tl;dr: i told my sister abt hob's "my dream" nd she immediately went omg GAYY??
LMFAOOO the other day i told my sister abt the sandman saga- s1 and s2 and then mentioned that hob said smtg along the lines of MY DREAM at dream's funeral (bec i wanted to know what she thought of it) and she IMMEDIATELY CLOCKED THEM.. she went "are they like.. gay or smtg" and i could not hold my laugh 😭
so i rewatched ep6s1 w her today (she was watching it for the first time) and in the final scene in the new inn when dream gives hob *the* smile.. she goes okay now can they stop they were SO gay the whole timeee and i was crying laughing againn lmaooo 😭😭
i said i might write something based on Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda and well. yeah.
--
“Have you been thinking much of this time?” Dream asks.
They are at the beginning. The ancient, smoky main room of the White Horse, all the way back then, when that sweet, starlit entity had loomed over Hob with challenge and strangeness and then swept away again, leaving the start of a story in his wake. Only this time, Dream is sitting with him, and the rest of the room is faded out, as it had when Hob had first seen him, this collected truth of the universe.
(Dream does not believe in objective truth—of course he doesn’t, he is made of dreams—though he would not articulate it that way if asked. Hob, meanwhile, knows at least one truth, and it’s what he feels when he looks at Dream.)
“Don’t you think of it?” he asks, wrapping an arm around Dream’s waist, fingers over his hipbone. It is a dream, but that distinction does not matter to Hob much anymore.
“I suppose. I think of much.”
“‘Course you do.” He strokes his hand up and down Dream’s side, and Dream hums. “I wondered about following you. Think if I did you’d have been gone into smoke already.”
“Yes. I did not care to stay long.”
“Nor I,” Hob admits.
“Truly?” says Dream, with surprise.
“Was thinking about you too much,” Hob says. “How could I go back to just chatting with my mates when I had seen you?”
“Why did you stay, then?”
“You have to take time with your mates while you have it,” Hob says. “Didn’t need six hundred years of life to know that one. Just a couple dozen deaths. Had the rest of eternity to mull over you, after all.”
“And did you?” Dream asks.
“Oh, yes.” He pulls Dream close. Slides over until he’s half in his lap, straddling his thigh, perfectly placed to kiss him. Hands on his shoulders, his neck, the sharp cut of his jaw. Once, Hob had held him from afar, like a wish. Now, Hob holds him close, as dream, as friend, as lover, in his human way, with sweat and time and hands.
“I mulled over you like fine wine,” Hob says, twisting his fingers in Dream’s hair, and Dream smiles. Hob kisses him again. Sips of his mouth like mulled wine, indeed. But his love for Dream is nothing so fleeting as spice on his tongue.
Or as fleeting as Dream sometimes thinks it will be. Dream is a living love poem to creation. But he does not know how to be loved in the way Hob wants to love him. In the way Hob does love him. Hob thinks that Dream knows how to be loved as a dream is loved, as a hope is loved, as an ideal is loved: held in glass, or in the sky, distant, perfect, disappointing up close. Parts of him are held as bubbles in different souls, but never in entirety.
He knows how to be loved as a nightmare is loved, bloody fear and history, raw closeness, curling in the humors of the body. He has been loved as a story is loved, which is to say, as creation is loved, as transmission is loved, as distance, as connection, as hearts on radio waves, as endings are loved, the pathways of him, container and fill.
Dream does not know how to be loved as a person is loved.
Hob loves him still when he grows teeth, and when a sweet taste comes to his mouth. Hob loves him as potential, as uncertainty. Story unset in stone. In softening belly and uneven step. Hob will show him how to be loved as a person is loved, because Dream is a person, especially when he insists he is not, and Hob loves him as one, has loved him as one, and Dream, who is used to being loved as dreams, cannot comprehend this.
He asks, sometimes. Why? Not even in a hurt, self-hating way. In a genuinely curious way, for he is not used to it. Hob hasn’t had the answer to that. Just trust that I do.
This moment, kissing Dream in the smoke of memory, is an answer. This is the beginning, but a fragment of words comes back to him, read in the between-time, when they were apart.
“You wanted to know why I loved you.” His lips are to Dream’s skin as he speaks, moved to his throat, his chest, pulling open his high collar, as Dream shivers under him. In the Dreaming, things can be like other things in a way that makes no sense in the Waking; Dreaming-sense is like a collage, the distant truth of collected fragments. And so touching Dream’s skin is like stepping out into the earliest morning, before the human world’s woken up, and feeling what’s un-meant to be felt.
“I do not think love needs a why,” Dream says. “Yet I have wondered.”
He gets it, Hob thinks, except that he doesn’t let himself.
He traces the harsh line of Dream’s collarbone with his mouth. Dream is full of harsh lines and seems incapable of letting softness stick to his bones. “‘I love you because I know no other way than this.’”
“I am familiar with the poem,” Dream says, but his voice is caught on Hob's words, his long fingers disbelieving in Hob’s hair.
“Are you?”
“Between shadow and soul is where dreams reside,” says Dream.
“And what about Dream?” Hob says, looking up at him, stressing the singular.
Dream’s lips purse, and Hob goes back to kissing his chest, up his sternum, over his heart. “I know,” he says between kisses, “no other way. Than this.”
Dream tangles him up, long arms, legs curled together, shadow and star around him. Hob’s loved him so long that he doesn’t remember what it was like not to. He has been tangled up in Dream since the beginning. It is what he is.
“A dream resides where it is wanted,” says Dream, finally answering his question. His voice has roughened, his breath has quickened, affected by Hob’s touch, by the words of the poem. Each lick, and kiss, and bite coils the Dreaming closer around them. One day it might be harder to wake up than to fall asleep.
“It’s wanted,” Hob says, and claims his beautiful mouth, pressing him back against the wall. His hair in its uncontrollable frissons, his eyes in their changeable void, his needy starvation of a thousand unanswered love poems—this kiss is a response to those missives. Dream is in the shadowed parts of him, in his turning points, in the words he speaks. Hob sees his answer in the tears that bead along his eyes but refuse to fall, in his darkness and whimsical creations, and his surprised, gentle pleasure when he’s kissed.
Hob loves him so. There’s no moral or end to that story. Hob’s love for Dream is. Full stop. End of sentence.
Warnings: Very brief mention of suicidal-esque thoughts, brief/ non-explicit mentions of violence
Summary: Hob Gadling meets a ghost haunting the extended stay hotel he’s found himself at. He’s determined to help the spirit move on and find peace…. even if it ends up breaking his heart.
Additional Tags: Human au, Ghost!Dream, supernatural elements, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, yes really, trust me, Trust Me, you HAVE to trust me
Read on AO3
~~~~~~~~~~~~
It takes a lot of effort for Hob not to be short and curt with the front desk person as they check him in for his stay at the Blackwood Hotel. It’s not their fault Hob’s relationship crashed and burned so spectacularly that he had to move out with his tail between his legs. He had considered just renting some cheap apartment as soon as he could, but a not-small part of him is considering just leaving the country to put his break up as far behind him as he could. So instead, he had rapidly shoved the few belongings that didn’t half-belong to his ex into a storage unit and booked a room at an extended stay hotel the next city over.
