#dreamling soccer au

[samsalami66]

Don't Go Kicking My Heart

Another part of the soccer au, it is time for fluff and trauma! Enjoy!!

Read on ao3!

Today was the first day of a new era. A new age of football.

The world of sports would remember this day. 

The day Morpheus Ateleios, winner of the European Golden Shoe, first played for Fiddler’s Green, the highest ranking football club in all of Europe. 

Or, well, the day he first trained with them. His first match was still far off, the next season only started in a few months after all, but today was his first day as a part of the team. He would face the players for the first time not on opposite sides of a field, but as a teammate. 

Morpheus was about to be sick, standing in front of these unfamiliar training facilities in the middle of London, miles away from Wych Cross and Roderick’s now cold and dead body. The distance wasn’t enough. No distance could make up for the ache he still felt in his bones, in his muscles, for the bruises slowly healing on his back and chest. 

But thinking about the ghost of Roderick Burgess still being imprinted on his skin was not what really got to Morpheus’ stomach. 

No, it was the fact that he would face Robert Gadling for the first time as a colleague. A part of the team. 

Gadling was… well, to say Morpheus and him did not get along would probably be an understatement. They had a bit of a turbulent history. 

Said history might have involved red cards for both of them during their latest match, following a disagreement they had decided to solve with fists rather than words. 

It hadn’t been one of his proudest moments. 

There was just something about Gadling, something that set him off in the worst way possible. Morpheus wasn’t a pleasant person to be around, he’d admit, but Gadling would stare at him with such distaste, it felt entirely unwarranted. Jessamy would say it was jealousy, because Morpheus was clearly the better player between the two of them. But who knew, perhaps the Fiddlers’ star player was simply a homophobic asshole, like so many others in this sport. Maybe Roderick had a point when he said that nobody would want to play with him or share a locker room if they knew about him, about his fantasies. 

Perhaps he had been right to announce them to the world.

But god, was he really about to walk into a locker room full of people who would rather have him dead than anywhere near them? Would they refuse to undress before him, just like the Riggers had done? And what would Gadling do to him in the privacy of a training facility, where there was no referee to step between them, no cameras pointed in their direction? 

Fuck, all of this had been a terrible idea. He should leave, should tell Gilbert that he simply couldn’t play for this club, that he would have to find another player, that there was simply too much antagony and hatred and-

“You alright there, mate?” A voice, all too familiar, sounded from behind him. Morpheus couldn’t help the yelp that escaped his lips at the sudden appearance of Robert Gadling right in his personal space. He had been too caught up in his thoughts and didn’t even notice that the other man had approached him. It took every ounce of self-control Morpheus possessed to school his face back into something less terrified as he turned towards his old rival. 

“Why do you care?” He replied, venom dripping from his words. All it earned him was a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, you look like you’re walking to your death sentence. Mind, I don’t actually know what you’re doing here, of all places, but I’m pretty sure the death penalty was abolished in 1969 over here in the UK.” Robert Gadling looked thoughtful for a moment, one hand coming up to scratch at his beard, and Morpheus was left to stare at him. None of this answered his question. “Unless you committed treason of course, the death penalty for that was abolished in 1998 I think. Not that it matters much, both are in the past now, but the more you know!”

There was a moment of silence after Gadling stopped talking, one in which Morpheus contemplated if he should pinch himself for the unlikely reason that this was all a dream. Though surely not even his brain could come up with such impossible scenarios all on its own. After all, he knew nothing about English history. 

Perhaps if he didn’t answer, the other man would leave. 

But no such luck. Robert Gadling was not fazed by his silence. 

“Not a fan of history, eh? Fair enough, I guess it’s not everyone’s cuppa tea.” Gadling winked at him then, and Morpheus decided that perhaps pinching himself wasn’t the worst idea after all. A stab of pain shot up his arm, but, again, no luck. This really was no elaborate nightmare. Gadling was talking to him. “How about a joke, then? Something to wipe that mopey look off your face?”

He did not wait for Morpheus’ answer. He would not have gotten one anyway, but it was still rude. 

“Why’s Cinderella bad at football?” Morpheus was dreading the answer to this question more than he had dreaded entering the facilities in the first place. Robert Gadling waited for a moment, if for dramatics or simply to torture him, Morpheus didn’t know.

“Because she lost her shoe and ran away from the ball!” 

It was an awful joke. Really, it might be in the top ten of the worst jokes Morpheus had ever heard. And yet, he felt the familiar feeling of laughter bubbling up from deep within him, a sort of hysteria he simply couldn’t control, couldn’t stop as it was about to simply burst from his chest. 

Perhaps it was the whole situation that made him hysterical, the stress of the past few days that came crashing down on him that had sent him into delirium. Or, maybe, he simply wasn’t very sane to begin with.

Morpheus tried desperately to clasp a hand over his mouth in order to stop the horrible noise from escaping his lips, but it was a futile attempt. Waves of laughter shook his body and the sound, only slightly muffled by his hand, spilled into the air between him and Robert Gadling. 

Morpheus knew that his laugh was horrible. Back at school people had held their ears whenever he laughed, much later people had simply asked him to stop whenever he couldn’t catch himself in time. Roderick had had the cane. But Gadling did not do any of those things. 

Gadling was simply… looking. He looked… amused? Fond, perhaps? Morpheus couldn’t really see through the tears that were building in his eyes as he tried to calm down. But he had to be imagining things, nobody had ever looked fond when confronted with his joy. And Gadling… Gadling hated him.

Didn’t he? 

“Looked like you needed that.” he said, tone warm, and Morpheus wasn’t too sure about it anymore. “Come on, I’ll bring you wherever you need to go. And call me Hob, yeah? My friends usually do.”

Robert Gadling clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Morpheus had never felt so unsteady on his feet or in his world-view. 

It was minutes later that the two of them entered the training facilities of Fiddler’s Green, Gadling chattering away at Morpheus’ side as if they were old friends. He talked about anything and everything, topics seemingly unrelated to one another, though somehow Morpheus managed to keep up with the jumps in his stories. How he went from a camping trip the team went on last month to when he went fishing with his father when he was younger, to the anatomy of grasshoppers they had presumably used for fishing, and the physical differences between grasshoppers and crickets. 

It was weirdly familiar, so similar to how his own brain worked. Though he could never verbalise his thoughts like this, without overthinking every single word. Gadling didn’t particularly seem to care if he could keep up, just kept talking and gesturing as they walked. 

It was… calming. Morpheus found himself hoping that he didn’t stop any time soon. 

But, of course, they had a destination. And once they reached it, Gadling slowly came to a stop in his rambling. Before them were the doors to the locker rooms, through which Morpheus heard voices, broken up by laughter, louder than he had ever experienced a locker room to be at Fawney Rig. 

The Riggers hadn’t talked much to one another. Certainly hadn’t laughed together.

“Right, Gilbert should be with the other guys. Do you want me to get him or come inside?”

Considerate. Morpheus wished he didn’t have to go into this room. But there was no point, if he was supposed to work and play with these men in the future. 

“I would come in, if you don’t mind.” 

God, Morpheus hated how small his voice sounded. Gadling must be aware of what he was actually asking. The question Would you allow someone like me into your changing rooms? hidden somewhere between the lines. But the other man simply raised an eyebrow at him, smiled fondly and held the door open for him. 

“I wouldn’t have asked if I did.”

Morpheus remembered very clearly how the Riggers had once asked him to come inside the locker rooms after Roderick had outed him, just to close and lock the door in his face. 

It had been three years since he last stepped foot into a shared locker room. And Robert Gadling invited him, his rival, inside with a smile. 

Morpheus hoped the tears stinging in his eyes weren’t too obvious.

As they entered, member after member turned to look at them with an air of surprise and curiosity. One of them, blond, American, and with a devastatingly handsome smile, whistled and waggled his eyebrows in Gadling’s direction. 

“Did you finally have the guts to talk to Mister Dreamy without starting a fight, Robbie?”

When Morpheus turned to look at the other man, he could see that his tanned skin turned red around his cheeks, all the way up to his ears. Huh, Morpheus hadn’t known that Gadling felt embarrassment over their common disagreements on the field. He had always seemed very confident in his anger.

“Shut it, Cori. He’s here to talk to Gilbert.”

Just as Gadling said it, the man in question looked up from some papers he had been studying, with a smile spreading over his face. “Oh, Mister Ateleios!” Gilbert stood quickly to offer him his hand, which Morpheus took without much hesitation. The coach of Fiddler’s Green was a homely man, soft and welcoming in every way Roderick hadn’t been. “It’s wonderful to have you, son, just wonderful! I’m glad to see you’ve found your way just fine.” 

Morpheus couldn’t remember when someone had last called him son. Perhaps when he had last seen his parents… some six-odd years ago. Though, honestly, his father had stopped calling him son long before that. It made a part deep within him ache to hear it again, from a stranger nonetheless. But he couldn’t get emotional in front of all these people, not now, so he forced a smile and a nod, and hoped his voice didn’t break when he answered. 

“Yes, Mister Gadling was kind enough to lead the way. I am honoured to be here.”

The elder man patted his shoulder, fatherly, and Morpheus was a hair’s breadth away from breaking down. 

“Glad Robert could make himself useful at least, when he’s already never on time.” Gadling pouted at that, but didn’t otherwise react. Such a statement from Roderick would have had the entire room cowering in fear. But these men weren’t afraid. It was strange, but at the same time filled Morpheus with hope that this perhaps wasn’t a huge mistake. “And now that you two are here as well, it’s time for the big announcement, wouldn’t you say?”

Gilbert hadn’t warned the team of him? With all their history? Either the man had incredible trust in his men or he didn’t care much about Morpheus’ physical well-being.

Morpheus was about to be sick after all. 

“What’s the announcement, boss?” a raven-haired man asked from their right, curiosity in his voice. Or was it mistrust?

“Well, boys, Mister Ateleios here approached me a few weeks ago, asking to become a part of the team. And I signed him on, of course. He will take Paul’s place, since his spot opened up with the end of last season.” 

Morpheus closed his eyes, preparing himself for protest, for judgement, for insults. All of it would be reasonable, and he wasn’t stupid enough to hope for a better reaction. He had landed Gadling in hospital once, for Christ’s sake. He would be lucky if nobody resorted to violence in the face of what must feel like betrayal from their coach-

“Oh fuck yeah, we will kick ass this season with Morpheus on our team!”

Gadling’s excited voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter, and suddenly the whole room erupted into cheers. Hands found his shoulders and back, patting them with enthusiasm as Morpheus blinked his eyes open in surprise. The men were smiling at him, not a hint of malevolence in any of their faces. Robert Gadling was practically vibrating with excitement, his eyes shining like those of a child at Christmas. Nobody had ever looked at Morpheus like that, like his presence was a thing to look forward to. 

It would change, surely. They were happy to have his skills on their time, were looking forward to a successful season. That was all. 

It would change. 

Morpheus was sure of it. 

- - - 

The next day, Morpheus was the first ready for training. He was early, really. Dreadfully early. When Roderick said training started at eight, he had expected the team to show up at six at the latest. But apparently the Fiddlers were less inclined to begin a day so early. 

No matter, a few extra hours would not do him any harm. 

He could warm up already, set up a few exercises. Perhaps it would reflect on his conviction to be a valuable player for the team, so they would perhaps forgive his lack of character. 

It was as good a plan as ever. 

He started off with stretching his legs and feet, before moving onto his arms and neck. It was calming, to spend some minutes in tranquil silence, simply feeling the muscles in his body stretch and loosen for the day ahead. Just as he was about to start his last set of stretches, a voice came from the side of the field, which almost caused him to strain his neck with how fast he turned around to look at the source. 

Of course, it was Gadling. 

“Did you hear about the team whose back four was only two fullbacks?”

That. Didn’t make any sense. What was that supposed to mean? Had he been supposed to do preparations for today’s training? Research the teams they would be playing? Gods, if he had already missed such a vital task on his second day they would never tolerate him, they would put him on the bench and find a different player, they-

“Apparently they're double stuffed.”

It was another joke. A pun. A horrible, terrible, awful pun. 

Morpheus couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, half-delirious, his heart beating so fast in his chest he felt a bit faint. 

He hadn’t misstepped. No reason for punishment. He was okay. 

Except that he was laughing, freely, before Robert Gadling. 

He really had to get a grip on himself. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t keep the laughter in, couldn’t stop, not even when tears were running down his cheeks and his stomach felt like he had done a hundred situps. 

Gadling was smiling when he came closer, as he seemed to do so very often since they had met in front of the facility. He sat down next to him, mirroring his current position, and Morpheus couldn’t help but smile back at him as they began to stretch together, Gadling once again regaling him with stories and anecdotes and seemingly random facts. 

It was nice. 

Morpheus had absolutely no idea how to deal with it. But he decided to simply accept it for what it was. 

- - - 

On Saturdays, the Fiddlers met for drinks. 

It was an unspoken rule, a tradition, and Morpheus had been invited during that first week of training with the team. Therefore, it was important to leave a positive impression. 

