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By now, Hob is used to the occasional knocking on his windows on the third floor. As soon as he hears it, a small smile appears on his face, and he puts down his book to go and let the raven in.
Matthew is the picture of smugness. One might think that being saddled like a horse would be demeaning to the man-turned-raven, but Matthew likes to compare himself to a dragon. He says he wouldn’t mind carrying Dream to an epic battle like this, but unless the battle was against ants, Hob would be strictly against it. He doesn’t want Dream to be in any danger in this form, and it would downright defeat the purpose of this.
“Hello, noble steed,” Hob teases the raven, who bristles for a moment before he goes back to puffing out his chest, holding his tiny head high like the smug bastard that he is.
“Shut up, Gadling,” he says, and even his tone is less biting than it would normally be. Everyone turns soft when Dream turns like this.
Like this meaning tiny. Matthew turns a little to the side, giving Hob full view of the tiny Dream Lord climbing out of his saddle. The smile on Hob’s lips turns wider as he offers his palm for Dream to sit on.
“You know what to do,” Matthew says self-importantly. “If anything, call me.” Hob can’t blame him. Dream’s trust is better than a drug, and he, Matthew, and very few others have it, and none of them would bear to lose it. Matthew has the full right to boast about carrying the Dream Lord to the Waking World on his back like a dragon carrying a mythical prince.
When Matthew flies off, Hob promptly shuts the window – wouldn’t want the house to get cold. He still can’t convince Dream to wear the tiny fluffy bathrobe that he bought for him to keep him warm, so he has to keep the house warm instead.
“Okay, dinner first?” Hob turns to Dream, carefully bringing him a little closer to his face but not too close. Just enough to be able to tell whether Dream is nodding or shaking his head, because Dream doesn’t speak when he makes himself small.
Dream puts a tiny little finger on his chin and contemplates, and Hob’s heart almost explodes. Dream is so cute it could kill a man. It will definitely kill him one day, but thankfully, he is immortal.
Dream ends up shaking his head, and Hob huffs. Sometimes, even in this form, Dream will insist that he does not need food because he is Endless and blah blah blah. But Hob will end up bribing him into eating something anyway, because a hungry Dream is a grumpy Dream.
Checking the time on his wristwatch, Hob decides that dinner can wait. If Dream wants some quiet time first – which is probably what he wants and needs the most when he gets like this – they can do that.
“Well, I was reading a book. Wanna join me?” he suggests, getting an enthusiastic nod before he even finishes the sentence. “Alright, come along,” he says as if he isn’t the one carrying the palm-sized cosmic entity.
Hob makes himself comfortable close to the lamp – he has gotten into the habit of keeping only one small light on in the apartment unless he is working because the big ceiling lights often made Dream’s head hurt, and Dream was coming to him like this – well, not often, but it wasn’t unusual anymore. With utmost care, Dream is brought to the breast pocket on Hob’s shirt – another adjustment to his routine, making sure that he always has a breast pocket when he is at home – where he climbs from Hob’s palm and snuggles comfortably.
It is the warmth of Hob’s body and the unrelenting thrum of his heart that calm Dream the most. Soon, he appears to be dozing off, one hand curled into the hem of the breast pocket, eyes closed, and his tiny head drooping. Hob watches him for a couple minutes, drinking his fill of cuteness, before he picks his book back up and reads.
When it approaches nine o’clock, Hob puts his book down again and starts planning dinner. He’s already eaten, but he usually grabs a second dinner – he can indulge; he is immortal – with Dream. Also, it is impossible to make the amount of food tiny enough for Dream, and someone needs to eat the leftovers.
“Dream, friend,” Hob speaks softly, touching Dream’s hand with the tip of his little finger. “Come on, little mouse,” he hums until the Dream Lord begrudgingly lifts his head and blinks at him. “Time to make dinner, love,” he announces, and Dream huffs – something that Hob can see rather than hear. “No arguing – it’s almost bedtime.”
Hob carefully supports the breast pocket with his hand as he stands up, not in a way that would make Dream feel caged but in a way that makes him shake less as Hob walks to the kitchen. There, he only turns on a string of fairy lights above the counter. Dream flourishes in the darkness, and he’ll gladly risk cutting his fingers off during meal prep in order to see Dream happy.
“What do you feel like? Crepes?” Hob asks as he carefully helps Dream out of his pocket and onto his favourite spot – among his prized china teacups on a low shelf, from where Dream can observe everything that Hob does but where he is safe from blades and heat. His proposition gets a resolute shake of the head.
“Something savoury, then?” Hob asks sceptically. Dream’s sweet tooth is insatiable when he is regular-sized, and it doesn’t get any smaller when he shrinks himself. This, too, gets a resolute no, and even Dream’s tiny arms crossing on his chest, his legs swinging over the edge of the shelf unhappily.
“Alright, sweet, then,” Hob chuckles. “Pancakes? Fluffy pancakes with chocolate chips?” He could get Dream to eat a strawberry that way, too. Or, well, a tiny piece of it. And a grape, if those in the fridge are still good.
Dream contemplates for a long time, as if this is the most important decision of his life. And Hob wants that for him; he wants Dream’s most important decisions to be the ones about food and what scent of bath bomb he wants to use, not stressful decisions that affect the whole of the universe and even more than that.
Finally, Dream nods, and Hob sets to work, promising to be quick, but Dream is free to take a nap in his favourite teacup. Hob had hand-sewn a tiny pillow to put on the bottom of the cup after the second time Dream fell asleep in it.
