Chapter Text
There's nothing special about today. Hob has no reason to be out at eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, save for a buzzing restlessness following a sleepless night, and he has no particular reason to be wandering around an unfamiliar neighbourhood looking for a cafe he has heard of but has never been to. He's bored, really. Bored with routines, the same walk every day, the same cafe with its regular patrons. So why not? A warmth in the air presages the coming of spring – a season of change, and Hob loves change.
The cafe, Nyx, is semi-hidden behind a cluster of English oaks. It's close enough to the university that the target clientele must be students; his suspicion is confirmed by the interior's witchy aesthetic. Painted moons and stars swirl across the wall behind the counter, numerous shelves froth with ferns and hanging ivy, and the walls are cluttered with pentacles and edgy drawings of what Hob supposes are demons. Despite the tree-obscured entrance, the small cafe is full. Young people with too much jewelry and slim laptops are crowded around every table. While waiting for his order Hob surveys the tables, hoping to find somewhere to relax while he drinks his coffee. The term "coffee" is somewhat generous to describe Hob's drink, a concoction of sugar and caramel. He should cut down on sugar and fats, he knows, but what the hell. You only live once, and if he wants a salted caramel mocha then by God he's going to have one.
He almost misses the table in the back corner. Far from the front windows and veiled by a thin curtain of ivy, a single table calls to Hob from across the cafe. It's only when he approaches the corner that Hob realises that table is occupied. Small wonder he missed this detail the first time; the man seated at the table is dressed entirely in black, and he's looking down at an open book so Hob can only see a shock of black hair. Still, there's nowhere else to sit, and apparently none of the students are inclined to share a table with a man who looks like a raven in human form.
Hob clears his throat and puts on his best smile. "Excuse me, would you mind if I shared your table?"
The man doesn't look up. Hob is just beginning to wonder if he's being ignored or if he needs to speak louder, when the man languidly lowers his book and peers up at Hob. His youthful face is almost absurdly pale, contrasting sharply with his dark hair which has clearly never known the touch of a comb. Sharp shadows under his cheekbones slant towards his mouth, drawing attention to surprisingly plump pink lips. Hob isn't in the habit of ogling students so he makes a conscious effort to look away from the luscious lips, and hopes the man doesn't think Hob is being creepy on purpose.
The man blinks slowly then inclines his head in a small nod. The small movements are imbued with great gravity, as if the man is thinking deeply about every muscle twitch, and Hob can't help but feel a little uncouth as he slides into the chair across from the man and almost spills his coffee drink. The man, naturally, is drinking a large mug of black coffee. As Hob makes himself comfortable the man closes the slim novel in front of him and takes a small sip of his drink.
"Thanks!" Hob beams. "I wasn't expecting it to be so busy." Hob likes to talk. Unfortunately he has a tendency to talk too much when he's nervous, and something about the other man makes Hob nervous; he's too thin, too pale, stately in an otherworldly sort of way. "Oh, The Lathe of Heaven. Is that for your class? The English department does favour LeGuin. I've never read that one myself, although I was fond of the Earthsea books when I was a boy. Read them to rags. I'm Professor Gadling, by the way, Robert Gadling, though I usually go by Hob. Are you new to the university?"
The man stays incredibly still during Hob's entire speech. After a moment of silence he speaks. "No."
His voice is deep and smooth, almost at odds with his whisper of a body. They stare at each other, Hob wondering which question was being answered.
"It is not for class," the man says, finally. "I am not associated with the university."
"I was sure you were a student," Hob explains awkwardly, and silently thanks the powers that be that he wasn't perving on an underage bloke.
"I am not."
With that, the man re-opens his book and resumes reading. Well, then. Apparently the conversation is over. Hob reads the news on his phone and drinks his sugary coffee. The drink is absolutely delicious, and despite his table partner's obstinate silence it's nice to share the morning with some company. Maybe he's just pathetic but he's been lonely since Gwen dumped him, and the strange man is very beautiful, in an intimidating sort of way. He discreetly glances at the man from time to time, noting the other's slender fingers, very straight nose, and dark lashes. Their shared corner is too dark for Hob to clearly discern his eye colour, though his eyes don't look dark enough to be black.