He arrived, dressed in a tux and carrying a bottle of wine, at the address Gadling had sent him. It was… not a real restaurant, nor another place he recognised. It didn’t seem to be a place where any of the other players lived either. The sign on the front of the building read The New Inn and from inside Morpheus could hear the same laughter and joy he had come to associate with the locker rooms of Fiddler’s Green. 

They were a loud bunch, almost irritatingly so, if it weren’t for the warmth their company provided. Spending time with them was easier than it had ever been with the Riggers. 

Upon entering Morpheus was greeted with cheers and whistles, and he realised very quickly that he was immensely overdressed. The team sat around a large table towards the side of the room, dressed in jeans, t-shirts and hoodies (except Ken and Cori, those two technically wore shirts, though Morpheus was not entirely sure that they could really qualify as such with how little they were covering.). Gadling sported a fading band-tee about two sizes too large and sweat-pants.

Gods above, Morpheus would stick out like a sore thumb. Why had nobody told him about the dress-code?

“Looking good, Dreamy!” Cori called over the cheers, a grin on his face. “Dress to impress! Robbie will look dreadfully underdressed next to you.”

The man in question kicked Cori underneath the table. 

“Ow! What, it’s not my fault you roll from your couch upstairs right down to drinks night!” 

The tips of Gadling’s ears turned red at the other man’s words, and Morpheus almost felt the need to defend him. After all, it was his being overdressed, not Gadling being undressed, that was the faux-pas here. 

But in the spirit of good impressions Morpheus simply sat down on the free chair next to Gadling and placed the bottle of wine on the table. It was immediately nicked by Mervyn, an appreciative whistle leaving his lips as he read the label. “Good stuff, Dreamy. Cheers!”

That nickname, twice already this evening. Morpheus wasn’t entirely sure if it existed to make fun of him or was simply a thing these people did. It had been there since day one, and apparently the team wasn’t about to stop anytime soon. It… did not bother Morpheus too much. He had never had a nickname. Roderick had only ever called him Morpheus, and he had only ever said it with hatred, disappointment or cold detachment. Never with humour, joy or fondness, had never used it to tease him. 

“Why did the winger miss the match?”

Gadling’s voice, quiet and right next to his ear, quickly pulled Morpheus out of his thoughts. It was a question. Had he missed a part of the conversation? Was he supposed to answer? Or, no, it wasn’t another one, was it…?

“He was busy chasing ball.” 

Oh, fuck, it was another one of Gadling’s horrible, god-awful puns. That was it. Proof that Gadling hated him, had just been nice to him to gain some twisted sort of amusement. Morpheus knew the laughter was coming this time, knew he was helpless against it bubbling up in his throat. He didn’t want to face the whole team as they were subjected to his laugh. Surely they would tell him to stop, to keep quiet, to leave the inn, laugh at him. 

But there was no helping it. With his face hidden behind his hands, Morpheus allowed the sound to spill over and mix with the laughter around them. Seconds passed by, and the noise around him did not stop. Conversations continued, drinks were drunk, and nobody seemed to react at all. 

Ever so slowly, Morpheus dared to raise the hands from his face and to peek into the group of people around him. 

Nobody was batting an eye. 

Stunned, and more than a little confused, Morpheus let his hands drop to his lap. Beside him, Gadling was nursing his beer, almost as if he hadn’t just tried to embarrass him in front of the entire team. Or… perhaps he really hadn’t tried to. Nobody was laughing at him after all. Nobody was shouting at him to keep quiet or to go outside. 

Almost as if it were okay for him to just… be. 

- - - 

About a month later, Morpheus sat in his apartment on his day off. A Sunday. The first of the month. 

It was a quiet day, warm and sunny and the only sounds were the birds chirping outside.

That was, until someone decided it would be a brilliant idea to abuse his doorbell. Probably some reporter, or an obnoxious fan. They would get bored soon. Very soon. 

Ten minutes later, the doorbell was still ringing and Morpheus had had enough. 

“Gamo to kerato sou. People nowadays have zero respect for privacy.”

Morpheus was ready to yell at whoever was standing behind the door, scare them off so they would never show their face here ever again. 

But behind the door was Gadling. And Cori. And Matthew and Mervyn and John and Ken and… even Gilbert was there. Gadling was holding a cake in his hands. Self-made, by the looks of it. 

The frosting read Happy One Month Anniversary!

Morpheus was about to cry. 

He couldn’t help it. He rushed forward, right into the arms of Robert Gadling. Because this must have been his idea, insufferable, incredible man that he was. Considerate. God, he was always so considerate. Cheering him up with stupid puns every single day, forcing him to relax, to trust, to breathe, to be. 

Forcing Morpheus to enjoy his company. Seek it out even. He didn’t do hugs. And yet, here he was. 

“Thank you, Hob.” he whispered, so only Hob could hear. The arms around him tightened, and the other man pressed his cheek against his own. 

“Anytime, Dream.”

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: Keeper

Read on AO3

Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling), football/soccer AU || Rated E || 3.7k words || complete

Alternate Universe - Football, (real football, you know, what Americans call soccer, where your feet regularly touch the fucking ball), keeper!Dream, goalie!Dream, journalist!Hob, oral sex, public blow jobs, public bathroom sex, come swallowing, coming in pants, coming untouched, interested lube choices, condoms, barebacking, rimming, anal fingering, couch sex, rough sex, dirty talk, gratuitous references to Ted Lasso because I cannot fucking help myself, fluffy ending, they are still idiots for each other

Hob can't fucking believe it catches on. Like, he is just some random no-name sports writer for a shite little local paper. But the team he covers is on the up and up again, might even get promoted back into the Premier League after a year’s absence, and no one is doubting that it is in part because of the way the almost two meters tall Sansfin is an absolute wall in front of the goal. He was pulled in from the bench, a last resort after their two top goalies were catastrophically injured, having never shown more than the baseline level of talent expected of a pro footballer. But once on the big stage, getting actual minutes during a Championship League game, something just… clicked. The player who had once lurked in the shadows was now a supernova. Last week was the seventh shutout in a row, and they are only eight games into the season. Hob had called him 'The Sandman' in his bit of coverage after shutout number three: the conceit was that he made it look like the other team was asleep, that the only time they were going to score a goal was in their dreams. And then it catches on. Fuck, it more than catches on.

[samsalami66]

Red Card Plays

Another day, another dreamling soccer au fic! Have fun reading!

Read on ao3 here!

(TW: Homophobia, Abuse, Panic Attacks)

“You’re here early.” 

Morpheus didn’t look up at the sound of Hob’s voice, too used to it by now to be startled out of his warm-up. He took a deep breath so he might answer the unspoken question which Hob asked almost every time when he found him on the pitch way before training started.

“Yes I… I wanted to get some extra training in.” It was an easy lie, almost coming naturally with how many times he had already said it. “You are early as well.”

Hob nodded as he sat down next to him, mirroring his position. 

“Oh yeah, it makes Gilbert happy when I show up early from time to time, to straighten my bad track record.” 

This, too, was familiar. Finding pretty words in order not to outright name the punishment at hand, make light of the situation one found themselves in. It was only a matter of time until Morpheus would find himself subjected to the darker side the Fiddlers surely possessed, or be faced with it through one of the other players. 

Though he hoped it would not have to be Hob, when it came to it. Morpheus had rather started to enjoy the other man’s calming presence. 

“I understand. Say, what would Gilbert do if he was unhappy with a player’s performance?” Morpheus would want to know what to expect sooner rather than later, to get an understanding of what Gilbert’s chosen ways of training were. That way he might prepare accordingly. 

“What would he do?” Hob was frowning at him, his arms crossing over his chest. “You mean outside of talking to you?”

Now, Morpheus was frowning too. Surely Hob understood that he could talk about this freely. They were teammates now after all, and perhaps even on the way of becoming something like friends. “I mean… extra training, punishments, or whatever you call it here.”

The stare Hob gave him was bordering on worry. “Dream” he started, slowly. “What did Roderick do, when he was unhappy with your performance?”

Weird question, but alright.

“The usual?” When Hob just kept staring at him, Morpheus continued with a roll of his eyes. “Running until collapsing, no water for the day, sometimes he got out the cane.”

Hob’s stare turned dark at his words, his jaw tensed and he took a deep breath. 

“Burgess abused you?”

“What? No!” It was Morpheus’ turn to frown again. “No, those were just training methods, to keep us on track. How else would you ensure people keep up with it?”

“Enthusiasm? Loyalty? Adjusting the training to the players? Motivate them?”

“What motivates a player better than the fear of punishment?”

Morpheus was growing frustrated. There was no reason for Hob to be so stubborn about admitting to this. 

“Anything, Dream, literally anything else would be more motivating for a player. You left the Riggers the moment Burgess bit the dust, didn’t you?”

That. Well, that was true. But Morpheus hadn’t left the team because of that, it was just that he couldn’t stand to play there when Roderick was gone. His ghost had been everywhere, his voice constantly at the back of his mind, telling him he was doing it all wrong, that he was a burden for the team, that only he could make him worth something as a player. That was why he had left.

“Dream, love, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Of course he could, there was nothing wrong with him, after all. Any player Morpheus had ever talked to (which, admittedly, were just his old teammates. They hadn’t been allowed friendship or anything similar outside of their team) experienced the same treatment and knew about these training methods, accepted them as effective, even. So of course he could look at Hob. He could even hold his gaze, even if the worry in his teammate’s eyes made his stomach clench with a feeling he could not place. 

“Nobody is going to hurt you here. Nobody, Dream,” Hob’s eyes held a seriousness Morpheus simply couldn’t understand, that did not make sense. 

“But Roderick didn’t hurt me. He disciplined me, he, he motivated me and pushed me to be better, to be the best version of myself.”

His voice was loud. Morpheus did not remember raising it, nor did he know why tears were gathering in his eyes or why he felt the need to hug his knees to his chest like a toddler. He was not some child after all, and there was no reason for this. 

“Oh, love,” It was so soft, so filled with care, and Morpheus felt the tears spill over. Arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, so that all he could feel was Hob’s warmth surrounding him as he cried. Though what for, he still wasn’t sure. 

- - - 

“How are we feeling?” 

We. It implied a shared feeling, as if emotions could be experienced conjointly. Perhaps Hob Gadling really did share worry, fear and joy with those around him. Empathetic, in a way Morpheus failed to fully understand. 

He was grateful for it now. 

Now, they were sitting, together, in Hob’s car, waiting for him to be ready to step outside and begin therapy. He was not alone. Hob was here, with him. Holding his hand. Patient, caring. Morpheus was not sure that he deserved this care, this love. Which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he was sitting here. Or at least Hob had informed him that such thoughts were deemed ‘unhealthy’. 

Morpheus could not remember a time where he had felt worthy of love. Or a time where he had been loved, the way Hob explained love was supposed to be. Unconditional. 

There had always been conditions. His mother had loved him when he did her bidding, his father when he kept quiet. Epithumia had loved him when he left their home. 

Hob said he loved Morpheus for himself, for his friendship and his character. Morpheus did not quite believe him, but perhaps he would, in time. 

So, how was he feeling?

“I am. Afraid. Of talking to this person. But I also wish to. To learn. I wish to become a better friend.” 

It was what they were, now. Friends. A baffling concept to Morpheus, that a person so caring could expand their care to him of all people. But he did. And Morpheus was thankful for it. 

Hob grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly, the action grounding him.

“Being afraid of this is the most natural thing, love. I was so nauseous the first time I came here I almost turned around and went back home.” It didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, and Morpheus said so. Hob squeezed his hand again with a soft smile. “If you really don’t want to go, we can turn around and reschedule. We will do this in your time, however long it takes.”

“You would leave, now? When we are already here? When all I have to do is step out of your car and into the building?” It would be an inconvenience. It would mean doing it all over again, driving into the city and spending hours in his presence. Things nobody would want to do, not voluntarily. 

“Of course I would, Dream. These things can’t be rushed. If you aren’t ready, it doesn’t need to happen today.”

Morpheus nodded, once, before taking a deep breath. Hob was not like the people he had known so far. He knew this. 

“You will be here?”

“Awaiting your return, my friend.”

Another deep breath, another nod, and Morpheus pushed the door of the car open and made his way inside, knowing that Hob would be there. Just like he promised. 

- - - 

An hour later, almost on the dot, Morpheus stepped back out of the building, feeling like a single touch might break him apart. Hob had tried to warn him that there would be a lot of feelings he wouldn’t understand, and wouldn't be able to place. Never had Morpheus felt so out of his depth, like his skin didn’t fit quite right anymore and his mind was not his own. 

But that was alright. Because Hob was there. Waiting, just as he had promised. Even if Morpheus didn’t feel like he knew himself anymore, Hob was waiting, patient, just like he always was.

Morpheus wanted to hug him, to be held, so he wouldn’t feel like he might shatter apart anymore. But at the same time touch felt impossible, the very idea made his skin crawl like a hundred ants were trapped in his veins. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he did not do anything, except open the passenger side to Hob’s car. 

