Chapter Text
Many tragedies happen when no one expects them. Unlike the movies, in real life there are no ominous omens that hint that something terrible is about to happen. The sky was cloudless, the sun shone brightly, a barely perceptible spring wind stirred the leaves on the trees. It was the perfect day. Except for the anxiety that had kept Hob from breathing deeply since morning. He couldn't understand what was wrong, but with all his being he felt the approaching storm.
He was lucky then. Relatively. During those years, Hob was a college teacher and was asked to replace a colleague who had fallen ill. He couldn't refuse, because that person often helped out when he needed to run home to a sick child. The whole family was supposed to fly to the States for the weekend. Their friends a year later overcame all the difficulties of the move and invited them to celebrate it. Due to work, Hob had to change his ticket a day later, but Eleanor and Robyn had to arrive on time.
Hob drove them to the airport, helped with their baggage, kissed his wife and son for good luck, and left for college. The anxiety intensified with each passing hour, making him more and more distracted. But everything was fine. He convinced himself that it was just a worry about the flight, this often happened when his friends or loved ones went on a long trip. Eleanor texted him from the airport, sent pictures of Robyn munching on a donut, admiring the planes through a large window, or just sleeping in her arms while waiting. Hob smiled as he looked at these photos. He lived in love, he had almost everything he dreamed about. The family made grandiose plans for a new home, new travels, Eleanor promised him to get a dog as soon as Robyn was old enough not to hurt the pet. Hob loved life and every person who was present in it. He fell asleep and woke up with the woman of his dreams in the same bed, doted on his son, who grew by leaps and bounds. Eleanor had said that Robyn would grow up to be like his father, but Hob could see the distinct features of his mother on his face: he had the same blue-green eyes and snub nose.
In the message, Eleanor texted that they went to land. «Love you, Robbie» were the very last words Hob got from her. But then he didn't know about it yet.
In the middle of the lesson, some unpleasant feeling took possession of Hob. Something pricked him in the chest like a needle, and the anxiety that had been accumulating in his chest all this time instantly spread throughout his body.
Hob: are you okay? has the plane taken off yet?
Hob: honey? if you haven't turned off your phone yet, answer me.
Hob: okay, I guess I'm just panicking for nothing haha. kiss Robyn instead of me, I'll be with you soon xxx.
Sitting through the rest of the lesson seemed impossible. Hob said that once the kids were done with the task, they could put the work on his desk and leave, while he himself went to the staff room. There was an electric kettle and boxes of tea bags he needed to calm his racing heart. Hob wasn't a fan of green tea, but he had heard of its miraculous properties.
There was a small TV in the room that almost never changed from the news channel. He usually created background noise, so Hob didn't notice him right away. He took his personal mug (every teacher had one to cut down on the use of plastic cups), made himself some tea, and was so lost in thought that he didn't notice more teachers crowding around the TV. He was brought to his senses by an occasional nudge in the back and a quick apology.
Then Hob took the mug and walked a little closer to the crowd. Someone turned up the sound. On the screen, reporters showed a burning plane.
“At Luton Airport about thirty minutes ago, a plane caught fire during takeoff from the runway. It's assumed that's an engine malfunction, but no confirmations have yet been received. There are victims, survivors are urgently taken to the hospitals.” said the even voice of the news anchor.
The mug slipped from Hob's hands and shattered at his feet, spilling its contents across the floor. The teachers in front of him turned around: everyone knew that today he was supposed to be at this airport, and that his family was there right now.
For the first time in his life, Hob felt the ground slip from under his feet. His head was empty, he didn't hear a single word that his colleagues spoke to him. It’s like someone suddenly stuffed him into a box where there is no sound, no light, not even gravity.
No, it can't be. Most likely, it was the plane that took off before the one in which Eleanor is sitting. Her flight will be canceled or rescheduled because of this, and she is about to be able to call him. So it will be. She and Robyn are fine. Hob stormed out of the staff room, despite how soft his legs had become. With trembling hands, he dialed his wife's number and tried to get through to her, but the subscriber was unavailable.
Hob: El, what happened??? where're you??
Hob: answer me, please!! say you're both safe!
Hob: please be okay.
