Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The streets of London were flooded with the usual busy rush for the beginning of a new term. Students and teachers and others in the working class, all huddled nearly shoulder-to-shoulder in the tube. Not to mention the end of July heat. Not as bad as June, but still hot enough to make the tube uncomfortably stuffy, especially in the dress shirt and slacks Dr Robert Gadling wears to work. It’d been a pretty uneventful, very needed break. The most exciting thing he’d done was go to his parent’s house in Stratford-Upon-Avon for the holidays, to see his older siblings and his nieces and nephews. He’s the youngest of three, and both of his elder sisters have married and had children. Eldest of his nieces being about 16 now. And most of the questions from his family had been about his love life and when he’d get married… Which is.. Frustrating, but he knows they all mean well. He’s 33, almost 34, and all of his past relationships either were not serious enough to get around to familial introductions, or had blown over right after they've gotten serious enough.

Apart from hearing his sisters ask if he had anyone “special”, he’d just stayed home in his flat in London. Eating himself to death with junk food while watching The Great British Bake Off and Rupaul’s Drag Race reruns for the thousandth time. Nothing too interesting, but still enjoyable, so he wasn't complaining. Not now since term has started again, and all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed and sleep until noon like he had before.

Hob huffed silently as he held for dear life onto the bar over his head, people crowding in around him. He'd barely had time for his morning coffee, having gotten ready in a hurry after waking up a few minutes too late. It'll be a few days until he gets used to his early morning routine again. And until those days come, it'll be living hell to get up early and take the Tube.
He gets out at his stop, along fellow colleagues he knows solely by face, and a few students he recognizes from previous years. It becomes increasingly stuffy as the minutes go by and the sun sets its place in the sky. Hob is able to get to campus before the heat becomes unbearable. Before he starts to sweat too much through his undershirt. He opens up his office, leaving the stopper at the door and opening a window to let a breeze in and create a draft. Not wanting to turn on the aircon just yet. Knowing how the one in his office just loves to break at the most inconvenient moments if used too much, he'd rather save it for the days the heat becomes truly unbearable.

He makes his way down to the professor's lounge, setting up the coffee machine to make some fresh coffee. Hob pulls out his phone and scrolls aimlessly while the crackling sounds of the coffee being brewed are the only things heard. Until the ruffling of someone else walking into the lounge.

"Morning Gadling." Jo, or Johanna, a fellow history professor, specializing in the Georgian and the Victorian era. Also one of Hob's closest friends since uni.

"Hello Jo, brewing some fresh coffee, want some?"

"Yeah, sure." She sits down with a huff, setting her messenger bag on the table.
"New classic literature professor. Seems like a pretty important bloke, wrote some books and some Hollywood scripts– Thanks." She says, as Hob hands her a cup of fresh coffee.

"Huh, didn't know that. You know his name?" He takes a sip of his own coffee, sitting across from Jo.

"Nah, just heard of him from Rach and Matthew, since he's in their department."

Hob nods, he'll probably meet the guy til the end of the week. On fridays they all usually go out to a nearby pub to drink as a little beginning of term celebration, and to get to know the new teachers. Maybe this guy will go.

Hob is looking forward to meeting this new teacher,

He drinks his coffee, chats more with Jo, and goes to class. The week starts and ends. In that usual haze of anxiety and adrenaline, new young, bright faces, most fresh from high school, others a bit later into their respective educational journeys, the mysterious new professor now gone from his mind, too occupied from meeting his new students and welcoming back the old ones. Setting up schedules and planning the upcoming weeks with his fellow teachers and the interns assigned to him this year, he could feel it'd be busier than normal this year round. But Hob had his experience, and could handle it.

Friday rolled around faster than ever, Jo invited Hob to a night out along with the other teachers, and Hob suggested they go to the pub a few streets away from his house. The place wasn't too expensive and a good distance from a few other colleagues' houses and an underground station, so no one would be too far from their respective homes and have to drunkenly stumble back unsafely, at ungodly hours of the night. Because if Jo was the one orchestrating this whole outing, only god knows when he'll get home that night. Especially with new teachers on campus, Jo enjoys spooking the “fresh meat” as she calls it, to Rachel’s distaste.

Thus, Hob is reminded of the new professor. He’s heard whispers about the man from his students, mostly fawning over how “goth” he is or freaking out about him being the author of their favorite book series. Yet Hob has still not gotten a name. He asks Jo if the new guy is going, which she answers in a plethora of smirking emojis before properly answering that yes, he will be going.

Hob goes home first, wanting to at least wash up and not have to carry around his messenger bag, always stuffed to the brim with his laptop, folders, loose papers and notebooks he buys for himself that Jo always makes fun of him about, calling him old fashioned for still preferring to write manually. He gets home and does exactly that, taking a shower and changing out of his uncomfortable work clothes and into some decent outing clothes, so he’d look nice but not too nice, then he heads out to the pub. Finding most of his colleagues there already. Matthew is chatting animatedly with a man he does not know.

"Hey! Gadling! Come meet Morpheus!" Matthew, the American man, who's been at their uni ever since he was a student, Hob had a few of the same classes as him when he was a student too. But he'd never gotten very close like he'd gotten close to Jo and Rach, who don't seem to be here just yet. So much for rushing him. Matthew calls him over, waving his hand as the new professor, Morpheus, looks over his shoulder and meets his eyes.

It's like time stops, Hob nearly stumbles over himself when he sees the most beautiful man he's ever seen. All Morpheus does is smirk slightly, and Hob is washed over with the strongest déja vu of his entire life. It's like he's been here, in this exact moment before, gazing into the man's hypnotizing blue eyes. It nearly knocks him over with the sheer force of the feeling. But he’s able to get over it without stumbling. His heart races, beating so hard he can feel it in his throat, he walks over, never breaking eye contact with Morpheus, who looks at him with the same intensity, and Hob asks himself if he’s not the only one that feels this strange, inexplicable connection.

“Ah, hello, you must be the new classic lit professor i’ve been hearing about?” He says, breathlessly. Praying neither of the two men he’s with notice as he extends his hand to offer Morpheus a handshake.

“Indeed, I am. You must be Robert Gadling, yes?” He replies, in a deep, soothing baritone that makes Hob’s stomach do flips as Morpheus accepts the handshake. They both gasp softly at the electric shock that they feel once their hands are joined. “Ow! Sorry, did I shock you?” Hob asks, trying to laugh it off, nervously wiping his hands on his pants. Why is he nervous? He has no reason to be. Get yourself together, Hobsie.

“It is alright, it did not hurt.” Morpheus replies, in the most posh accent Hob has ever heard. Rubbing his hands together.

“Anyways, uh- yeah, I’m Robert Gadling. And you’re Morpheus..?”

“Morpheus Apeiron. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Gadling, I have seen many
articles worth of your work before.”

Hob raises his eyebrows. He remembers Jo saying this guy was big in the writing industry, he’d barely considered it would be Morpheus of the Apeiron family. World renowned, Greek multi-millionaires, every single one is successful in one way or another. Hob had never really seen Morpheus’ face before. He’d only really known his name.