And there, on his seat, was a… a toy. A plushie. A fox-plushie, to be exact, large red ears with black tips, a very fluffy tail and black button eyes. It was… cute. It looked like something his younger self would have loved to own, something he would have paraded around as his favourite possession.  

“A little surprise, for being brave enough to walk in there,” said Hob, his voice soft as he leaned towards the other seat so Morpheus could see him. He was smiling, pride clear in his eyes, and Morpheus could feel himself blush. It had been a long time since someone had last told him they were proud of him, longer still since he had been given a gift for doing something right. He must have been silent for a moment too long, missing the time it was socially acceptable to answer, because Hob was looking at him apologetically and reached for the plushie. “Sorry, I thought it was a good idea, but it’s childish, really, you don’t have to-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Morpheus snatched the fox away from him and held it close to his chest, suddenly protective over the toy. 

“A gift from my only friend could never be childish, Robert.” Morpheus huffed, his eyes narrowed playfully at the other man. Teasing was still unfamiliar to him, but he believed himself to be finally getting the hang of it. “Also, don’t disrespect Gerhard the Great like that. He detests being called a children’s toy.”

His teasing must have worked, as Hob barked out a laugh at the name he had given the fox, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare! Gerhard the Great deserves all the respect I can offer. As do you, my friend.”

When Hob said ‘friend’, it sounded like a lot of things. ‘My king’, ‘My Lord’, ‘My Love’. It was never just one thing. Friend, for this man, meant everything. Morpheus doubted that Hob would stop calling his partner his friend, or that he could ever have a partner who was not also his friend. It was a weird thing to know so early on in their acquaintance, but Hob was an open book about these things. 

Hob’s openness calmed Morpheus, made it easy to trust him. And so far, his trust had only been well-placed. The fox in his arms was just another reminder of the great man Hob Gadling was. He wouldn’t judge or harm him. The only thing Hob knew to do was to care and protect. 

He had cared enough to know Morpheus would feel difficult about touch. And he had cared enough to think further, to find a solution Morpheus would have never thought of himself. 

And so, Morpheus slid easily into the passenger seat, with Gerhard the Great resting safely on his lap and one hand playing with his ears. 

“Could I tell you what I talked about with Lydia, in the past hour?”

“Of course! Whatever you want to talk about, my friend, I’m happy to listen.”

- - - 

Autism and ADHD had not been the diagnoses Morpheus had expected to get first, considering all the problems he had come to realise he had. But, as it was, Lydia had handed him books on both topics only about a month after he started therapy, and the more he read about the disorders, the more he began to see why they hadn’t been particularly hard diagnoses to make. Perhaps the fact that he was never able to stop playing around with the tissue boxes that were strategically placed around the room had been a sign. Or that he had to cover his ears from the sound of the fan and had been seconds away from what Lydia had called a ‘meltdown’, because the sound had felt like someone was scraping his brain with sandpaper. 

Perhaps, if Morpheus had had access to these books earlier, he would have noticed that he was different a lot sooner. He understood now that arguments with his old teammates had often sprouted from misunderstandings and an inability on his side to communicate his problems. Though they hadn’t been the best human beings either, so they probably wouldn’t have listened to him about his problems anyway. 

But Lydia said that he would have to try it with the Fiddlers in order to know if they were the same. Morpheus didn’t know why anyone would want to accommodate his problems, especially when he could simply push through them and pretend nothing was wrong, like he had done his whole life. Unhealthy, Lydia would chide him. He began to understand where Hob got that word from. 

He, too, said a similar thing after all, when Morpheus told him about that week’s session. It’s unhealthy to go about your whole life masking, he had said. Morpheus hadn’t known what ‘masking’ was supposed to be at that point, but he had nodded along like he understood. Whenever something is making you feel uncomfortable, just tell us, yeah? Promise we will try to help. And that had been it. 

Honestly, Hob hadn’t seemed particularly surprised about the diagnoses either. Perhaps Morpheus hadn’t been doing as well at hiding his problems as he had previously thought. 

But even with Hob’s reassurance and the fact that nothing between them or the team seemed to change after the diagnoses, it still took Morpheus another month to voice a matter of discomfort to them. Old habits die hard, after all. 

It was a Saturday and the team was getting ready for Drink Night, as was customary for them. Morpheus had been staying at Hob’s place, as he often did these days. They would watch movies or prepare dinner together on Friday nights. It was a comfortable routine, especially when Drink Night was always held at the New Inn and they simply had to walk down a flight of stairs to get there. They had their corner booth reserved every week, the bartender and waiters knew them all by name and were close friends of Hob’s, who was also the owner of the pub. If it ever became too crowded or loud for him, Morpheus would simply excuse himself to Hob’s flat. 

It was a comfortable routine. One Morpheus was not very inclined to break. 

But this Saturday, the team wanted to celebrate the opening of a new place around town. It was so new, there were no reviews or pictures online. No menu. It would be on the other side of London, far away from any of their homes, and they might have to stand in a queue in order to get in, if they would even get in all together. 

Morpheus was… slightly uncomfortable at the idea. 

“You look like your spine might snap with how tense you are.” Well, perhaps it was more than slight discomfort. Or Hob was simply getting too perceptive. Either way, he has been called out and was not feeling particularly great about it. 

“I’m fine.” He tried to deflect, but Hob was having none of it. His hands came up to massage Morpheus’ shoulders, turning him into jelly with his strong fingers digging into Morpheus’ tense muscles. 

“I can see that you’re not. Tell me what’s up so we can find a way to fix it.” 

Hob made it sound so easy. As if Morpheus just had to say the word and he would make it happen, no matter what the request was. Perhaps he would. 

Morpheus realised he wanted to find out. 

“I do not wish to go to another pub today.” He answered quietly, eyes closed and focusing on Hob’s touch, grounding him. “I fear getting… overstimulated by the surroundings and unknown parameters and not having a place to withdraw to. And I… I enjoy spending time at The New Inn.” It was a slow explanation, halting and awkward, for Morpheus was still unused to voicing his feelings in this manner. But it was easier with Hob at his back, and the knowledge that he would never be judged by this man. When he finished his explanation, the hands on his shoulders disappeared so that arms could circle around his waist and pull him into a hug. Hob was warm and solid behind him, and Morpheus felt safe like this, safe to voice any and all of his concerns. 

“Thank you for telling me, Dream. I’m so proud of you.” Warmth he wasn’t quite certain he deserved to feel swelled in Morpheus’ chest at the words, at the knowledge of having made his friend proud. “Let’s text the others to meet us here instead, yeah?”

Telling the other team members felt scarier than telling Hob, but Morpheus thought he could do anything with Hob holding him close like this. 

“Very well.” He murmured, and Hob’s arms left his body in search of his phone. Morpheus knew it was in the bathroom, where Hob had been shaving a few minutes prior and upon telling him so, he received a kiss to the cheek from his friend. 

“What would I do without you?”

It was a good question, though Morpheus felt he should be the one asking it. He answered nonetheless, but really it was more for himself than Hob. 

“I don’t know, Hob. I don’t know what I would do.”

- - - 

As the beginning of the season approached, Morpheus began to talk more with Lydia about how this time was different from how it had been at Fawney Rig. 

The overall mood of the Fiddlers did not change much as the first match drew nearer. They were growing excited, more active at training, but not really stressed or anxious. The daily talks with Gilbert seemed to help them a lot, hearing that he believed in them to play a fantastic season and could see they were coming together well as a team. 

In contrast to that, Morpheus remembered nothing but fear around the same time last year. The Riggers had been agitated, frightened of the threats Roderick would throw their way the moment he laid eyes on them. They had known that a lost match would mean punishment, that they would have to double their efforts in training and halve their hours of sleep for the weeks to come in order to placate their coach. And even then, they would get the cane. 

Apparently, a safer environment did not immediately erase years of abuse (and wasn’t it a weird thing to finally accept Roderick’s behaviour for what it had been). 

But it helped, to be able to talk about his fears with Lydia, and, later, with Hob. They had even convinced him to talk to Gilbert about it, who had pulled him into a tight hug after his explanation. On all accounts, the team and Lydia were doing their absolute best to reassure Morpheus that failure was alright and that it would not end in punishment or disappointment. Nobody would think less of him if they lost. 

And yet, when the first match approached, Morpheus found himself pacing the locker rooms, his hands shaking and mind racing. He couldn’t lose this match. It was not only the first of the season, but his first as a player for the Fiddlers, his first chance to prove himself as valuable to the team. 

What would happen if he fucked this up? What would the others think of him if he couldn’t manage to win their first game? Would Gilbert think his trust had been misplaced? That he hadn’t been worth the money of the transfer? 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice called, and unlike usual, it brought forth fear instead of warmth (which only made Morpheus feel worse, for Hob did not deserve to be feared). “Are you coming? We’re about to go on the pitch.”

He wanted to say no, that he was about to throw up or scream or pull out his own hair with how afraid he was. But there was no time left, the point of saying something long past, and so Morpheus simply nodded and followed his friend. 

Hob was perceptive as always, throwing him worried glances as they stood in line in front of the stairs to the pitch. The others were talking animatedly to the opposing team, cracking jokes and wishing them luck, but Morpheus couldn’t help but keep to himself and hide slightly behind Hob from the cameras. The public didn’t need to see just how nervous he was. Thankfully, Hob picked up on it quickly and moved to fully shield him from their view, taking one of his hands into his own and squeezing it tightly. 

“You will do just fine, Dream. I know you will.” It was a whisper, only meant for Morpheus’ ears. 

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you have given your best and will try again next time.”

Morpheus huffed, disbelieving. “I do not believe that that would be the end of it.” 

It looked like Hob was about to respond, but he was interrupted by the announcement that the players would now enter the pitch. The time for talking was over. 

For the most part, the match went alright. Hob shot an early goal, grinning wide as the crowd erupted into cheers. He bowed and threw them kisses, as was his custom, and Morpheus now understood that there was no arrogance behind that celebration, but genuine love and adoration for his fans. He had never understood it, because the Riggers’ fans had been similarly horrible to the players. They had always hated him, but it got worse after Roderick told the world about his sexuality. After that he would have food and sometimes flares thrown at him from the stands, booing from the crowd whenever he shot a goal. Morpheus couldn’t remember a single time fans cheered for him. 

Perhaps if he proved himself with the Fiddlers, the fans would start tolerating him, cheering for him. 

But for that, Morpheus had to score. 

He tried everything, every single trick up his sleeve, but the ball never found its goal. The goalkeeper was good, too good, and with every goal Morpheus failed to score his desperation grew. This was not how it usually went. He was better than this, he was so much better. But it seemed like he wasn’t good enough to win them this match. 

Ten minutes before the end, the opposing team scored the equaliser. 

Five minutes later and they were leading. 

There was nothing Morpheus could do anymore. His last shot went sailing over the goal, a pathetic attempt overall. And then it was over. The referee announced the end of the match, and everything came crashing down. 

He was breathing too quickly, too shallow. They lost. The first game of the season, his first game for the team, and they lost. 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice was close, and so soft, but Morpheus couldn’t help flinching at the sound of it. Surely not even Hob was a good enough man to look past his miserable performance today, he would be angry or disappointed, would blame him and- and punish him- “Dream, love, please look at me. Everything will be alright, just look at me, yeah?”

He couldn’t ignore Hob. Not even when he was afraid the other man would hurt him could he deny him a request, and so he lifted his eyes to look at his friend (and in this moment, friend meant so many things. It meant ‘knight’ and ‘protector’ and ‘sun’ and ���hope’. It meant everything). 

Hob looked sad. Worried. Morpheus wanted to take him into his arms, hold him close, but before he could say so, Hob had already pulled him in. He was too warm and smelled of sweat, but it was still Hob’s smell, Hob’s warmth, and so it was nothing but comfort to Morpheus. 

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay that we lost.” There was no stopping the tears once they started, the fear and stress crashing down on him with Hob’s words, spoken even in the face of their loss. “You did so well. I’m proud of you, okay?” 

Morpheus didn’t understand how Hob could say these things when he had every reason to be mad at him, but he was grateful for it. Even if the rest of the team didn’t react as well as him, Morpheus felt like he would be able to stand their judgement with Hob at his side. Though it was only a matter of minutes before he felt more arms around him, hands clapping on his back and shoulders. A mix of Well done, Dreamy! and Good shit, boss! reached his ears, each member of the team coming over to congratulate him. They were all in good spirits, grinning wide, and Morpheus slowly began to relax under their steady praise, the reassurance that nobody blamed him for their loss. 

But only when a soft hand reached for his shoulder with the words You did well, son, did Morpheus relax completely, hiding his face in Hob’s neck and finally breathing normally again for the first time in weeks. 

- - - 

After that first match, Morpheus was slowly growing into his role as the second offence player. Without the fear of failure weighing on his shoulders, he was able to play in a way he had never been capable of before. He had fun. 

Of course, he had always been good at football, and he had always gained a certain form of joy from seeing his skills develop and having them acknowledged. But he had never had fun playing with others. The Riggers had tolerated him for his skill, but they hadn’t played with him. None of them had been anywhere near good enough to keep up with him, even if they had tried.