Realising that he could no longer stand, Hob sat down on the nearest bench in the corridor. He pressed the same button dozens of times, but instead of Eleanor's voice, only an answering machine answered him. The airport website didn't help either — it was overloaded, and it remained impossible to look at the new flight schedule, taking into account the disaster. Hob's mouth went dry, but he kept repeating in his mind that Eleanor must have a hard time with a kid in her arms to find time to get her phone in an airport full of panicking people. As soon as she finds a secluded place, she will call. Or text. It doesn't matter, she'll let him know that they're all right.
Hob kept trying to call his wife or access the site without interruption. Students and teachers were passing by him, but he didn't see or hear anyone. He must go there and pick them up. But the road, most likely, was blocked, and he couldn't get close to the airport, it's unlikely that even without a car they would let him in at the entrance.
Maybe it's only been a couple of hours, maybe more than ten. Hob didn't remember. This period of time was completely erased from his memory. He couldn't tell where he was, what he was doing, who he was talking to. But he will never be able to forget the call that gave rise to hope in him and immediately destroyed it. Extinguished like a newly lit candle.
“Eleanor!” he shouted into the speaker as soon as an unfamiliar number appeared on his screen. She could have borrowed a phone from someone to call him. Her own could easily be discharged at the most inopportune moment, as it usually happened.
“Robert Gadling?” came a rough, deep voice, not at all like his wife's.
”Y-yes, it's me.” Hob felt his heart begin to beat slower, and the skin-chilling fear soaked even into his bones.
“I'm sorry to inform you, but we need you to come to the hospital to identify the body.”
From that moment on, Hob's life stopped. The male voice continued to say something, but it no longer mattered. At first, all feelings disappeared, every single one. No hope, no fear, no grief. This call seemed to knock out all humanity from Hob. Only coldness grew inside him, invisible ice felt like it touched every organ that kept his body alive, turning him into an inanimate statue.
Hob felt nothing either when he left work or when he drove to the specified address. Everything happened as if in a trance. He even barely gave an account of his actions. And the low temperature of the morgue had no effect on his sense of self. Hob looked impassively at the bodies covered with blankets, he didn't even tremble. But as soon as the doctor threw back one of the blankets...
Doctors are not mean people. They allowed him to hold the cold body of the dead child close to him and sit with him on the floor. Hob was crying harder than ever. He whispered prayers in the boy's ear to open his eyes, wake up, breathe in the air again. Robyn hasn't yet seen life, but it has already ended. Hob had told him that together they would choose a puppy when the boy was five years old. Every day, Robyn came up with a new profession that he would like to master when he grows up. But fate didn't give him a chance to try himself in any of them.
Tears welled up with new force when he saw on the hand of another body, an adult, which lay very close, familiar silver rings. Eleanor spent all the morning choosing which of her rings to wear on their trip. She was very fond of silver jewelry and rarely left the house without them. Hob tightened his grip on his son and screamed. The pain was too much for him to bear. It crawled into every cell, touched every joint, every scar. It's like breaking all the bones at the same time. Each breath seemed to cut his throat from the inside. It's not fair. It shouldn't have happened.
Someone called Hob a man of luck, because he escaped certain death. Controversial assertion. Is it possible to call a person lucky who buried the two most dear to his heart people? He went to the cemetery every day, sat at the gravestones, sometimes he was telling something, but most often he was silent. Some of the cemetery workers from time to time saw him lying on the grave, tucking his knees to his chest.
Hob constantly thought that he should be there, in the ground, and rot with his family. He loved life more than anything else, but it has lost all colours and turned into one continuous suffering. However, something inside Hob still clung to it, he knew that even if he had the chance to go back in time to board that damn plane with Eleanor to share her fate, he would not take it. Never. Even when his life had already lost its meaning, the thought of parting with it didn't seem less absurd than before.
He retired from his college. Firstly, Hob couldn't physically be in a building that was all about Eleanor, but even more about the news release that broke his heart. Secondly, all the days merged together, he seemed to live in the groundhog day, grief took possession of him so much that he could not even go to the shower regularly, what can we say about work. For several months, Hob spent whole days in the cemetery. He would have slept there if they hadn't kicked him out when the sun went down.