Pancake batter, even homemade, is simple, so Hob is making pancakes in no time. The first few are for him, because the first ones never come out right, and once he has the hang of it, he makes a couple tiny ones with only a splotch of batter. He knows he will be lucky if Dream deigns to eat one, but he wants to put a stack of pancakes in front of him all the same – it is a matter of pride.
The chocolate chips don’t really make it into the tiny pancakes, so Hob sprinkles some chocolate shavings on top instead. Taking one plate from the tiny kitchen set that he got for Dream, he arranges the stack and then adds a tiny dollop of whipped cream as well as the tip of one strawberry and an eighth of a grape, sliced into a neat moon shape in case Dream wants to eat it like a watermelon.
Hob prefers tea in the evening, but once again, making anything in small quantities is hard, so he makes a whole cup of warm milk with honey and then pours some of it into Dream’s tiny mug. Then he carries everything, big and small, to the kitchen table and goes to find Dream, who is lounging in his teacup, one leg swinging over the edge lazily.
Even on the kitchen table, Dream has a dedicated spot. There is a vase that Hob keeps full of fresh flowers, and Dream likes to sit leaning against it. Sometimes, a dry leaf will fall from the flowers, or even a lone, colourful petal, and Dream will look like a fairy prince as he puts it in his hair or uses it as a tiny blanket.
They eat in silence – Dream doesn’t speak at all, and Hob, for once, doesn’t tell stories because even listening to stories can be tiring, and Dream came to him for rest. Dream, even without encouragement, eats two tiny pancakes and all of the fruit, and he absolutely polishes off the chocolate off the plate, not leaving even a speck of it behind. He then sits patiently, sipping his milk while Hob finishes his much bigger portion and reluctantly drinks the sweet milk.
Hob doesn’t bother with the dishes, leaving everything as it is as he scoops Dream up into his palm again and heads to the bathroom. “Do you want to take a bath, or wait for me in the bedroom?” he asks. Then he remembers how difficult the conversation can be and rephrases it. “Right. Bath?”
Dream nods, a little more eager than usual. Hob wonders if it’s because of the bubbles that he experimentally added last time. He will definitely add them again.
Even in the bathroom, there are traces of Dream. Hob has cut up some linen towels into small squares for Dream and dedicated a small cubic glass bowl to serve as Dream’s bathtub. He drops Dream off on top of the washing machine, turning his back to him to give him privacy. He fills the small bowl with warm water and makes sure to create a lot of bubbles, and in the meantime, Dream undresses himself and wraps a tiny towel around his waist. By the time Hob has brought the bowl to him, Dream is shuffling from foot to foot impatiently.
“Here you go, little mouse,” Hob coos, watching Dream test the water with one hand. Upon an approving nod, he puts a pool ladder from a Barbie doll set into it. The legs are weighted down by a teaspoon on either side because Hob thought the light plastic was too clumsy and unreliable for his little friend. Technically, Dream couldn’t drown and could easily magic himself out of the water, but why risk it when Hob could be overly careful instead?
While Dream takes his bath, Hob takes a quick shower as well. Dream is still swimming laps when he gets out – he doesn’t look, respectful of Dream’s privacy, but he can hear him – so he brushes his teeth, gets his eyedrops, applies moisturiser to his face, and otherwise busies himself until he hears the tell-tale sound of Dream stepping out of his bath. He waits another two minutes and then turns, finding Dream already dressed in his tiny flannel pyjamas. (Hand-sewn by Hob, because none of the doll clothes that he came across seemed comfortable enough for his Dream.)
Dream is still drying his hair, making it look even messier than it usually is. Hob waits and watches, once more feeling his heart fill with love to the point it’s almost bursting. When Dream drops the towel, Hob offers his palm, and they head to the bedroom.
Dream’s bed is Hob’s proudest invention. It is a large matchbox, filled with the softest fabrics to make the bottom soft, silky black sheets, and many tiny pillows. Dream would prefer sleeping in his breast pocket, but that is too dangerous, and this is a compromise that the Dream Lord agreed upon, not even begrudgingly.
“Bedtime,” Hob announces, lowering his palm to the nightstand, but he stops when Dream clings to his fingers. “Oh?” He sits on the bed and brings Dream closer to his face. Dream holds on. “Oh! You want some cuddles, first?” he asks, and Dream nods his head almost imperceptibly. Even in this form, he is not fond of asking for cuddles, even though he knows Hob is happy to give them to him in abundance.
Hob settles in the bed, back against the headboard, and brings Dream to his chest, cupping his palm slightly and sticking his thumb up for Dream to hold onto. It is the closest to a hug that they can get with the size difference, and Dream seems to love it, latching onto Hob’s finger with all his strength. Hob allows himself another warm chuckle, stopping when he realises that it is slightly jostling Dream, who is still leaning against his chest.
Eventually, Dream’s hold on him begins to loosen and his head begins drooping again, at which point Hob declares that it really is late for them and he carefully helps Dream get into his bed. He would love to press a kiss to the top of the Dream Lord’s tiny little head, but Dream gets a little uncomfortable with a whole human head in his face, so instead, Hob strokes his tiny forehead with the tip of his little finger until a satisfied smile spreads on Dream’s lips.
“Good night, Dream King,” Hob hums and turns off the light, lying down on his side with his face towards the matchbox. He can’t see Dream from where he is lying, but it is enough to know that he is there and safe.
In the morning, Hob wakes up where he fell asleep, but Dream is no longer in the matchbox. He is normal-sized again, lying in the tight space between Hob’s body and the edge of the mattress, seemingly defying physical laws to stay safely in that position. He stretches lazily when he notices that Hob is no longer sleeping and grins.
“Good morning, friend,” he says, sighing with contentment. “I would like more bubbles next time.”