Playing with the Fiddlers was different. 

Hob was incredible, he saw the game in ways Morpheus had never before considered, offered advice and tricks and actually managed to teach him things. His technical skills were great as well, though they were not nearly as precise as Morpheus’ own, which were built from hours upon hours of non-stop training and repetition, in contrast to Hob’s quick improvisational talent. He was quick at coming up with a new move, whereas Morpheus was quick at finding the right move for the right situation. By all accounts, it should come as a surprise that the two of them managed to work so well together. But after an initial period of familiarisation, they functioned like they were made to play with each other. 

Game after game they became better, weaving through the opposing team without difficulty, communicating by a single glance. It was the most fun Morpheus had ever had playing this sport. 

The fact that they won almost every game after that first one became a certainty, inevitable with the force of nature Morpheus and Hob had become. 

And the fans of Fiddler’s Green had picked up on it immediately. By the fourth game they were screaming when Morpheus scored, and by the eighth game a song erupted in the fanblock. 

Mister Sandman, bring me a Dream! Bum Bum Bum Bum, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen!

It came as a total surprise, his nickname having apparently reached the fans, and Morpheus tried his best to hide the tears in his eyes as the people cheered at him when he waved in response. Fans were cheering at him for the first time in his career, and had even come up with a chant, all while he was having the time of his life playing for a team that supported and cared for him. 

It was as close to heaven as Morpheus thought he might get.

At least until, one game, he had to be reminded that his life was simply not like that. 

During their fourteenth match of the season, after he and Hob had scored a goal each before the break, Morpheus found himself in a one on one with one of the defenders. The man was big, bulky, and by default, slower than him. But his instincts were good, and so they were head to head for several seconds, fighting for the ball, until Morpheus gained the upper hand and was about to move past the other man. That was when he suddenly grabbed Morpheus by the shoulders and shoved him into the advertising boards, hard enough to rob him of the air in his lungs. 

Moments later, in which Morpheus was still regaining his orientation, he felt something wet hitting his face. It was… familiar, which only added to the panic he felt rising in his chest. Spitting in his face was one of Roderick’s favourite methods of degradation, whenever he had wanted to remind Morpheus of how dirty and sinful his existence was. 

“Do you think I will be outplayed by a little cocksucker?” The man was yelling, his face close enough to Morpheus’ that he could feel his breath hitting his cheek with every word. Another shove, and Morpheus was falling to the ground, his back hitting the board hard. “You won’t get away with it, little fag, because nobody here gives a shit about you. Nobody will come and help you. You’re nothing.”

Morpheus wasn’t sure when exactly the voice of the defender turned into that of Roderick, but he knew that it was his old trainer that he heard screaming at him by the end of it. Flashes of a cane were appearing at the edge of his vision, and Morpheus cowered in fear from it, trying to shield his body as much as possible and closing his eyes against it. The yelling continued, insult after insult thrown at him, all of it in the voice of a dead man. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Morpheus heard Lydia’s voice, the words PTSD and triggers and panic attack making their way through the screams and the growing sound of his own breathing, which was getting more hectic by the second. The words were closely followed by breathe and comfort and safety and a mantra of Hob Hob Hob Hob. Morpheus tried to force them past his lips, through the gasping breaths he was taking and the sobs shaking his body. Everything would be alright if Hob was there. Hob would protect him, against Roderick and Alex and everyone else, he was safety and comfort. 

Around Morpheus, the lights were suddenly dimmed. Hands gently grasped his head, covering his ears, and another sob left his lips at the relief he suddenly felt. He hadn’t noticed how overstimulated he had become, how loud the voices around him had been and how bright the lights. The hands had to be Hob’s, because no one else had ever touched him so gently, and no one else would know that light and noise might bother him. Morpheus simply had to make sure. Concentrate on the voices he could hear, the actual voices, not that of Roderick’s ghost still pestering his mind. Between the shouts of players and fans, he could finally hear it, a soft repeating of Dream Dream Dream. When his ears registered Hob’s voice, his nose was quick to follow, noticing Hob’s smell was everywhere around him. Opening his eyes was easier then, knowing that his friend was close, and so he managed to squint into the dimmed light after blinking a few times. 

What he saw then was Hob, shirtless, holding his jersey over their heads to block out light and cameras and onlookers alike, softly repeating his name over and over again. It was just them in this little bubble, and Morpheus finally felt like he could breathe again, like the air was reaching his lungs, and so he gasped desperately for air, trying to get his breathing back under control. But finding a rhythm seemed impossible, and with every second he continued to struggle he felt himself drifting back into a panic. But then arms pulled him against a strong chest, his ear pressed to bare skin, and he could feel it rise and fall beneath him. Follow the rhythm, in and out, in and out, until he was finally breathing normally again. 

“You’re doing so well, Dream. That’s it, take your time.” Morpheus knew the sound he made upon registering Hob’s words again was embarrassing and weak and pathetic, but right that moment, he did not care about it. Hearing Hob, not only his voice but his words, had become one of his greatest comforts over the months. Everything would be alright with Hob there. 

“Hob,” he managed to whisper, and when his friend only pulled him in closer he said it again and again, until hands were running up and down his back, through his hair, and Hob was pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m here, my friend. I’m here.” 

Only then did Morpheus finally feel secure enough in his breathing to move away, to look at Hob, and notice that his hand was bloody, his knuckles a deep shade of purple. 

“You’re hurt.” He frowned, cradling the hand carefully in his and turning it around for inspection. 

Hob shrugged, jostling it, and winced. 

“You should see the other guy.” A terrible response, and Morpheus made sure his facial expression told Hob so. 

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

“He deserved it for being a little bitch.” Morpheus looked at his friend disapprovingly, and only received a kiss to his cheek in response, which must be wet and salty from tears. Not that Hob seemed to care about it. “I had to show him that someone does care about you, alright? That we won’t stand for homophobic bullshit, on or off the pitch.”

It shouldn’t have made warmth grow in Morpheus’ chest to hear Hob would fight to protect him, to prove his care and acceptance of him. But it was the first time someone stood up for him, and he couldn’t help but feel touched by such a display of love. He didn’t feel worth that effort and sacrifice, but couldn’t help craving it anyway. 

Of course, he said none of it. But Morpheus hoped Hob could feel it in the hug he pulled him into. “Idiot.”

His friend hummed and hugged back, not denying it, and Morpheus couldn’t help but giggle into his chest, the adrenaline of the situation coming down on him all at once. 

“Let’s get out of here?” Hob whispered after a while, and Morpheus frowned. 

“But the match isn’t over?”

“Well, I received a red for punching that douchebag, so it is for me.” Morpheus scoffed, and Hob only laughed at him for it. “And while you could totally continue here, we could also go home and finish watching Lord of the Rings.”

“You’re a tempting man, Hob Gadling.” 

A wink, eyebrow waggle and eye-roll later, Hob put his jersey back on and helped Morpheus up to his feet, from where he could make out the rest of the team standing around them. They stood in a half circle, shielding them from the other players, the cameras. Standing to protect them. Well, everyone but Cori, who was wearing Hob’s captain’s armband and standing above the guy that had attacked Morpheus, talking to the referee. The defender really did look worse than Hob, right eye swollen and nose at an awkward angle, most definitely broken. 

There was some satisfaction in seeing him writhe in pain as a medic pressed antiseptics to his face. 

But there was no time to relish it, as their movement was noticed by the team and suddenly Morpheus was enveloped in a group hug, the now familiar feeling of hands clapping his back and grabbing his shoulders grounding him like few other things could. None of the men judged him for who he was, none of them cared, and they proved it by hugging and touching him without fear, in front of everyone. The Riggers had never stood up for him, had never touched him, and had laughed at the idea of offering protection. 

The Fiddlers were nothing like them. They were a family. 

Perhaps he would heal one day, with their help. 

[samsalami66]

Catching Up With The Past

Look at this, another part for the soccer au!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

“Boys? Could I have a word with you?” 

The two heads of the men present turned towards Gilbert as he stuck his head into the locker rooms, pausing their conversation to listen to him.

“‘Course, what do you need, coach?” The shorter of them answered then, gesturing for him to come in and sit with them. He did so, grateful for the chance to rest his bad knee. Curiosity shone in the men’s eyes as they waited for him to state his business, their expressions open and unafraid. 

“I have received a request for a transfer to our team. And I wish to discuss it with you both first, before I make any kind of decision.”

“Just us? Why not the whole team?” A frown creased the face of the taller man, confusion clear in his gaze. He had always been a perceptive one, and Gilbert couldn’t help but smile at him. 

“Because this matter concerns you two in ways it does not concern the others.” Confusion only seemed to grow between them at his words. “The transfer request comes from Morpheus Ateleios. Given your… history with him, I ought to first ask you for your opinion on this.”

The men blinked at him for a long moment, too stunned to formulate a response. 

The shorter man caught himself first and began to pace the room as he answered, his hands gesturing wildly, as they so often did when he was either nervous or excited. 

“Morpheus Ateleios asked to be transferred to our team? Offence player for the Riggers. The guy I gave a black eye last season.” Gilbert nodded, having had similar thoughts when he had woken up to this particular email. “But why? He hates our guts.”

“I truly don’t know, son. It came as a surprise to me as well, after all there had been no talk about a planned transfer. All I can say is that he wrote to me the very day after Roderick’s sudden death.”

“Sounds to me like he’s running.” The other man finally spoke up, his face one of mixed emotion. Anger, fear, tentative hope, all so easily read from his set jaw and the light brightening in his eyes. 

“Those were my thoughts as well. And you know I am not one inclined to turn away those who are in search of shelter. That being said, my responsibility lies with you boys, first and foremost. So, what do you think?”

The smaller man was the first to speak up, his pacing coming to an end right in the middle of the room. 

“There has to be a reason why he wants to be transferred to our team, of all the teams out there. I say we do it.”

Gilbert nodded, having expected this sort of answer from his player. “You will make sure to keep your affections in check, I assume?”

A blush spread over his face and to the tip of his ears, but he inclined his head in agreement nonetheless. “Yes, of course. You have my word on that.”

“Very well. What about you, son?” 

The other man sighed, but eventually nodded as well. “Fine. But I can’t promise he will be happy to see me.”

“Well, good thing then we will only have to worry about that when you’re back at the end of next season, right?”

- - - 

Hob seemed to be nervous today. 

He was pacing, up and down the living room, gesturing even more animatedly than usual while telling Morpheus about the ending of the movie they had watched the evening before, which he might have missed by matter of falling asleep halfway through. 

For a few minutes, Morpheus simply observed his friend, trying and failing to figure out what the reason for his nervousness could be. But there was nothing unusual about today or even next week, only Drink Night and training and another match at the end of the week. Nothing that would usually cause him to worry. 

“Hob?” he called out, a hint of the confusion he was feeling making its way into his voice. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

His friend immediately stopped in his tracks, hands falling uselessly to his sides. 

“I was pacing again, wasn’t I?” he sighed. 

“You were,” Morpheus stepped closer to Hob and let his head fall on his shoulder, knowing that touch was one of the things that brought Hob the most comfort in these moments. Almost instantly his friend started to deflate, one of his hands coming up to run through Morpheus’ hair, and he allowed it for a few minutes without saying a word, hoping that Hob would begin talking of his own accord. When it became clear that he wouldn’t do so, Morpheus turned his head to look at him, the angle giving him a clear view of Hob’s profile. 

“What’s wrong, Kollitós? If you tell me, we can find a way to fix it.” 

He was mirroring Hob’s words from a few months ago, and from the small huff that left his lips it didn’t go unnoticed.

“‘Kollitós’? That’s a new one. What does it mean?” Hob deflected, which was rather unusual for him. Morpheus pretended he didn’t notice and placed a hand on Hob’s chest, right over his heart. 

“Best Friend,” It was a simple answer, a word Morpheus had been thinking about for a long time now. There had never been someone like Hob in his life, someone he trusted so completely and who brought out the best in him. He was, on all accounts, the best friend Morpheus had ever had. But, perhaps, it was not a notion the two of them shared. After all, Hob was a much more sociable person, he had plenty of friends, many of whom he had known for the better part of his life, much longer than he knew Morpheus. “You don’t have to… to feel the same way about me, of course. But I wished for you to know.”

Morpheus did not quite manage to finish his sentence before he was pulled into a crushing hug, Hob’s arms squeezing his ribs so hard he struggled to breathe, but he couldn’t help the chuckle escaping him at his friend’s enthusiasm. 

“What do you mean, I do not have to feel the same? Are you crazy, of course I do!” A kiss was pressed to Morpheus’ cheek, and he felt the spot growing warm under Hob’s gaze. 

“I am glad, then,” He whispered in response, and cuddled up closer to his friend. “I guess you don’t want to talk about what’s stressing you out?”

Hob placed another kiss on his cheek before letting him go, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m sorry, lovey. Trust me that it’s nothing bad?”

Another sigh, but Morpheus nodded. “Alright. You know I trust you.” 

