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five-and-dimes · 1 year

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Smile Like You Mean It

Hob wants nothing more than to make his boyfriend laugh. Dream very much does not want to scare away his boyfriend with his laugh. They work through it together.

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Hob Gadling did not have a single ‘life goal’. His life was simply too long for that. No, he merely had current goals; the objective that caught his attention the most at any given moment which he dedicated himself to with the single mindedness of a man who couldn’t die until he succeeded.

And his current goal?

Making Dream of the Endless laugh.

He had certainly come a long way in six hundred years. Or, maybe it was Dream who had come a long way. Since reuniting, his stranger, his friend, was more open with his expressions. Still stoic and poised, for certain, but more willing to grace Hob with small smiles and gentle eyes. The first few months had been a little rough. Dream was clearly trying his best at the whole friendship thing, finally telling Hob his name and agreeing to visit more often, but there were still some growing pains. Hob was reluctant to push for fear of chasing his friend away again, and Dream didn’t seem to know what was expected of him.

(Eventually, Dream had quietly confessed where exactly he had been during their last meeting, reassuring Hob that he had not stayed away intentionally and promising not to run away again. Hob, through his tears- because if Dream would not cry then Hob would damn well cry for him- had put that statement to the test almost immediately, pulling the Endless forward to kiss him softly.

(Dream kept his word. He didn’t run away.)

(He kissed back.)

Now, as they fell more easily into a comfortable rhythm of friendship and more, Hob found himself focusing his attention on coaxing any expression of joy from Dream’s impassive face. Every day he smiled a little easier, like rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds, and Hob couldn’t get enough.

Today, they are sitting in a quiet corner of the New Inn. Hob has learned that jokes and puns don’t get him far, but Dream always loves a good story, and so he is currently regaling Dream with the tale of the time he made the mistake of starting a new life as his own nephew instead of son.

“I just figured I’d mix it up a little,” he groaned, “If anything I thought it would be more suspicious to constantly be claiming to be my own son. How was I supposed to know Helen’s mother still had a picture of us?”

Dream is watching him with rapt attention, as if he will be quizzed on his words later. His drink is untouched as always, and he gives a quiet hum, which Hob has learned is Dream-speak for ‘please tell me more’.

“So Helen comes to me, with this faded picture she found in her attic of my ‘uncle’ who is the spitting image of me, wringing her hands and near tears, explaining to me that she thinks my mom might have had an affair,” Hob put his head in his hands as he remembers the incident, “Honestly, I should have just gone along with it, but I’m bloody awful at fake crying, so of course, what do I blurt out?” He looks up at Dream, putting on a faux surprised face as he reenacts himself, “‘Oh, did I not mention my dad and uncle were twins?’”

Finally, Dream’s blank expression cracks. His eyes crinkle just slightly, and he lets out a soft huff of breath through a smile, the closest to a laugh that Hob ever manages.

And Hob loves it, to be sure, but he can’t help but grin and quip nonchalantly, "One of these days I'm gonna get a proper laugh out of you, just you wait."

The change is immediate.

Dream's face falls so fast it gives Hob whiplash, and his entire body stiffens in his seat, hands clenched in fists on the table. He looks away, so Hob can't quite figure out what emotions are swimming there.

"I do not recommend that."

Hob furrowed his brows in confusion, "And why would that be?"

Across from him, Dream shifted uncomfortably, looking almost… guilty? Before the Endless finally responded, "I have been told my laugh is. Unattractive."

And that has Hob's eyebrows shooting into his hairline, "Wait, really?" Dream nods solemnly, and the grave look on his face has Hob bursting into surprised laughter, "Oh, oh now that's something! Now I really have to hear it!"

When his laughter dies down, he expects Dream to be pouting, perhaps huffing regally or glaring in fond annoyance, as he has taken to do when Hob teases him lightly.

Instead, he is met with a carefully blank stare. The kind that Hob has learned means that Dream is hurting and doesn't want to show it.

"Your efforts would be wasted. I have long broken myself of the habit."

And, well, that is certainly. A loaded sentence. Hob feels the smile slip from his face, as it starts to occur to him that he may have tripped into a landmine without realizing it.

"Laughing isn't a 'bad habit', mate," he responds slowly. He can’t help but tilt his head a little, looking at his friend through a new lens. Dream has always been so stoic, so reserved and guarded and reticent. It had never occurred to him that those traits may have been learned.

Dream is older than Hob- much, much older- and he is too afraid to ask how long Dream has been smothering his own joy.