So now here he is, single, with two overstuffed suitcases dragging behind him as he makes his way to the third floor where he’ll be staying for the foreseeable future. Entering the room, he can’t help but simply collapse back against the door, letting his head fall back with a thud as he closes his eyes and sighs heavily.
He’s lucky.
He knows he’s lucky. He’s lucky Guenevere gave him a couple days to make a plan instead of throwing him out on his ass. He’s lucky his job is remote and so he didn’t have to worry about taking time off during the whole ordeal. He’s lucky he has a pile of inherited wealth that allowed him to stay in this comfortable, extended stay hotel as long as he wanted while he figured out what to do long term. All in all, this whole situation could have been so much worse.
It still sucks though.
Eventually, he manages to gather the strength to push away from the door. Might as well settle in for the stay. When he turns the corner into the main room, he jumps, startled as he clutches his hand to his chest. Blinking rapidly, he glances around the studio-style apartment, bare and plain with a small kitchenette. He chuckles at himself, rubbing at his eyes. He could have sworn he saw someone by the window, but there is clearly nothing there now. Just dark red curtains and a lackluster view. It had been less than a day and the loneliness was already getting to him. He really was an “insufferable extrovert”, as Johanna liked to say.
And just like that, his mood shifts. Fuck “settling in”. If he was going to be here for a while then there wasn’t exactly any rush. Who cared if he lived out of his suitcases. Tossing his things to the side, he turns on his heel, texting Johanna and anyone else he could think of to meet him for drinks.
He had plenty of time to sit alone in his hotel room later.
~~~
Three days later and Hob still has not unpacked anything. There is a small pile designated for dirty clothes, he had stubbornly denied housekeeping to make his bed, and the only reason the bathroom was still moderately clean was because he had forgone shaving. Every time he passed the mirror he scoffed at how much of a stereotypical recently-broken-up-with man he looked like.
Other than the first night that he had taken the long drive back into the city to go out with his friends, Hob had sequestered himself away in the hotel. He had halfheartedly explored the grounds, the building itself a little away from town, surrounded by lush green fields and a few easy walking trails through some forested area. There were things he could be doing, things he should be doing, but Hob couldn’t help but indulge in some wallowing. He feels like he’s earned it.
So of course, his wallowing is interrupted on the fourth night.
Hob has never experienced sleep paralysis before. He’s heard the stories of course, the jokes about sleep paralysis demons and the like, but never actually suffered from it himself. It is still the first thing he assumes when he awakes in the dead of night to find a dark figure sitting on the edge of his bed. Wild spikes around the stranger’s head seem almost like horns, everything about the shape of him thin and spindly, like a human spider. It takes a moment for him to realize that it is not a pure silhouette beside him, dark hair and dark clothes and stark shadows contrasting sharply with skin so pale it is nearly white. He looks like a black and white ink drawing, except for startlingly blue eyes which stare at him with something like curiosity.
When he shoots up in bed, he realizes that it’s not sleep paralysis at all.
“Who the fuck are you?!” He shouts, scrambling back to press himself against the wall. His hand scrambles for the lamp on the side table, the best weapon he can think of in the moment.
His heart is pounding in his chest, tense and terrified, lamp held out like a shield. He feels like a livewire, and it contrasts sharply with the way the figure blinks slowly at him, brow furrowed slightly in confusion. He turns, looking behind him, as though questioning who Hob is yelling at. The audacity helps shift the fear into anger.
“Yeah, I’m talking to you, asshole!” He snaps, the stranger turning back to look at him in confusion, “What the fuck are you doing in my room? Actually, I don’t care, get the fuck out before I call the cops on you!”
Another slow blink, and then the stranger tilts his head, like a bird examining a puzzle, “...You can see me?”
The voice is surprisingly deep, more melodic and less demonic than Hob was expecting, and it catches him off guard.
He shakes his head swiftly. Just because the man is not being immediately threatening, doesn’t change the fact that he’s probably crazy and still somehow broke into Hob’s room. “Yeah, I see you breaking and entering, now get out!” He slides out of bed, trying to keep distance between them, his attempt at intimidation undermined by the way his arm jerks when he tries to move past the length of the lamp’s cord.
Still, the man continues to stare, “You are the first. Who has been able to see me.”
“Okay, you know what, I’m not playing whatever game this is,” Hob reluctantly drops the lamp, moving to grab the other man. He is so slight, Hob is certain he will be able to manhandle him out of the room easily. He will call the front desk and the cops once he has the door locked between them.
But when he reaches out, his hand grips nothing. He is thrown off balance, his momentum prepared to drag a grown man into the hallway, not swipe through empty air, and he tumbles to the ground, yelping. He twists around, looking back at the man. The fear fills his chest once more, looking at how the stranger hasn’t moved an inch. They stare at each other silently for a long moment.
“...What the fuck,” Hob breathes, “How… Am I going crazy? What are you?”
Once more, the stranger blinks, hands folded primly in his lap. “I would have thought it was obvious,” he raises an eyebrow condescendingly, “I am a ghost.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hob doesn’t manage to make it back onto the bed, instead sliding to the floor to sit with his back against it, elbows on his knees and chin in his hands. The ghost, meanwhile, has seated himself in the armchair across from him, looking unfairly regal and poised.
“So, like…” Hob looks the figure up and down, his mind finally calming enough to fully take him in. Along with his pale skin and dark, bird’s-nest hair, he is wearing all black. A thick peacoat over a black shirt, black skinny jeans and black boots. What stands out to Hob the most though, is how modern the clothing was, “How long have you been dead? You don’t give me medieval vibes or anything like that.”
The ghost furrows his brow, humming in consideration, “I do not believe I have been dead for very long,” he mulls, “I know this hotel, and none of the technology I’ve seen has been confusing to me. But I am uncertain exactly how long ago I died.” He glances down at his hands in his lap, almost in shame, “I have trouble keeping track of time. And I have not been able to leave the hotel premises.”
Hob nods thoughtfully, not entirely sure what he was meant to do with that information, but curiosity still driving him forward, “Do you know how you died?” The ghost flinches, and Hob backtracks quickly, “Wait, I’m sorry, that was- that was so rude-”
“It’s fine,” the ghost interrupts his rambling. Hob still feels bad though. The ghost won’t meet his eyes. “I…”
The moment stretches, and Hob forces himself to stay quiet. To let the specter take all the time he needs.
Finally, he looks up, his eyes watery. Hob has never considered if ghosts could cry.
“I don’t remember.”
“Oh. I-“
“Sometimes I do,” the ghost continues somewhat frantically, “Somewhat. There are. There are times when I remember. Before. I remember the days before my death. But I never. I never remember the dying.”
“That’s okay,” Hob tries to soothe, keeping his voice soft, “It’s okay. Maybe… maybe it’s for the best,” he offers gently.