- - - 

Two hours and three glasses of wine later, Morpheus sat in the midst of his team, laughing over a story Matthew told, when the door to The New Inn opened behind him. Usually he would have barely noticed, after all guests came and went like clockwork at a place like this, but the way all heads at the table suddenly turned towards the door meant this wasn’t just another guest. But who could possibly cause them all to perch up like this, to smile and cheer and wave like they had never been happier to see someone?

“Olethros?” Morpheus whispered as he turned around, the name of his baby brother feeling so foreign and yet so familiar on his tongue. 

“Hello, Oneiros.”

It had been years since he last heard that nickname, a decade at least. 

The last time Morpheus had heard it was on the day of Delilah's funeral. It had also been the day Olethros ran from their home, after their parents had tried to pretend her death had been of natural causes, an accident, a simple fall down the stairs where she had broken her neck instead of the real tragedy it had been. 

The last time Morpheus had heard that nickname, his brother had been in shambles, looking more like a haunted man than the child he had still been. He had been too skinny, much like Morpheus himself had been, struggling to eat and sleep and live with the knowledge their sister had taken her own life. 

But Olethros had blamed himself for her death, for he had believed that he had been supposed to protect her and that he had failed. 

It had destroyed him. 

Now, there was a smile on his brother’s face, and a child in his arms. A little girl, no older than a year, with a shock of red hair and a smile that rivalled that of her father’s. Because there was no doubt about it, this ray of sunshine could hardly be anyone else’s. And Olethros looked… good. Happy. Settled. All the things he never had back home, especially during those past weeks, and also never had when they had seen each other on the pitch. Or perhaps he had, and Morpheus had simply been so blinded by anger and judgement and fear that he hadn’t seen. 

He couldn’t remember why he had ever ignored his brother on the field, now, why he hadn’t tried to reconcile, to find out how he had fared. 

So much lost time. So many lost chances. 

But what if his brother was angry with him for all those years he had pretended that he did not care for his presence? What if he took offence to Morpheus joining his team, saw it as betrayal for someone of the family he left behind to infiltrate his new life? 

What if he didn’t want to have Morpheus here? Would they make him leave? Would they favour their long-time friend and teammate over him, if Olethros wished for it? 

“I… I thought you left the team. You hadn’t played in- in months, I- I-,” Morpheus knew that he was beginning to breathe too quickly, that his thoughts were spiralling, the tell-tale signs of a meltdown dancing just at the edge of his vision. He had never asked about his brother, not once since joining the team. He was an awful older brother, caring so little for his own family, for the person who had introduced him to the sport which had since taken over his life.

God, he still remembered afternoons spent on the clearing behind the estate, a goal marked by stones and a ball stolen from their neighbours the only equipment they had. They would train for hours, sometimes deep into the night, every minute spent laughing with a carefreeness they had never felt at home. 

But then, Olethros had simply… gone. No goodbye, not even a note or letter. 

The first time he had seen him again was in his first year playing for Fawney Rig, where his brother had parried every single one of his shots on the Fiddlers goal. 

In all the years afterward, in all the games they played against each other, they had not exchanged a single word. 

And now, there was just one thing Morpheus wanted to say to his brother, something he should have said years ago but hadn’t out of stubbornness and unfounded anger. 

“I missed you, little brother.” His words caught on a sob as he stood and threw himself into Olethros’ arms, caring not for his tears, but only that his brother knew. And Olethros hugged him back with his free arm, holding him close in a way that sent Morpheus right back to his childhood, to nights huddled together in a blanket fort when their parents had been fighting. His little brother shouldn’t have had to take care of them all, protect them each time their parents’ fury had turned against them, but he always had, until that fateful day. 

Morpheus understood now that his brother had done the right thing, to leave and protect himself for once in his life and find people who would help him. 

“And I you, Oneiros,” Hearing the words spoken aloud lifted a weight from Morpheus’ shoulders that he hadn’t known he’d been carrying, the relief of it forcing more tears down his cheeks. “And I’m sorry, my brother.”

Morpheus had to blink at the words for a moment, not sure what they were supposed to mean. 

“What for?”

His brother sighed and took a step back from him so they could make eye-contact, his free hand moving from his back to his shoulder, squeezing once. 

“I am sorry for not noticing sooner that you needed help.”

For a moment, everything stood still. 

Olethros knew about Roderick. But he hadn’t been with the team for months, certainly not since Morpheus had joined them, and there were few people even here who he had told all of it. 

Actually, there was just one. 

And suddenly, a lot of things came into perspective. 

“One moment,” he said to his brother before turning around to Hob, who was currently hiding behind Cori and peeking slightly over his shoulder. “That was why you were so nervous today? Because you were… conspiring to reconnect me with my brother?” 

His best friend winced at that, as if the very idea of conspiring against him in any way physically hurt him, and Morpheus was almost inclined to believe that was the case with how much time Hob had spent pacing his living room this evening. At least it had been quite painful to watch. 

“It was rather intended as a risky surprise, I’d say! After all I knew from Olly how close the two of you have been back then and how much he wanted to finally reconcile with you and when I figured out why you have been ignoring him for all those years I couldn’t have simply not told him and I guess I just… I just wanted you two to get along again. I’m sorry, Dream.” Hob deflated a little after his nervous rant, the expression on his face so genuinely troubled Morpheus just wanted to pull him into a hug. 

“You are an idiot, Kollitós.” he answered instead, his voice soft, and Hob immediately perked up upon hearing the nickname, a smile spreading over his lips. 

“Your idiot?”

Morpheus hummed in agreement and turned back around to his brother, who looked amused at their banter, the smile on his lips matching Hob’s. 

“Hobert told me that the two of you have grown close, but I’ll admit that it’s slightly perplexing to witness myself.” 

Morpheus tried and failed to keep from snorting at the ridiculousness of Hobert, somehow an even worse nickname than Hob was on its own, but nothing could have prepared him for Cori’s answering whine behind him. 

“Be glad you missed these past months, Lily, they’re absolutely disgusting together.”

Lily. Morpheus couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him, completely unhindered, at the sheer stupidity of his friends. How in the world they kept coming up with these names was beyond him. 

Though, perhaps, at least Dream made a little more sense if Olethros had continued calling him Oneiros over the years. Lily, on the other hand, was just a ridiculous nickname for his brother. After all, Olethros had never been particularly feminine. 

Not like him. 

And while Morpheus’ thoughts were on femininity, he realised that he had completely forgotten to address the metaphorical elephant in the room. 

“What’s her name?”

Olethros raised an eyebrow in question at the sudden change of topic, and Morpheus couldn’t help but roll his eyes. Surely it was quite obvious who he was talking about.

“My niece, brother. What is her name?”

A hand reached for his from behind him then, warm and familiar, with callouses and scars he could tell by heart. Morpheus was not quite sure why Hob felt the need to do so now, but he would never refuse one of his friend’s offers of comfort. 

“We call her Lily, too,” Olethros began, and his voice wavered slightly. “But her name is Delilah.” Suddenly, Hob’s hand in his made a lot of sense, and Morpheus was immensely thankful for it.  “We wanted to keep her memory alive, even if our parents tried their hardest to achieve the opposite. Del deserves to be remembered.”

Morpheus nodded as tears gathered in his eyes, the emotions of having a piece of his baby sister again after all those years, even if it was just an old name on a new person, threatening to overwhelm him. But there was Hob’s hand in his, grounding him,  and there were years of grief and months of therapy behind him, reminding him that those emotions did not have to overtake him. 

And so he took a deep breath, allowed the waves of grief tearing at his heart to lap at him for a moment, but then let them go again, just like the sea let go of the beach after a moments’ embrace. 

Then he smiled up at his brother, letting go of Hob’s hand, and held out his arm towards little Lily. 

“Come on, let me hold my niece. And sit down, I’m sure we can squeeze you in next to John…”

[samsalami66]

Ball is Life

ITS TIME. First part of the soccer au is done.

Read on ao3!

Hob gasped some desperate breaths between the cool water hitting his face, which was burning hot from the past forty-five minutes he had spent on the pitch. The board showed a draw, one to one, and the game was not going quite as they had hoped for. Fawney’s defence was supposed to crumble a lot quicker under their relentless attacks, but so far their defenders were doing a fantastic job of forcing Dream and him out of position, making it almost impossible to get a good flank towards Dream or vice versa. None of their direct attacks had worked so far, and no free-kick had found its way into Fawney’s goal.

What they really needed right now was a corner. Hob was well known for his headers, his jumping height rivalled by few others in the world, while no one else knew how to prepare a shot for him quite like Dream did. 

When Hob managed to blink through the water in his eyes, he saw Dream staring at him from halfway across the field. Their eyes found each other easily, as they always did during a game. There was something about Dream that made Hob aware of his presence, his piercing blue eyes on him. (That something might just be the crush he had developed for his teammate and best friend of two years, but Hob was nothing if not a master of ignorance. They were friends, and only that, at least as long as Dream didn’t say otherwise. If that ever changed, well. Hob would gladly give his friend whatever he asked for.) 

Once their gazes locked, both of them knew what their next attack would be after the break. Force a corner, abuse Hob’s superior jump-height and finally get that lead against the Riggers. Dream nodded, once, and let his head fall slightly to the right. Right side corner. 

With a last gulp of water, Hob made his way back to his position on the field, waiting for the ref to announce the start of the second half. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, louder than the fans cheering them on from the sidelines, but not louder than the sound of the whistle cutting through the air.

They didn’t immediately get their chance. The Riggers were attacking with renewed energy, a fresh player in their offence wearing down Ken and Cori by the minute. 

But then, in the fifty-first minute, Matthew managed to get the ball from one of the mid-fielder’s, quickly passing it to John, while Dream and Hob were making a run for the penalty area. A glance back showed that the ball was already being passed to them, a high shot from just behind the halfway line. Hob accepted it with his chest, then swiftly turned to dribble it towards the goal. One of their defenders tried to block him, but Hob, instead of trying to get past him and towards the goal, simply shot the ball against his shin and thereby got a right corner for the Fiddlers. 

Part one of the plan was successful.

Hob threw a grin and a wink into the direction of the defender, Alex Burgess, who only stared back at him with a frown. There was no time to analyse that look any further though, as Dream was already jogging towards the corner point and preparing his shot. His friend’s eyes were on the goal, not on any of the players, but Hob knew all too well where Dream would be shooting. They had done this a thousand times in training, knew each other’s passes better than anyone else's. 

When the whistle once again cut through the air, Hob ran from his spot behind Burgess, thereby successfully freeing himself for a header. He jumped, just as the ball came in from above, and with a final push the ball soared for the goal, the angle impossible to stop for the goalkeeper. But just as his feet were about to touch back on the ground pain shot through his head from the right side, the surprise making him miss his landing and hit the ground with a pained groan. His vision was turning and twisting worryingly as he tried to blink through the black coming in from all sides. 

Fans and players alike were shouting around him, most of them in ecstasy, some in anger. Hob was not entirely sure where the shouts were coming from; from above, beneath or before him, but they were so loud. Sure as hell wasn’t a good sign, especially not with the nausea now overtaking his senses. 

He pressed his teeth together against the feeling and tried blinking some more to stop the world from spinning before his eyes, just to see blue eyes staring down at him with obvious worry once he finally managed. The lighthearted grin he wanted to throw at his friend quickly turned into a grimace as his head began to pound at even the slightest of movements. 

“Hob,” He heard Dream’s low voice over the ever-present chorus of cheering fans, and it felt like a warm balm soothing his aching mind. “Hob, can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” His voice was little more than a groan, but Dream probably still understood him. Gods above, but his friend really was beautiful from this angle. All untameable black hair and marble skin and eyes like the endless skies above. Perhaps his best friend was not really a person at all, but rather a painting or statue, come to life. He was Greek after all, so maybe he had just escaped one of their museums one night and now they were missing their prettiest marble statue. He was named after a God, so perhaps it was one of the Sleep God’s depictions that he sprang from. 

“Do you know that you look like a Greek God?”

Well, fuck him, that was certainly one thing to say to your best friend. Thankfully, Dream merely raised an eyebrow at him, a smirk stretching over his lips. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, even if it's probably the concussion talking.”

It most certainly was not, but Dream didn’t have to know that. Probably better that way, Hob had different problems right then. 

“I think I might throw up.” 

That was apparently enough to force Dream into action, as he quickly raised a hand to call the medical team onto the field. The worry was back on his face, something that will never fail to make Hob’s heart ache. He remembered all too well, when Dream had still played for the Riggers, the looks of arrogance and indifference he had always faced Hob with on the field, the smug satisfaction when Hob had been fouled by one of their awful defenders. On more than one occasion Hob had had to leave the pitch, with injuries much worse than a simple concussion, and all Dream had done was smirk and feign disinterest. To now be granted his care and affection was more than Hob had ever imagined. 

The Dream he knew now was just so sweet. Hob would have never believed that beneath that exterior of arrogance and smugness Dream could be such a loveable and caring human being, and yet here he was, lying beneath his watchful gaze and knowing that his old rival would fight anyone who came too close to him. He felt safe when Dream was there, even if the man’s fists had once given him a black eye. 