Sooner or later, savings run out, and in order not to die of hunger, he had to look for a new job. A friend of his helped him get a job at another college where she was principal. It was a temporary position, but Hob wouldn't have been able to handle a permanent one. He was unable to work with children, hardly spoke to anyone, and avoided social interactions. Hob became a different person. His hair had grown to his shoulders, his almost invisible stubble had turned into a scruffy beard. Some people sometimes mistook him for a homeless person.
He was entrusted with some kind of paper work, which he did through force. His new colleagues tried to get to know him, but Hob showed no interest in them, didn't answer questions and didn't enter into dialogues. He could see from their faces that they all knew what had happened to him. Some didn't even try to hide their pity. But Hob didn't care. He didn't try to remember names or faces.
In the teacher's room of this college, there was also a TV, which, in the same way, worked almost without interruption. Except for the different colour of the walls and different furniture, Hob, one might say, remained in the same place. Only he didn't think it would be better for him to avoid TV for a while. When he heard the discussion of yet another plane crash, his entire body shook. Hob ran out into the corridor as fast as he could, tripped over his foot and collapsed to the floor. He heard more than felt how his heart began to beat too fast for a healthy person, black dots appeared in his eyes, and the air became sorely lacking. Hob opened and closed his mouth in an attempt to inhale, but he was choking, as if oxygen was deliberately not getting into his lungs. It was scary, as if Death herself had decided that it was time for him to reunite with his beloved.
He was grounded by someone's touch. When Hob regained consciousness, he felt that he was hugged by a complete stranger person. But it was what he needed. He had not been touched since the funeral. Nobody hugged him for six months.
"Shhh, I'm holding you, it's okay." whispered a female voice in his ear. “You're having a panic attack. Don't be afraid, I'm holding you. You are not alone.”
Perhaps this panic attack saved his life. Johanna Constantine was once a teacher too, but she only worked in the profession for a year and a half. Hob was lucky that he got into her college at that time. She was one of the few who didn't know anything about him, but she was the only one who noticed the state he was in when he ran away. She found him and did everything to calm him down. And Johanna never let him go again.
She was going with him to the cemetery and was holding his hand, she was waiting for him at the psychotherapist's office, was feeding him almost from her hands, she was reminding him to change clothes and was praising for every little thing that he was doing on his own.
Realising that Hob was drowning in loneliness and fear, and the ghosts of the past weren't going to let him go, Johanna invited him to move in her place. So many nights they spent in silence, sitting back to back, or lying on the floor next to each other and looking at the ceiling. Johanna was hugging him when he was jumping up screaming from nightmares, and sometimes they slept in the same bed for his peace of mind.
For Hob, she became a safe haven in the worst storm. Johanna was with him when no one else was left, supporting and helping in any way she could. Since Hob had little energy for hygiene, one day she sat him in front of a mirror, cut his hair and shaved him by herself. His hair was a little longer than before the tragedy, but that's for the best.
Hob slowly got to his feet, the treatment was long and tiring, but not ineffectual. Johanna first heard his laugh, only after almost two years of their life in the same apartment. Then she smiled, put one arm around his neck and touched his forehead with her forehead. It was the day Hob realised that the worst was behind him.
Hob now has a new style, a new home, new friends, a new job, and even a new name (no one else dared to call him Rob or Robbie anymore), but his wounded heart, demanding love, remains old.
The alarm clock on the phone rang, perhaps longer than usual, before being silenced. Hob struggled to open his eyes, feeling his head split apart. Recently, he increasingly began to dream of memories that he both wanted and was afraid to forget. It took him a moment to remember what happened yesterday.
He came to Johanna's work, sat on the floor of her studio and told her everything he felt. Hob remembered that. Then they went to a bar. And about the eighth glass of Margarita, his memory began to disappear, leaving only some incoherent fragments. Hob closed his eyes and groaned softly. He still has to rush to work, but his head hurt like a brick had fallen on it at night.
Turning to the other side, Hob noticed a glass of water and a pack of pills on a small black table. Only then he realised that he wasn't at his home, and not even at Johanna's. Before he began to think, Hob immediately grabbed the life-saving pills. God, he hadn't been this drunk in years.