The other man nods, swallowing thickly.
Hob continues cautiously, “You said sometimes you remember… before?”
“Yes. Not everything. But I know it was here.”
Hob blanches, “In this room??”
Miraculously, despite the painful conversation, the ghost’s lips quirk into a small smile, a huff of laughter escaping him. “No,” he assures him, “not this room specifically. I have never seen a living person in the room of my death. I assume the hotel wisely does not rent it out.”
“Yeah, good on ‘em,” Hob chuckles, feeling relieved that he wasn’t standing on some poor bloke’s grave.
Shaking his head, Hob comes to a realization, “Forgive my manners,” he grins teasingly, “I was distracted by thinking someone had broken into my hotel room. I’m Hob Gadling.”
The ghost blinks, “That is. An unusual name.”
Hob laughs, “It’s a nickname. Full name is Robert, but it never really fit.”
Humming, the ghost nods, “I must agree. Hob… suits you.”
“And… you?” Hob asks hesitantly.
There is a pause, and Hob has a moment of heartbreaking anxiety as he watches the spirit furrow his eyes, clearly thinking deeply. Finally though, he answers.
“Dream.”
Hob raises an eyebrow, “And you called my name unusual.”
The ghost- Dream- lets out a huff of laughter, “Dream, too, is a nickname. I… I think it must have been what I went by exclusively. I cannot… recall. What my legal name was.”
That… hurts. But Hob smiles warmly all the same, “Well, it is nice to meet you, Dream. And,” Hob slaps his palms against his thighs definitively, “I’m gonna help you.”
The ghost blinks, uncomprehending, “Help. Me?”
Hob nods cheerfully, “Yup.”
“With what?”
“With,” Hob stumbles for a moment, determined and sorrowful at the same time, “With moving on.” He smiles encouragingly, “Obviously you’re here for a reason. You deserve to… to rest. Properly. If there’s something I can do to help you get there, I want to do it.”
“...Why?” He sounds heartbreakingly confused, “You do not know me. What if… what if I don’t deserve peace?”
And that alone proves to Hob that this specter absolutely deserves peace.
“Everyone deserves a chance to rest,” Hob answers softly, “And regardless, whatever you were like in life, I can tell from just talking to you now that you deserve rest.”
And he truly does believe that, which makes him feel a little less guilty for the part of him that he understands is also desperate for a distraction. Hob has always been his best when he is focusing on others. He knows that about himself, knows it is part of why he throws himself into his relationships so hard, wanting nothing more than to be of use, of service, to be something good in their lives. To not have to think about his own wants and needs.
So here he is, adrift and untethered, given someone to focus on beside himself, someone who deserves his focus…
Of course he’s going to grasp it with both hands.
~~~~~~~~~
“Okay…” Hob drawls, pacing lightly in front of where Dream sits in the armchair that Hob is already beginning to think of as his. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the ghost’s head moving back and forth, following Hob’s movements, and Hob finds it concerningly endearing.
The night before, the ghost had ended their conversation before Hob could get too worked up with his new mission, after Hob had yawned widely mid-sentence. Dream had immediately seemed bashful, apologizing for disrupting Hob’s sleep with adorable earnestness. While Hob had been ready to forgo sleep for the foreseeable future given the circumstances, Dream had simply stared at him judgementally until he finally crawled back into bed. He had passed out in moments.
In the morning, he was alone in his room, and he had been half convinced the whole thing was just a particularly vivid dream. But then, after finishing his first cup of coffee, the ghost had reappeared. Luckily the mug was empty when he dropped it in surprise.
And now, here they are.
“Traditionally,” he finally continues, “ghosts have ‘unfinished business’ that keeps them here.”
“I am familiar with that storytelling device,” Dream nods along.
“Do any of the classics ring a bell for you? Revenge? Someone you need to say goodbye to? Some grand project or goal you need fulfilled?”
Dream takes a long moment, his face making it clear that he is giving the utmost consideration to the question.
“My death was not peaceful,” he says, casually, like he had not just gut punched Hob with five words, “But. I find the idea of revenge does not compel me. Which is. Odd.”
“Odd how?”
“What I remember of myself. I was not a forgiving person. I was prone to grudges, and could be temperamental and capricious. I feel given the circumstances of my death, I… should want revenge. And yet. I do not.”
Hob mulls his words over, but before he can decide how to respond, Dream glances at him nervously, looking… resigned.
“Do you still believe me deserving of peace?”
“What?” Hob has to shake his head, almost convinced he must have misheard, “Of course I do!”
“But,” It’s heartbreaking how confused Dream sounds, “I have admitted to being. Uncharitable. In my life.”
“Okay? So you weren’t perfect? I never assumed you were, and I still wanted to help you.”
Dream’s mouth opens and closes a few times, looking like he wants to argue but his arguments are just out of reach.
Eventually, he looks away, swallowing thickly, “You. Are a good man, Hob Gadling.”
“I haven’t always been,” Hob confesses, trying to ease some of the guilty tension radiating off of Dream, “I’ve certainly held grudges, and run my mouth, and mucked up my fair share of relationships, and worse besides. But I’ve also experienced my fair share of being shown grace for those times. It’d be hypocritical of me not to show someone else grace in return.”
“I reiterate,” Dream says with a tiny smile, “you are a good man.”
Hob tugs his ear, trying to ignore the flush he feels on his face. “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep brainstorming.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dream is there when he returns from the grocery store, reluctantly accepting that he couldn’t afford room service every night. The specter is standing over one of his suitcases, which Hob had left open on the floor.
“You have. A lot of books,” he states plainly, forgoing any sort of greeting.
“You should see the stash in my storage unit,” Hob quips, setting his bags down on the miniscule kitchen counter, chattering away as he tosses his groceries into the fridge and cabinets, “Books have always been my guilty pleasure. I used to be a full-time university lecturer, comparing medieval literature with modern classics. Always been fascinated with how the written word has changed and stayed the same. These days I just do online courses, allows for more flexibility, but I’m still compelled to get a physical copy of any book I so much as recommend to my students.”
When he looks back at him, Dream’s eyes are flicking between Hob and the suitcase of books, “As guilty pleasures go, it feels like an innocent one. I, too, remember enjoying books greatly.”
“Would you like to read something then?” Hob offers immediately, “I mean, I can pull out what I’ve got and you can tell me what catches your fancy. I won’t even bother you, we can just sit in silence until you say ‘turn’ and I’ll turn the page for you.”
There is the briefest moment where Dream looks surprised and touched. It does not take long for him to school his impression though, looking down his nose as he responds, “I find it hard to believe you capable of silence in any capacity.”
Hob can’t help but bark out a laugh. His ghost is such an arsehole. “I would love to be offended but I’m afraid you’ve got me pegged.” Tilting his head, he asks curiously, “Have you ever tried to move things around? You know, poltergeist style?
The look Dream gives him is supremely unimpressed, and Hob has to bite back a laugh, “I have been stuck in this hotel, invisible, with nothing to do, most likely for years,” he explains haughtily, “Of course I have tried to move things.”
