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mollymagician · 10 months

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Using the fact that ao3’s down as a reason not to be mad at myself for finishing chapter 2 of my street artist!Dream story tonight

But I’ll post a niblit of what I got as an offering to the gods of Please Bring Our Stories Back 🙏

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As Matthew lifted his phone to snap a shot, Hob said, “Hey. Uh. Maybe don’t post this one.”

“What?” he squawked. “It’s free advertising, dude. Why not?” At Matthew’s perplexed look, Hob could only shrug.

He didn’t have to wait long for it to click “Oooohhh. I see.”

“Matt.”

“Aww.” Matthew followed him back around the front of the building and through the main entrance. For all he looked broad and soft-edged, once he latched his brain on something, he was relentless. It was like being pecked to death by ducks. Pecked to death by something, anyway. “Oh come on, man, it’s adorable.”

“Matthew, zip it.” Hob ducked past the bar, hoping he could make a quick exit into the kitchen. This wasn’t a conversation they could have out here, not if he wanted his dignity intact. Any moment now—

“Not that I’m not a fan of anyone telling Matt to zip it, but why are we telling Matt to zip it this time in particular?”

Hob sighed. Too late, he was doomed.

Dar’s russet head poked through the kitchen doors, followed by the rest of her, busily tying on an apron. They’d just opened for the day and only a few regulars had so far trickled in, at least, which meant there would be minimal witnesses to what he was about to endure.

“Our resident mysterious artist left him a token of affection on the wall in the alley and he wants to keep it all to himself.”

“Ooh!” Dar said brightly. “Tall Dark and Spooky strikes again!?” Matthew handed her his phone where the photo of the yellow and gold flames swirled in miniature. She gave a little whistle. “Oh my!”

Hob dragged a hand over his face. “It’s not a token of affection.”

“Wanna bet?” Matthew pulled out his wallet and waggled it. “Bet you ten bucks. Pounds. Whatever. Shit. What country am I in?”

“—and he’s not our mysterious artist,” Hob continued, undeterred.

“He’s decorating your pub and he likes my tea,” Dar said decisively. “That means he’s ours. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“Actually I’m pretty sure most of the time you do.”

Hob wondered if noon really was too early to start drinking.

“I’m sure he’d be fine with the attention,” Matthew said, “considering that he’s dropping this stuff all over town.”

“No one knows anything about this guy, Matt,” Hob argued. But. You do, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind. You know how he likes his tea, you know his hands look cold, you know his eyes are the bluest thing you’ve ever seen— Hob shook it off and plucked the phone from Dar’s hand, closing the screen and poking it back into the front pocket of Matthew’s shirt. “You didn’t see the look he gave me last time he was here. Maybe he doesn’t actually want any kind of attention at all.”

“Well,” Dar said, flipping a dishtowel over one shoulder. “I can guess at least one type of attention he wants.” She looked past Hob and jutted her chin towards the door. Slowly, trying to be nonchalant and failing, Hob turned to glance behind him.

…you know his eyes are the bluest thing you’ve ever seen and he keeps looking at you with them…

Dream edged in through the door of the pub, cautiously. He moved, Hob thought, as though the space around him was packed with rickety shelves covered in teacups. Slow and precise. Or, as Matthew would say, like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. As soon as his eyes met Hob’s he glanced quickly away and busied himself with settling in at his usual table.

“WELP I should be—“

“Oh look, I’m just gonna head—“

Hob watched in resigned amusement as Matthew and Dar both suddenly discovered they had somewhere else to be and nearly ran into each other trying to get there. He sighed, and set about making a cup of tea.

#Dreamling #dreamling au #street artist Dream #dream x hob #hob gadling #dream of the endless #oh great Story Gods please bring back our stories

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mollymagician · 9 months

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I actually finished the second chapter of my weird little street artist!Dream AU

I am so proud of myself. Like, so proud, guys.

*************************

A week passed. Slowly the sunflowers faded from the New Inn’s bricks, distorted and worn away by rain and curious fingers.

