#actually flip flopping on that title or 'the devil you know' but we'll seeee

[goldflinches]

the same difference (snippet)

Summary: A friend is a friend, even a few realities removed.

(or: Hob meets a different Dream. He deals with it with as much grace as he can. Which is to say, not much at all.)

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Square/Prompt: B3 - Obsession | @dreamlingbingo

Rating: Teen

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling

Additional Notes & Warnings: Show!Hob meets Comic!Dream and Comic!Hob meets Show!Dream (Yes, Based On That Fanart by Alexxuun), First Meetings (Sort Of), Matthew Being A Menace

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Hob’s day starts with a rude bird.

Matthew, the aforementioned rude bird, announces his surprise visit with a loud “INCOMING!” All before swooping into Hob’s small apartment through the open window, honing in on his toast, landing, and then tearing into it with gusto.

It’s six thirty-nine on another gray, drizzly morning. Hob is still groggy and his lukewarm coffee is mostly on the floor, partially on his shirt. A talking raven is eating his breakfast. Surely, this has to be some sort of ominous thing and not just the actual baseline mundanity of his life. Talking ravens have to be harbingers of…something. Lost breakfasts. Crumbs. Friends who haven’t been in touch for the past three weeks and five days—okay no, it’s too early and he’s too caffeine-deficient for that train of thought right now. Sighing, he tries to pick at the piece of toast Matthew hasn’t devoured yet, only to be met with a quick snap of a beak. “Good morning to you too,” grumbles Hob as he gets up to make his breakfast. Again.

In the kitchen, he hears the telltale susurration of sand from behind him. Hob feels a smile steal across his face immediately, then bites it back almost just as fast. He continues making his second breakfast. As he’s adding another piece of bread to the to-be-toasted pile, he says over his shoulder, “Dream, your bird is eating me out of house and—“ "Oh fuck," croaks Matthew suddenly, “Shit, I forgot—“ Alarmed, Hob whirls around, butter knife and Dream’s favorite brand of strawberry jam at the ready. And he comes face to face with his friend. Or at least, some version of Dream. One with wilder hair and sharper angles, drawn like dancing shadows of tree branches. This Dream smiles with more fang in tooth when he greets Hob with a familiar, resonant tone. “Hello, Hob Gadling.” Hob drops the jam jar.

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Hob’s day ends with a rude bird.

It had been a long day in a long line of long days and all Hob wanted to do was enjoy a nightcap before sleeping the weekend away. The loud, insistent tapping on the door was not part of the plan. Even as he’s standing in front of the door, Hob contemplates just pretending to not be at home. The hammering on the door gets more intense, almost as if sensing his thoughts. With a defeated sigh, Hob opens a door. And of all things, a raven swoops right in.

It flies down the hall, towards the rest of his condominium with a battle caw, doing a sweep of the space as Hob trails a few paces behind it, utterly bewildered. Ravens are…omens aren’t they? Bad luck or some shoddy housekeeping in this case. He wonders what his old friend would have to say about that, might bring it up next time he deigned to drop by—no, not something worth contemplating right now. At least without a good amount of alcohol in his system.

By now, the bird has perched on his leather sofa, making its mark on the upholstery. Hob slowly approaches it when it opens its beak and, in a clearly American accent, announces, “ALL CLEAR BOSS!” Another layer of confusion is added when Hob hears a deep sigh from the entryway. The raven continues on, “C’mon Boss, you know I had to vet this rando—,” and Hob cannot believe he left the door open. He tunes out the talkative raven as he makes his way down the hallway. On the way, he grabs an…umbrella. It has some heft at least but he’s definitely had to make do with less in the past. Twisting it around in his hands, Hob starts thinking about different scenarios and exit strategies and how he is not in the mood to move on to a new life, whoever is at the door better be ready for his ferocious umbrella backhand— At the doorway stands his friend. Or some other form of his friend. One with a softer lines and sleek planes, like a reflection on the surface of a still, fathomless lake. This version of his friend smiles with only a small curl of his lips, greeting Hob with a voice he misses despite himself.

“Hello, Hob.” Hob grips the umbrella tighter.