Even as he laughs, Hob does feel a stab of sympathy, “Okay, fair point. Never really considered boredom as a consequence of haunting.”
“Quite,” Dream is actually pouting, and Hob feels an unbearable fondness bloom beneath his ribs.
“So, you can’t move things,” Hob moves to sit on the bed, “How do you occupy your time?” Something occurs to him and he smirks, “Other than watching people sleep, apparently.”
Hob didn’t know it was possible for ghosts to blush, but there was no denying the flush that spread across Dream’s cheeks, “I do no-... I wasn’t-...” His stumbling attempts only make Hob grin wider. Finally, Dream huffs in frustration, “You were a new guest. I was merely curious about you.”
“Uh huh, sure,” Hob drawls. Leaning forward, he shoots Dream a mischievous smile, “Do you ever, y’know… spy on people?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making his meaning absolutely clear.
Dream rears back, looking very much like a cat that had just been sprayed in the face with water, shocked and offended, “I would never do such a thing!” He scowls when Hob’s only response was to laugh again.
“Besides,” Dream huffs, “I fail to see how watching strangers…” he waves his hands vaguely, nose scrunching, “would be any less boring than simply staring out the window.”
“Weren’t a porn watcher in life then?” Hob asks with honest curiosity.
Thinking for a moment, he gives the question surprisingly genuine consideration. But Dream ultimately shakes his head slowly, brows furrowed as he reaches into what memory he has of who he was, “No,” he states honestly, confessing to himself as much as Hob, “I did not… I enjoyed being intimate with my partners. I liked. Being close, and making them feel good. But outside of those times, I did not enjoy. That.”
Hob hums, “That makes sense.”
“Does it?” Dream looks at him suspiciously, “I do not believe many in my life shared that sentiment.”
“Fuck those people.” Dream blinks in surprise at Hob's casual, but firm statement, “Makes perfect sense to me. Even if I don’t feel the same way, there’s 7 billion people on this planet, and just as many ways to experience life.”
Dream tilts his head, like a curious bird that just caught a glimpse of something shiny. Hob raises an eyebrow when he stays silent, “What?”
“I am merely… interested.”
Hob perks up, embarrassingly eager, “In me?”
“In… your experience,” Dream clarifies, “Even with the gaps in my memory. I feel confident that I never knew anyone quite like you.”
Smiling softly, Hob teases, “Careful. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
In response, Dream turns his head, but not quick enough to hide the curve of his lips, “I suppose it did.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s not like I don’t get it, y’know? We were always just a little- a little out of sync. Not quite on the same page. But we did love each other so we tried. Tried to, to, to at least grin and bear it when the other person was off in their own little world. But then- it really was my fault- I started going on about something I really had no business going on about and that was just the final straw for Guenevere. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I knew the end was coming, and my big mouth is always what does me in.”
When he turns his head to look, Hob is surprised to find Dream still in the armchair, chin in his hand as he watches Hob intently. He had fully expected Dream to have vanished into whatever ether he goes to sometimes. After all, he doubts his ghost was expecting a drunk and morose companion when he appeared tonight.
Hob is splayed across the bed, a bottle of whiskey with a few too many fingers missing sitting on the night stand. He had gotten a text from Guenevere, stating that she had found a few more of his things in their- in her- apartment, and asking for an address to mail them to. Hob had been flush with humiliation when he typed out the address of the hotel. He hadn’t told Guenevere where he was staying. She didn’t text back for two hours, and when she did it was simply a link to the tracking number for his package.
He’d been well past tipsy when Dream showed up, and now they were here. Hob drunkenly rambling to a ghost.
Dream blinks slowly and then, instead of trying to change the subject, or excusing himself, or mocking Hob for having the balls to complain about a breakup to a man who was literally dead… he simply sighs softly.
“The inevitability of something does not make its coming any easier,” he says gently, “A tragedy is still tragic even when you know the ending. I am sorry. For your loss.”
It is so gentle and sincere, so much kinder than Hob feels he deserves, that he cannot help but look away and take another swig of whiskey, “My loss, her gain, yeah? All these years and all these relationships, and I’m always making the same mistakes.”
“Perhaps the mistake was simply that it was the wrong person,” Dream offers.
Hob shakes his head, unable to shake the blame he feels lays solely on himself. With another chug of whiskey, he veers the conversation inelegantly, “What about you then? Think there’s someone left behind that you need to say goodbye to? That’s keeping you around?”
“I was not skilled in relationships,” Dream answers stoically, “I think… I believe my last relationship had ended some time before my death.”
Wincing, Hob rubs his neck awkwardly, “I’m… sorry for your loss, then.”
Dream lets out a huff of laughter, turning to him with a wry smile, “My loss, their gain.”
Hob raises the bottle in a solemn cheers, “May the next gain be ours.”
~~~~~~~~~
Hob approaches the front desk, aiming for casual, but given the narrowed eyes of the host, he doesn’t quite manage it.
“Um, hi,” He starts, tapping his hand against the desk, “I uh, had a question. About the hotel.” The host raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue, so he takes a breath and lets the words rush out, “I was wondering about a death that happened here? Like, someone who died in the hotel-”
The woman’s face hardens, “Neither the hotel, nor any of the staff at the time, were responsible for that. It was a tragedy, but it was two years ago. We don’t rent out the room out of respect for the families, we don’t do interviews, and we don’t gossip.” Her words are sharp, leaving no room for argument, and Hob gets the sense that the folks who work here might have some experience with people harassing them for information.
He holds his hands up in surrender, “Right, yes, of course, my apologies.” He flees before he can annoy her anymore. He does have to stay here for who knows how long, so he’d rather not draw the ire of the staff during his stay. Once he’s in the elevator, he sighs.
At least he learned something. Two years ago. He could work with that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Two years!”
Dream blinks at Hob’s declaration, having blurted it out the moment Dream appeared in his room.
Hob doesn’t give him a chance to respond, standing and pacing through the space as he continues, “Two years, that’s how long ago you… y’know…” he waved his hand over the hard part, “I couldn’t get much more out of the receptionist, but that’s still a good start. Now we know for sure it really hasn’t been that long.”
There is a long silence, and when Hob turns to looks at him, Dream has a look of something like surprise on his face.
“I. Am glad to know this,” he replies slowly, as though he wants to be relieved but is afraid to be. There is another pause before Dream glances away, confessing under his breath, “It has felt much longer than that.”
Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, Hob tries to catch Dream’s eye where he stands in front of him, “I’m sorry.” Dream looks up at him, brow furrowed, and Hob rushes to continue, “I know it doesn’t make it better but-... it’s a step in the right direction. We know something that we didn’t before. So we’re that much closer to helping you.”
Dream’s lips curled into a small smile, “You are correct. I thank you for the effort you have put in already.”
“No problem,” Hob grinned back, “So just two years, despite the fact that you talk like some ancient lord.”