Hob had spent a good amount of time scrolling through the various social media accounts run by enthusiasts dedicated to cataloging Dream’s work and any bits of personal information that they could gather about the artist in question, which was: nothing. Zero.

Well, aside from one blogger who claimed to have seen a shadowy figure lurking around one of the murals at two in the morning and described them as…tall.

Yes, tall, Hob thought. Legs for days. And the hair’s got to add at least two inches.

Matthew was right, he had been out of touch lately, but this sort of thing wasn’t normally in his wheelhouse anyway. He appreciated art and what it meant to the world but he had enough personal artistic ability to fill the tip of his pinky finger. Literally. He’d broken the ice with more than one tough group of students by illustrating his lecture on the fly with horribly drawn graphs and chaotic stick figures. Still, he could recognize talent when he saw it.

He had a few favorites saved on his phone. On the side of a building just off Richmond Green, an expanse of blue and white, shot through with swirling figures in every earthy shade—children, it took Hob a moment to realize. Children running against a vibrant blue sky. Tucked just out of sight of the bustling crowds at the Tower of London was a flowing mass of sunset hues shot through with streaking dark figures that could only be ravens.

On the side of the old derelict White Horse Tavern, where Hob had spent a good chunk of his youth faffing about with his mates, a white figure leaping against emerald green, rampaging, like it had escaped it’s hill in Uffington and didn’t plan on being caught again.

The talent was obvious…but that wasn’t all it was. Hob remembered reading a line somewhere—it’s not what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse IS. It’s what they all were, these weird works of art, weren’t they? Things distilled down to the essence. Yes, the artwork was arresting. Yes, the man who made it was just as striking. But Hob couldn’t explain the feeling that there was something there beyond what he was seeing, like a magic eye painting with a third hidden layer, and just as frustrating.

Or maybe month and a half into his sabbatical from what he jokingly referred to as his ‘side hustle’ was long enough for his brain to be going a little stir-crazy.

Then one morning, it happened again.

“Woah,” Matthew said. “That sure is…something.”

They stood staring at the new mural spanning the Inn’s northern wall. Radiating tongues of yellow and orange emerging from a peculiar dark background. The wall was smooth here, and the image had less of the feel of stained-glass and instead was a tumult of swirling line and color.

“I can’t tell if this means you shouldn’t take any more flirting advice from me, or my flirting advice is 100% on point.”

Hob slanted him a look. “I didn’t take any flirting advice from you, if it makes you feel better,” he said.

“That’s probably your best bet, actually.”

“Even if I had, I don’t think he’d threaten to burn down the place because I used the worlds worst pickup line on him.” Hob stepped up to the wall, reaching up to trace the shape of the image carefully without touching the easily-smeared strokes. “Look, here. The way the light curves here…the mantle. It’s a—a hearth, a fireplace. Like the one back in the old White Horse. See?”

“Oh,” Matthew said. “Huh.”

This strange offering was on a side of the building hidden mostly from public view, between the glorified storage crate they called Dar’s Gardening Shed and a stacked pile of unused planters. He didn’t think there’d be any gawkers this time, Hob himself had only happened upon it that morning by chance. Of course, Dream seemed to favor out-of-the-way locations, were there were swaths of empty wall and not many observers around to interfere. But this felt different. This felt…personal.

As Matthew lifted his phone to snap a shot, Hob said, “Hey. Uh. Maybe don’t post this one.”

“What?” he squawked. “It’s free advertising, dude. Why not?” At Matthews perplexed look, Hob could only shrug.

He didn’t have to wait long for it to click “Oooohhh. I see.”

“Matt.”

“Not that I’m not a fan of anyone telling Matt to zip it, but why are we telling Matt to zip it this time in particular?”

Hob sighed. Too late, he was doomed.

“Our resident mysterious artist left him a token of affection on the wall in the alley and he wants to keep it all to himself.”

Hob dragged a hand over his face. “It’s not a token of affection.”

“Wanna bet?” Matthew pulled out his wallet and waggled it. “Bet you ten bucks. Pounds. Whatever. Shit. What country am I in?”