The eyes closed again on their own. It takes time for the medicine to work. Why has humanity still not come up with a universal salvation from a hangover? Where does all the technological progress go?
Hob was almost asleep again when he felt a cool hand on his forehead. Morpheus loomed over him, a hint of worry on his face. It took Hob a few seconds to focus on him.
“How are you feeling?” his friend asked quietly, dropping to his knees.
“Like a rotten fish.” Hob chuckled weakly. Morpheus's brows furrowed a little and he picked up the pills he had left on the table as if they betrayed him personally.
“My sister said it should help you.”
“It will help. But it takes time.”
Hob couldn't help but smile. All the resentment that he felt for Morpheus disappeared instantly, as soon as he saw him. Hob didn't know how he ended up at his house, but he didn't want to find out right now either. More importantly, his friend is trying to take care of him without having the slightest idea how to do it.
“You should skip work today. I doubt you're strong enough to teach.”
“Are you worried about me? How sweet.” Hob chuckled and pulled away from the pillow with a heavy groan. “No, I have to go. It's my own fault for putting myself in this position. No one will pay me for a day of a hangover.”
Morpheus looked up at him and blinked slowly. He looked so confused that Hob wanted to hug him, but instead, he only allowed himself to pat him on the head. Morpheus was usually annoyed by this, but now he didn't react to this gesture.
“I'll be fine.” Hob assured him. Morpheus' eyebrow twitched upward, showing his disbelief. Perhaps Hob really looked too bad. He needs to wash and clean himself up.
Morpheus pointed to the bathroom door. Getting up from the sofa, Hob saw that at his feet lay a pile of small shiny things, which, no doubt, Jessamy brought him as a consolation. The raven itself was neither seen nor heard, but since her master was calm, it means that she is doing her bird business somewhere in the house.
In the mirror, Hob's face was indeed not the healthiest, and even cold water and mint toothpaste did little to improve his appearance. Well, there is nothing to do, he'll have to courageously endure the jokes of students and avoid the rector all day long.
He didn't use Morpheus's razor, but at home he should definitely shave in the evening so that the stubble doesn't turn into something more that requires careful maintenance. Hob didn't manage to be horrified by his own reflection in the mirror for long, as he smelled smoke, followed by a loud, condemning croak. He had no idea how croaking could even represent any sort of human emotion, but Jessamy seemed to be more emotional than her owner.
Thinking a fire had started, Hob ran out of the bathroom. In the kitchen, Morpheus fought desperately with a toaster that had a piece of bread stuck in it, while Jessamy flew around him and made more and more forcing sounds. Hob froze in the aisle, blinking his eyes stupidly.
"Um, do you need some help?"
Morpheus stopped pounding on the piece of equipment with a ladle and hid it behind his back with a straight face.
“I can't cook. And I don't have much food.” The toaster made a clicking sound, and the burnt bread jumped right into the temple of the man, who was trying to maintain his dignity in Hob's eyes. “But I have a toaster. And I thought... Well, you need to get to work. And you need food. I wanted to make toast. But I haven't used it in a long time.”
Hob tried to contain his laughter. Honestly tried. But he didn't succeed. Morpheus in a purple hoodie trying to get bread out of a toaster is one of the funniest things he's ever seen, which is why Hob laughed despite his headache. He even doubled over, hugging his stomach with his hands. Morpheus looked at him with disapproval, his lips pouting like a child who's been robbed of candy.
“You are the most charming creature I know!” Hob said as the laughter began to recede. Oh, how much he wanted to hug this amazing person. More than anything else. His sullen friend with a shock of unruly hair was born to spend the rest of his life in the Hob's arms.
By the way, Morpheus wore the same hoodie that Hob had once lent him. It was both strange and pleasant at the same time. The hoodie made him small and impossibly cozy. Well, it would be remiss not to mention that the word written on it describes his friend's personality quite well.
“Constantine brought you here yesterday,” Morpheus began to speak hesitantly, putting away both the ladle and the toaster. Hob was sure it was so that he would have a reason not to look at him. “said you wanted to see me.”