Bored of the daily news, Hob checks his email. Notices about meetings, department news, a parking lot closure… Nothing exciting. He's nearing the syrupy dregs of his coffee confection when he checks the group chat for his first year history class. Technically the students are supposed to communicate with him via the online class forums or during office visiting hours, but he's found the informal group chat to be far more effective. A new post catches his attention: a picture of some clearly distressed people, opposite a picture of a rat. 25 million Europeans vs 1 plague carrying rat. WHO WOULD WIN?
Hob can't help it. He chuckles. Maybe it's gauche to chuckle at the deaths of millions of people but it's been hundreds of years since the Black Death, and really, Europe brought it on themselves by killing all the cats.
The man across from him looks up sharply. Hob feels an embarrassed blush heating his face. "Sorry. History meme."
He holds out his phone. The man studies the screen, his sharp face completely blank.
"I teach history," Hob babbles. "European history, mostly, specifically medieval. There's a lot more to it than people think, just really fascinating stuff. Did you know they used to hold criminal proceedings against animals? Can you imagine taking a chicken to court? Mostly it was pigs, but there was one case of a cock being put to death for supposedly laying a basilisk egg. Mad, right?"
He's still holding out his phone but the man is no longer looking at the screen. He's leaning forward, staring at Hob with intense concentration as if Hob's nonsense is of utmost importance. The corners of his mouth twitch into something resembling a suggestion of a smile, and the tiny movement completely changes his face. The angles of his cheekbones soften, and through some trick of light his eyes glitter through the shadows of his dark brows. Utterly fucking entrancing, Hob thinks absently, and quickly looks away.
"Right. Well, I should be off," Hob says, too loudly. He doesn't actually have anything to do but he's making an arse of himself in front of a gorgeous stranger and if he doesn't leave now he'll say something really weird and drive the man off for good. "Thanks for sharing your table. See you around?"
It's stupid to hope to see the man again but there's no harm in shooting his shot, though such a beautiful creature is surely already attached to someone else. The man peers at Hob through his dark lashes – very coy, very sexy, but is it on purpose? – then offers a tiny nod. "Perhaps."
Hob is halfway home when he realises he doesn't know the man's name.
The man isn't at Nyx the following Saturday, nor the Saturday after that one. Two months pass of Hob effectively rotting his teeth with sugary drinks, and the man remains absent. As the third month approaches Hob tries to accept that he simply had a short conversation with a stranger and that nothing more will come of it. Foolish to hope the beautiful man will seek Hob out again.
Then, one rainy morning, there he is: a slender black knife of a man crammed into the back corner, assiduously reading a thick tome while nursing a mug of black coffee. He doesn't glance up when Hob, dripping wet, sits across from him.
"Good morning!"
The man closes his book and sits up, tilting his head, birdlike. Hob grimaces at the book's cover. "À la recherche du temps perdu. In French! You're a masochist, I see."
"Some would say pretentious," the man replies in his low voice, and his dark tone makes it clear that he is familiar with the feeling of being shunned for his tastes.
"There's no harm in enjoying a good book," Hob says gently. The man lowers his gaze but a delicate half-smile blooms on his face, as fleeting as the sun in winter. Hob's heart does a funny little flutter. "How have you been, my friend?"
One thin shoulder raises and lowers in a half-hearted shrug. "Tolerable."
Hob doesn't know if that's good or not. The curt answer doesn't invite further personal questions so he takes a sip of his coffee and nibbles on a croissant. The mug of black coffee is still full and the man makes no move to drink it, only watches with mild but somewhat disturbing interest as Hob eats. Hob swipes flaky crumbs from the front of his shirt. "Have you had these croissants? They're really good."
"No."
Jesus, this man could use a class in how to hold a conversation. "Let me buy you one. My treat."
"I am not hungry. How have you been faring, Professor Gadling?"
Finally, some manners! Who says "faring" nowadays, though? "Call me Hob, please. I've been keeping busy. Finishing up coursework, trying to figure out what I'm going to do for summer hols. I was going to go to Scotland with my girlfriend but she dumped me, so… I was thinking of going by myself but it's just not as much fun, y'know?"