“Oh wow. No wonder my students have been talking nonstop about you. Also, you know me?”

Morpheus nods “I do. Your articles are very impressive, and I have come to notice many of my students also attend your classes.”

“Yeah! Me too, I heard them talking about you all week, just never caught a name, and call me Hob, no need of honorifics nor last names.” Hob chuckles, turning to Matthew as he realizes he hadn’t greeted him only to find him watching them with a slightly raised eyebrow. “Shit, sorry Matthew, that was rude of me” He laughs awkwardly, tugging at his ear as a nervous habit. He’d been so hypnotized by Morpheus he’d accidentally ignored Matthew completely.

Luckily, he does not seem offended. “Nah, it’s fine. I wanted to introduce you two anyways, Jo and Rachel are here, I’ll leave you two to talking” He smiles and walks away, walking up to the two women. Rachel, bubbly as she is, looks in his and Morpheus’ direction, and waves, nudging Johanna to do the same. She does, but as she sees Hob and her expression changes, strangely. Eyes widening for less than a second before she puts on her usual grin and waves back. Odd. Hob thinks. Jo has been acting differently ever since the start of the week.

The unease at Jo’s expression fizzles out when Morpheus speaks again, the inexplicable amount of familiarity nearly consuming him as he turns back to the man. “Hob?” he asks, and Hob nearly misses the question, lost in his head, staring at Morpheus’ lips as they move.

“Hm, yeah?”

“Oh, no. That is just an. Unusual nickname for ‘Robert’, can't imagine it’s very common?” Morpheus observes, and Hob catches a bit of… Something in Morpheus’ eyes, too quick to name before it’s gone.

“Ah,” Hob chuckles softly, “Old English name, was used as a nickname too. In Uni I studied about some bloke in the late 15th century who worked with Caxton who was also named Robert and went by Hob.” He explains. “Someone thought I kinda looked like one of the drawings and called me Hob and it kinda stuck.”

Morpheus nods, “I see,” and after a beat of silence, he seems to be about to say something else, but the two are interrupted by Johanna going over to them.

“Aye, c’mon Hob don’t hog the new guy all to yourself, the others’ are getting drinks” She says looking in between him and Morpheus more than once. “I’m Jo, Johanna by the way. Pretty sure you’ve met Rach already?”

Once again, Morpheus nods, “I have, yes. It is a pleasure, Johanna.”

“Yeah yeah, pleasure’s all mine, all that, now come on” Jo then grabs Hob, starts to drag him toward his other colleagues and gestures for Dream to follow, which he does.

Then the two are thrust into having to make small talk with their colleagues, or at least Hob is, since every time he looks over at Morpheus, he doesn't seem to be talking much. Matthew drags him to speak to small groups of people a few times, but overall he looks content in being on his own. Hob does catch Morpheus likewise looking at him more than once, and is rewarded with the smallest of smirks each time.
Hob does speak to Morpheus a bit more once Matthew drags him over to where he, Jo and another coworker, Wanda, are and overall, the outing is pleasant, and only Johanna gets drunk to the point Rachel has to help her leave. Which is a pretty normal occuring, to say the least.

And at the end of the night, Hob bares a farewell to everyone and goes home. Dreaming of ice blue eyes that are far too familiar for any comfort.

Chapter Text

The Tavern stank of ale and piss.

Lord Morpheus Aendelais, and his sister, Lady Telelute, sat in a run down tavern in the middle of London, drinking ale that smelled more like urine than alcohol, listening to the other patrons joke and complain, drunkenly whining about the king's increasing taxes.
They are only there because Telelute claimed Morpheus should 'get out more', claiming he's a recluse in his own manor.

She is not wrong.

“I do not see the point of this, sister-” He starts, hands around the wooden mug they’ve given him. It’s crudely made and the metal on it is rusted.

"Drink your drink." She says, sipping her ale, Morpheus mirrors her, and nearly gags at the rank taste assaulting his tongue. The ale did not only smell like piss, then. He had no idea how Telelute could stand drinking this.

He sighs, setting the crude mug on the table. "Why are we still here, sister?" They've barely been here an hour and he already wants to leave, go home to his quarters and his books and his writings. His surroundings are too loud, he wants to go home.

"Listen to the people, sometimes they have something interesting to say."

He sighs, leaning back in his chair. What point was there? These people all did the same thing: drink, complain, make bad jokes and harass the barmaids.

He was not used to being out and about, as his sister and most of his other siblings were. Morpheus was more of a recluse, uninterested in women like so many of the noblemen he’s been forced to interact with are. He is not the eldest son, so the responsibility of producing an heir or two does not fall onto him. As it does his eldest brother, Fausto, nor his eldest sister, who is the one with him on this night. In the midst of the townspeople. Because of this privileged position of youngest child, he can do what he wishes, love who he wishes. He’s taken many men as lovers, tried women in his youth, but to no avail. He enjoyed solely the company of men.

Morpheus sighs once more. Sipping the ale, that tasted a bit less of urine at a second taste. Telelute chuckles at a joke told at another table. Something about putting hands up dresses and hunting for rabbits, Morpheus could care less, he looks the other way. A voice grabs hold of his attention

“Look, I've seen death. I lost half my village to the Black Death. I fought under Buckingham in Burgundy. It's not like I don't know what death is. Death is... stupid.” A bearded man at a table nearby says, joking with his mates. He has tanned skin, dark brown hair. A bright, beaming smile and a laugh that curls and resides in the lordling’s chest.

“You're a fool, Hob.” A man beside him laughs, punching the man’s shoulder lightly. Hob.

“Nobody has to die. The only reason people die is... “ He pauses, swirling his mug a bit, a thought glimmering in his eyes. He looks up, and his and Morpheus’ eyes meet for a split second, Hob grins a bit, and finishes his thought. “...is 'cause everyone does it. You all just go along with it. But not me. I've made up my mind. I'm not going to die.”

The men at his table erupt in laughter, pushing and shoving each other as well as Hob, who says nothing, just laughs and drinks more of his ale.

“Hobs,” Another of the men starts, “Death comes for every man.”

“You don't know that. I might get lucky.” Hob argues “There's always a first time. There's so much to do, so many things to see. Women to swive. Ale to drink. People to drink with.” He gestures at one of the barmaids, she brings him more ale. He smiles at her, and Morpheus finds himself craving to be the one Hob smiles at.

“Why would any sensible creature crave an eternity of this?” He hears himself ask. Frankly, he enjoyed hearing how much Hob desires to live eternally, however, he does not understand it. What is there to enjoy? Hob had mentioned some things, sure, but Morpheus had always been content in his own mortality, the comfort of the inevitable end.

“You could find out.” Telelute answers, watching him, a small, knowing grin on her face.

“How?”

She rolls her eyes. “Go talk to him! I saw how you were looking at him while he gave his little speech, he’s not bad looking.. And we are here to have fun” She gestures for him to go.