"Even if you do have an ugly laugh or what have you,” he continued insistently, “that's no reason to just… never laugh again. I mean, come one, laughing is great! It’s, it’s unrestrained joy! Happiness! There’s no bad way to laugh.”

A pause stretches between them. And then, Dream shakes his head. Slowly. A single, deliberate movement from side to side, and he speaks as though reciting a fact of the universe. "Joy is. Unbecoming on me."

Hob has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and even though he somehow manages not to burst into tears at those words, he’s certain he looks as heartbroken as he feels, “Dream,” his voice is pleading, “That’s not the point. That- that’s not what joy is about!” There’s a tinge of desperation in his voice, egged on by the way he finds himself gesturing wildly in front of a being who might as well be a statue for how still he is, “It’s not about looking good, it’s about feeling good. If I had to choose between you being unfairly attractive and you being happy, I’m always going to pick your happiness.”

Part of him also wants to argue that he very much doesn’t believe that there is anything Dream could do that would make him unattractive, that Hob is compromised by his appearance 24/7 no matter what he does. But given how dense and stubborn his friend is, he worries it would be taken the wrong way. So for now, he just leans forward to lay a hand over Dream’s.

“We both know I’m more stubborn than you, so just you wait. I’m going to get a laugh out of you, and we’ll both have a right good time with it, and you’ll find that joy is in fact very becoming on you. And you know I wouldn’t lie.”

For a long moment, Dream just looks at him, blinking slowly like he’s just been handed a particularly vexing puzzle. Eventually, he responds steadily, “I am always happy with you. Even when I do not laugh.”

Huffing lightly, Hob smiles, “Well, I’m glad to hear that my friend. But you won’t dissuade me.”

“Hm. You cannot blame me for trying though.”

That startles a laugh from Hob, and he squeezes Dream’s hand fondly, “No, I suppose not.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hob figures, since he is dating the Prince of Stories, that movie nights are a pretty solid bet as far as dates go.

Flipping through the selection of movies on his laptop, he tries very, very hard not to think of the reason why Dream hasn’t experienced these particular stories, instead focusing on the excitement of getting to share them with the one he loves.

Lately, he’s been concentrating on comedies.

He had started with the older ones, suffering through adaptations of Shakespeare’s comedies so that Dream could have something familiar while adjusting to the new medium of film. Then he showed him some of the classics; Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, The Princess Bride, The Great Race, The Marx Brothers. He learned that Dream loved Clue and the idea of a story having multiple endings, but didn’t care for Monty Python’s absurdity.

And through them all, Hob got small smiles and abrupt exhales.

They laid together on the couch, Dream’s back against Hob’s front, Hob resting his arms around Dream’s chest. He barely watches the movies on the screen, so tuned into Dream, trying to ease any tension out of his frame, hoping for at least the gentle shakes of restrained laughter.

But there’s nothing.

When the credits roll, Hob stands, kissing Dream on the forehead before taking their empty wine glasses to the kitchen for a refill. Setting them on the counter, Hob allows himself a sigh of frustration. He hadn’t expected this endeavor to be quite so difficult. Tapping his fingers, he racked his brain for what else he could do to loosen up the stubborn being on his couch enough to shrug off some of his poise.

“Hob.”

Dream never made a sound when he moved, and Hob really should be used to it by now. Still, he jumped nearly a foot in the air at the sound of a voice barely a foot behind him. Whipping around, he clutched at his chest dramatically.

“God’s wounds, Dream, if I could die I think I might have!”

For a long moment, they simply stare at each other. Dream stands tall and regal, hands clasped in front of him, and blinks slowly. There is such gravity in his expression, in the way he carefully considers Hob, as if trying to disarm a bomb.

(Hob looks at him and wants to ask ‘What are you so afraid of? What’s got you so scared of me?’)

(Dream looks at him and wants to ask ‘Is this enough? Is this enough? Why can’t this be enough?’)

(Neither of them ask.)

Eventually, Dream’s eyes flutter closed, and he steps forward to press his face into the crook of Hob’s shoulder. On instinct, Hob circles him with his arms, swaying them both slightly as he buries his nose in wild black hair.

“Everything alright, Dove?”

He feels Dream nod against him, “Yes. I am happy. Here, with you.”

And he sounds happy. Something peaceful and relaxed in his tone that makes Hob’s face crack into a wide smile and squeeze him a little tighter, “Good. That’s what we’re going for, Love.”

Dream hums contentedly, nearly a purr, and Hob figures he must be doing something right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In all the centuries since meeting Dream of the Endless, long before he knew his name, before the lust turned to love, Hob had been convinced that he would never so much as lay a hand on his stranger’s skin. He always seemed so far above him, so unreachable, it had felt like the most painful kind of pipe dream.