Hob natters on. The man listens, silent and unmoving but with intense focus, as if Hob's boring life is a captivating tale. His attention, however undeserved, is thrilling, and Hob talks continuously. Somehow he even makes his way onto the topic of his freshly deceased relationship with Gwen. "It was my fault. My friends tell me I'm an arse, I wasn't paying enough attention to her, and they're probably right. I like to try new things, I like to travel and move about, and I guess I got distracted by my own wants. I was selfish, I know, and it's not the first time I've messed up a relationship like that. I never learn from my mistakes, it seems."
The man's mug of black coffee is empty and the morning rush has trickled to stop. The stranger speaks quietly, dark eyes never straying from Hob's face. "Few do, and fewer still recognise and take responsibility for their own mistakes. You are a good man, Hob, or at least you are attempting to be one."
In one smooth motion the man stands. He's taller than Hob guessed, and his height makes his thinness even more apparent. His black coat is knee-length and far too thick for the weather. "I must go. Until next time, Hob Gadling."
"Wait – "
He's gone in a swirl of black, a tall scrawny figure striding out the door before Hob can ask for his name. Hob sighs. Until next time. At least there'll be a next time, though who can say when, and maybe then he can learn more about his mysterious stranger.
"Next time" happens five weeks later. Hob has decided to stay in London for the summer because he's stupid and in lust with a man who hasn't even told Hob his name and Hob doesn't want to miss a Saturday morning at Nyx in case the stranger is there. Besides, he has new coursework to prepare and Hob can do that in London just as well as anywhere.
When he sees the stranger curled in the back corner Hob's happiness shoots through the roof. He practically runs to their table – their table! – and throws himself into his seat. "Good morning! Hey, before you say anything, I need to ask. What's your name? I know this is the third time we've met and it's getting really weird that I don't know your name yet."
The stranger is staring at the tabletop. He's still working through Proust but the book is closed and the black coffee untouched. Now that Hob is actually looking at him he can see the slender shoulders are bowed forward, and that the stranger is not so much looking downward as he is hanging his head, in dejection or exhaustion or perhaps illness. Hob's joy immediately changes into concern. "Are you alright?"
The stranger looks up as if waking from a deep sleep. He blinks; his eyes are puffy and the lower lids pink. The shadows under his cheekbones are starker than before, suggesting emaciation rather than ordinary thinness.
"Morpheus," he rasps.
"What?" Confused and worried, Hob all but snaps, and the stranger quails slightly.
"My name." Oh, he has definitely been sobbing. "Morpheus."
Odd name, but he supposes the man's parents were mythology nuts. Knowing his name is progress, but it doesn't address his alarming appearance. "Morpheus, are you okay?"
Morpheus cups his steaming coffee mug and hunches further into the corner, his eyes darting. His bony fingers tremble against the ceramic. "Talk, please." It doesn't sound like a request. "Tell me of your classes, Professor Gadling. Your summer. Your plans."
Hob doesn't know whether he wants to hug Morpheus or grab him by the shoulders and shake him. Whatever has happened, Morpheus is clearly not ready to talk about it. It's taken three meetings to learn his name; of course he won't feel comfortable airing out uncomfortable emotions in front of Hob. Besides, Hob knows what it's like to need a distraction from trauma. He's lost a wife and two children, and the grief of those losses almost killed him. So he talks, as he usually does during these meetings, but this time it's important. Most people find his work boring but it doesn't matter, he just has to fill the silence with noise. Has to let Morpheus know that Hob is safe, he won't push Morpheus into telling more than feels comfortable. Morpheus remains hunched over his coffee. He says nothing but gradually he stops trembling. He's not relaxed but at least he doesn't look haunted anymore.
Hob lets his voice trail off and waits for a reaction. Morpheus absently picks at the corner of his book. "Thank you," he murmurs. Soft, sad. Yes, Hob wants to hug him. Wants to stroke his hair and feed him soup until he finds that elusive half-smile. Morpheus slips out from behind the table, curling in on himself even as he stands.
"Next week, Hob Gadling," he instructs, hoarse yet imperious, leaving Hob baffled and worried and slightly afraid as he watches Morpheus' retreating figure.