Dream looks over again, the men sat at the table, Hob’s friends, presumably, are still laughing at him.

“And what will you do with all that life, Hob?” One of them asks. “I'll find better friends than you, I can tell you that.” Hob replies, seeming to start to get annoyed.

“Well? Are you going?” Telelute eggs him on. He risks a glance at the man again, their eyes meet once more, and this time, the eye contact lasts for a few, long seconds. Hob raises an eyebrow, taking a sip of his ale, eyes lit with mirth.

“I shall.” Morpheus says, getting up and walking toward Hob’s table, he is sitting near an edge, and he follows Morpheus as he approaches, sitting up straighter than he had before.

“Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?” Morpheus asks, tilting his head slightly, the tiniest smirk on his lips. He has a feeling that a small bit of charm will go a long way with this man, that is, if he does indeed enjoy the company of men. Which the lord is inclined to believe he does.
Hob chuckles, turning to face Morpheus. “Yeah, that's right.” he answers, the small grin from before remaining on the man’s lips.

“Then you must tell me.. Whatever would you plan to do with all that time?” He furrows his eyebrows slightly, never breaking eye contact with Hob, who does not look away either.

“Oh? Should I now?” Hob tilts his head, mirroring Morpheus. A few low murmurs are heard from Hob’s companions, and from what Morpheus hears, mostly comments of ‘How much you wanna bet Hobsie’s gonna bed the pretty lordling?’ which, if it goes to how he plans, will absolutely be the case.

“Indeed, If you are.. Amenable?” Morpheus bats his dark eyelashes, knowing very well how that works on whoever he wishes to seduce.
He sees Hob inhale, before downing the rest of his ale and getting up. He is only a little bit taller than Morpheus, but far more robust and broader than him.

“Then what do you say I tell you.. Elsewhere?” Hob proposes, eyeing Morpheus in a way that makes him shiver. Any doubt that this man does not like men is completely gone now.

Morpheus smirks. “I think that is an excellent idea.”
Hob turns to his companions, putting a few coins on the table “That’s for my expense, until later” he grins and winks, and as they walk away, he hears cheering and cat calling. Morpheus glances at Telelute, who sips her ale with a knowing grin.

Hob chuckles at the sounds of his friends. “Sorry ‘bout them, don't seem to catch a hint, Hob, Hob Gadling, by the way.”

Morpheus lets out a small chuckle of his own. “It is.. Alright.. I am.." He is about to say his name, but he freezes, unsure. His family has a reputation, and while he's slept with men before, it was never anything as spontaneous as this.

"Uhm.." He looks at Hob, uncertain about how this man will react to Morpheus hesitating to give him a name.

All he finds is a knowing grin and the same mirth in big, chocolate brown eyes.

"Can't tell me your name, can you, Lordling?"

Morpheus blushes, looking down and shaking his head. Something about the way Hob looks at him. He's been called Lordling many times, but he's never felt this attracted to someone he's just met in.. Well… Ever.

"Got a reputation to withhold, have you? I get it, can't get around that you've been around with some lowly soldier" Hob winks at him, not a drop of offense or even self deprecation in his words.

"I apologize.." Morpheus replies. "My.. My family is not unknown.. I am no heir, but I would be theirs to blame if it ever.. Spread… And.."

"Damaged their reputation?" Hob finishes, now serious. They've stopped walking, all of his attention is on Morpheus.

He nods. "Yes. I.. I am sorry… I would understand if you did not want-" He is interrupted by a warm hand on his shoulder. He looks up to meet Hob's eyes.

"None of that, love, I don't need to know your name.." Hob leans in to whisper in Morpheus' ear. "All you need to know is mine so you can scream it later..."

Morpheus feels his face burn, "Oh." Is all he says. "Alright." He inhales, shakily, Hob's hand trails from his shoulder to his arm. Softly, the most gentle touch Morpheus has ever felt from a man who's just whispered words of utter desire into his ear.

"I live nearby. It'll be more private, if that's what you'd like." Hob's grin returns to his face. And Morpheus' insides feel like molten lava.

"I would like that, yes."

The next thing Morpheus knows, is that he’s being pushed against the wall and kissed with more hunger than any man has ever shown him. He gasps against Hob’s lips, kissing back with fervor. He grips Hob’s tunic, browned from age and labor, a moan is pulled out of his chest as Hob kisses his neck, unruly beard scraping against his sensitive skin in a way he hopes will leave a burn. He bites his bottom lip.

The way Hob touches him makes him nearly forget his own name. Hands gliding down his chest, to his hips, his back. Pulling his shirt out of his trousers, it feels amazing, he feels truly wanted.

“Tell me,” Morpheus starts, as Hob’s mouth travels lower and lower with each lace undone on Morpheus’ tunic. “Tell me what you would do?”

Hob hums against his skin, the vibration making Morpheus shiver. “Do what?”

“If you truly couldn't die, what would you do?”
The question makes Hob chuckle, he pulls away only to push the tunic off and look up into Morpheus’ eyes. And the lord knows not if the darkness in Hob’s eyes is from the dim lighting or merely from lust.

“Thought you only said that to get to talk to me”

“Perhaps,” Morpheus admits, “Perhaps I am interested”

“In me?” Hob asks, wrapping his lips around one of Morpheus’ nipples, making him gasp as he replies:

“In your experience.”

It seems to be a satisfactory answer, seeing as Hob surges up and lifts Morpheus like he weighs nothing, and lying him on the hay stuffed mattress, nothing Morpheus had ever laid on before, nor ever been laid on.

“Then you’ll find out” Hob says, removing the rest of Morpheus’ clothes, his boots, his breeches. Morpheus does the same to him, all the while Hob tells him what he would do with all the time he’d gain with an eternal life, all the things he’d do, what he’d see, where he’d go.

It almost convinces Morpheus he too could endure living eternally.

With that, they spend the night together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and the smell of Hob’s natural musk invading Morpheus’ senses, it is intoxicating. Morpheus relishes in the sensation, whispered praises as he has his tongue on Hob’s skin, sweet caresses and tightened grips as one of them sucks a bruise into the other’s skin.

“Gonna ruin you for every other man, lordling” Hob murmurs eventually, into Morpheus’ ear. Little does he know, he already has.
Keeping it true to Hob’s prior statement, Morpheus finishes the night by screaming Hob’s name.

By the time they’ve both finished and cleaned with a rag and water Hob generously provided, Hob has knocked out, snoring softly beside Morpheus.
But Morpheus has to leave.
It aches his heart with how quickly he must, but he has to return to his sister, to his manor. So he dresses and leaves as the first rays of sunlight dawn on the village. Hob wakes alone, to a cold bed.

Not a day later, he receives a letter, delivered by who Hob recognizes as a personal servant, a blond haired man with a knowing, toothy smile, who leaves no explanation despite Hob’s attempt at a protest due to the fact that he cannot read.