So now, six hundred some odd years later, being able to kiss Dream felt like a miracle.

This, too, had taken some adjusting between them. Hob was a tactile person, and he got the feeling Dream was too, but he wasn’t used to it. For the first few weeks, Dream couldn’t help but flinch away from skin contact, and Hob couldn’t help but feel rejected by it. But as time passed, Dream began to relax into the affection, and Hob learned not to take it personally, though it still made him sad to think of how long Dream had gone without kind contact.

Similarly, going farther had taken time. Dream had expressed a want to be with Hob intimately, but taking his clothes off was a struggle. They grew together in this, too. They took it slow, learned each other’s bodies under clothes until Dream was comfortable removing that barrier so long as the lights were dimmed, so long as he didn’t feel displayed.

Now they fell together with practiced ease. They both knew how to make the space comfortable, how to make the other gasp and pant. Hob knew how to ease away the endless tension Dream carried in every part of his body, and Dream knew how to make Hob feel seen and wanted in ways he never had before.

They had both shared a couple bottles of wine, though Hob was the only one seemingly affected by it, his kisses a little more clumsy and a rosy flush over his face. They stumbled into Hob’s bedroom, Dream pulling his body on top of his own, encouraging Hob to press his weight onto him the way he liked. Hob took a moment to kick the mess of sheets onto the floor, his movements hindered by the way Dream was shoving his shirt over his head. He laughed as his arms got tangled in the sleeves, nearly tipping over before Dream’s hands reached to steady him, finally freeing himself of the fabric. He saw Dream’s lips twitching before he zeroed in on Hob’s chest, running his fingers through his thick body hair and palming at his pecs. Hob had always thought he was decent looking, but Dream had a way of bearing down on him with hungry eyes that made him feel like the most attractive man in the universe.

But he doesn’t let himself get too distracted, tugging at Dream’s shirt questioningly and then pulling it off as soon as he’s given approval. The same way Dream is minorly obsessed with Hob’s hair and muscles, so is Hob enamored with the miles of smooth, hairless skin exposed to him now. Dream sighs, his body going lax beneath him and running his fingers lovingly through his hair as Hob kisses along his collar bones.

They are both still in their jeans, but there’s no rush. Leaning back, Hob is happy to take his time admiring his love, smiling at the way Dream’s eyes have drifted closed under his gentle touches. Hob skims his fingers down Dream's sides, brushing over prominent ribs and the vulnerable space of his waist, and he feels Dream twitch, a huff of breath escaping him and at that moment, a lightbulb goes off in his brain.

Suddenly, Hob feels himself grin mischievously, because why hadn't he thought of this before?

Curling his fingers, he drags them back up Dream's skin, not pressing, just fluttering up and down the soft, white skin. Below him, Dream begins to squirm, sucking in a breath, and Hob grins wider, begins to move his fingers just a little faster because he is brilliant and then-

-and then Dream's entire body goes rigid, and cold fingers shoot out to grip Hob's wrists.

"Stop."

Dream's voice cracks with desperation and Hob feels like the scum of the earth.

Before he has a chance to pull away, to give Dream space, Dream is scrambling back, sitting up to press his back against the headboard. All the soft relaxation Hob had coaxed from him is gone, his body wracked with tension, and even cast downward he can see the anxiety and shame warring in his eyes. He keeps his shaking hands around Hob's wrists to hold him at arm's length, as if bracing for Hob to ignore his wishes.

Yeah. Hob definitely feels like scum.

"Hey," he whispers, leaning back and keeping his hands lax and unthreatening, "I'm sorry, it's okay. I won't do that again," he promises. He tilts his head to try to catch Dream's gaze, "I'm sorry."

Dream doesn't respond, but he does loosen his grip. Tentatively, Hob shifts to curl his hands around Dream's softly in return, letting his thumbs stroke the inside of his wrists soothingly. He waits patiently, letting Dream breathe, occasionally whispering soft apologies and comfort while Dream gathers himself.

After several long minutes, Dream swallows thickly, "I do not understand."

Furrowing his brow, Hob asked, "What do you mean?"

There is another pause before Dream answers slowly, his voice thick with fear and sorrow, "You have already seen. All the ugly things inside of me. That you still allow me in your presence at all is a marvel. Why, then, do you seek to see me ugly on the outside? It would be…too much. To ask for you to still want me. If I am, if nothing else, no longer appealing in that way to you."