“Ah...oh...” Hob swallowed, clutching his earlobe. Yes, he could. But if Johanna brought him, then she definitely didn't let him say unnecessary nonsense, he is confident in her even more than in himself. “I hope I haven't given you too much trouble. Sorry about that.”
“You fell asleep right away.” Morpheus picked up a toast from the floor. Jessamy, who had been waiting for her finest hour all this time, brazenly snatched the bread from his hands and flew to her treasury under the gloomy, disapproving look of the owner, who would have to remove crumbs from everywhere. “And you have nothing to apologize for. I must do this. I was so... glad that Orpheus made contact with me that I couldn't... I didn't know how... I didn't think...”
Morpheus bit his lower lip, his knuckles turning white from how tightly he gripped the edge of the kitchen table.
“Hey, it's all right.” Hob approached him and carefully, fearing to frighten him away, put his hand on top of his. “I'm not angry. I was a little upset, but everything is fine now. I just thought you wouldn't need me. I value our friendship and am afraid of losing it.”
«I'm afraid to lose you» he wanted to say, but he didn't dare. Morpheus had a hard time with such dialogues. A lot of thoughts swirled in his head, and it is easier for him to put them on paper than to say them out loud.
“You can't be not needed.” he answered in a whisper, perhaps hoping that he would remain unheard. But these words warmed Hob's heart, made him smile and added courage to him. Putting his other hand on the back of Morpheus's neck, he hugged him.
Morpheus didn't resist. At first he stood like a limp doll, allowing himself to be hugged, but then Hob felt the hands of others unsteadily wrap around his waist and connect from behind. Hob would definitely be late for work today, but he wasn't about to let go of his friend. There was a faint smell of shampoo in his hair, and Hob closed his eyes, inhaling it slowly. Morpheus fit perfectly into his hugs, as if he really was made for them. His friend's nose rested on his shoulder, on which Hob felt a nervous breath. Morpheus was nervous and self-blaming, but he was forgiven once Hob's eyes opened that morning. He couldn't be offended or angry with him for a long time. It's impossible. As soon as Hob looked into his blue eyes, he became helpless in front of him, ready to do absolutely anything he wanted.
To his surprise, Morpheus was not eager to move away. He pressed a little harder against the strong body when Hob wanted to let him go, which forced him to keep the hug. It's not known how long they would have stood like that if not Jessamy, who in flight grabbed the owner by the strand and roughly pulled towards the empty feeder. Hob chuckled, and Morpheus, with a heavy sigh, put his hands at his sides and obediently trudged along behind the bird, which demanded its portion of breakfast. Apparently, one burnt toast wasn't enough for her.
Hob leaned back against the table, admiring every move Morpheus made in his hoodie. Perhaps not all the remnants of the alcohol had left his mind, as questions swirled on his tongue that he had not previously been able to afford to ask.
“You know, not many straight men wear pride clothes.” came out of his mouth before he could think. Hob pressed his lips into a thin line. Well, if anything happens, he will say that he is still a little drunk. Yes. Will it work? Unlikely. But suddenly he will treat him loyally.
“Firstly, I was going to give it back to you.” Morpheus said as he closed the locker door. He looked down at the hoodie as if seeing it for the first time. “I just... forgot. And it's warm. So...”
“You can keep it.” Hob waved his hand. “Purple suits you. And opossum too. Reminds me of Mervyn, by the way.”
“It really does look like him.” The corners of Morpheus' lips turned up slightly. He slowly ran his hand over the drawing and the letters, then lifted his head to look at Hob's face. “Secondly, I never said I'm straight.”
Hob might have fallen if the table hadn't supported him. Oh hell, he knew it. So does he have a chance?
“I prefer not to put any labels on myself.” Morpheus continued in a calm, even tone. “I don't define myself in any sexuality or gender. I am who I am. I feel comfortable in my body, but I don't think that anything would have changed in my sense of self with other genitals. And the fact that all my previous lovers were women is just a coincidence. Men can also attract me, as well as those who don't consider themselves to be either one or the other, or are in the middle. I don't care.”
Oh, that's much more than Hob expected to know. He definitely has a chance. Morpheus is attracted to men, and Hob considered himself quite a handsome and charismatic man. In addition, his easy flirting has never been perceived negatively. Hob got his second wind. He really wanted to ask if he was attracted to him.