Next Saturday can't come soon enough. Hob's coursework is prepared so he occupies himself with researching everything he can about the god Morpheus, and wondering about the kind of parents who would saddle their child with such a name. "If you're pretentious I can see where you got it from," he mutters to his empty flat, and wonders for the hundredth time if getting a cat would be beneficial for his sanity. Gwen was allergic so there's nothing stopping him now. Maybe he'll ask Morpheus' opinion on cats.
On Saturday he arrives at Nyx far too early and spends a very jittery half hour staring at the door. Morpheus arrives sans book and doesn't order coffee before making his way to their table. He looks a sight better than last week, though still too thin and slightly jumpy. He slumps down across from Hob, arms wrapping around his middle in a loose hug.
"Hi," Hob greets him. He can't bring himself to sound cheerful, not when Morpheus has all the energy of a deflated balloon.
Morpheus spares him a glance. "You will laugh at me," he accuses without preamble.
Already Hob is feeling totally lost. "I won't," he promises, because it's all he has to offer at the moment.
Morpheus folds his hands on the table. They both stare at the knobs of his knuckles, waiting. Finally Morpheus heaves a tired breath. "My pet raven is dead."
Hob will deal with the raven bit later – of course he has a raven, he's the goth subculture incarnate – but for now his main aim is to be comforting. He certainly doesn't feel like laughing; Morpheus must have been very close to the raven to be so shaken by its death, and Hob is certain Morpheus doesn't have many other companions. "I'm sorry. Losing a family member is always difficult." He winces, wishes he had something better to offer than platitudes.
"She was murdered in front of me," Morpheus continues, deadpan, and the statement hits Hob with the weight of a brick, empathy curdling to deep horror in his stomach.
When he was a boy Hob's family had a black cat named Shadow. Hob had adored that cat, and Shadow had favoured Hob above all other humans. Shadow had passed away from cancer, and watching that slow but natural death had been hard enough. He can't imagine how he would feel if he had seen Shadow killed in a bloodier manner. "I – fuck, I'm sorry, Morpheus."
Morpheus bites his lip, deep in thought. "My parents have a lot of money," he says suddenly, and with that Hob entirely loses his grasp on the line of conversation. He has no idea how this ties in to the raven at all. "I do not have access to any of it," Morpheus adds. "Nor can I give the money to others. It is not mine to give."
For once Hob wishes Morpheus would speak normally, without pondering each word before releasing it to Hob's ears. Morpheus gives no sign that he is paying attention to Hob. Perhaps he isn't even in the present, but wandering far in the haze of memory. "There is a man who wanted some of my parents' money." Morpheus' voice is completely flat, devoid of all emotion, and somehow that is far worse than hearing Morpheus in distress. "He had me taken. They robbed me, stripped me, told me they wouldn't release me until my parents paid. They killed my raven, out of cruelty."
What the fuck. Hob's mind is blank, can't quite comprehend what Morpheus is saying. Part of him expects Morpheus to break into a comical grin. Gotcha! But Morpheus' expression stays impassive, and Hob realises with dawning horror that what Morpheus has just told him actually happened.
What the fuck. What the FUCK? "He – he kidnapped you?!" Hob stutters. "He kidnapped you and held you for ransom?! What – oh my God. Oh my God, Morpheus – "
"I escaped," Morpheus responds with unnerving placidity.
"You escaped?! What the – Have the police caught him? Are you safe? Are you okay? No, that was stupid, of course you're not okay. Fuck."
What can he even say to something like this? His friend was bloody kidnapped. How long did they have him? Did they hurt him? Hob wants to destroy something. Find whoever took Morpheus and wring their bird-murdering throats. What the fuck. How is this Morpheus' life? Why are they talking about this in a bloody cafe instead of somewhere safer?
Morpheus stares, his expression unreadable. "I am fine."
Hob can't believe this. Last week Morpheus was shattered, and no one in their right mind would be fine after suffering that sort of ordeal. "Like hell you're fine!" He's angry, speaks too loudly. Morpheus flinches and a few patrons turn to look at them, alarmed. Hob takes a deep breath and forces himself to talk quietly. "You're not fine, and that's understandable. It's normal. That was – a terrible thing happened to you. Anyone would be… upset after that. Is your family helping you? Do you have someone to talk to?"