The letter is handwritten, not very long, yet all he can make out is his own name. There is no doubt of who it’s from. Hob makes a personal vow to learn how to read, but he is never able to.

Mere days later, Hob, contrary to his desire to never die, was killed in a bar fight he only entered to separate. Letter tucked safely into his tunic.

Morpheus, on the other hand, lived a few more years, waiting for a visitor that never arrived, yet passed of dysentery, as many people of that time did.

They never saw each other again.

Chapter Text

“Morpheus!”

He snaps out of it.

“Huh? What?” He sits at a table in one of the many vegan cafés his sister, Omisha, enjoys going to, occasionally finding an opportunity to drag him along when they are both free.

Morpheus’ eldest sister, Omisha, was a very successful and sought-out doctor, specializing in cardiology; she has also worked with the Red Cross, but abandoned that a few years ago to open her own funeral home: The Sunless Lands, becoming a mortician and now dealing with the deceased. Their parents had not approved, at first, but then once they'd seen the income it brought, they accepted Omisha's new career choices, and The Sunless Lands had been the go-to funeral company for the rich and famous.

And recently, she'd opened another funeral home under her name in London, all because Morpheus was coming to live here to get away from their hectic family and for more job opportunities, and she followed.

"What're you thinking about?" She asks with a grin, sipping her oat milk chai.

"Nothing," He replies, stirring his caramel latte.

Omisha raises an eyebrow, looking skeptical, out of their siblings, she is the one who knows him the best, and knows when he’s being avoidant. “C’mon Morph” She insists, “What’s on your mind?”

Morpheus sighs into his drink, “It is.. Dumb,” he starts. “But have you ever met someone.. You feel as if you already knew?” He doesn't meet his sister’s gaze at first, fiddling with the rings he wears on his hands. Omisha bites and chews her vegan croissant thoughtfully.

“Not sure… Elaborate?”

“I’m not sure how… There is just this man at the university I’ve begun working at this past week that… I mean, I’ve read some articles of his, but when I saw him it was strange, overwhelming, even.” His gaze grows distant, brows furrowed in thought.

“Huh,” she muses “Sure you've never seen him before? Like at some sort of meeting or party or whatever?”

Morpheus shakes his head. “I believe I would… Remember, if I had.”

“Hm?” Omisha hums with a grin. “Would you now?”

Morpheus feels his face grow hot, while his sister’s grin only widens, “Ohh” She nods. “Alright, I get it now..”

“No- Omi, it isn’t-” He tries to protest, but he only feels his face burn more, he groans and lowers his head to the table, covering his face with his arms while Omisha laughs brightly.

“Oh, little brother” She chuckles, “Do you have a crush?” She asks, delighted, even setting her half-empty drink aside, to lean forward, chin on her palms, elbows on the table. Waiting for Morpheus to lift his head up.

And he does, but not without scrunching his nose, “I do not have a… crush.” He replies, “I am no schoolboy to have… crushes.”

“Uh-huh, alright” She says, not convinced, picking her drink back up and taking a sip while still grinning at Morpheus.

He rolls his eyes, and sets in to finish his food. Soon, the two leave, walking to the tube station together and then heading their separate ways, Omisha gives Morpheus a tight hug once his arrives.

“Don’t be a stranger” she says, as he pulls away.

“I won't” He reassures, getting onto the tube and sitting down. He rests his head back with a sigh. Unsure what to think about his sister’s words.

It couldn’t be a crush, he hadn't even spoken to the man all that much, apart from their initial recognition of each other’s works.

He could, however, admit that he did find the other man to be attractive. Very much so, in fact. But that could be dealt with, Morpheus found many people physically attractive, even if he had no desire to act upon it.

Morpheus gets off the tube at his stop, heading home to work on one of his recent works in progress, a prequel to his main best selling horror novels, that deal with other matters of his main character; The Corinthian.

He’d first written this character as a child, a fantasy of sorts to deal with strong emotions and his blooming homosexuality. Then it had gotten darker during his teenage years. Blonde, charming, make-believe boyfriend turned vicious serial killer, still keeping all his previous traits, although now he had a story, a motive, and Morpheus had already gone to therapy and had gotten over the silly little childhood crush over his own character. The Corinthian had existed and lived long after.

Morpheus had a long while before he had to send the first draft to his editor, but now he had a few problems, history related problems that had him falling down a rabbit hole and ending up, two hours later, reading about a topic that had absolutely nothing to do with what he needed.

He sighed heavily, pushing away from his desk and rubbing his eyes. He'd written a good amount this evening, and it was already far later than what he’d planned to stay up for, so he goes to bed, double checking his alarm for work the following morning.

The next day, once on campus, Morpheus heads to the professor’s lounge and finds it mostly empty, the only other professor there being Hob, who currently was standing at the coffee machine. “Oh, good morning, Morpheus” the man greets joyfully, turning around to see who arrived at the sound of movement.

“Good morning,” Morpheus replied, as joyous as he could at that hour, pulling out one of the chairs to sit at the table. He still had around 20 minutes before class started, but he’d rather be early than late.

“Coffee will be done in a few, you look like you need some” Hob chuckled, sitting down at the table next to him.

Morpheus had not only gone to bed late, but failed to fall asleep; insomnia was another one of his biggest tormentors, and he’d yet to be prescribed his sleeping pills in London, since he hadn't restocked before moving, it was his fault entirely, and no amount of chamomile tea nor warm milk would do the trick.

“Ah,” He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right” He replies, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

“Hangover?” Hob asks, raising a mischievous eyebrow at Morpheus.

“No, no, god no” He replied, sitting up a bit straighter, usually, he would be a bit offended at the assumption, but at Hob’s small, teasing grin, he could only take it in humor. “Just.. Not a very good night’s sleep, I suppose”

Hob nods, making a small noise of understanding, and the coffee machine beeps, announcing it’s ready, so he rises to his feet, and before Morpheus can do the same; “I’ll get your cup for you, how do you like your coffee?”

“Ah, uhm.. Bit of milk, two teaspoons of sugar will suffice” He replies, and Hob turns to grin at him.

“Thought you’d say ‘black, like my soul’, honestly” He chuckles, making Morpheus and his own coffee and walking back over. “Here you are”

Morpheus lets out a small chuckle. “Thank you,” he wraps his hands around the warm mug, he has yet to bring his own. He would have to find it amongst the many boxes he still has not moved to unpack, first. “My sister makes the same joke, yet she is the cheery one who drinks black coffee without sugar”

“Without sugar? Oh, is she some sort of psychopath?” Hob asks, stirring his own coffee and sitting back down across from Morpheus.

“No, just worked in healthcare for a good while, she is a mortician now. Yet her caffeine habits remain as if she’s about to work a 20 hour shift”

Hob laughs, and Morpheus can’t help but allow a tiny smile as he takes a sip of his coffee. It is… Surprisingly easy to talk to Hob, scarily so. He usually would not have mentioned his sister, nor joked so easily with an acquaintance, but the way Hob pokes fun at small things is… Amusing, to say the least.

