he feels like he's on a tightrope, truly.
though he supposes there's always been that edge of— something, with his dear stranger. like their interactions lives purely on this idea that's far too fantastical to be true, until hob manages out of the conversation, pinches his skin, and realises that everything that happened have truly indeed happen. still, there's— there's a difference here, hob could tell. this whole exchange still feels entirely far too mythical for hob to truly take it in at present, like maybe he'd blink next and dream would not be here any longer, but there is something ... painful here, as well. not— not in the way that screams or would leave you bleeding red, no. though the hurt hangs in the air regardless.
hob, this– this new dream calls him, and apart of hob is so caught in that open expression of the– of his new friend, that he almost misses the tension like knife cutting down a meat. he doesn't want me, something inside of him twists. he's got a new face, a new life, and he must've decided he wouldn't want me anymore, something inside of him cries over, grieves, until dream's voice cuts through. i am not him, he said, and hob isn't sure if that's better or worse. nor am i a simple replacement of him, and apart of hob wants to kneel over to apologise for having– for ever implying. apart of him wants to apologise for possibly having hoped regardless that maybe it could have been that simple.
his face crumples up around his eyebrows, and he lets the daniel's explanation washes over him fully. his hold over his grocery bag tightens. it hurts, he thinks. fuck, it hurts so much.
❛⠀i know. ❜ hob croaks, although does he ? he supposes he'll find out. he'll say something wrong soon enough like he's got the penchant to, and he'll ... and he'll pay for whatever's after. until then, ❛⠀i know you're not him. and i know– i know it isn't as simple as– it's like the doctor, right ? from doctor who ? i, uh ... m'not sure if you've ever gotten around to seeing that in people's dreams since you come back, but it's this english television show that's been playing since the nineteen-sixties, but the doctor always... changes, but he's the same inside — memory and all — but his behaviour, manner, face, how he does things, it changes. i ... that's what happened to you, sort of, yeah ? ❜
hob tries, and he sounds so stupid, he thinks. so childish. ( so human. ) but it's like he couldn't stop himself — yes, it hurts. but hob would rather be hurt in company than not. even ... even if that's selfish. ❛⠀and i'm– i'm like the special guest in some episodes, i reckon. not quite dashing enough to be a companion, but perhaps likeable enough that i do get called back for a cameo or two. ❜ and here, hob does smile, charming, before he looks to his shoes. continues —
❛⠀what i mean is— deep down, you're still dream. and i'm ... fuck, you might be right. i'm waist-deep mournin' for the dream i knew, and i think it's something i always will. i've loved him. but ... even if i'm just a cameo, and even if there's that love for the you before — i wouldn't forgive myself if it stopped me from getting to know you right now. loving you too, hopefully, if you've the space. ❜ bold, he knew; the old dream wouldn't have taken it kindly, hob thinks. or maybe he'd simply find it pitying, as endless probably ought to, at a human's affection. wouldn't have stopped hob, of course. ❛ whatever shape that may be. so... come back to my place. have a cuppa. tell me who you are, how you've been. let me know you again, my friend. whatever shape you take, i swear—⠀❜
a pause. ❛⠀i await you. always will. ❜