Hob has had training in dealing with issues such as domestic violence and sexual assault, but thankfully he's never had to use it. Now he can't even remember what he's supposed to say or do to help someone cope with trauma. Bloody useless, he is.
"I'm talking to you," Morpheus points out, so matter-of-fact that Hob wants to flip the table.
"I'm not a therapist, Morpheus. There are professionals who can help you… cope with this sort of thing. Look, I'll get you in touch with someone, she works at the university, she'll be able to help."
"I do not require – "
"Please." Hob doesn't know Morpheus well, but he does know he doesn't want to witness Morpheus fall apart. Doesn't want to see Morpheus suffering, or to watch him spiral into depression or PTSD. If Morpheus has truly managed to escape his ordeal unharmed then Hob will be the first to celebrate with him, but he can't be sure yet that Morpheus is as unshaken as he claims to be.
"Very well. I will speak with her."
"Thank you," Hob breathes. "Thank you."
Hob emails Dr. Lawrence as soon as he gets home, and feels better when she responds quickly. He hasn't told her the details of Morpheus' ordeal, only that his friend has suffered an episode of violence against his person and will likely need some assistance coping. He's very closed-off, he warns her. Sometimes getting him to talk is like pulling teeth.
I look forward to meeting him, Dr. Lawrence replies. He's very lucky he has a supportive friend like you.
At least he has Morpheus' mobile number now so he can forward Dr. Lawrence's contact information to Morpheus. He can only hope Morpheus follows through, and in the meantime Morpheus' words circle relentlessly in his mind. They robbed me. Stripped me. Oh, God, he doesn't want to think about why they took Morpheus' clothes. They killed my raven, out of cruelty. He feels like he's just watched a real-life horror movie, and it's left him drained and exhausted. That night he drinks. He dreams of Morpheus' thin arms, forcibly bared, swimming through a shower of glossy ebony feathers dotted with blood.
They meet next Saturday, and Hob is delighted to see that Morpheus' pale cheeks have taken on a rosy shade. He looks healthier, more at ease.
"You were right," Morpheus admits with sulky reluctance. "The therapist has proved helpful. I will be meeting her again next month."
In celebration Hob buys a chocolate croissant and splits it between them, not giving Morpheus an opportunity to decline. At first Morpheus simply plucks at the pastry, but after watching Hob devour his half Morpheus begins carefully peeling away the flaky layers and nibbling each golden strip. It's like watching a baby deer learn to walk, or something. Hob can't think of a metaphor because his brain stops thinking clearly when Morpheus' tongue makes an appearance to lick chocolate from those red lips.
Classes will be starting next week, and with them the university's lecture series. "The lectures are open to the public," Hob explains when Morpheus has finished eating and Hob is able to form words again. "I'll be giving one next month on medieval frame tales. Chaucer and Boccaccio, mostly. I know it's probably not your thing but you're welcome to attend."
Inviting Morpheus to meet him outside Nyx is a risk, but Morpheus opened up to Hob about the kidnapping ordeal – Hob still can't believe that happened – so maybe it's time to take their relationship, whatever it is, to the next level. Morpheus replies, "I would be honoured", and like everything else he says it sounds more like a royal decree than a normal statement. Hob is ecstatic. At this rate it will probably take him two years to work up to kissing Morpheus, but he's willing to wait. He is completely enamoured with this bizarre and somewhat traumatised man who has pet ravens and barely eats and dresses like a vampire. He always did have a kink for goths.
He's a little worried that Morpheus won't like his lecture. He always does his best to make medieval history exciting, and his students are enthusiastic enough that sometimes he thinks he's succeeding, but few people opt to spend their free evenings at academic lectures. It's expected, though ultimately disappointing, that on the night of the lecture most of the attendees are students of his. The youths congregate in the middle and the few older audience members, mostly professors and some random strangers, are scattered throughout the lecture hall. He's done enough of these that the sight of so many empty seats isn't surprising; mostly he's disappointed by the lack of a pale, black-clad man among the audience.