“Which is preferable to your peasant speech,” Dream tips his chin up, looking down his nose at Hob but unable to hide the mischief in his eyes.
“You wound me!” Hob grips his chest, standing swiftly only to kneel in front of the ghost dramatically, “I’m clearly a knight, sworn to the most pompous, insufferable git of a lord in all the land.”
“You were the one who chose to swear fealty to such a lord, apparently,” Dream raises an eyebrow, “What does that make you then?”
Hob winks, and answers honestly, “An absolute madman.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So, what do you do to pass the time? If you’re not interested in ‘people watching’?” Hob asks, teasing and genuine at the same time as he gives up on finding anything interesting on the telly.
Dream hums, “I am not always. Present. As you have witnessed. But when I am...” He ducks his head, “I do enjoy watching the kitchen staff. Seeing them cook and prepare various meals.”
Hob smiles kindly, “So a little people watching, then.”
“I enjoy watching people who are passionate about their craft.”
Hob has to bite back a comment about how plenty of sex workers are passionate about their craft.
When Dream continues, he is a little softer, a little shyer, “And I used to… I don’t know how long ago it was, but there was a girl who worked here some time ago. She was diligent about refilling the birdfeeder in the back courtyard. I enjoyed. Watching the birds.” He sighed sadly, “After she left, no one else bothered to refill it. I still see the occasional birds pass through. But not the number or variety from before.”
It is something so simple, so sweet, Hob jumps to his feet almost immediately, “Well, let’s fix that then.”
Dream blinks at him, uncomprehending, “What?”
“I am completely out of my depths helping you move on,” Hob confesses, “Mind you, that’s not going to stop me. But still. This is something I can help with right now.”
The confused look does not leave Dream’s face, but his eyes look a little glassier than before.
Hob smiles gently, “I’ll be back soon,” he grabs his phone, wallet, and room key, calling out over his shoulder as he darts out the room, “Don’t go anywhere!”
Excitement bubbles through him as he races to the local home and garden store. He has felt so useless and incompetent in his attempt to help Dream. It is a relief to have something he can do to make the ghost’s days just a little better in the meantime. He picks up a medium sized bag of bird feed, and then on impulse also picks out a small hummingbird feeder. If the hotel has a problem with it he’ll deal with it later.
He doesn’t go to his room when he gets back to the hotel. Instead, he goes straight to the courtyard around the back. It’s a bright, peaceful place, if a bit neglected. The wide green lawn is slightly overgrown, and the hedges marking the end of the property have a natural unevenness, instead of being pruned into restrictive, geometric shapes. There is a charming cobblestone pathway around the edges of the lawn, with a bench to the left, and a small patio table and chairs to the right. There are a few small trees along the edges, but the biggest is in the very center. A large European ash tree is the centerpiece, a slightly dilapidated bench beneath the shade of its sprawling branches. As he steps closer, Hob can see on the lowest branch an abandoned birdfeeder, just as Dream had described. It is dry and dusty, but still perfectly functional.
It is just barely out of reach, so after glancing around to ensure that no one is watching, he drags one of the patio chairs under the tree. Stepping onto it, he fills the feeder quickly, the seeds pouring into the small tray at the bottom as he fills the clear, central container, allowing him to keep an eye out for when it gets low.
Scooting the chair over to reach a little farther down the same branch, Hob hangs the hummingbird feeder. The clear cylinder container has been filled carefully with sugar water, the base a cheery red with sunny yellow plastic flowers, a small hole in the center of each perfectly designed for slender, delicate beaks to drink their fill.
His job complete, he hops off the chair and scurries to return it to its proper location, feeling giddy to get back inside and show Dream.
When he opens his door, his cheerful greeting gets stuck in his throat, leaving him to just stare at the sight in front of him.
Hob didn’t need to tell Dream he had finished his errand, apparently. Dream was already glued to the window, eyes fixed on the courtyard below. The sunlight streaming in made him look hazy, his edges blurred and the already minimal amount of color in his body washed out and faded, the blacks and whites of him softened to something like sepia. Like an overexposed polaroid.
He looks beautiful.
Even more so when he turns to Hob, and he gets his first look at wide, watery eyes, glistening in the sun.
“You actually…” He turns back to the window, voice wavering with awe and disbelief, “You…”
It makes Hob’s heart ache that something so small and simple could overwhelm him to the point of speechlessness. “Of course,” he whispers gently, “It was nothing, really.” Swallowing thickly, Hob feels something catch in his chest, and he knows immediately that he needs to leave right now.
“Um, here,” Quickly, Hob grabs Dream’s armchair, dragging it next to the window, “so you can sit while you watch. Um, not sure how long it’ll take for the birds to find out about the additions but, you can, y’know, keep an eye out. I just, I’m gonna take a shower, so, make yourself…at… home?”
Dream looks at him, no doubt confused by Hob’s rambling, but he still sits delicately on the edge of the armchair, returning his focus to the window while Hob tries to restrain himself from sprinting to the bathroom.
As soon as the door is closed, he flips the shower on, hoping that the sound of the water combined with his hands clamped over his mouth will muffle his sobs.
He had wanted a distraction. He had wanted to focus on someone else as a valid excuse to ignore himself and his wants. There is no ignoring himself now. Not when the object of his focus is the thing he wants. He can’t focus on one and ignore the other when they are the same thing.
“Please,” he rasps, eyes shut and one hand gripping his chest as he desperately tries to plead with his own heart, “Please, not him, I can’t.”
Hob knows he loves easily, loves hard, loves fast. And he’s had doomed romances before, is not unfamiliar with unrequited love, but this is too much.
He’s still crying when he finally makes his way into the shower, hoping maybe he can wash it all away.
Leave it to Hob to fall in love with a dead man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s strange to see Dream outside of his room. Logically he knows Dream does not spend all of his time in the same place. Especially since, after Hob teasingly called him out, he feels confident Dream stays away when he is sleeping.
Still, he is returning from a brunch with Johanna and Rachel, aka making any excuse to day drink, and when he makes his way past the lobby, he spots a familiar dark silhouette.
His ghost is watching silently as a maintenance employee works to switch out one of the landscape paintings in the dining room with a new painting. Hob can only assume that the hotel has a seasonal rotation of decor, as the painting being removed is a beach scene, and the new one is an orchard with vibrant autumn colors. He feels like a creep, but he hovers in the hallway until the old painting is being hauled away, and he is alone in the empty dining room with a specter. Dream moves to stand in front of the painting, and Hob moves in tandem to stand beside him.
“It’s nice,” Hob breaks the silence.
“It’s boring,” Dream replies.
Normally Hob would chalk it up to his haughty sense of humor, but Dream isn’t scoffing and looking down his nose at Hob in exaggerated superiority, clearly angling for friendly banter. No, his brow is furrowed, eyes fixed on the painting as though it has the answers to the universe.
They stand in silence, Hob giving him a moment to gather his thoughts. When Dream speaks again, it is contemplative and sad.