“That’ll explain it, healthcare workers do not have it easy” Hob says, and Morpheus nods, agreeing.

The rest of the conversation goes well, albeit blandly. Casual questions and talk when speaking with a coworker you get along with. And Morpheus pointedly ignores how attractive he finds Hob, how his subtle teasing never crossed the line of being malicious, how there are crows feet at the edges of his eyes when he grins, how he seemed to pay deep attention to every word Morpheus was saying to him, and…

Fuck, perhaps Omisha was right after all…

Once his 20 minutes are up, he bids Hob a small goodbye and leaves to teach his morning lecture. Punching down the feeling in his stomach. He cannot fancy this man, hell, he doesn’t even know if he’s into men. For all he knows, Hob could very well be straight, and he’d rather cut any hope at the roots before he gets too attached. He was not repeating his last mistake regarding his love life.

Morpheus allows himself to focus and be absorbed in his lecturing, and before he knows it, it’s nearly lunch and he only has another class for after two o-clock.
Enough time to eat and perhaps work on researching for those pesky historical inaccuracies in his draft.

He saves some links he’s able to find, still not exactly the specifics of what he wanted, but that’s all he’s able to do by the end of lunch. He sighs and drops it for whatever other work he has to do regarding the school before he gets too frustrated over it.

Around 1 PM is when there is a knock on his office door.

“Come in,” He calls out, hearing the door open and not looking up from his computer until he hears a familiar voice speak.

“Sorry to bother you, Morpheus…” Hob enters his office, carrying a few folders.

“Oh, you’re not bothering at all… Do you need something?” He asks, hoping, foolishly, that Hob does need something of him. Anything that could grant him more time in his presence. If he gets to know Hob… He’ll surely find something that’ll turn him off in such a way, he won’t have a crush on him anymore.

“Sort of,” Hob chuckles. “Got an email saying we were gonna teach a few classes together this trimester? History of literature, to be exact…”

“Are we?” Morpheus raises his eyebrows, turning to his computer and opening his emails.

“Oh, yes, we are. Hadn’t seen that email, my apologies… Please, take a seat.” He says, gesturing to the seats in front of his desk, and the smile Hob gives him in return makes him need to pinch himself in order to not return the smile like a lovesick puppy.

“Don’t worry about it,” He says, sitting down, sliding the folder he had in hand over to Morpheus on the table. “Um, so I was thinking, maybe we could merge our classes, give a few introductory lectures, since I believe it’ll be our first years, and then for the end of trimester assignment for our class, we put them into mixed groups, maybe assign or let them choose ancient, early medieval, medieval or early modern pieces or authors? Have them present their research?”

Morpheus nods along, flipping through the folder given to him, a few different pages of planning on the more historical side of the given topic, he’ll provide more of the cultural impact and actual works and authors of their respective time periods.

“You assign group powerpoints?” He inquires, raising an eyebrow, he meant for it to sound like a joke, but it comes off more snide than he’d intended.

If Hob were anyone else, it probably would’ve been a snide comment. But with him, it just isn’t.

Luckily, Hob doesn’t take much offense to it, merely chuckling and scratching at his chin, where the shadow of a recently shaven stubble sits… Flashes of how it feels against his skin comes to the forefront of his mind, against his lips, against his chest, against his thighs. So vivid, like he’s experienced it before.

Christ, stop that.

That thought distracts him enough to realize, once he’s snapped out of it, that he’s completely missed what Hob’s just said.

“Morpheus? Are you alright?” Hob asks, tilting his head, slightly puzzled as Morpheus finally looks at him.

“Sorry, my mind, uhm, wandered for a moment… What did you say?”

“Oh, no problem, just said that I do give my students powerpoint assignments sometimes, mostly when I want to go easy on them. First years are the ones with those privileges most of the time” He smiles, and that almost sends Morpheus into another spiral.

“I see, I do not usually give my students those kinds of assignments, I prefer more… Traditional assignments, I suppose” This way of thinking makes a good portion of his students dislike him, he’s aware of it, he’s heard complaints about being strict. But he’s afraid Hob might share the sentiment if he mentions it, so he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” Hob shrugs. “Depends on the professor and what they like to do, we don’t have to make it a powerpoint presentation if you don’t want to, we can figure out something else, I don’t mind, we have about a month to plan ahead.”

“No, I’ll compromise, I’m sure my students will appreciate a more straightforward assignment given to them” Morpheus allows himself a small chuckle. “And the students who will not be participating in this class will be a bit jealous”

Hob lets out a chuckle of his own, that as much as Morpheus would currently hate to admit, made his insides flutter with strange, unfamiliar yet so familiar affection.

“So that’s the kind of professor you are, huh?” And despite the grin on Hob’s face, his stomach drops just a bit.

He’s never cared much about what other people might think of him, why does he care so much about what Hob might think of him?

“Well, I- I prefer doing what’s efficient to their learning-” He starts, but Hob interrupts.

“Hey, I’m just teasing you, like I said, each professor has their method, and I’m sure you’re a great one, kind of excited to watch one of your lectures, actually”

His words, albeit rather tame, along with the look Hob gives him, ignites something deep and long forgotten in Morpheus, he can't help but feel a bit bashful, the way his cheeks burn with a flush he’s sure Hob can see. God he has to get over himself, he barely knows him, surely he’s getting the wrong idea- that idea hadn’t even been suggested.

“Thank you, I’m flattered” He replies, trying to keep a semblance of his cool despite his inner turmoil. “But I will inform you, flattery does not go far with me” It’s his attempt at a joke, he’s had students and colleagues alike attempt to kiss his ass, to put it crudely, due to the knowledge of his status and wealth, well, his family’s status, the money he has is very much his own, he moved to England to get away from the status, but it continuously seems to haunt him.

“Well, then I’ll just have to try harder, won’t I?” Hob gives him a grin that leaves him at a loss for words. He glances away, trying to hide the smile on his face, he glances at the time on his computer.

He’s going to be late to his next lecture. He’s never late.

“Shit!” He exclaims, jumping up to his feet “I’m going to be late to my next class, we can discuss our conjoined lectures later” Morpheus explains, gathering the things he’ll need.

“Right, sorry for distracting you, I’ll email you later?” Hob replies as he rises to his feet. Morpheus nods at his words, and Hob holds his office door open for him on the way out.

He was two minutes late to his lecture, which was quite the record for him.

At the end of the day, after a few back to back lectures and office hours where he’d helped some students of his who’d either scheduled a meeting or came in spontaneously to ask for some help, he decides to sit in a pub he’s found, not too far from his flat, in the far corner with some coffee. As much as he’d prefer staying at home, the change of scenery does help things flow better, the environmental chatter is fairly minimal, since it is a weekday, but he doesn’t mind it all too much.

Yet again, he finds nothing of real use and gets distracted, he rubs an exasperated hand over his face, and sits back to take a sip of his now cold cup of coffee, grimacing at the taste, he puts it down, turning to wave down a waiter for fresh cup of coffee, he spots a familiar face approaching.