“—and he’s not our mysterious artist,” Hob continued, undeterred.

“He’s decorating your pub and he likes my tea,” Dar said decisively. “That means he’s ours. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

“Actually I’m pretty sure most of the time you do.”

Hob wondered if noon really was too early to start drinking.

“I’m sure he’d be fine with the attention,” Matthew said, “considering that he’s dropping this stuff all over town.”

“No one knows anything about this dude, Matt,” Hob argued. But. You do, a little voice whispered in the back of his mind. You know how he likes his tea, you know his hands look cold, you know his eyes are the bluest thing you’ve ever seen— Hob shook it off and plucked the phone from Dar’s hand, closing the screen and poking it back into the front pocket of Matthew’s shirt. “You didn’t see the look he gave me last time he was here. Maybe he doesn’t actually want any kind of attention at all.”

…you know his eyes are the bluest thing you’ve ever seen and he keeps looking at you with them…

Dream edged in through the door of the pub, cautiously, and headed straight for his usual table. He moved, Hob thought, as though the space around him was packed with rickety shelves covered in teacups. Slow and precise. Or, as Matthew would say, like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. As soon as his eyes met Hob’s he glanced quickly away and busied himself with pulling the ever-present sketch book from his satchel.

“WELP I should be—“

“Oh look, I’m just gonna head—“

He didn’t know what possessed him, this time, to make a second. Or to sit down, easy as you please in the chair across from his stranger, as though they had a standing date. Maybe a little of his old confidence was coming back from wherever it had been banished to over this past exceptionally shitty year.

Dream, who had been very studiously ignoring him for the last five minutes, actually gave a startled jump when a mug appeared in front of him, followed by a whole other human. He watched Hob with an expression of guarded surprise as he settled into his seat, cleared his throat, and extended a hand across the table. “Robert Gadling. I, er, hope you don’t mind me being wildly presumptuous.” To his delight, Dream reached out, slowly as though he was expecting to be bitten, and met his hand. His grip was firm, but cold. Hob resisted the sudden fierce urge to take his hands and wrap them around the mug of tea he’d just set down.

“I don’t mind, Mr. Gadling. I. Was.” He looked down at the blank page open in front of him, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I’m sorry for interrupting you,” Hob said. “I just wanted to come over and thank you, I suppose.”

Dreams eyebrows crept up. “Thank me?”

“For the—“ Hob gestured over Dream’s shoulder. “Artwork. It’s remarkable, really.”

Dream opened his mouth to speak, closed it. Tried again. “You don’t mind,” he finally stated, not quite a question.

Hob huffed a laugh. “Do I—? No I don’t mind at all. It’s brilliant. I needed something to brighten up this bastard of a winter and you’ve done a spectacular job of it.” Dream glanced away with what appeared to be a blush coloring his worryingly pale face. “I just had one question, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No. Please.”

“Why us?”

Dreams head tipped questioningly to one side and Hob hastened on. “I wondered how you choose your…locations. There’s always some inspiration, isn’t there? Was just curious what it was about this old place that inspired you twice.”

Dream stared at him for a moment, a parade of emotions flickering across his face so quickly, it was impossible to parse them. His eyes dropped back to the table. “I came by chance. I was out looking for. Inspiration, as you said, I suppose.” He spoke like someone who hadn’t in so long that he’d lost the knack, Hob thought. A crying shame, with that voice. “I saw you, and your employees. Laughing together. Often. I was…interested in your experience.”

“Friends,” Hob said. Dreams eyes flicked up to meet his briefly and he smiled. “I inherited the place. Been in the family for generations. Doesn’t really feel like mine, you know? It belongs to the community at this point, I’m just here to keep the paperwork in order. Knew I’d be taking it over one day, but if I didn’t have friends helping me out here who knew what they were doing I’d have made a complete mess of it.” Hob realized he was prattling on, as he was wont to do, and took a gulp of tea in an effort to rein in his mouth. “I’m sorry. You said you were interested in our…experience?”