“I think... I am reminded whenever this place changes their artwork,” he continues carefully, each word deliberate, “that a member of my family wanted me to make artwork like this.”
Blinking in surprise, Hob glances between the painting and the ghost, “What do you mean? Landscapes?”
“Marketable,” Dream responds flatly. He finally drags his gaze away from the painting, but he does not quite meet Hob’s gaze, looking closer to his shoes, “Palatable. Conventional. Easy to sell in mass quantities.”
Dream swallows thickly. It is a strange motion for a ghost, for someone with nothing but memory in their throat. Yet Dream seems to do it all the time. “I wanted to make art that made people feel,” he explains, “and think. And I… I think I was successful? Maybe I only thought I was. But still. I remember. Someone in my family always telling me that I’d be better if my art was more. Normal.” Swallowing again, he confesses softly, “If I was more normal.”
Hob turns back to the painting, looking at it with a new view. It is lovely enough- certainly the artist is far more talented than Hob could ever be. But now, he finds himself sending out a little prayer. He hopes that the artist enjoyed making it.
He cannot imagine Dream ever making something like this and enjoying the process.
“I like you the way you are,” Hob declares.
Dream glances up beneath his eyelashes, looking sceptical, so Hob barrels on, “I mean it. Don’t get me wrong, nobody’s perfect, not me, not you. Not your bloody family that’s for sure. But I don’t think you need to change who you are. And I don’t know what your art looked like, but I’m positive I wouldn’t want that to change either.”
The way Dream looks at him, Hob wishes he could paint. Wishes he had some way of capturing the sheer beauty of this trapped soul, eyes watering and lip trembling from the simplest kindnesses. He wants to drown him in love and sweetness until he stops looking so overcome by it. He wants to hold him and kiss him until his white skin is flushed and pink.
God, he wants to be able to touch him at all.
“Thank you, Hob,” Dream croaks, “I do not know that I agree with you. But. That you would say such things so earnestly…” He glances down again, voice barely audible, “Thank you.”
Hob smiles, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to move to bump their shoulders together, “I’ll wear you down eventually don’t worry,” he teases. “I do wish I could see your art.”
Dream’s mouth twitches towards a smile, “If I recall correctly, I both painted and sculpted.”
“I should have known you were an overachiever,” Hob grins.
Slowly, they walk away from the painting, heading back to Hob’s room, talking about art. Hob keeps his hands in his pockets to keep himself from reaching for a ghost’s hand.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hob sighs, flopping back onto his bed. Another day has passed and he has no idea how to help Dream. Every theory he had, Dream would consider carefully and then gently rebuff, clawing at his own memories and finding nothing that could be keeping him here.
He still won’t tell Hob about the days before his death.
Hob refuses to look it up.
“Could be the other way around, I suppose,” Hob ponders, “Like, maybe there’s someone else keeping you here? Someone out there who can’t, y’know… let you go?”
Dream’s face is sad and ashamed as he ducks his head, not meeting Hob’s gaze. This he does not think long about at all, “I highly doubt that.”
“Why?” The question leaves Hob’s mouth before he can think better of it.
Sighing, Dream admits slowly, “I don’t remember many… connections. Friends. Family. Lovers. I was better at pushing people away than letting anyone in. And few thought me worth the effort of trying to get in. The few relationships I had I inevitably ruined through my own inadequacies.” He speaks so confidently, so sure.
And then he whispers, “I fear… I feel my death was most likely. Not mourned by many.”
Dream sounds resigned, passive, deliberately stoic, but Hob feels his chest ache. Feels his heart break.
“Maybe that’s what’s keeping you here.”
He speaks almost before he finishes the thought. Dream turns to look at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“What do you mean?”
“If you didn’t have many connections in life, maybe your spirit wants to make some in death. Maybe it’s your loneliness keeping you here. Until… until there’s someone to mourn you properly.”
Hob would mourn him properly.
It is the kind of tragedy that should be reserved for novels and plays. It’s not fair that Hob has fallen in love with someone who he has to let go. It’s not fair that his love may be the thing that allows him to go.
It is a bittersweet thought. One that is crushed the moment he looks into Dream’s tearfilled, furious gaze.
“How dare you.”
Hob is shaken from his heartbreak by the sheer offense in Dream’s voice. The anger and pain and mortification as he stands unsteadily.
“You think me so- so shallow? So petty, so cruel, as to drag my corpse around in hopes that someone will hurt for it? Regardless of my sins in life, I do not require others’ pain to find peace.”
“That’s not what I-“
“I do not require your connection, Hob Gadling. Do not waste any tears in my name.”
“Dream, wait!”
But there’s nothing he can do. He reaches out, following desperately, but Dream is mist between his fingers, fading through the wall in long, angry strides. Hob finds himself standing with his nose inches away from the wall, alone in the room.
Breathing heavily, he has a sudden, sharp impulse to slit his wrists. To toss back every pill he can find, to leap from the hotel roof, to drink antifreeze. Not because he wants to die, but because he wants to follow. Anything that might allow him to follow his ghost.
His hands curl into fists, fingernails biting into his palms, and he holds his breath.
Can ghosts touch each other? If Hob followed Dream into death, could he finally hold him? Cradle him, kiss him, run his fingers through his hair? Can ghosts live a life together? Or maybe, maybe Dream just needed someone to hold his hand to the other side. Maybe if Hob went with him, they could leave together, enter some new, unknown adventure on the other side.
Black spots are creeping on the edges of his vision. His chest aches. He wants to follow Dream.
He doesn’t want to die.
Inhaling sharply, Hob staggers back, sitting heavily on the bed as he gasps heavily. Dropping his head into his hands, he grips his hair tight.
“Fuck.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Dream doesn’t come back.
For three days, Hob waits, head snapping towards every shadow, every soft rustle, every shiver down his back. But Dream is nowhere to be found. And Hob refuses to leave him here alone.
It feels wrong, casually entering what he knows of Dream into a search bar to try to find his grave.
But no matter what Dream says, Hob will cry for him. He deserves to be cried over. Hob wants to clean his headstone and leave a bouquet behind. Red roses, probably, because Hob’s never been subtle and he’s not about to start now.
He has no luck searching for the name “Dream” in any cemeteries in a twenty five mile radius, but that doesn’t surprise him even a little. After all, “Dream” is not his actual name, and he could have been buried in a completely different country for all Hob knows.
Truthfully, Hob has known in his heart from the beginning that the real reason he’d even attempted searching cemeteries was just to stall.
Because it felt like such a breach of trust to type in the name of the hotel with the word “murder” beside it.
But he does.
Multiple articles are listed immediately.
The headlines are… not what Hob expected.
His heart crawls into his throat as he clicks one of the links with shaking fingers.
Kidnapper killed during London Artist Rescue
106 days after famed painter and sculptor, Morpheus Oneiros, vanished from his London home, police received an anonymous tip leading them to the Blackwood Hotel, an extended stay hotel located near Wytch Cross. When investigators arrived, they learned that the suspect, Roderick Burgess, had checked in the day before Oneiros’ disappearance, and was stated to have received multiple noise complaints during his stay.