“People call it pansexuality, princess.” Hob winked at him.
“I prefer it to be called only love.”
Of course, Morpheus is a romantic. He couldn't not be. Hob had already begun to think of ways to woo him, but in a way that wasn't too intrusive or embarrassing. In fact, he hadn't had to woo anyone in a very long time. Usually it was just going to the cinema or restaurants, nothing more. But Morpheus deserves to be treated beautifully, like a king. He deserved the closest attention.
Hob poured himself some water, his eyes fixed on Morpheus, who was picking at the surface of the kitchen cabinet with his finger. Looking like a lost cat, he was clearly thinking about something he wanted to voice, but for some reason kept silent. Well, Hob knows how to wait.
Even Jessamy stopped eating and, in confusion, turned her head from one person to another. While Morpheus was gathering his thoughts, Hob was already imagining how he would go to the flower shop and choose flowers for him. Giving roses is too banal. Maybe he should buy cornflowers? They match the colour of his eyes. Once Hob was familiar with the language of flowers, but the memories remained very vague. Some of the yellow ones mean only friendship, so he will have to avoid the yellow colour. But it's much easier to bring along Rachel, who once worked as a florist. With her help, he will definitely be able to collect the perfect bouquet for the subject of his sigh.
“Constantine mentioned that you've known each other for a long time.” Morpheus muttered, concentrating on his fingernail. Hob pulled himself out of his fantasies and bowed his head like an attentive puppy.
“Yup, a very long time. Almost ten years.”
“And she said you lived together.”
Hob's eyebrows went up. He didn't quite understand where his friend was driving, but because of the gloomy tone and offended face, he had to choose his words carefully.
“We did. I had problems and really needed someone by my side. I don't know where I would be without her. She is a good person. She saved me from loneliness and a bunch of other unpleasant things.”
“I see.” Morpheus's shoulders slumped. He paused, stopped mocking his kitchen furniture, and gave him a sidelong glance. “Do you love her?”
“Of course I do.” Hob set the glass down on the table. “I can’t help but love her, no matter how much she pisses me off at times. When I need to imagine a friend's face, my subconscious mind shows her face. I think of her like my own sister.”
“You were dating.” more of a statement than a question. Hob grimaced as if he had eaten a slice of lemon.
“There are appallingly few things in this life that Johanna and I haven't done, but sex is in the top three. After murder and human trafficking. I think even Rachel was more likely to interest me like that.”
Hob almost choked with the realisation that washed over him like a wave of cold water. The way Morpheus stood stiffly, avoided eye contact and spoke softly. The way what he said... Everything pointed to just one thing, which fueled the belief that Hob definitely had every right to pay attention to him.
“Are you jealous?” Oh shit, Hob needed to control himself more, but holding back a smile was an impossible requirement. Morpheus shook his head sharply. His lips pouted even more, his brows furrowed more, but even so, he couldn't hide the fact that he was taken by surprise. “You are jealous!”
“I'm not!”
Hob smiled happily. His mood improved dramatically, much to the regret of his friend. Morpheus bristled, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and led him towards the front door behind him. Hob's legs wobbled from his unaccustomed to walking backwards, but that only made him more amused.
“You have to go to a work.”
“So you're interested in me, right? Do you like me? Do you find me attractive?”
“Shut up.”
“Can I ask you out on a date?”
Morpheus thrust his jacket into his hands and fussily began to open the locks, trying to ignore the happy and teasing chirping of Hob behind him. Pushing open the door, he saw Lucienne standing in the doorway, just about to use the doorbell. Morpheus pushed Hob out of the house.
“Take him to the university and come back for me.” he commanded, looking sternly at his assistant. Lucienne, although somewhat surprised, only nodded. Strangeness in working with Morpheus is an everyday thing. And to be honest, she was used to Hob. It was getting harder and harder to think about her boss without Gadling behind him.
"A kiss for goodbye, princess?" Hob winked at Morpheus, who promptly slammed the door in his face. At first, this reaction made him laugh, and then he noticed that he was standing in nothing but socks, and pounded on the door with both hands with all his might. “Hey, give me back my shoes! It's not May outside, in case you forgot!”