Funny, how time could change people. 

“Don’t pass out on me, Robert.” Hob heard Dream’s voice above him, and he had to blink his eyes open again to look at his friend. He hadn’t even noticed that he had closed them. Or that the nausea was slowly settling back into something more bearable.

“I would never, dove.” he answered, but he could feel his words slur together and his eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. Blasted concussions.

“I will kill Alex the next chance I get.” 

A tired laugh escaped Hob at the murmured statement from his friend and he blindly reached to his side to pat Dream’s knee. He missed and ended up hitting his shin, but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“No murder on the pitch, love, we’ve talked about this.” There was no answer to that, but Hob could make out a scoff on Dream’s face which made him snort softly. “How about you win us this game and bring me some Gyros on your way back instead?” 

“You’re terrible, Kollitós.” His friend whispered, fondness clear in his voice.

They ignored the approaching medical team for a moment longer, sharing a long look before Hob would have to be carried off the field. There was fear in Dream’s eyes, almost invisible beneath his carefully crafted mask of indifference. Fear for Hob’s health, for one, but Hob knew that was not the full extent of it. Playing against his old club alone, facing his old teammates on his own, without Hob by his side. The possibility of failure, of losing this match which was so important to him, to disappoint their mates and their fans. 

Dream was always bloody terrified to disappoint. 

But Hob knew he would not. Didn’t even know if he could. Dream always delivered when it came down to it, his crippling anxiety spurring him on and on, way past any healthy limits. Sometimes Hob wondered what would happen the day Dream failed for once; if it might break the one thing his friend still had left for himself. 

If it came to that, Hob would be there to build him back up. To remind him that failure was not the end, and that it would never ruin Hob’s trust in him. 

Which in turn reminded Hob that he could place some well-earned trust in Dream’s hands right then and there. 

Dream’s eyes widened comically as Hob took off his own captain’s armband and wrapped it around his arm, patting it in a friendly manner. 

“Hob-”

“Shhh, love, trust me. This is your game.”

Dream looked about two seconds away from crying, his lower lashes shining ever so slightly in the afternoon sun. They weren’t sad tears, just emotional ones. Both of them were well aware of the message this was sending, allowing Dream to be the team’s captain for the first time in a match against his old club. A Fuck You, as clear as these assholes deserved. And Hob trusted him to show them up, to send them back home in pieces.

If anyone could do it, it was Dream.

Hob gave his arm a last squeeze as the medical team started blocking his view on his friend, preparing to move him onto a stretcher. It was the last Hob saw of Dream before he was carried off the pitch. But that was alright, because they would see each other again at the hospital, right after Dream kicked the Riggers’ asses. 

-

There was a knock on the door of Hob’s hospital room an astounding twenty minutes after the game had been supposed to end. Astounding, because the stadium was about twenty minutes away from the hospital. So either Dream had learned how to teleport, or he had skipped the dressing room completely in order to see him. 

Hob decided it would probably be best not to think too hard on that second option, lest his heart might actually skip out of his chest.

Instead, he called out for Dream to come in. 

And come in he did, sweaty and out of breath and shaking, excess adrenaline still pumping through his system. He was still dressed in his jersey, shorts and even football boots, confirming that he had indeed run from the pitch directly to the hospital, after playing a full ninety minute match… 

Gods above, but Hob really adored this man. 

In the blink of an eye Dream rushed across the room and threw himself into Hob’s arms, breathing hectic breaths into his neck and grasping the hospital gown between them like a lifeline. Hob was helpless to do anything but wrap this ridiculous man into the tightest hug he could possibly manage. Eventually, Dream’s heavy breaths turned into sobs and then into tiny sniffles, tears flowing freely in the safety of their embrace. Hob was so proud of his friend for allowing this, for trusting him enough to hold him in these moments when everything came crashing down. 

It had taken them a while to get to this point, for Dream to understand that his emotions were not a weakness, but an inherent part of him which could make him even stronger. He wasn’t the man he was despite of them, but because of them. 

Old Burgess had done a great job of convincing him of the opposite, and sometimes Hob wished he could still strangle the fucker for what he had put Dream through. 

Not that it mattered much, the man was already six feet under, exactly where he belonged. Still, it might bring Hob a small measure of comfort to kick the dead man’s body.

“You are thinking.” His friend murmured into his neck, voice hoarse from crying, successfully distracting Hob from his violent daydream. “What are you thinking about?”

“Disturbing the peace of the dead.” he murmured, simply, before placing a kiss into Dream’s sweaty hair. “Might even be worth the criminal charges.”

A pinch to his side had Hob yelping and Dream laughing into his neck, the awful grating sound of his best friend’s giggles filling Hob’s chest with indescribable warmth. There was nothing quite like hearing Dream laugh, really laugh, without fearing judgement. Just the thought that such a wonderful human being had been shamed for experiencing and expressing joy in his own unique way never failed to break Hob’s heart a little bit every time. How could anyone hate this laugh, when it was so precious, so sweet and innocent? 

Hob didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand the so-called fans the Riggers had, nor did he understand that bastard Roderick Burgess. 

And even if these people were in the past (or in Hell), Hob couldn’t help the anger he still felt on behalf of his best friend every time he remembered the way Dream had forced down his laugh, had apologised for delighting in a situation. 

Never again. 

Hob squeezed his friend tightly against his chest, closed his eyes to soak up the joy and warmth radiating off of him with appropriate greediness. Appropriate, because he didn’t just kiss this infuriatingly adorable man stupid, even if he really really wanted to. So actually, he was holding himself back here. Or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

A knock sounded from the door, which had Dream’s head shooting upwards in interest. Still, he didn’t move from where he was draped over Hob, much to the other man’s delight. Thank God he wasn’t hooked up to a heart monitor, else it might have made all his holding back utterly useless with how his heart was racing over this simple display of trust. Dream knew he was welcome, that his affection was welcome, even in the face of strangers. He knew Hob would protect him, and would stand by his side. Always. 

“Come in!” Hob called, voice breaking ever so slightly. If Dream noticed, he didn’t comment. 

The door opened, and in came, well, everyone. The entire team, lead on by Cori and John, filtered into the tiny hospital room, arms overflowing with take-away boxes that smelled of garlic, thyme and oregano and all the other spices Hob had come to associate with Greek cuisine, his favourite ever since Dream had stepped foot into his life. 

He let out a groan as the smell hit his nose, his stomach rumbling in interest. 

“I fucking love you guys, did I ever mention?”

“Once or twice,” John smirked, patting Hob’s shoulder where it poked out from beneath Dream. 

“You scared the shit out of us with your little stunt, Hobert.” Merv remarked from where he had already monopolised the single chair stood to the far side of the room. His tone was rough and grim as ever, but an edge of concern was lodged somewhere near his constant frown. Hob felt oddly touched. 

“Don’t you worry about me, old man, it needs way more than a little concussion to knock me out. After all, you would all terribly miss my voice if I stopped talking for a whole five minutes.”

Cori chuckled by Hob’s other side, sitting cross-legged on the floor and unpacking their food. “I’d be worried if anything ever managed to shut you up for more than a second, Robbie. I have a feeling not even knocking you out would be enough. Though who knows, perhaps it’s worth some consideration if we might have silence during training for once.”

Hob simply grinned at Cori, knowing full well that his mate loved to hear him talk the most out of all these people. On more than one occasion he had called Hob in the middle of the night to talk to him for some hours, saying it helped him with falling asleep after a hard day. Every jab was in good humour, and Hob delighted in Cori’s pout when he stretched a bit in order to ruffle his hair. 

From Hob’s other side, a comforting hand on his shoulder, Gilbert, their trainer, cleared his throat, catching their attention.

“Robert, in all seriousness, I request that you take at least two weeks off for your recovery. I do not wish to see you anywhere near our training facilities until then. A head injury is nothing to be trifled with, and I will not allow you to endanger your health any further on my watch. Once the doctors have given their okay after that we will see to get you back on the field.” 

Gilbert’s eyes were warm and caring, filled to the brim with the same softness he always held for this team and its players. They were his wards, and he the father figure a lot of them had been lacking before they came to Fiddler’s Green. He cared for them, in a position where not many other people would, and had thereby gained their respect, trust and loyalty. It was with that feeling in mind that Hob nodded, obediently, knowing Gilbert wanted the best for him. For all of them. 

“I was due a vacation anyways,” he quipped, which had the other men chuckling to themselves. They all bloody hated vacations, sitting still for days on end. But he would not be contrary to Gilbert. 

Instead he squeezed Dream once more, his weight on top of him calming in its consistency, and pressed a kiss into his hair, simply because he could. And, well, perhaps also because it made Dream nuzzle closer to him. 

This was where they belonged. 

He grabbed one of the boxes Cori had unpacked and smiled at his teammates. “Now, tell me how the rest of that game went guys, you know I hate being left in the dark.”

And if the rest of the day went down in cuddles, laughter and tales of dramatic plays then, well. Hob felt right at home. 

[samsalami66]

Last line tag thingy

Thank youuuuuu so much @embroiderling for the tag!

My last line was for the Dreamling soccer au most of the discord people know I'm working on at the moment!

“Don’t pass out on me, Robert.” He heard Dream’s voice above him, and he had to blink his eyes open again to look at his friend. He hadn’t even noticed that he had closed them.  “Ah, I would never.” he answered, but Hob could feel his own words slur together and his eyelids growing heavier with every second. Blasted concussions. “I will kill Alex the next chance I get.”  A tired laugh escaped Hob at the murmured statement from his friend and he blindly reached to his side to pat his knee. He hit his shin, but it’s the thought that counts.  “How about you win us this game and bring me some Tikka Masala on your way back instead?”  “You’re terrible.” Contrary to his words, Hob could hear a smile in Dream’s words, so he counted it as a win. “Do you want extra spice?” “You know me too well, dove.”

Tagging @bazzybelle @twainxavier @just-another-fantasy-simp and @sable-simp

Have fun guys! :))

[samsalami66]

I'm almost afraid to ask, but for the wip thing "A day with the Riggers" from the soccer au? 🥺

🤘five-and-dimes

Hey @five-and-dimes ! Thank you so much for the ask my friend, I'm excited to talk some more about soccer au here!

First off, yeah, the fear is probably justified XD!

It's basically going to be what the title says, a rather typical day with Dream still at the Riggers, Roderick still alive. A little hurt no comfort as the main dish.

After talking so much about all the after-effects Rod's 'training methods' had on Dream, I really felt the need to give a glimpse into just how bad it was to experience. There will also be some antagonistic tension between Alex and Dream going on as a setup for the World Cup fic...

The exact scenes aren't planned out yet, but I'm looking forward to coming up with some delicious hurt for this universe. :)))

Ask me about my WIPs!

[samsalami66]

Hullo!! Here's one from the I Will prompts for Dreamling please!!

"I will fall in love (with you)"

Easy as Breathing

Hey love! Thank you so much for the prompt (and I apologise that this took so long). Have a short but sweet addition to the soccer au, I hope you like it <33

Read here or on AO3!

Weekends have always been Morpheus’ favourite part of the week, although the reasons for it have changed drastically since he joined the Fiddlers. Whereas a bit more than a year ago he loved weekends for the fact that he would not have to deal with Roderick or Alex or any of his other teammates for two whole days, he now loves weekends for the time he can spend with his friends outside of training. Truth be told, almost all of his time is spent at Hob’s apartment on those days. While he loves all of his other team members, they are not Hob. 

Hob, his best friend, who is currently stirring a pot of Morpheus’ favourite soup while singing along to the musical they discovered together last month. The unsteadiness in his lyrics is made up with the enthusiasm in his voice. He sings like he does most things in his life: with emotion, heart, and dedication. His hips are swinging, wooden spoons are being misused as microphones, and Morpheus is pulled into spins and sways every moment Hob does not spend with a knife in his hands. 

Whenever he puts his head on Hob’s shoulder and lets him lead, he prays for it to never stop. He wishes to feel Hob’s powerful voice and laugh vibrating in his chest forever, to wake up to that bright smile and those caring eyes. Morpheus can't remember a single time he has felt so safe before finding the Fiddlers and Hob. Completely and utterly safe. If he were to fall, Hob would catch him, again and again, literally and metaphorically.

Every one of Morpheus’ bad days Hob meets with sympathy, a helping hand, a shoulder to rest on. He does not mind the tears and snot and cries of rage and frustration because Morpheus couldn't stand his racing heart and sleepless nights anymore. But no nightmare or panic attack or act of anger can scare Robert Gadling away. He's there, whenever Morpheus needs him. 

And Morpheus is learning to do the same. He pulls Hob's head into his lap when he notices his friend growing restless and frustrated, cards through the long strands of his hair and massages his scalp until all the tension bleeds out of him at once. When the tears come, so often for others, for the destinies of people who were not his to save, he lets Hob hide his face in his neck and cry until he is shaking with missed breaths. 