Upon arrival, law enforcement attempted to make contact with Burgess for questioning. They were met with resistance, leading to a forced entry ending in a shootout between officers and Burgess as well as several accomplices. While several were wounded, officers were able to restrain the hostiles until paramedics arrived. Burgess was pronounced dead en route to the hospital, and was the only fatality.
Oneiros was discovered wounded, but alive. While none of his injuries were declared critical, as of the writing of this article he had not regained consciousness.
Edit: As of March 2024, Oneiros has not awoken but his condition is stable. He is under continued medical care.
Hob can’t move.
Hob can’t breathe.
Any doubts in his mind about what he’s found are squashed by the picture of Morpheus beneath the article, a solemn face staring out with piercing blue eyes and a link to his artist profile linked beneath it. Dream stares back at him.
The person killed in this hotel wasn’t Dream at all. The person who hurt Dream was killed here.
Dream is alive.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not actually that hard to figure out which room Dream was killed- Dream was captured- in. It was easy enough to resign himself to being a creep and going floor to floor to take note of which rooms were used. Even if they weren’t occupied, he could still witness housecleaning entering and mark it off his list.
Of course, as is his luck, he starts at the top floor and works his way down. Down, down, until he finds himself in what is more or less the hotel’s basement. Due to the building being built on an incline, there are three rooms that are, technically, beneath the first floor.
Two of them are rarely rented out. One of them is avoided even by staff.
That’s the one Hob breaks into.
And that’s where he finds Dream.
The room is barren, the furniture removed, no paintings or decorations on the wall, the patterns on the carpet broken up by ominous stains. The curtains are drawn tight, the air dark and muggy from years of no light or fresh air. The room is a crypt.
Dream sits in the corner.
He looks so… small. Arms wrapped around his shins, legs pressed to his chest and head bowed. He looks as insubstantial as Hob knows he is.
Or… as insubstantial as Hob knows he is here.
Hob approaches slowly, gently, praying that Dream won’t vanish between his fingers before he can explain.
But as he stands before him, Dream looks up, eyes watery and miserable, and speaks before Hob has a chance.
“I owe you. An apology.” His voice cracks, guilt and sorrow and longing weighing in his voice.
“Forgiven,” Hob replies immediately, crouching before him with his heart set to beat out of his chest, “It’s not important-”
“It is,” Dream interrupts, “This is what I do- what I did. I was alone in life because I deserved it-”
“No!” Hob’s words feel tangled in his throat, caught between explaining that Dream never deserved to be alone, and correcting the past tense of it all.
Eventually he manages, breathlessly, to explain in a hurried hush, “Dream, you’re alive. You didn’t die, you’re still alive!”
Dream stares, uncomprehending, “...What?”
“You didn’t die,” Hob rushes to explain, “You’re not the person who died here, in this room. The- the person who kidnapped you died, but you are- are in a coma somewhere. You’re alive.”
The air seems thicker for a moment, heavier, Dream meeting Hob’s eyes with a brief glimmer of painful hope. His mouth parts, eyes widening as he hears Hob’s words.
But then, the moment passes, and Dream deflates as he exhales, slumping into himself.
“No,” he replies, “I’m not.”
Hob feels his heart sink, “Dream-“
“I died in this room,” Dream insists, head snapping up to glare through the tears in his eyes, “The things…. The things he did to me… no one could survive that. I… Could not survive it,” his voice breaks on a sob. His voice is nearly begging Hob to believe him, “Even if my heart is still beating somewhere... I died here. In every way that matters. I died.”
It hurts his heart, but there is a part of Hob that understands. He can’t fathom being held and tortured for so long, can’t imagine the scars that would leave behind. Hob doesn’t know what it would be like to try to come back from something like that.
But he does know one thing.
“No.”
Reaching out, he holds his hands just beside Dream’s arms, fingertips just barely brushing through his biceps. Not fully touching, not drawing attention to his spectralness, but expressing a desire to hold him louder than his voice ever could. “You were hurt here. Badly hurt, I know. But as long as you’re alive, that means you can heal.”
The tears that have been ever-present in Dream’s eyes since they met finally spill, twin silver streams that Hob aches to wipe away, “I can’t…”
“You can. You can,” Hob insists, but Dream shakes his head.
“You… you were right,” he sobs, “I am- I am alone. If I wake up, it will be alone.”
“No, it won’t,” It takes all of Hob’s self control not to uselessly tighten his grip where he is gripping nothing, “I’m here. And I’ll be there. You’re not alone anymore.”
There is another broken sob, and then another, and Hob’s heart breaks as he can do nothing but watch as this ghost who is still alive cries, trapped in the room he was tortured in.
“Do you promise?” Dream’s voice cracks as he cries, unwilling to meet Hob’s gaze.
Hob lets his hand drift to Dream’s face, letting his fingers drift around his cheekbones, the same way he might swirl a finger through a pool of water, disrupting the stillness just enough to get Dream to look at him when he vows, “I swear it. I will be beside you. When you wake up, and every moment after.”
He thinks back to when he first met Dream, their first conversation, knowing nothing about him and insisting……
“You can wake up and still rest.”
Dream looks at him with such confusion, such pain, such desperate, disbelieving hope, that Hob can’t help but turn his hands. His fingers dip into Dream’s jaw, just the very tips, and still somehow manage to draw Dream’s gaze upward.
“You don’t have to wake up and- and be healed. The rest that you haven’t gotten here, you can have it. I’ll make sure you have it. You absolutely deserve proper rest.”
A watery laugh escapes Dream, “I have, apparently, been resting for two years.”
“No,” Hob responds mournfully, “you haven’t.”
He grows bolder, braver, reconceptualizes what he’s allowed to reach for, and he curls his fingers under Dream’s chin, into his chin, into the air where Dream is meant to be, and Dream follows him like he can feel it.
“This isn’t resting,” Hob insists, his fingers cradling the air around Dream’s face and he swears he can feel the weight, “You haven’t been resting. You-” it feels mean, but the truth drips from his mouth like venom sucked from a wound, “You’ve been haunting. You’ve been trapped in this place where you were hurt, searching for answers.” He curls his fingers in the air, and Dream’s face follows the motion as if moved by the pressure, “Waking up will be hard, I know. But you won’t be alone. And you will be able to rest. To finally, properly, rest.”
Dream’s body shudders as he inhales, his eyelids fluttering as he listens to Hob’s words, “I am. Tired, Hob.”
“I know,” Hob whispers, leaning forward until their foreheads are centimeters apart, “You can rest. But first,” he meets Dream’s eyes imploringly, “you have to wake up.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s not the easiest thing Hob’s ever done, tracking Dream down. Tracking Dream down here, in the solid world of the living. But there is nothing that will keep him from being by Dream’s side.