“Hey there, stranger”

“Matthew,” Morpheus greets, as his friend approaches, sitting across from him. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here”

“Was in the area,” Matthew shrugs, as an explanation, Morpheus is aware Matthew lives nearby as well, since he was given a ride home last friday, after their get together celebration for the new semester. He’s been friendly acquaintances with Matthew ever since he’d gone to Greece at the university Morpheus used to work at for his masters, around the same time he was getting his own masters degree.

Despite being in wildly different fields, Morpheus in literature, and Matthew in Physical Education, they’d become friends, mostly due to Matthew’s outgoing and extroverted nature, and the fact that Morpheus was the first person he met that spoke english and was actually interested in helping him improve his (at the time) mediocre greek.

They’d never truly kept in touch, merely congratulating each other on academic accomplishments once in a while on social media, which Morpheus barely uses, nor can he be bothered to hire a PR team anytime other than when his next book needs advertising.

That is, until Morpheus mentioned he would be moving to London, Matthew had assisted him, given him tips, sent him flat advertisements, even helped him secure his current job at the same university Matthew teaches at. Greeted him like an old friend when they’d finally met again.

Matthew is proving himself to be a quite good and loyal friend, and for that, Morpheus couldn’t complain, not even a bit.

“So, what’re you doing here, Morph?”

“Ah, just, attempting to work on my latest book…” He sighs at the dozens of tabs open on his laptop. He wishes he would just find what he needs so he could write again…

“Your new The Corinthian one? Oh dude, your character gives me the heebie jeebies, you’re doing a great job with him”

“Thank you, I wasn’t aware you’d read them” He replies, genuinely content with the fact that Matthew has read his horror fantasy books, most of everyone else in his life, except for his sister, had not appreciated them all that much.

“Of course I did, I remember your short stories you’d let me read when I was in Greece, they were great, when I saw you were publishing your own saga I knew I had to read them” Matthew flags down a waiter, and they both order a snack, Matthew is adamant about Morpheus trying the dipping sauce for this place’s fish and chips, so he obliges.

“I’ll be sure to give you a copy whenever it’s done” Morpheus tells him, “But it’ll still be a while, I’m a bit stuck at the moment, can’t for the life of me find historical references that’ll help me, not for the time period I need, that is.”

Matthew nods, contemplating, he thinks for a moment. “You know, you’ve met Hob, he’s good with that kind of stuff, history professor and all, I’m sure he’d be glad to help you get on the right track.”

Of course, Hob, why hadn’t he thought of that? It’d be convenient enough, since they will be planning their classes together.

It is also, an excuse to speak to him, perhaps spend more time with him. Find out whether he likes men or not so Morpheus can squish the expectation that blooms in his gut with every thought about the man.

“Perhaps I will, he’s sent me an email, we’ll be holding a few lectures together this semester”

“Well then, perfect, there we go” Matthew beams at him, and Morpheus can’t help but offer a small smile in return.

He turns to his computer, opens his email, finding the one Hob sent to him about the planning.

And addresses one back.

Chapter Text

“Gadal!” Caxton yells from across the shop. “Head in the clouds again, boy? Get movin’! That prissy duke’ll be here at any second to get his story printed!”

“Ah, right…” Rupert Gadal, Caxton’s current apprentice on learning the trade Caxton began not a decade prior, rushes to get the parchment in place for the inked wooden press to print the text on the paper. The book requested for printing was almost ready, only a few pages were left to print and be dried, then Duke Oneiros could pick it up. Or send someone to, but seeing as he’d personally went to supervise the printing beforehand when they’d just started, it would probably be him this time around again.

Rupert hadn’t been there the other times the Duke had visited, he’d been restocking the ink, buying them from the merchant that only visits London once every few weeks, both times it’d taken him the whole day. So he hadn’t even seen the Duke, but from what his master was saying, the man seemed snobbish, and very particular of his work. He'd read a bit of it, making sure there were no smudges on the dried pages and spending far too much time with the parchment in hand, slowly making his way through each word of the poetry written. It was beautiful, and melancholic even though Rupert wasn’t the best at reading, and there were many words he didn’t exactly know the meaning of, he could identify art when he saw it, and Caxton’s yelling for him to get back to work was worth it when he’d spend a few extra minutes reading.

He’d been working for a few minutes, focused. Jumping when the door opens, but it’s not the duke…

“Oi! Where’s Caxton, he’s needed.” The man, one Rupert did not know, says.

Rupert turns around to call for his mentor, but Caxton comes from out back before he’s able to open his mouth.

“What is it? I’ve got a duke on the way, can’t attend to you lot.”

Rupert watches his mentor walk past him and out of the shop, the door swinging open, the musty smell of dust and heat left behind as the door slams shut behind the man and Caxton, which tickles the apprentice’s nose enough to make him sneeze into the sleeve of his tunic.

The door opens back up. “Boy,” Caxton calls, so Rupert looks back up. “This’ll take a while, you attend to the duke once he arrives. Be on your best behavior, that young man’s a hassle if I've ever seen one…”

“Ah, alright.” He replies with a nod, and Caxton shuts the door once more. Waving the dust away so he won’t sneeze again, Rupert makes his way into the back of the shop to finish printing the last pages of their client’s work.

His hands are covered in ink by the time he’s done, but he doesn’t mind, his fingers have already been stained since the day he began his apprenticeship. So he just wipes them on his apron to get the thickest, wettest parts of the ink off so he can handle the pages without getting smudges on them.

He’s just finished handling the last of the pages, and was observing the ink as it dried, as he hears the neigh of a horse, and the door to the shop open.

Rupert rushes out, not wanting to make the nobleman wait, only to be stopped in his tracks, mesmerized by the vision of who he assumes is Duke Oneiros.

The man, as pale as snow, looked comically out of place, clothed as if he were mourning, in a rich velvet Rupert would only be able to describe as the very color of the ink he printed with. Hair chopped neatly around his shoulders, he observes his surroundings, gaze finally landing on the apprentice, a small smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

Rupert nearly trips over himself to give him a bow, “Ah, uhm, Duke Oneiros, I did not expect you to retrieve the pages yourself-”

“You may rise,” The duke tells him, approaching, voice as smooth as the velvets he wears. “I wanted to see where the printing itself happens, myself”

The apprentice nods, verging on frantic. He leads the duke into the back where his pages of beautiful poetry lay on the tabletops, freshly printed, ready to bind into a book.

Duke Oneiros approaches the table, sauntering gracefully, as if his feet barely touched the ground. His fingers run over the ink stained wood of the table, they caress the pages his words are printed on with awe.

“You printed this?” His eyes remain on the paper, glittering like skies of a thousand stars.

“Ah, well yes, I did” Rupert replies.

The duke’s gaze snaps to meet his, no less full of awe than when he gazed upon the printed pages.