Hob feels like his heart has been drawn and quartered. His chest goes tight, and there are so many things he wants to say, so many reasons he wants to cry, and they're all fighting for first place in his mind. For too long he simply stares, eyes wide and watery, while Dream curls in on himself, his gaze still locked on his lap.

Finally, finally, Hob gently releases Dream's hands, opening his arms and just barely managing to choke out, "Come 'ere, Love. Come here."

Dream hesitates, his eyes at last glancing up to search Hob's face. Whatever he finds there must be enough though, because he releases a shuddering breath and lets himself fall forward into Hob's arms.

Hob gathers him in his lap, settling in the center of the bed and pressing a kiss against his sharp cheekbone. He grips him tight, and after one last moment of hesitation, Dream curls his arms around Hob's back to return the embrace.

For so long, Hob has felt small compared to Dream. Immortal though he may be, he was still just a human next to an Endless. A speck next to an existence he could barely wrap his head around. Each day, Hob felt it was a marvel for Dream to want him. Not once had he ever considered that Dream might feel less than. It had never even crossed his mind that Dream might think it even a possibility that Hob wouldn't want him in whatever way he was given. As if there was anything that would make Hob give up on him.

Especially something so inconsequential.

"I love you," Hob whispers against his temple, "You. It doesn't matter what you look like, or sound like. Ugly, beautiful, plain, it doesn't matter as long as it's you. I won't stop loving you- won't stop wanting you- just because you're not, I don't know, aesthetically perfect or whatever."

He squeezes the bony body a little tighter, "Although that said, I love you. And so you'll always be beautiful to me. Inside and out."

When Hob pulls back to look at him, there are tears slowly running down Dream's face, and he doesn't look like he believes him.

It breaks Hob's heart.

But they've got time.

Kissing the tears from his cheeks, he makes one last promise, "I'm going to prove it to you. However long it takes. The rest of my immortal life. I'll prove it to you."

Dream still doesn't respond. He simply closes his eyes and swallows back all the arguments bubbling in his chest. They don't have sex that night, but Hob pulls the covers around them and holds Dream until he stops shaking. Until he's warm and relaxed in his arms again.

Dream never responds. But he's still there in the morning, waking Hob with a gentle kiss, and that’s enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hob stops trying after that.

There’s a subtle relaxation to Dream now, as if he has exhaled after months of holding his breath, and it is a painful realization for Hob to acknowledge that his attempts had, in fact, been making things worse.

Nothing for it now but to learn from it, he supposes. So he doesn’t push. He savors every smile Dream graces him with, every soft touch and loving gaze. They start watching different genres of movies and shows, and sometimes Hob manages to convince Dream to go somewhere in the city with him. Dream shows his happiness is a thousand quiet ways, and Hob cherishes each of them.

On this day, Hob isn’t even expecting Dream at all. They had already seen each other several times that week, and Dream was a busy being, so Hob was anticipating a quiet night and maybe a dream-visit later in the evening. They were approaching the one-year anniversary of Dream returning to the New Inn, which Hob knew was a complicated time for Dream. It was, after all, also approaching the one-year anniversary of his escape from the monsters who imprisoned him.

Hob is, admittedly, a little lost on how to handle the occasion. Dream has been dealing with it the way he deals with everything, which is to say he hasn’t mentioned it and if pressed would make some excuse about arbitrary dates or something. So Hob falls back on one of his tried-and-true love languages.

Food.

Sure, Dream doesn’t eat much, if at all, but he knows he appreciates the gesture when Hob offers him treats. So Hob has dedicated the evening after returning from work to trying out a fancy recipe he found for a lavender cake with lemon curd and buttercream. If it works out well enough, he’ll make it for Dream on one of their more official date nights. Cooking has always been more of his forte, but it can’t be that hard to switch to baking, he figures. Besides, last Christmas he splurged on one of those expensive Kitchen Aid stand mixers, so he should be set.

At first, it does go smoothly enough. The lemon curd is thinner than he wanted, but it still needs to cool a little, so he’s not giving up on it yet. He’s beaten the eggs and sugar, and has just poured what he feels is a reasonable amount of flour into the bowl. It’s a little full, sure, but as he drops the paddle in he figures as long as he keeps the setting low he’ll be fine.

And that’s when Dream shows up.

And, to be clear, by ‘show up’, he means just fucking appear next to Hob in the kitchen out of absolutely nowhere.

