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i.
Hob has a list of things his Stranger is and does. He mostly keeps it in his head because keeping a physical list is bound to bite him in the arse at some point.
(Gorgeous, eyes like sapphires, raven hair. Wears black and a large ruby. Nobility, possibly a fae, god, or vampire. Speaks few words but precise . Likes stories.. Cares not for displays of wealth. Can use sand to show people old ghosts. Lonely. Angry crier.
Punctual to all their meetings.
(No-show 1989. Not here yet as of 2022.))
ii.
His sister Death was right. Dream needed to come here, see Hob.
I've always heard it impolite to keep one's friends waiting, he tells Hob. He does not tell Hob why he left the other waiting. Hob does not ask. After he involuntarily flinches at clinking glass for the fourth time, Hob makes an excuse to invite him upstairs to his flat.
This close to Hob, in Hob's living area, suffused with the richness of a long-lived dreamer and friend, Dream's breath catches. He stops in the living room, his senses flooding with information.
"Do you…" Hob swallows. "Usually need to breathe?"
"No," Dream says, only distantly aware of what his vessel's bodily functions are doing. There's a razed patch of land in the Dreaming, burned and crumbled by his extended absence, all scorch marks and ash, and he feels –
"Only you're hyperventilating."
"Oh." He hadn't noticed. The room wobbles as he observes the scene around him rather than the scorched fields of the Dreaming. Hob's flat above the New Inn, the Inn Hob built to wait for him, the Inn that feels like a second home –
"Do you – Do you think you might wanna sit down? You're. Shaking, a little."
____
(My stranger is still so lonely. The ruby is gone. His name is Dream. He came back. He came back he came back he came back but I think something happened to him – )
____
Dream is drunk on the Waking. He is drunk on Hob, Hob and the amount of care and loyalty drenched within the Inn and Hob's flat. The air is warm. He needs to breathe it. In case it goes away. Dream raises his hand, shakily, and places it on Hob's cheek. It burns, but he does not remove it. "Hob," he says.
Hob, who stares at him, places his hand over Dream's, asks again if he's all right – whose voice starts melting like warm candle wax over Dream.
"You waited," Dream whispers.
"Yeah," Hob says.
I knew you would return, Lucienne's voice echoes. The loyalty, the devotion to him – it destroys him. Burns him to ash and spins a new body made of leaps of fire and faith.
"I was detained," Morpheus says. "In 1989."
He is an inferno where they touch. The skin to skin contact is both a brand worse than hellfire and the only thing keeping Dream upright. Hob sits him on the couch, and Dream can offer no more words to explain his absence. Hob tells him of happenings in his absence, the world wars and the moon landing and the Cold War and the invention of airplanes and computers, that he currently teaches.
His voice and stories patter like soft rain, falling on the burned and scoured ruins of Dream. Fireweed sprouts in the Dreaming over a scorched patch of land.
Dream does not notice his eyes becoming wet, nor the swimming stars within them.
____
(Stranger things: A contradiction of burning star-eyes and touch-starved want and frosted exterior.)
iii.
"Will you come here, duck?" Hob asks opening his arms.
Dream wrinkles his nose. "Why? I am well. The Dreaming is well." His tone still holds gravity and imperiousness, still rings steady and sure, but Dream's shoulders shake, minutely, despite himself. The air around him closes in, too hot.
"I like giving hugs," Hob says, turning puppy eyes on Dream. "And I'm in a good mood, and I want to give you one."
"Very well," Dream mutters, and steps into Hob's waiting arms, unsure what to expect.
The contact burns him, at first – like when Dream had touched his cheek so many months ago –, and instinctively he jerks away. But its absence flays him open, leaves him bereft and freezing where the air had been hot before. Hob says something that sounds like an apology before Dream stumbles back, seeking their shelter. When they close around him again, he nearly chokes on a sob.
Hob knew, he thinks dazedly, curling into his friend, unable to relax his grip on Hob's clothing. "I don't understand," he manages. "Why -"
"I wasn't sure you were touch-starved," Hob says carefully. "I just really wanted to hug you." When Hob's arms crush him into Hob further, Dream goes entirely limp from the sheer relief of it. "I don't have anything else to do tonight," Hob whispers. "We can just stay like this."
Dream nods into Hob's shoulder, closing his eyes. Secure. Warm. Safe.
In the Dreaming, the fireweed and shrubbery turns to forest, towering redwoods and sequoias and pines and firs.