A small crack opened in the door, from which a hand with boots stuck out, and immediately closed again. Hob snorted merrily. While he was putting on his shoes, Lucienne looked at him with an inscrutable gaze.
“Bastard.”
“Rob… Hob,” she immediately corrected herself and smiled politely, “could you do me one favour?”
Although Hob didn't know what to expect from Lucienne's request, that didn't stop him from being surprised that he was almost kicked out of the university in the middle of the day for some sort of "historical consultation." Judging by how quickly Lucienne managed to persuade the rector to steal one of the professors, she had the strongest gift of persuasion in the world. She also stubbornly didn't tell him where they were going. Lucienne only smiled and promised that Hob wouldn't be disappointed. He had no reason not to believe her. Despite the fact that they had very little contact with each other, Lucienne gave the impression of a person who could be trusted with life. Plus, she's been working with Morpheus for years. Holy woman, no less.
It wasn't until he was brought to the set that Lucienne explained to him the reason she had asked him to come with her. They needed someone who could regulate Morpheus and his temper tantrums. Hob had loved movies for as long as he could remember, but somehow he had no desire to be on the other side of the screen earlier. He was more attracted by the prospect of seeing his friend working. Filming was in full swing, and before even reaching the end of the corridor, Hob heard a familiar voice that was louder and angrier than usual. It will be fun.
Nobody paid any attention to him. Hob walked beside Lucienne with a confident step, not looking around. As soon as Morpheus came into his line of sight, he immediately walked towards him, leaving the writer's personal assistant behind, and with each new step his smile grew wider and wider. Morpheus's reaction was priceless: he saw a figure approaching out of the corner of his eye and turned sharply, ready to shout something, but froze with his mouth half open, his eyes widened, the wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed out. It's difficult to say whether he was glad to see him, but he was surprised for sure.
“Hob? What are you doing here?” his voice was soft and almost gentle, especially compared to just a minute ago.
“Lucienne said you're hurting everyone here and I should stop you.” Hob winked at Morpheus, who immediately glanced at his assistant. Lucienne showed no remorse. She stood with a straight back and smiled. There was a whistle behind Morpheus.
“My lord, will you bring your friends here every day? May I too then?”
“You weren’t given a word.” Morpheus snarled, but with much less aggression than usual.
“Hey, be more respectful to him. He's your colleague.” Hob interceded immediately. Morpheus didn't hide the feeling of betrayal on his face, while the actor, pleased with the defense, broke into a smug smile.
“I like him. My name is Corinthian.” The man walked past the writer and grabbed Hob's hand in a firm handshake.
“Call me Hob. Nice to meet you. I'm a friend of Morpheus.”
“A friend? So I can give you my number?”
“Corinthian, you are at work.” Morpheus literally pulled the actor away from Hob, standing closer to him. Through the dark glasses that Corinthian adopted from the character into his personal style, he glanced at his boss, and his smile turned into a sinister one, as if he had learned some very important secret and would be ready to use it for blackmail in the near future.
“Oh, I understand now, my lord. Don't worry, I won't touch anyone else's. If he himself doesn't ask to be touched.”
The man bowed theatrically and skipped back to his seat in front of the camera. Morpheus followed him with his eyes and, turning to Hob, was faced with his most self-satisfied and sly grin.
“Not jealous, huh?”
“Hob.”
“Morpheus.”
Hob won their small exchanges and Morpheus turned away first, returning to his chair. While they were bickering with each other, Matthew slipped over to Lucienne.
“And who is he?”
“His boyfriend, you can say.” Lucienne chuckled softly. Matthew arched an eyebrow, looked over his shoulder at the boss and Hob talking to him, and turned his attention back to the woman.
“Does he know about it?”
“I think not yet.”
At least Hob really managed to calm Morpheus and drive away the remnants of his anger in a matter of minutes. He even became calmer than in the morning.
Hob mostly sat next to him and occasionally whispered something in his ear. Morpheus leaned his head closer to him and took into account his every word, even if he fundamentally disagreed with him. Every time he was about to yell at someone, Hob grabbed him by the shoulder and stood up for the offender. Now Morpheus argued more with him than with the cast. The crew immediately took a liking to him.