But Morpheus notices that over the past few months, it has become less. The crying, the nightmares. Roderick’s voice is a more distant presence now, undoubtedly there, but less overpowering than it had once been. Quieter. Never less angry. 

Hob, too, seems to get overpowered by his emotions less and less. These days he notices the tension in his shoulders and chest as much as Morpheus does, and does his best to breathe through it, to decompress by going for a run or talking the emotions out with Morpheus. 

“Bad with boundaries,” Hob had once told him, and Morpheus had frowned. In his eyes, Hob seems to be rather good at setting boundaries with assholes, but that hasn't felt like the right thing to say. “When I see people hurting, I want to help. But not everyone can be helped. Doesn't mean I stop trying.” 

Morpheus wondered for a while after that, if he could be one of those people who simply couldn't be helped. Every time he woke up screaming from a nightmare, he would apologise to Hob. Over and over, until Hob would take his face in hand and remind him of his progress. The fact that he is going to therapy, changing habits, getting better. 

Morpheus hadn't seen his progress, until that moment. The fact that Roderick’s voice and the nightmares and the panic attacks were still there was proof of the opposite in his eyes. But Hob pointed out they were getting less. Only twice that month did he wake up screaming. He was more focused, and didn't get lost so easily in the dead man's voice. Only one panic attack in six months. 

He smiled more, Hob said. 

Morpheus thought that wasn't entirely his own doing.

After all, Hob taught him how to smile again, with his awful puns and endless patience and ridiculously thoughtful gifts. Gerhard the Great sits between their pillows on Hob's double bed, which is slowly becoming their bed with how much time Morpheus spends sleeping in it. There's also his spot on the couch now, his mug in the cupboard, his part of the bookshelf and closet. At this point, Morpheus wonders if moving in with Hob wouldn't be easier. 

“Hob?” He asks, face pressed into his best friend's neck, his eyes closed. Hob hums in response, easy as breathing, and Morpheus feels no fear speaking his next words. “I think I'd like to live here. With you. If that's something you'd like too.” 

The arm around him tightens, and then the other hand Hob has been using to stir the soup comes to rest at the nape of his neck. 

“I'd love to have you here, Dream,” Hob murmurs, close to his ear, and Morpheus smiles. 

Easy as breathing. 

“I think,” he whispers, quietly enough that it only rings between their chests, between their hearts that are pressed together in their embrace. “I will fall in love with you, kollitós. One day.”

One day. When he will have healed enough to think of words as big as love.

“Can't wait for that day, lovey.” 

The words are quiet, soft, and they warm Morpheus down to his very core. 

He thinks he looks forward to that day as well. 

[samsalami66]

If you’re still doing this it took two seconds for me to get hooked on the soccer au 👀👀👀

🖋️🖋️🖋️

🤘five-and-dimes

I'm absolutely still doing these! I'm so glad the soccer au got to you Dime!!

Here you have a few paragraphs!

(First part of soccer au here!)

It was minutes later that the two of them entered the training facilities of Fiddler’s Green, Gadling chattering away at Morpheus’ side as if they were old friends. He talked about anything and everything, topics seemingly unrelated to one another, though somehow Morpheus managed to keep up with the jumps in his stories. How he went from a camping trip the team went on last month to how he went fishing with his father when he was younger, to the anatomy of grasshoppers they had presumably used for fishing and the physical differences between grasshoppers and crickets. 

It was weirdly familiar, so similar to how his own brain worked. Though he could never verbalise his thoughts like this, without overthinking every single word. Gadling didn’t particularly seem to care if he could keep up, just kept talking and gesturing as they walked. 

Send me a 🖋 and get a sentence or paragraph from my latest WIP!

[samsalami66]

Nawww that is adorable!!! You get a paragraph of soccer au, freshly cooked!!

(First part of soccer au here!)

There was just something about Gadling, something that set him off in the worst way possible. Morpheus wasn’t a pleasant person to be around, he’ll admit, but Gadling would stare at him with such distaste, it felt entirely unwarranted. Jessamy would say it was jealousy, because Morpheus was clearly the better player of the two of them. But who knew, perhaps the Fiddlers’ star player was simply a homophobic asshole, like so many others in this sport. Maybe Roderick had a point when he had said that nobody would want to play with him or share a locker room if they knew about him, about his fantasies.  

Send me a 🖋️ and I will answer with a new sentence (or paragraph) from my current WIP!

[samsalami66]

What is this lawsuit I see under the soccer au??😱

This lawsuit, dear anon, is probably going to be the end of my sanity XD.

Planned for this fic is a lawsuit against the Riggers, led on by Dream and Hob, for all the abuse he had to endure while playing for the team (both as a player in general and because of his sexuality). It will involve some media scandals and the team trying to convince other players to come forth and talk about their experience at the team, as well as general angsty scenes spent at the police or in court.

Problem being: I know exactly nothing of how such a lawsuit might go down, or about the steps involved, so it will take a lot of research and planning until I will get that part of the universe started. But it's probably going to be the plot-heaviest fic of them all and I'm really looking forward to figuring it out. Dream deserves some justice for what was done to him, and the Riggers need to be supervised or banned.

Thank you so much for the ask!

Come and ask me about my WIPs!

[samsalami66]

WIP ask game

I was tagged by the wonderful @five-and-dimes, thank you so much love!!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

I really have so very few WIPs I'm actively working on I'll just write down some of the in progress names of the ideas that are swirling around in my head!

Soccer au:

Destruction arc

A day with the Riggers

Lawsuit

Visiting the Dead

World Cup

Others:

Keep Your Friends Close (epic crossover)

Baldurs Gate crossover

Ehhhh Actually Writing Greece AU

Secret Service

Tagging whoever comes to my mind, sorry if you've been tagged already!

@kydrogendragon @bazzybelle @mid0khan @sable-simp @valeriianz

[samsalami66]

🖋️🖋️🖋️

Three pens, three (or four) sentences from soccer au!!

(First part of soccer au here!)

Today was the first day of a new era. A new age of football. The world of sports would remember this day.  The day Morpheus Ateleios, winner of the European Golden Shoe, first played for Fiddler’s Green, highest ranking football club in all of Europe. 

Send me a 🖋️ and you will receive a sentence from my current WIP!

[samsalami66]

Hi!

How are you?

🖋️

Hey there! I'm doing great, the interest in this au is making me very happy :)).

Have some sentences, freshly written!

(The first part of soccer au is here!)

“Right, Gilbert should be with the other guys. Do you want me to get him or come inside?” Considerate. Morpheus wished he didn’t have to go into this room. But there was no point if he was supposed to work and play with these men in the future. “I would come in, if you don’t mind.”

Send me a 🖋 and I'll answer with a sentence or paragraph from my latest WIP!

[delta-pavonis]

Fic: Runner (sequel to Keeper)

Read on AO3

Dreamling (Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling), football/soccer AU || Rated E || 7.1k words || complete-ish

Alternate Universe - Football, keeper!Dream, goalie!Dream, journalist!Hob, sports reporter!Hob, gratuitous references to Ted Lasso because I cannot fucking help myself, OH THE YEARNING, Morpheus POV, canon typical death of spouse, Morpheus/Jamie Tartt become fuckbuddies, D/s overtones, mention of Roy Kent/Jamie Tartt, oral sex, face fucking, come swallowing, shower sex, getting together, fluffy ending, they are still idiots for each other

[samsalami66]

Little repost because I forgot to add links to the other parts of this universe!

Part 1

Part 3

Red Card Plays

Another day, another dreamling soccer au fic! Have fun reading!

Read on ao3 here!

(TW: Homophobia, Abuse, Panic Attacks)

“You’re here early.” 

Morpheus didn’t look up at the sound of Hob’s voice, too used to it by now to be startled out of his warm-up. He took a deep breath so he might answer the unspoken question which Hob asked almost every time when he found him on the pitch way before training started.

“Yes I… I wanted to get some extra training in.” It was an easy lie, almost coming naturally with how many times he had already said it. “You are early as well.”

Hob nodded as he sat down next to him, mirroring his position. 

“Oh yeah, it makes Gilbert happy when I show up early from time to time, to straighten my bad track record.” 

This, too, was familiar. Finding pretty words in order not to outright name the punishment at hand, make light of the situation one found themselves in. It was only a matter of time until Morpheus would find himself subjected to the darker side the Fiddlers surely possessed, or be faced with it through one of the other players. 

Though he hoped it would not have to be Hob, when it came to it. Morpheus had rather started to enjoy the other man’s calming presence. 

“I understand. Say, what would Gilbert do if he was unhappy with a player’s performance?” Morpheus would want to know what to expect sooner rather than later, to get an understanding of what Gilbert’s chosen ways of training were. That way he might prepare accordingly. 

“What would he do?” Hob was frowning at him, his arms crossing over his chest. “You mean outside of talking to you?”

Now, Morpheus was frowning too. Surely Hob understood that he could talk about this freely. They were teammates now after all, and perhaps even on the way of becoming something like friends. “I mean… extra training, punishments, or whatever you call it here.”

The stare Hob gave him was bordering on worry. “Dream” he started, slowly. “What did Roderick do, when he was unhappy with your performance?”

Weird question, but alright.

“The usual?” When Hob just kept staring at him, Morpheus continued with a roll of his eyes. “Running until collapsing, no water for the day, sometimes he got out the cane.”

Hob’s stare turned dark at his words, his jaw tensed and he took a deep breath. 

“Burgess abused you?”

“What? No!” It was Morpheus’ turn to frown again. “No, those were just training methods, to keep us on track. How else would you ensure people keep up with it?”

“Enthusiasm? Loyalty? Adjusting the training to the players? Motivate them?”

“What motivates a player better than the fear of punishment?”

Morpheus was growing frustrated. There was no reason for Hob to be so stubborn about admitting to this. 

“Anything, Dream, literally anything else would be more motivating for a player. You left the Riggers the moment Burgess bit the dust, didn’t you?”

That. Well, that was true. But Morpheus hadn’t left the team because of that, it was just that he couldn’t stand to play there when Roderick was gone. His ghost had been everywhere, his voice constantly at the back of his mind, telling him he was doing it all wrong, that he was a burden for the team, that only he could make him worth something as a player. That was why he had left.

“Dream, love, I need you to listen to me. Can you do that?”

Of course he could, there was nothing wrong with him, after all. Any player Morpheus had ever talked to (which, admittedly, were just his old teammates. They hadn’t been allowed friendship or anything similar outside of their team) experienced the same treatment and knew about these training methods, accepted them as effective, even. So of course he could look at Hob. He could even hold his gaze, even if the worry in his teammate’s eyes made his stomach clench with a feeling he could not place. 

“Nobody is going to hurt you here. Nobody, Dream,” Hob’s eyes held a seriousness Morpheus simply couldn’t understand, that did not make sense. 

“But Roderick didn’t hurt me. He disciplined me, he, he motivated me and pushed me to be better, to be the best version of myself.”

His voice was loud. Morpheus did not remember raising it, nor did he know why tears were gathering in his eyes or why he felt the need to hug his knees to his chest like a toddler. He was not some child after all, and there was no reason for this. 

“Oh, love,” It was so soft, so filled with care, and Morpheus felt the tears spill over. Arms wrapped around him, pulled him close, so that all he could feel was Hob’s warmth surrounding him as he cried. Though what for, he still wasn’t sure. 

- - - 

“How are we feeling?” 

We. It implied a shared feeling, as if emotions could be experienced conjointly. Perhaps Hob Gadling really did share worry, fear and joy with those around him. Empathetic, in a way Morpheus failed to fully understand. 

He was grateful for it now. 

Now, they were sitting, together, in Hob’s car, waiting for him to be ready to step outside and begin therapy. He was not alone. Hob was here, with him. Holding his hand. Patient, caring. Morpheus was not sure that he deserved this care, this love. Which, perhaps, was one of the reasons he was sitting here. Or at least Hob had informed him that such thoughts were deemed ‘unhealthy’. 

Morpheus could not remember a time where he had felt worthy of love. Or a time where he had been loved, the way Hob explained love was supposed to be. Unconditional. 

There had always been conditions. His mother had loved him when he did her bidding, his father when he kept quiet. Epithumia had loved him when he left their home. 

Hob said he loved Morpheus for himself, for his friendship and his character. Morpheus did not quite believe him, but perhaps he would, in time. 

So, how was he feeling?

“I am. Afraid. Of talking to this person. But I also wish to. To learn. I wish to become a better friend.” 

It was what they were, now. Friends. A baffling concept to Morpheus, that a person so caring could expand their care to him of all people. But he did. And Morpheus was thankful for it. 

Hob grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly, the action grounding him.

“Being afraid of this is the most natural thing, love. I was so nauseous the first time I came here I almost turned around and went back home.” It didn’t sound like a bad idea at all, and Morpheus said so. Hob squeezed his hand again with a soft smile. “If you really don’t want to go, we can turn around and reschedule. We will do this in your time, however long it takes.”