He's been talking for about five minutes when one of the back doors squeaks open and Morpheus stalks into the hall. Several people glance back, distracted by the screech of unoiled hinges, and some of the students are giggling and looking very interested, but Morpheus keeps his steadfast gaze on Hob. For the first time he is fully visible before Hob, not obscured by ivy and back-corner shadows. In Nyx he blends into the darkness; in the lecture hall he stands out, blatant like a black hole or a tear in the universe. He's dragged some of the already sparse attention from the lecturing professor but Hob can't bring himself to be upset. He can't fault Morpheus for being outrageously beautiful and charismatic. Morpheus sits, still and attentive as if he thinks there is going to be an exam post-lecture. As always his undivided attention inspires Hob, spurs him to expound passionately on his favourite subject, knowing that there is at least one person here who is listening simply because he wants to. Because he's Hob's friend.
Afterward Morpheus lingers. Two students come up to ask about essay assignments, and one of the English Lit professors stays to profess her admiration, and all the while Morpheus sits, patiently waiting until he has Hob to himself. By half past seven the hall is empty save for Hob and Morpheus, and Hob gathers his papers while trying not to appear overly enthusiastic about Morpheus' presence.
"Thanks for coming tonight. I hope I wasn't too boring."
Morpheus stands to greet him. The bright lights illuminate his eyes: dark blue, like an ocean Hob remembers from childhood, when his parents had scraped together enough money for a late-summer seaside trip and it stormed the entire time. He had loved the tempests and is thrilled to see the echoes of that ocean in Morpheus' eyes.
"It was most interesting. High in moral virtue was his speech, and gladly would he learn and gladly teach." From somewhere – his coat pocket? – Morpheus produces a bottle of pale gold wine. "Here. A gift in congratulation."
Hob is no wine connoisseur but even he can tell that this is a very fancy label. "It's not really an honour to be chosen to lecture," he mumbles. "But thanks."
They walk together. The campus is quiet this evening, the paths lit by tall lamps that throw halos on the cracked walkways. Morpheus moves through the night like a panther, sleek body brimming with coiled power, and for a moment Hob wonders what the kidnappers thought of the angelic creature in their power. He still doesn't know if they hurt Morpheus, if the ever-present black coat hides new scars or fading bruises, and he still does his best to avoid thinking of Morpheus stripped. If there ever comes a time when Morpheus chooses to let Hob see him unclothed, Hob wants to appreciate the experience without associating it with Morpheus' suffering.
"I would like to return the favour of your invitation," Morpheus says as they approach the high street. Hob nearly drops the wine in surprise. His seduction plan is going far faster than expected if Morpheus is already inviting him out.
"In two weeks there will be an exhibition of some of my paintings. Would that be of interest?"
God, yes. "You're an artist?" That makes so much sense.
"I paint, among other things. I write," Morpheus replies. "I am not being immodest when I say my works have found significant success, although you will not find any of my works publicly ascribed to my name. I use pseudonyms, as I value my privacy too well."
"Morpheus is hardly a common name," Hob notes dryly. "That sounds fantastic. Can you text me the details? Or email. Whatever you're comfortable with."
They part ways, and Hob is only a block away when his phone dings. There is no greeting, only an address and a date. A quick search reveals that the address is that of a very high-end venue, Allard, the kind of place that normally wouldn't let someone like Hob through the door. Their website smugly announces their upcoming exhibition of the works of John Murphy. That must be Morpheus' pseudonym, as it's the only exhibition open on the date Morpheus has sent him, and the name tugs at him. It does sound vaguely familiar…
At home he searches for images of John Murphy's work, and oh fuck, these paintings are expensive. They have been displayed in museums across Europe and the Americas, and online art critics have a lot to say about Murphy's mastery of colour and his ability to evoke emotion with surreal and haunting images. The paintings themselves are incredible, strange but arresting. Some are portraits, such as the one entitled Corinthian which depicts a blond man who would be extremely handsome except for the fact that he has extra sets of teeth where his eyes should be. Hob has no idea what the painting means but he's sure the portrait will show up in his nightmares. Some of the pieces are warped landscapes, and Hob spends a good ten minutes staring at a gorgeous painting of what might be a black sand beach except the ocean is maybe also the night sky. Even on his laptop screen the blues and blacks are rich, blended seamlessly, light and shadow expertly contrasted.
