How indeed.”

Hob didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed about that.

Instead he watched as his friend stood up from the sofa where they were sat, graceful as always, limbs unfolding with an unnatural sort of elegance. Dream didn’t explain what he was doing, strode straight into Hob’s bedroom, returned a few moments later with the duvet from the bed bundled up in his arms. He dumped it on top of Hob, then tucked it around him with care, and he must have lost time, because before Hob realised what was happening he was being handed a steaming cup of tea.

He took it with trembling hands.

His friend didn’t let go until it was steady. Then Dream straightened to his full height, looked down at Hob with his head tilted to the side. It was as if he was examining a particularly confounding lifeform—one displaying as of yet unobserved behaviours, something that required further study to be understood correctly—and fixed him with a rather severe glare.

“You will wait here.”

Hob didn’t know where else he was expected to go.

There wasn’t really anywhere he wanted to go either, but Hob also knew protesting would be futile, knew that he had very little inclination to do so even if it wasn’t. To be honest, he also found the mood Dream somewhat distracting, this assured command more than a little hot, but there was nothing he could do about it now, nothing but appreciate it. Hob snuggled into his duvet, blew tentatively on his cup of tea, and found there was only one answer he could give.

“Ok.”

“Good.”

Dream was gone barely twenty minutes.

Or Hob thought it was twenty minutes, he couldn’t really be sure, had no confidence in his ability to keep track of time. What he was sure of was that when Dream returned he went straight to the kitchen. He soon came back after another ten minutes with a bowl of what was probably soup except Hob couldn’t really smell it.

How had Dream made it?

It wasn’t a skill he thought his friend would have had cause to learn. There wasn’t enough time to figure that out though—once again it was handed to him, along with a spoon—and once again he was fixed with a steely glare. “You will eat this.”

Hob hadn’t even considered refusing. “Ok.”

Dream waited until he’d taken the first bite, nodding in strict approval, his apparent suspicion of Hob’s obedience as confounding as it was unfounded. He then went back to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water and two pills. By now the routine was clear, and Hob obediently swallowed the medicine, drank his water, and returned to eating his soup. It might have been chicken noodle, he couldn’t really taste it, but it was comforting nonetheless, a fluttering warmth in his chest because Dream had made it for him.

When was the last time Hob had someone take such care with him while he was sick?

He found he couldn’t remember—Eleanor, probably.

There was a pang in that, but there was a weight lifted too because Hob didn’t have to think about getting up, getting himself food, getting himself medicine, could turn to someone else instead. It was rare, too rare, faint glimmers of light amongst the loneliness, the pain of bandaging his own wounds because if he didn’t no one would. Hob didn’t usually think much of it, took it as a fact of his existence, had made a habit of getting knocked down and picking himself up. He knew how to do it, how to move on.

Hob knew how to bleed and not die.

Immortality hadn’t give him that, as much as it meant he’d live forever it hadn’t given him life, wasn’t what preserved it. Hob had needed to learn it. To learn how not to die.

To learn how to carry on.

So Hob ate his soup, a care in it he fancied he could taste, felt the novelty of what this was fluttering in his stomach. It made the motion of bringing the spoon to his mouth new, clumsy for all he’d done it thousands of times, because suddenly it was like he’d never done it at all. So unused to it this felt like embarrassment, a please don’t look at me that Hob couldn’t control. Dream’s gaze was almost uncomfortable for a moment, a moment of almost tension before it softened, the eyes this starlit scatter that knew when to go quietly. Hob felt fragile under his regard but held gently, held gently in the hand of something kind, because it wasn’t invasive.

Dream had just found something still new to being seen.

Neither of them said anything, the only sound the clink of his spoon against the inside of the bowl, and perhaps there had been something uncomfortable in that too, in disturbing the silence. It didn’t change the taste, the soup that warmed him right to the bone. Hob wanted to gobble it all up at once, he wanted it to never end; he went slow, wanted to savour it, wanted to languish under the light of this sun, and when the bowl was empty he set it aside with a sated sort of longing.

“Thank you.”

Hob blamed the hoarse edge of his voice on needing to cough. He did so—a truly horrible, rattling sound—was quickly handed water, took slow sips before handing it back.

“You will rest now.”

Even Dream's softened tone maintained its firm command. His friend took the bowl and glass away, went to the kitchen and returned empty handed for the first time. This time Dream sat down next to Hob on the sofa, careful to remain outside of the duvet, scooting it aside to make room.

He sighed when Hob began to inch his way closer.

“I will not keep you warm, do not try and cuddle.”

“Shh.” Hob blamed his sudden desire to cling to Dream like a particularly stubborn octopus on being ill, wasted no more time on justification, wrapping his arms around him and nestling into his side. This was rare too—the comfort of another body, an indulgent soothing when he was weak—and true to his word, Dream was icy cold, and not very comfortable besides. He was all lean muscle and jutting bone, had no need for a body made with humanity’s softness, but that didn’t bother Hob at all.

In fact, he was fairly sure his rebuttal ended up sounding vaguely petulant.

“I’m ill. You have to be nice to me.”

Dream raised a brow. “Do I?”

“It’s the rules.” Hob slurred, head slipping down to rest on Dream’s shoulder, uncaring of the sharp nature of it, already half asleep. “‘otta do it.”

“Well if it’s the rules then I suppose I must obey.”

He could almost hear the smile.

Hob frowned.

“‘aking fun o’ me?”

“Perish the thought.” Dream replied dryly.

“You are!”

“Hush.” Came the gentle reply, soft like a caress, swiftly joined by the feeling of fingers running through his hair. “Go to sleep.”

Hob couldn’t refuse.