“Hello Hob-”

Dream is interrupted by Hob’s high-pitched shriek, accompanied by the way his full body flail catches the switch on the mixer. The paddle, half buried in flour, goes from zero to ten, a mushroom cloud of flour engulfing the kitchen followed by waves of egg and sugar.

“SHIT! FUCK!” Hob sputters, waving his arms blindly as his vision is obscured by the explosion of batter, until his fingers finally find the switch and slam it off.

The entire kitchen is hazy with flour in the air, and Hob is sputtering, trying to spit out the mixture that got in his mouth during the explosion. He is spitting into his arm, shaking his hair out like a dog, and so it takes a moment for him to register another sound in the room.

It is, undeniably, a laugh, but only in the sense that there is a distinct “ha ha” to the sound. But there’s a quality to it, like if you scraped gravel across a chalkboard, deep and low pitched but still somehow grating, broken up by long notes that remind him of a braying bloodhound.

Snapping his head around, he only catches the last moment. There is a split second where he sees Dream, flour in his hair and bright streaks of egg and sugar on his black clothing, his eyes bright with glee, his mouth smiling wide enough to show his teeth, sees how his whole face seems softer and brighter and he hunches slightly under the force of his laughter.

Dream’s laughter.

Only for a second though. As soon as their eyes lock, Dream chokes on a breath. He actually takes a step back, away from Hob, as he slaps both hands over his mouth, fingers curling to clutch at his own jaw, and he doesn’t go red with embarrassment, but gray from mortification.

Deep in his mind, Hob knows he should be saying something comforting. Something to console the anxiety that is obviously crackling under Dream’s skin like an electric current. He should definitely be doing something soothing.

But the sound of laughter is still ringing in his ears, every splitting note of it echoing in his head, and, really, there is only one way to respond to that awful, ridiculous noise coming from Dream's mouth:

"Marry me."

Dream's hands are still covering his mouth, but Hob sees the way his eyes widen, and his shoulders jerk up to his ears, and he thinks he hears a muffled squeak of surprise, and what else can he do but-

"Marry me right now."

They spend a long moment staring at each other. Slowly, so slowly, Dream pulls his hands away from his mouth, just an inch or so, still ready to clamp down anything he deems unseemly, but enough to let out a soft, "Pardon?"

And, really, how could anyone be expected to stand in front of this Endless- this unfathomable, multifaceted being who is powerful and elegant and ridiculous and adorable and perfect- and not leap forward to embrace him?

Dream's hands are still in the way, and so as Hob wraps his arms around him, his lips land on his knuckles, pressing the hands back against Dream's mouth just as another surprised squeak escapes him and Hob is so in love. He doesn’t care that they are making a bigger mess, and Hob's kiss is no less enthusiastic for the bony barrier between their lips. It's still Dream's skin, and so it is still a gift.

Eventually, he pauses long enough for Dream to uncover his mouth, his hands hovering over Hob's chest, barely touching enough to leave light fingerprints in the batter coating his shirt. He blinks in confusion and Hob is smiling so wide his cheeks ache.

"You. Do not think it is…?"

Hob pulls him tight against his chest, peppering kisses all over his face, careless of the flour getting in his mouth as he rambles lovingly, "It's ridiculous. You sound like a choking donkey. You've never looked more beautiful. It's hideous. It's perfect. I want to hear that laugh every day for the rest of my life."

When he looks, Dream's eyes are shining with tears, but he's also smiling, his face full of wonder and fragile hope as he whispers, "That is. A long time, Hob Gadling."

He's still smiling, which makes their teeth click when Hob leans in to kiss him properly, "Longer, if I have any say in it,” with effort, he pulls back just enough to point out, “You haven’t answered my question by the way.”

Raising an eyebrow, a bit of shyness returned to Dream even as he replied petulantly, “You did not phrase it as a question.” Hob rolled his eyes, and Dream continued, “That was not. One of your jokes?”

“My love,” Hob takes one of Dream’s hands, laying the other over his own heart dramatically as he drops to one knee on his disastrous kitchen floor, “I have never been more serious.”

Dream burst out laughing.

Tugging on Hob’s hand, he pulled him to his feet and pressed their mouths together, “You ridiculous, absurd, wonderful man,” Dream declares when he can catch his breath, “Nothing would bring me more joy than to call you my husband.”

Eventually they have to stop kissing.

They are both laughing too hard against each other's mouths.

#FUCK YEAH ONE LESS WIP #the sandman #dreamling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dreamling fic #my writing #this started as part of a different fic and then took on a life of it's own #I'm pretty happy with how it turned out though #it was meant to be pure fluff but I apparently NEED to make things hurt at least a little #cest la vie

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