The most recent pieces border on terrifying, and Hob recalls thin trembling hands and tear-swollen eyes. If these are representations of Morpheus' experience no wonder the poor fellow was so frightened. The recent paintings are too unsettling to look at for long, but his older paintings are done in a more traditional style. These seem more separate from Morpheus' mental state, with a focus on mythology. Between the stately mythology pieces and the recent nightmarish works there is a series entitled If the Earth No Longer Knows Your Name, which seems to mark an abrupt transition from myths to internal strife. There is rage in the hard strokes, and grief, and deep sorrow. Something must have happened to Morpheus around this time, something that speaks to Hob as well. Eleanor, Robin, the unnamed baby… If Hob was skilled with a brush he might have painted something like these images, immortalising his anguish at their deaths.
He knows Morpheus now, Hob realises. These paintings are Morpheus, or perhaps it is better to say that they are everything Morpheus has never said aloud. His joys and fears and sorrows tacked up on a wall for the world to see, and he's invited Hob to look at them. Others will be there, that's true, but Hob will be there with Morpheus standing beside him as Hob judges his bared soul – and it's incredible. Morpheus is incredible. Morpheus with his rich parents and horrifying kidnapping story and unparalleled artistic talent, he's fucking amazing, and Hob is a boring old history professor who shakes things up by going to a different cafe every once in a while. He doesn't even know if Morpheus is gay or bisexual.
Shit. He's fully panicking now. He's just found out that Morpheus is a famous artist who is so far out of Hob's league they might as well live in different galaxies, and he cannot deal with this right now. He closes his laptop and pops open the wine Morpheus gave him, which is probably meant for a high-end occasion but to hell with it. The wine is delicious, fruity but not overly sweet, and Hob remembers that Morpheus has only ever seen Hob consume sugary drinks and pastries. He pities himself while he drinks, but the pity lessens by degrees and by the time he's polished off a glass and taken a hot shower he feels much better.
Morpheus invited him to the exhibition, a fact that by itself is promising. Besides, Hob has previously landed dates who are entirely out of his league. Gwen is a bloody supermodel – not officially or anything, but she could definitely be one if she wanted to. Hob's only real problem at the moment is that doesn't have a nice suit to wear, and that is a problem he can easily fix.
He splurges his next paycheck on a new suit. As soon as he arrives at Allard his confidence is dashed; not only is his suit subpar, but he doesn't have any sort of ticket or paper invitation and he hasn't received any communication from Morpheus. It's only by loitering near the door and listening in that he realises that the uniformed attendant at the front door has a list of attendees, and Hob will simply have to go up and hope his name is on the list.
The attendant eyes him with polite distaste. "Name, sir?"
"Er… Robert Gadling? Might be listed as Hob?"
The attendant looks mildly disappointed as he gestures toward the front door. "Welcome, sir."
Fancy that. It's a bloody soiree inside, replete with champagne and canapés. The history department would go bankrupt if it ever tried to hold an event of this magnitude, and it's so reminiscent of a movie that Hob can't bring himself to really believe that he's here. People don't just go to these sorts of things, do they? I'm a special guest, he reminds himself as he nabs a couple caviar-topped canapés.
If John Murphy's paintings were beautiful on Hob's laptop screen, they are mind-blowing in real life. Someday an art professor will teach about these, Hob is certain. Students will emulate these paintings the way they currently emulate Rodin and Pollock. This is art history in the making, and he's eating caviar about it.
"Hob Gadling."
Hob startles. He had been so engrossed in the painting before him – Lucienne, a portrait of a stunning woman with dark, knowing eyes– that he hadn't seen Morpheus approach. "Bloody hell. Morpheus." An unexpected thought occurs to him. "Should I call you John while we're here? Murphy?"
Morpheus, in his perpetual black, is holding a champagne flute with an elegance that puts the rest of the room to shame. His plush lips twitch in amusement. "Morpheus will do. None but the curators know I am the artist. I prefer to walk amongst my audience unknown, so that I may better see their true reactions."
"Ah," Hob says, the epitome of eloquence. Morpheus inclines his head, uncombed as ever, toward Lucienne.
"One of my older portraits. She has been my assistant for many years. Come, I have something to show you."