Rupert nearly has the mind to look away, but he finds he simply can’t. “I-I’m still an apprentice, so I am learning, but I did print your pages, yes…”

“Do not sell yourself short,” The duke tells him, looking back at the pages of his work. “They’re perfect… Will you show the device that prints the letters on paper?”

“I- Of course” He nods, dutifully leading the duke to where the printing press is, showing him how it works and the ink used. He dares glance at Duke Oneiros now and again, in fear he’s boring the man, who he now realizes might just be his age as he observes the lack of deep lines similar to those he sees in Caxton’s emotes. Rupert is surprised to find that each time he explains something, the other man doesn’t seem bored in the slightest, in fact he seems thoroughly interested in everything he has to say.

“Your ability is astounding… Would you print a page for me, now? I’d like to see it”

“Right now?” Rupert stammers. “I- I mean, gladly, but I’d just need to find something to print, I’ve already finished your pages, so I’ve got none of those left- uhm…” He’s halfway standing up, wiping the sweat off his palms and the ink off his fingerprints to fetch something he can print for the duke, when he’s shown a folded piece of parchment.

“I believe this’ll do?” Duke Oneiros inquires, tilting his head just so as he extends the parchment to Rupert with long, bony fingers, urging the apprentice to take it.

Rupert shuts his mouth, taking the parchment and unfolding it. In neat, cursive handwriting matching the one he’d been copying for weeks, was a short poem, only a few lines long. It preached of morning dew and songbirds, the first rays of sunlight after a storm.

“You’d like me to print this?” Rupert looks up at the duke, his lips curve upwards and his eyes widen excitedly as he nods. Clearly interested and wanting to see what Rupert has to show him.

“Very well” Rupert sets the parchment in his lap, fastening the larger piece he’ll be printing on, and punching each letter carefully onto it, copying the few words of the poem. He’s careful not to misspell anything, as to not disappoint the duke, nor embarrass himself, but he’s gotten quite good at reading the duke’s handwriting as he’s been printing his work.

He doesn’t risk a glance over his shoulder until he’s finished, “All done,” he announces, after punching down the last of the letters, taking the parchment out from the machine, and turning to duke Oneiros.

“You must be careful while the ink’s still wet, or else it’ll-” Duke Oneiros has already taken hold of the parchment, his thumb right over the first word on the paper. “-Smudge…”

“Oh,” Duke Oneiros pulls his hand back, slowly peeling his thumb off the wet ink. Thankfully, the words aren't smudged too badly, they’ve only been stamped onto the duke’s thumb, which he rubs against his forefinger, the thin layer of rapidly drying ink staining the ivory skin of his fingertips.

“Ah, shit, I’m sorry- Let me get you a rag, or-” Rupert places the still wet page open on the nearest flat surface, and rises to his feet, verging on frantic, but Duke Oneiros stops him with a hand to his chest, slowly turning his attention away from his newly stained fingers, and to Rupert.

“There is no need,” He allows a small smile. “I am not upset by the ink.

“Ah, I- I am glad…” The duke does not remove his hand from Rupert’s chest, he feels his face steadily heat up, and he prays to God almighty that the duke can’t feel his now rapid heartbeat. “Did you... What did you think? Of the printing, that is…” He asks, feeling quite stupid. He also wonders why Caxton described this man as such a hassle, when he has not been at all.

“Fascinating,” The duke replies, looking up at Rupert. “What is your name?”

“Ah, well, it’s uhm, Rupert…”

“Well Rupert, I’d like you to print more, but not now. I do not have in hand the other poems I want printed.”

Rupert blinks, snapping out of his flustered stupor. “More? Well, gladly, my Lord. But I will have to speak to my master first, and for that he’ll have to return—”

“No, I do not want my work to be printed by Caxton,” Duke Oneiros interrupts. “I want you to print my work, would you meet me, elsewhere, so I may give them to you?”

The duke tilts his head just so as he asks, looking deeply into Rupert’s eyes, who finds he cannot just look away. He'd like that, very much. And whatever came with it, he thought, rather stupidly.

Rupert nods, “Of course, whatever you’d like.”

The duke opens a smile, “Excellent… I will contact you soon.” He raises his hand, tilting Rupert’s head to the side, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Until we meet again.” He pointedly says right against Rupert’s ear, and walks off, taking his printed work, and leaving.

A letter arrives a week later.

Rupert is lucky to be around up front as it arrives, he’d rather not have Caxton read it for him. Hiding it in his pocket for the whole day, he waits until he’s back up in his room, after the work day is done and dinner has been eaten, to read the letter.

In the sprawling calligraphy he’s learned to identify as Duke Oneiros’, is an invitation to meet him again, at the edge of the market, near the forest. Where they can walk together and not be bothered by prying eyes. Duke Oneiros mentions he’ll be dressing in a disguise so he won’t be noticed.

Rupert thinks it’s impossible for Duke Oneiros to not be noticed, even if he dresses down.

The date Duke Oneiros schedules on his letter is two days from now, so Rupert schedules his work around being free on that day. Caxton isn’t hard to convince, as long as he stays out of the way and does his work as he’s told, he’s free to have at least one day off. He finds himself rereading the letter before bed, shoving it under his pillow before blowing out the candle at his bedside table.

Finally, the day comes, and he’s out of the house once the church bells ring noon, not uncommon for the days he has free, he tells himself. He stops by the market, spending the little pocket money he receives to buy a few of the better looking apples. Surely Duke Oneiros has seen better looking fruit. But Rupert did not want to meet with him empty handed.

He pushes past the familiar faces of his fellow villagers, they’re all headed to church, he’s headed to the edge of the forest, right where the letter told him to be.
Rupert waits for a while, watching people come and go, paying him no mind as he’s quite hidden.

“Hello Rupert,” a voice says from behind him. He jumps at the noise, not having heard or noticed the approach, too distracted by his own thoughts.

“Duke Oneiros!” Rupert begins to bow, but is stopped by a firm hand at his shoulder.

“No need, not here.” He says, “Today we are equal, and my name is Elias, use it.”

Rupert closes his mouth and nods, fully taking in the Duke’s appearance now he doesn’t wear the inky black coat he wore the day they’d met. He now wears a tunic and a hood, darker colors but a far cry from his other attire.

“You really did wear a disguise,” Rupert chuckles. “If I hadn’t known, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”

“That was the intention.” The corners of Duke Onei- Elias’ mouth turn upwards into a small smile. “I fled from my butler, he won’t find me like this.”

Rupert nods, following Elias as they venture into the forest, just enough so they’ll have privacy.

Rupert speaks up after they’ve found a small clearing underneath the shade of a tall, old tree. Rupert used to play in these forests as a young boy, long before he went to Caxton for his apprenticeship.

“Have you brought your poems?” He enquires, watching as Elias sits under the tree, back against its bark. Elias looks up at Rupert expectantly as he pushes a few leaves away from the spot next to him.

He only replies once Rupert has sat in the grass beside him.