Matthew's jaw dropped. When was it that Morpheus listened to someone? And where is his favourite “you dare tell me how to do my job”? In his position, Morpheus always remained adamant, and any disputes awakened demons in him, which he didn't try to hide. But Hob spoke to him in a terrifyingly calm and measured tone, confident that the writer's wrath would bypass him.
Both Hob and Morpheus knew that he was the only one the writer apologized to with such enviable frequency. In addition, Hob knew well how to treat his friend, what words to emphasize and what facial expressions to use so that rage was replaced by any other emotion. Even with irritation, it's easier to have a dialogue than with bright anger. No one handled Morpheus better than Hob.
But sitting in one place for several hours is a real torture for him, so Hob stretched his legs from time to time and at the same time got to know people, most of whose names Morpheus forgot on the very first day. In half a day, Hob managed to talk to everyone and create a good impression of himself. With Matthew, he generally very quickly found a common language. Morpheus noticed how they both looked at him and giggled conspiratorially. He certainly didn't want to know what they were talking about.
Even when the sun had long since set, the working day didn't end. During one of the last breaks, Corinthian and Matthew went outside to smoke, and Hob tagged along while Morpheus had some important discussion with the cameraman. Matthew offered him a cigarette, but Hob refused without hesitation.
“Thanks, but I quit smoking a long time ago.”
“Hanging out with Morpheus and not smoking?” Matthew chuckled in disbelief. “So how do you restore nerves?”
“You can call me a masochist, but I genuinely like his arrogance.”
Matthew and Corinthian looked at each other meaningfully.
“You're a weird guy.” said the second one, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Share a secret, how do you manage to shut him up?”
"The magic of friendship." Hob laughed. Corinthian exchanged glances with Matthew again. They didn't even need to say anything to understand each other.
Soon Matthew was cursing when he heard his name from Morpheus's lips. Extinguishing his cigarette, he, with a tired look, went to the metaphorical cage to be torn to pieces by the tiger, leaving Hob and Corinthian alone.
“He got into the habit of bringing outsiders here to the site,” the actor complained, “yesterday he brought his son. But with him, he wasn't particularly restrained in expressions, unlike with you.”
“Orpheus was here?” Hob swallowed. Oh, that's bad. What if Orpheus wants to come here on his own and see him? What the hell kind of historical consultation can there be in a completely fantasy story?
“Yeah, I even managed to get his number.” Corinthian raised his glasses to his forehead, smiling proudly. “Funny boy. At first he seems being a dick just like his father, but he's interesting. He agreed to keep me company in the near future. Do you know him?”
“Something like that.” Hob sighed. It took him a few minutes to formulate his thoughts without sounding too pathetic. “Don't tell him I was here, okay?”
Corinthian narrowed his eyes curiously. He looked like a mixture of a bloodthirsty wolf and a cunning fox.
“I help him with something and I don’t want to spoil my relationship with him. If he finds out I was here with his father, he'll be furious. Sooner or later I'll tell him, but now is not the right time.”
Corinthian extinguished his cigarette against the wall, threw it on the ground, threw his arm around Hob's neck and led him inside.
“He agreed to communicate with me on the condition that I wouldn't say a word about my job and his father. But we can make a deal. You don't let Mr. You Dare hurt me, and I watch your back and stop little Orpheus from knowing that you're fucking his dad. Deal?”
“Deal.” Hob grinned. Corinthian patted his hair with a conspiratorial chuckle. "And I don't fuck Morpheus."
“I look to the future, my puppy friend.”
Corinthian kissed the top of his head before letting go. And it looks like he did it on purpose when Morpheus spotted them. In order not to get punished for his little dirty trick, Corinthian ran behind Matthew, sticking out his tongue at the boss. Hob couldn't help but laugh. Morpheus approached him with a sullen look, and he was already starting to come up with an excuse to calm him down, but his friend spoke first.
“Do you want to keep me company on the set in Paris?”
Hob closed his mouth without making a sound. He blinked once, twice, thrice. It's still not a dream, Morpheus stood before him, waiting for an answer. If earlier he only hinted at a possible interest on his part, then this proposal sounded like a real confession.