Hob watched Dream move his fingertips over the surface of the blank sketchbook page, producing a gentle rhythmic susurrus. “Yes…I…have had precious few of my own. I find inspiration in watching other’s appreciation for life and this place…there’s so much life to appreciate here.” Oh. He was blushing. It was fucking delightful. “I hope you don’t find that. Intrusive.”

“Of course not,” he said. “It’s literally what we’re here for.”

Dream said, “You were very kind, Mr. Gadling. The last time we spoke. It was…it’s own kind of inspiration.”

Ohhhh dear. Oh good grief. He was in trouble. Hob had no idea what his face was doing. He couldn’t even imagine. He coughed to clear the sudden tightness in his throat. “Call me Hob,” he said. “Everyone else does. No one uses my proper name unless I’m in trouble for something.”

“Hob.” Dream said. His mouth curved into the smallest of smiles. Something in Hob’s gut gave a little delighted jump and warmth bloomed, down beneath his breastbone. “My name—is—“ He paused and swallowed. Hob could see him battling forward through something, some wall, and had the irrational urge to cheer for him. “Dream” he finally managed. “You may call me Dream.”

The warmth in Hob’s belly grew, filling his chest. Knowing the name was nothing compared to being gifted the name. “Well, Dream, you’re welcome to come back anytime. Avail yourself of the blank wall space.” Hob grinned, hopeful. “And the experience.”

Dream was silent for a moment, then took a quiet breath. “The tea is also very good.”

It startled a laugh out of Hob. “That’s Dar’s doing, she blends it. Grows some of the herbs herself out there in the spring. She’s got a terrific hangover remedy if you ever need it.”

“I don’t often drink alcohol but I will keep that in mind.”

From the corner of his eye, Hob had noticed the steady motion of Dream’s fingers against the paper turning jerky and irregular. Now he’d abandoned it altogether in favor of twisting them together over and over. His shoulders were tensing, rounding a bit. Ah. It was time, Hob thought, to let him experience his inspiration from afar. But they’d made a start. He thought it was a good start.

Hob picked up his half-drunk mug and lifted it in a little salute. “Right then, I’ll…just leave you to the—the creative processes.”

Dream wrapped his hands around the mug in front of him, just as Hob had imagined, though without his own curved over top of them. “Until next time, then.” And there it was again, that faint smile.

Hob beat a retreat back to his flat. He was only halfway up the stairs when his phone began buzzing its way out of his pocket. Dar, as expected.

Okay we want the story. Spill!

Goddammit. I think I owe Matt a tenner

Told you

…………………..

Next time came later that week, when Dream appeared with his sketchbook and awkward smile and absurdly sexy voice, which Hob coaxed out of him for ten whole minutes before it was obvious he needed a break from human interaction. Hob gathered his small victories where he could.

The warm feeling in his gut, it stayed with him. It was gentle, soothing, some invisible softness blanketing all the rough-edged hurts he’d collected over the past year. It was…striking.

Which was why it was so profoundly obvious to him the moment it was gone.

The day started off wrong-footed in a dozen small and frustrating ways. It was one of those bloody wretched freezing winter days, devoid of snow or any kind of charm, with a biting wind that seemed hell-bent on causing as much trouble as possible. The Inn was busy with customers who mostly just seemed fed up with the outdoors and wanted to forget it existed for awhile.

Hob was helping out behind the bar, pulling orders for a surprisingly rowdy pre-dinner crowd and keeping an eye on one customer in particular—red sweater, surly expression, toeing Matthew’s cut-off line for acceptable drunkenness. He just caught Dream stepping in, huddled in a coat that didn’t look near heavy enough and looking even more like a frozen scarecrow than usual. Quickly he threw together Dream’s usual order, with the addition of a large muffin on a plate, and hurried over. “My friend, hello. I have a job for you today.”

Dream’s brows lifted slightly as Hob set it all down in front of him. “A job involving…muffins?”

Hob grinned. “We started bringing things in from that new bakery down the street, Gilbert’s, maybe help give them a boost. Matthew’s idea.” He nudged the muffin forward and grinned. “Taste test for me, give me a report later.”