And he knows Dream’s legal name now, which certainly goes a long way, especially for someone who has some morally grey technical skills. It’s a bit tedious, looking up what hospitals in the area offer long term coma care, and then carefully worming into their systems to scour their list of current patients. When the first three yield no results, he gets a bit nervous. If he has to hack into the systems of every hospital in the country he’ll do it, but he doesn’t want to keep Dream waiting. He doesn’t want to risk Dream waking up alone.
Luckily, it doesn’t come to that, and the fourth facility shows one Morpheus Oneiros in their patient files. As soon as he sees the name, Hob checks the name of the facility one last time to commit it to memory before closing out of everything. He wants to know where Dream is, but doesn’t want to risk seeing any information in Dream’s actual medical files. If Dream chooses to share the specifics of what he’s gone through someday, it will be his choice. Hob has no intention of snooping any more than this.
The drive takes about an hour and a half, and the whole time Hob is so jittery with nerves he considers it a miracle that he doesn’t get into an accident. Similar to the hotel, the rehabilitation facility is also a little outside of the nearest city, away from the noisy city life. It is a large building, longer than tall, a mixture of brick and glass giving it an expensive, modern feeling. There are small squares of manicured lawns along the sides of the building, and a circular island in the front, creating a loop for cars to pull in for drop offs or pickups. Pulling into the parking lot feels surreal, and Hob has to sit in the car with his hands gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white for several minutes.
Finally, he peels his fingers from the wheel. He walks to the front door on shaking legs, the doors sliding open to grant him entry into the bright, sterile waiting room. Swallowing thickly, Hob wipes his sweaty palms on his pants before finally approaching the front desk.
“Hi, um, I’m here to visit Morpheus Oneiros?” He wishes he sounded more confident, but he cannot hide his nervousness.
The nurse looks up at him, dark eyes narrowing suspiciously behind a pair of wire-frame glasses. She manages to be stunning even in plane scrubs, her dark skin glowing and her shaved head making her look refined. There is an air of authority in her gaze that goes beyond an everyday nurse.
“And what is your relation to the patient?” She asks, though she does pick up a clipboard and slide it towards Hob.
“Oh, I’m a, um, a friend of his from college,” he fumbles for a lie, scrawling his name on the line for visitor information, “We lost contact, he obviously became far more successful than I did,” he laughs nervously, “But I-... I only just learned what. What happened to him. And I. I don’t know. I wanted to see him.”
Despite his stuttering explanation, the nurse softens, nodding in understanding, “Well, that’s very kind of you,” she says, accepting the clipboard back, “He hasn’t had a visitor in… quite some time. Especially if you don’t count the bloody press,” she says the last part under her breath, clearly not intended for Hob, but it makes her hesitance towards him make more sense. A random stranger coming to visit the infamous artist who was left in a coma after being kidnapped? Of course she’d be suspicious.
It makes him smile.
“Well, I’m glad he’s being well taken care of here. And… protected.”
The nurse- her badge says Lucienne- smiles, nodding respectfully, “You’ll be wanting room 1389.” Standing, she points to a laminated floor plan taped to the desk. She quickly gives him directions, easy enough, and then returns her attention to her computer, leaving Hob utterly dismissed. With one last glance at the map, he makes his way deeper into the facility.
As he steps down the hallway, he takes a moment to appreciate how bright the building is. There are plenty of windows letting in natural light, bulletin boards with cards and colorful announcements, paintings not dissimilar from the ones back at the hotel donning the walls. It is clear the care that has been put in to make the building welcoming and safe, forgoing any drab, depressing expectations of such a place.
Still, when he reaches the room he has been directed to, a cold dread drips down his spine that the sunny hallway can’t stave off.
He pinches himself, just to check that he’s really awake. That he’s really here.
Then he opens the door.
“Hey stranger,” he whispers into the quiet room.
It is jarring, seeing the figure he has become accustomed to simply appearing in his hotel room… here. Connected to various monitors and tubes. Solid and still. Looking so much more dead than the ghost he had grown close to.
Swallowing thickly, he steps fully into the room, keeping his footsteps soft and deliberate. The room is so barren, he berates himself for not having brought flowers, or something, anything, to brighten up the space.
Stumbling, he moves to sit in the chair next to the bed, falling into it heavily without taking his eyes off of the man in front of him. The heart rate monitor across from him beeps steadily, but his hands still shake when he reaches out to brush a lock of hair back from the pale, still face.
His hand makes contact. Real, solid, physical contact. And tears fall from his eyes.
“It’s really you,” he chokes out, moving to grip Dream’s hand, “You’re really here.”
Part of him expects Dream to wake up immediately, to open his eyes and smile or huff or give him any of the small, quiet expressions Hob has fallen in love with over the weeks. But he stays still, and silent. Hob only barely manages to restrain himself from kissing him, thoughts of sleeping beauty and loves’s healing power tumbling through his head.
But he knows he can’t. So instead, he keeps one hand clasped with Dream’s while the other reaches out to pet his hair, reveling even in these small touches.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, “You’re safe now. I’m here. You- you can wake up now, okay? I’m right here with you, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. You don’t have to hide anymore. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
The silence stretches, and Hob sags in his seat. He had barely slept, and then had gotten up early to get to the facility almost as soon as visiting hours began. He felt exhausted, physically and mentally. So he figured Dream would forgive him for the way his eyelids drooped.
“Whenever you’re ready, love,” He whispers, laying his head on the mattress, “I’ll be here, whenever you’re ready.”
He falls asleep to the gentle rhythm of Dream’s living, beating heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
When he wakes up hours later, Hob has a crick in his neck from falling asleep hunched over the hospital bed. He sits up, eyes still closed, rolling his shoulders with a wince, and when he moves to stretch his arms over his head, he finds his left hand locked in a vice grip.
His eyes snap open.
Two bright blue eyes are staring back at him.
There is a long moment where neither can do anything but stare at the other. Hob feels a sharp stab of fear in his lungs, the reality of the situation bearing down on him and leaving him lost and uncertain.
Then, just when he feels he may pass out from holding his breath, Dream takes a deep, shuddering inhale.
And he exhales a single, barely audible word, “Hob.”
Just like that, Hob is exhaling a sob, bringing his free hand up to grip Dream’s, his face feeling like it may crack from his smile.
“Hey,” he choked out, pressing a clumsy kiss to Dream’s knuckles, “You’re late.”
“They’re trying to convince people they can’t do the things they’ve been doing easily for years – to write emails, to write a presentation. Your daughter wants you to make up a bedtime story about puppies – to write that for you.” We will get to the point, she says with a grim laugh, “that you will essentially become just a skin bag of organs and bones, nothing else. You won’t know anything and you will be told repeatedly that you can’t do it, which is the opposite of what life has to offer. Capitulating all kinds of decisions like where to go on vacation, what to wear today, who to date, what to eat. People are already doing this. You won’t have to process grief, because you’ll have uploaded photos and voice messages from your mother who just died, and then she can talk to you via AI video call every day. One of the ways it’s going to destroy humans, long before there’s a nuclear disaster, is going to be the emotional hollowing-out of people.”
Justine Bateman on AI in this article from The Guardian