They walk slowly, Morpheus pausing whenever Hob displays any inclination to examine a painting. He wants to stop at every painting, to study every stroke Morpheus has wrought, but there are many paintings and many other people in the room. Hob is staring at τελευτή (Teleute), a canvas dominated by black wings that are simultaneously reassuring and frightening, when a small dark woman obliquely appears beside Morpheus. She speaks quietly but if Hob strains his hearing he can make out her voice.
"Mr. Murphy, someone has offered to buy Calliope."
This sounds like it should be good news, but Morpheus goes rigid. "She is not for sale. Can he not read the plaque?"
"He has made a very generous offer – "
"No."
The small woman backs away. "I'll let him know."
Morpheus glares after her, cold anger hardening the gaunt planes of his face, then turns to Hob. The anger vanishes. Morpheus is once again unreadable and aloof, which Hob fervently hopes is a good sign. For months now he's been sure that Morpheus is afflicted with RBF – Resting Blank Face – except for his eyes. Those stormy eyes give everything away.
Morpheus nods to the black wings. "This is my sister."
Hob doesn't know what that means. "She's… beautiful. Sorry, I know you probably hear that a lot, but these are all really, amazingly beautiful. Which is a massive understatement but there really isn't a word for how brilliant your work is… Well, maybe in German."
His praise is rewarded with a soft smile. A whole smile, not a shy half-sad thing. Hob's knees waver, threatening a swoon.
Morpheus beckons him onward. "Come."
Hob follows, dazzled, all his surroundings eclipsed by the blinding light of Morpheus' smile. They pass the older portraits, the tempestuous If the Earth No Longer Knows Your Name series, and the morbid recent works, until they reach the last painting.
"My most recent," Morpheus murmurs. He ducks his head, suddenly shy. "It's yours. That is to say…It's you."
Hob's first impression is of a dawn. The lower portion of the canvas is dark, figures writhing in tormented black space, with one slender white figure twisting in the middle. Above the tortured mass the canvas lightens to buttery yellow, and a giant sturdy hand, limned with gold leaf, reaches from the heavens to pluck the tiny white figure from its suffering. A grey plaque beside it informs Hob of the incongruous title: Salted Caramel.
Hob is going to cry. He can feel it. He's going to ugly-sob in front of Morpheus. This is the strangest, most personal gift anyone has ever given him, and it's stunning and sad and hopeful. It's slow months of stilted conversation, countless cups of coffee, fear and trust and friendship. He has to kiss Morpheus or he's going to die. He has to get out of here because he can't breathe and tears are starting to sting his eyes. He is deliriously happy.
"Hob? Are you ill?" Morpheus sounds frankly alarmed. That does it. Hob is fucking sobbing, and he pulls Morpheus to him and buries his head against a bony shoulder and he should have bloody asked because Morpheus tenses at the contact.
"Sorry. Sorry." Hob steps back, grinds the heels of his hands against his leaking eyes. "It's beaut – It's – I love it. Thank you."
"I should be thanking you," Morpheus replies, gravely sombre. "You have helped me a great deal these past months. This is all I have to offer in repayment, and it is poor compensation for your efforts."
Hob snorts. "You don't have to repay anything. I like being with you." He wipes his nose with a napkin that came with the canapés, getting crumbs all over his snotty face. Gross. He must look awful, especially in comparison to the marble god that is Morpheus.
"I find your company enjoyable as well."
A laugh bubbles, unbidden, from Hob's throat. He's still off-kilter from his painting, and no one else but Morpheus could manage to sound so affectionate and stilted at the same time. "I don't know why you don't talk like a Vulcan but I love it. I want you to know that. I love that you're eccentric."
Morpheus' long, dark brows draw together in faint confusion. "I am eccentric?"
For a moment Hob is mortified, then he catches the glimmer of silent laughter in Morpheus' oceanic eyes. "You're amazing, that's what you are."
Hob doesn't know where his relationship with Morpheus is going. He wants to snog the man senseless but if that never happens… well, he can be content with this. He can sustain himself on Morpheus' stormy eyes and wry humour, and on the intoxicating curve of his smile, as addictive and invigorating as a cup of black coffee.