Dream opened his mouth, but a crash and raised voices in the direction of the bar drowned out whatever it was he was about to say. Hob looked over his shoulder and swore. “Excuse me, I’ll be back.”

It was Anita, a friend of Dar’s, only two weeks on the job. She stood frozen in the middle of a circle of broken glass from a dropped tray and bystanders who were half out of their seats with the look of folks obviously ready to start throwing punches but unsure how to go about it. The man in the red sweater had one hand locked around her wrist and what could only be described as a leer on his face.

Coming up on them, Hob heard her furious “…I said shove off.”

Red Sweater slurred, “I see you talkin’ but ‘m not hearing anything worth listenin to, yet.”

“Oooh, bad idea mate,” she said. And then Hob’s hand was coming down on his forearm, fingers digging, and he released her with a pained shout.

“Out. Now.,” Hob said.

“Fuck you arsehole, what, you own the place?”

“Actually, yeah,” Matthew said, stepping up to Anita and gently pulling her out of range.

“He does.”

Hob leaned in close and growled, “It’s not that loud in here, I know you heard me.” He shifted his grip to grab a handful of red wool at the back of the man’s neck and pulled. “You can leave now, or I can walk into the back and just let the regulars decide how to sort you out.”

The man wrenched himself out of Hob’s grasp and honked a few more drunken obscenities around at no one in particular grabbing his coat and staggering off. Hob watched him go, resisting the urge to fling him bodily through the door. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Dream, his head bent over his sketchbook, pencil moving intently.

It was pure dumb luck that he saw what followed, it happened so quickly.

The man was stalking unsteadily towards the exit, which took him directly past Dream’s table. As he neared it, Dream looked up and made the most peculiar gesture with his hand—Hob nearly missed it—as though he were lifting something from the table in front of him and flicking it away.

The banana peel hit the floor just as Red Sweater came parallel with Dream’s table. His shoe hit the peel, and in true slapstick fashion, his foot shot out from under him and he landed flat on his arse.

A wave of snickering passed through the crowd. Someone in the back hooted, “OH SMOOTH.”

Red Sweater scrambled to his feet, gave the room in general the finger, and slapped his way out the doors. The usual buzz of the Inn resumed as everyone went back to their conversations. As though an absolutely impossible thing had not just occurred right in front of them.

“What a dick,” Matthew said, appearing at Hob’s side with a broom. “Hey, you okay, boss?”

“What? I— yeah.” Hob shook his head. Nodded his head. Dragged his fingers through his hair. “Is Nita okay?”

“She’ll be okay, I think, she’s taking a break. You sure you are? Because you look like someone just slapped you with a fish. Hey! You know, there’s a word for that? It’s—“

“Hold that thought, Matt,” Hob said, reaching out to pat him absently on the shoulder. Feeling cold prickling across his skin, he made his way over to Dream’s table.

The table was empty. The tea sat untouched. The muffin was missing. Dream was gone.

Hob bent and picked up the banana peel, staring at the thing dangling limply in his hand. It was. A banana peel. Slightly squashed from being tread on. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected, but that’s what he had. Feeling slow and stupid, he looked down at his feet and there on the floor—a steak of yellow, like chalk ground across the wood.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Standing there by the door, he felt the cold rushing in, chilling him for the first time in what seemed like days.

Suddenly he was moving, ducking into the kitchen and through the back employee door. Turning the corner, he skirted around the odds and ends that littered the narrow space and pulled back to look at the wall where the orange flames had swirled.

They were…gone.

“What the bloody hell?”

The piece was still there, mostly, a little worse for wear. Hob could see the framing background details, but the flames themselves were gone. Instead there was nothing but empty space, clean bare wall, not even traces of clinging pigment left behind.

The wind blew sharply down the alley, and Hob shivered.

#dreamling #the sandman netflix #dream of the endless #hob gadling #dream x hob #dreamling au #street artist!Dream #A Translation of the Dream

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