“I have, but the poems were not the only reason I’ve invited you here.” The admission surprises Rupert, but not as much as he thought it would. In fact, he was hoping it wouldn’t be the only reason.

“Then… Might I ask why, so we are on the same page?” It is Rupert’s turn to look at him expectantly, observing the angular lines of his features, softened by the youth Elias shares with him, merely a few years into manhood.

“Because I am interested.” The answer comes easy, Elias’ ice blue eyes meet Rupert’s warm brown.

“In me?” Rupert asks with a tilt to his head. A small, relieved chuckle spilling past his lips.

“Well yes,” Elias replies, gaze casting down to Rupert’s lips then back up again. “But also your experience.”

“What could possibly be interesting in my experience?” One of Rupert’s thick brows quirks upward in inquiry, what is interesting in a poor apprentice boy’s life compared to one of a Duke?

“The mere fact it is different from mine.” Is his answer.

Rupert can get behind that.

They spend the afternoon together, Elias recites the short, beautiful poems he’s brought with him, Rupert shares the apples he bought, happy when Elias seems to enjoy them. They speak of many things as the day goes by, the sun begins to set, and they both need to return to the opposing places from where they came.

“I cannot keep sending you letters, in case I am discovered. But will you be free this same time next week?” Elias asks, once they both rise to their feet and dust off the dirt and browning leaves that have stuck to their clothing.

“Yes, I- I’ll make sure of it!” Rupert agrees, giddy as Elias pushes a page of one of his poems into his hands, holding it for longer than necessary.

“Then I will see you next week.”

Their encounters become routine. Rupert makes sure to get ahead of his work, using free time Caxton is out of the shop to print the poem of the week given to him by Elias. He never accepts the printed version back. Instead, he prefers to lay his head on Rupert’s thigh beneath the elder tree.

“Read them to me?” Is his request, and Rupert doesn’t have it in his heart to refuse.

At home, Rupert carefully binds the pages of Elias’ poems into a book, adding each page as they’re finished. He keeps it under his mattress, along with the first letter addressed to him.

Occasionally, Caxton will walk in, and Rupert has to scramble to change what he is working on. He is careful to never be fully caught, but the raised eyebrow he receives now and again puts the fear of not only God, but his master in him.

It takes them a month to kiss, Rupert finishes reading the latest poem he’s been given, struggling far less now to pronounce the words than he did when they started this little ritual of theirs. He turns to look at Elias, being met by the press of a hand on his cheek and the soft press of lips against his own, still tasting of the berries he’d brought for them to share. Elias had been bold before, with lingering touches and kisses to Rupert’s cheek. And Rupert had been far too shy to do anything but simply allow and enjoy them.

But now he’s been given a liberty, he reciprocates by pulling the young man against him, tilting his head so their mouths slot together just right.

By their next encounters, Rupert still reads, they still speak. But spend their time occupied mostly by each other’s mouths, it never fully escalates, but the effect is obvious. Caxton smirks the next time he catches Rupert with his head in the clouds, teasing him by asking if he’s fallen for a girl Rupert has barely even spoken to, but knows by name.

Rupert laughs it off, allows him to believe that.

The last day he ever sees Elias, he makes the mistake of not hiding the book he bound Elias’ poems into well enough.

He hadn’t even realized his mistake, at first, too occupied with simply being in the arms of the young man he’s come to think of as his lover. Even if it was a secret kept, the unspoken truth that if anyone were to find out, they’d be killed, or worse, separated forever.

Elias had begun to ponder jobs inside of his manor for Rupert once his apprenticeship was up, which would only take a few more months. It’d be enough of an excuse for Rupert to be with Elias, no questions would be asked, he’d even be seen as successful for “working for Duke Oneiros”.

The plan was perfect, flawless even.

Until the afternoon where Rupert sat with his back against the tree, reciting Elias’ poem of the week with practiced ease. Rupert had Elias’ head in his lap, running his fingers through silky black hair, his eyes closed as he listened to Rupert’s recital.

Then Rupert is yanked from his spot onto his feet, barely having any time to react before he is shoved against the same tree he leaned against. He’s met with a furious expression on the face of Caxton himself, intimidating inches from his own face. It’s what keeps him against the tree.

”This is where you’ve been coming to this whole time, boy?!” The man growled. “Not only stealing from me but being a god damned sodomite?”

“Unhand him at once!” Elias had stumbled, hit the back of his head on the forest floor as Rupert was pulled onto his feet, but now up on his feet himself.

Caxton turns to Elias. “Stay out of this lordling! Or I’ll have the townspeople throw you into jail along with him.” He nods to Rupert for emphasis, raising the book he has in hand.

Rupert’s blood runs cold at the sight. All the explanations he could’ve given him dies on his tongue.

“No apprentice of mine’s a stealer and a sodomite without getting what’s good for him.” And he punches Rupert so hard the breath is stolen from his lungs. Rupert falls to the ground. Dazed, the world spinning as he cannot even fight back.

“Rupert!” Elias tries to go to him, but is held and pulled back by someone else who has snuck up on him. “Unhand me!” He thrashes against the hold as Caxton does not give Rupert any reaction time, yelling as the man begins to kick his lover while he’s down.

“My lord, I will not allow you to put yourself in harm's way!” He hears Lucien’s voice, the butler assigned to him since he was a boy has found him, somehow. “We are leaving.”

Elias still tries, to no avail. “He’s going to die, they’ll kill him, Lucien!”

“As they will kill you if we do not get you to safety.”

Elias is dragged away, back to the coach Lucien brought with him, given back his proper clothes. Lucien can’t help but frown as he watches the tears his master sheds on the way back home. Neither speak of it again, nor does Lucien admit to knowing where Elias had been sneaking off to for a while, and following with a coach, just in case.

He’s just saddened it had to end in this way for his master.

Caxton takes Rupert to jail once he’s done beating him. “A sodomite and a stealer.” he explains to the sheriff and his men, leaving the book as evidence, the poems written by Elias, printed by Rupert.

The men shrug once Caxton leaves, going up to the cell to the beaten and battered young man left in there.

“What was his name again?” One of them asks. “We’ll need it for the trial.”

“Maybe the book says somethin’? Wasn’t he Gadal’s boy? Poor bloke, glad he died before findin’ out what his son’s become.”

The sheriff, the only one who knows how to at least identify letters, opens the book to check. “R. Gadal… Robert, ‘innit?”

The first man shrugs. “Think so. Eh Hobsie? Sodomizing, huh? The crowd’ll have a blast with this one.”

Hob was his father’s name, not his. But Robert “Hob” Gadal was the name recorded for his trial, he was tried, unjustly. As things were, by the church. As they were the ones to deal with the crime of homosexuality.

Condemned as a sinner, Rupert Gadal was hanged for his crimes.

Elias’ attempted to acquire a plea deal for Rupert, but it was denied. And as he learned of Rupert’s fate, the church discovered Duke Oneiros as the other participant in Rupert’s crimes, sentencing him to death by beheading, not a month after.