“You would leave, now? When we are already here? When all I have to do is step out of your car and into the building?” It would be an inconvenience. It would mean doing it all over again, driving into the city and spending hours in his presence. Things nobody would want to do, not voluntarily. 

“Of course I would, Dream. These things can’t be rushed. If you aren’t ready, it doesn’t need to happen today.”

Morpheus nodded, once, before taking a deep breath. Hob was not like the people he had known so far. He knew this. 

“You will be here?”

“Awaiting your return, my friend.”

Another deep breath, another nod, and Morpheus pushed the door of the car open and made his way inside, knowing that Hob would be there. Just like he promised. 

- - - 

An hour later, almost on the dot, Morpheus stepped back out of the building, feeling like a single touch might break him apart. Hob had tried to warn him that there would be a lot of feelings he wouldn’t understand, and wouldn't be able to place. Never had Morpheus felt so out of his depth, like his skin didn’t fit quite right anymore and his mind was not his own. 

But that was alright. Because Hob was there. Waiting, just as he had promised. Even if Morpheus didn’t feel like he knew himself anymore, Hob was waiting, patient, just like he always was.

Morpheus wanted to hug him, to be held, so he wouldn’t feel like he might shatter apart anymore. But at the same time touch felt impossible, the very idea made his skin crawl like a hundred ants were trapped in his veins. He wasn’t sure what to do about it, so he did not do anything, except open the passenger side to Hob’s car. 

And there, on his seat, was a… a toy. A plushie. A fox-plushie, to be exact, large red ears with black tips, a very fluffy tail and black button eyes. It was… cute. It looked like something his younger self would have loved to own, something he would have paraded around as his favourite possession.  

“A little surprise, for being brave enough to walk in there,” said Hob, his voice soft as he leaned towards the other seat so Morpheus could see him. He was smiling, pride clear in his eyes, and Morpheus could feel himself blush. It had been a long time since someone had last told him they were proud of him, longer still since he had been given a gift for doing something right. He must have been silent for a moment too long, missing the time it was socially acceptable to answer, because Hob was looking at him apologetically and reached for the plushie. “Sorry, I thought it was a good idea, but it’s childish, really, you don’t have to-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Morpheus snatched the fox away from him and held it close to his chest, suddenly protective over the toy. 

“A gift from my only friend could never be childish, Robert.” Morpheus huffed, his eyes narrowed playfully at the other man. Teasing was still unfamiliar to him, but he believed himself to be finally getting the hang of it. “Also, don’t disrespect Gerhard the Great like that. He detests being called a children’s toy.”

His teasing must have worked, as Hob barked out a laugh at the name he had given the fox, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I wouldn’t dare! Gerhard the Great deserves all the respect I can offer. As do you, my friend.”

When Hob said ‘friend’, it sounded like a lot of things. ‘My king’, ‘My Lord’, ‘My Love’. It was never just one thing. Friend, for this man, meant everything. Morpheus doubted that Hob would stop calling his partner his friend, or that he could ever have a partner who was not also his friend. It was a weird thing to know so early on in their acquaintance, but Hob was an open book about these things. 

Hob’s openness calmed Morpheus, made it easy to trust him. And so far, his trust had only been well-placed. The fox in his arms was just another reminder of the great man Hob Gadling was. He wouldn’t judge or harm him. The only thing Hob knew to do was to care and protect. 

He had cared enough to know Morpheus would feel difficult about touch. And he had cared enough to think further, to find a solution Morpheus would have never thought of himself. 

And so, Morpheus slid easily into the passenger seat, with Gerhard the Great resting safely on his lap and one hand playing with his ears. 

“Could I tell you what I talked about with Lydia, in the past hour?”

“Of course! Whatever you want to talk about, my friend, I’m happy to listen.”

- - - 

Autism and ADHD had not been the diagnoses Morpheus had expected to get first, considering all the problems he had come to realise he had. But, as it was, Lydia had handed him books on both topics only about a month after he started therapy, and the more he read about the disorders, the more he began to see why they hadn’t been particularly hard diagnoses to make. Perhaps the fact that he was never able to stop playing around with the tissue boxes that were strategically placed around the room had been a sign. Or that he had to cover his ears from the sound of the fan and had been seconds away from what Lydia had called a ‘meltdown’, because the sound had felt like someone was scraping his brain with sandpaper. 

Perhaps, if Morpheus had had access to these books earlier, he would have noticed that he was different a lot sooner. He understood now that arguments with his old teammates had often sprouted from misunderstandings and an inability on his side to communicate his problems. Though they hadn’t been the best human beings either, so they probably wouldn’t have listened to him about his problems anyway. 

But Lydia said that he would have to try it with the Fiddlers in order to know if they were the same. Morpheus didn’t know why anyone would want to accommodate his problems, especially when he could simply push through them and pretend nothing was wrong, like he had done his whole life. Unhealthy, Lydia would chide him. He began to understand where Hob got that word from. 

He, too, said a similar thing after all, when Morpheus told him about that week’s session. It’s unhealthy to go about your whole life masking, he had said. Morpheus hadn’t known what ‘masking’ was supposed to be at that point, but he had nodded along like he understood. Whenever something is making you feel uncomfortable, just tell us, yeah? Promise we will try to help. And that had been it. 

Honestly, Hob hadn’t seemed particularly surprised about the diagnoses either. Perhaps Morpheus hadn’t been doing as well at hiding his problems as he had previously thought. 

But even with Hob’s reassurance and the fact that nothing between them or the team seemed to change after the diagnoses, it still took Morpheus another month to voice a matter of discomfort to them. Old habits die hard, after all. 

It was a Saturday and the team was getting ready for Drink Night, as was customary for them. Morpheus had been staying at Hob’s place, as he often did these days. They would watch movies or prepare dinner together on Friday nights. It was a comfortable routine, especially when Drink Night was always held at the New Inn and they simply had to walk down a flight of stairs to get there. They had their corner booth reserved every week, the bartender and waiters knew them all by name and were close friends of Hob’s, who was also the owner of the pub. If it ever became too crowded or loud for him, Morpheus would simply excuse himself to Hob’s flat. 

It was a comfortable routine. One Morpheus was not very inclined to break. 

But this Saturday, the team wanted to celebrate the opening of a new place around town. It was so new, there were no reviews or pictures online. No menu. It would be on the other side of London, far away from any of their homes, and they might have to stand in a queue in order to get in, if they would even get in all together. 

Morpheus was… slightly uncomfortable at the idea. 

“You look like your spine might snap with how tense you are.” Well, perhaps it was more than slight discomfort. Or Hob was simply getting too perceptive. Either way, he has been called out and was not feeling particularly great about it. 

“I’m fine.” He tried to deflect, but Hob was having none of it. His hands came up to massage Morpheus’ shoulders, turning him into jelly with his strong fingers digging into Morpheus’ tense muscles. 

“I can see that you’re not. Tell me what’s up so we can find a way to fix it.” 

Hob made it sound so easy. As if Morpheus just had to say the word and he would make it happen, no matter what the request was. Perhaps he would. 

Morpheus realised he wanted to find out. 

“I do not wish to go to another pub today.” He answered quietly, eyes closed and focusing on Hob’s touch, grounding him. “I fear getting… overstimulated by the surroundings and unknown parameters and not having a place to withdraw to. And I… I enjoy spending time at The New Inn.” It was a slow explanation, halting and awkward, for Morpheus was still unused to voicing his feelings in this manner. But it was easier with Hob at his back, and the knowledge that he would never be judged by this man. When he finished his explanation, the hands on his shoulders disappeared so that arms could circle around his waist and pull him into a hug. Hob was warm and solid behind him, and Morpheus felt safe like this, safe to voice any and all of his concerns. 

“Thank you for telling me, Dream. I’m so proud of you.” Warmth he wasn’t quite certain he deserved to feel swelled in Morpheus’ chest at the words, at the knowledge of having made his friend proud. “Let’s text the others to meet us here instead, yeah?”

Telling the other team members felt scarier than telling Hob, but Morpheus thought he could do anything with Hob holding him close like this. 

“Very well.” He murmured, and Hob’s arms left his body in search of his phone. Morpheus knew it was in the bathroom, where Hob had been shaving a few minutes prior and upon telling him so, he received a kiss to the cheek from his friend. 

“What would I do without you?”

It was a good question, though Morpheus felt he should be the one asking it. He answered nonetheless, but really it was more for himself than Hob. 

“I don’t know, Hob. I don’t know what I would do.”

- - - 

As the beginning of the season approached, Morpheus began to talk more with Lydia about how this time was different from how it had been at Fawney Rig. 

The overall mood of the Fiddlers did not change much as the first match drew nearer. They were growing excited, more active at training, but not really stressed or anxious. The daily talks with Gilbert seemed to help them a lot, hearing that he believed in them to play a fantastic season and could see they were coming together well as a team. 

In contrast to that, Morpheus remembered nothing but fear around the same time last year. The Riggers had been agitated, frightened of the threats Roderick would throw their way the moment he laid eyes on them. They had known that a lost match would mean punishment, that they would have to double their efforts in training and halve their hours of sleep for the weeks to come in order to placate their coach. And even then, they would get the cane. 

Apparently, a safer environment did not immediately erase years of abuse (and wasn’t it a weird thing to finally accept Roderick’s behaviour for what it had been). 

But it helped, to be able to talk about his fears with Lydia, and, later, with Hob. They had even convinced him to talk to Gilbert about it, who had pulled him into a tight hug after his explanation. On all accounts, the team and Lydia were doing their absolute best to reassure Morpheus that failure was alright and that it would not end in punishment or disappointment. Nobody would think less of him if they lost. 

And yet, when the first match approached, Morpheus found himself pacing the locker rooms, his hands shaking and mind racing. He couldn’t lose this match. It was not only the first of the season, but his first as a player for the Fiddlers, his first chance to prove himself as valuable to the team. 

What would happen if he fucked this up? What would the others think of him if he couldn’t manage to win their first game? Would Gilbert think his trust had been misplaced? That he hadn’t been worth the money of the transfer? 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice called, and unlike usual, it brought forth fear instead of warmth (which only made Morpheus feel worse, for Hob did not deserve to be feared). “Are you coming? We’re about to go on the pitch.”

He wanted to say no, that he was about to throw up or scream or pull out his own hair with how afraid he was. But there was no time left, the point of saying something long past, and so Morpheus simply nodded and followed his friend. 

Hob was perceptive as always, throwing him worried glances as they stood in line in front of the stairs to the pitch. The others were talking animatedly to the opposing team, cracking jokes and wishing them luck, but Morpheus couldn’t help but keep to himself and hide slightly behind Hob from the cameras. The public didn’t need to see just how nervous he was. Thankfully, Hob picked up on it quickly and moved to fully shield him from their view, taking one of his hands into his own and squeezing it tightly. 

“You will do just fine, Dream. I know you will.” It was a whisper, only meant for Morpheus’ ears. 

“What if I don’t?”

“Then you have given your best and will try again next time.”

Morpheus huffed, disbelieving. “I do not believe that that would be the end of it.” 

It looked like Hob was about to respond, but he was interrupted by the announcement that the players would now enter the pitch. The time for talking was over. 

For the most part, the match went alright. Hob shot an early goal, grinning wide as the crowd erupted into cheers. He bowed and threw them kisses, as was his custom, and Morpheus now understood that there was no arrogance behind that celebration, but genuine love and adoration for his fans. He had never understood it, because the Riggers’ fans had been similarly horrible to the players. They had always hated him, but it got worse after Roderick told the world about his sexuality. After that he would have food and sometimes flares thrown at him from the stands, booing from the crowd whenever he shot a goal. Morpheus couldn’t remember a single time fans cheered for him. 

Perhaps if he proved himself with the Fiddlers, the fans would start tolerating him, cheering for him. 

But for that, Morpheus had to score. 

He tried everything, every single trick up his sleeve, but the ball never found its goal. The goalkeeper was good, too good, and with every goal Morpheus failed to score his desperation grew. This was not how it usually went. He was better than this, he was so much better. But it seemed like he wasn’t good enough to win them this match. 

Ten minutes before the end, the opposing team scored the equaliser. 

Five minutes later and they were leading. 

There was nothing Morpheus could do anymore. His last shot went sailing over the goal, a pathetic attempt overall. And then it was over. The referee announced the end of the match, and everything came crashing down. 

He was breathing too quickly, too shallow. They lost. The first game of the season, his first game for the team, and they lost. 

“Dream?” Hob’s voice was close, and so soft, but Morpheus couldn’t help flinching at the sound of it. Surely not even Hob was a good enough man to look past his miserable performance today, he would be angry or disappointed, would blame him and- and punish him- “Dream, love, please look at me. Everything will be alright, just look at me, yeah?”

He couldn’t ignore Hob. Not even when he was afraid the other man would hurt him could he deny him a request, and so he lifted his eyes to look at his friend (and in this moment, friend meant so many things. It meant ‘knight’ and ‘protector’ and ‘sun’ and ‘hope’. It meant everything). 

Hob looked sad. Worried. Morpheus wanted to take him into his arms, hold him close, but before he could say so, Hob had already pulled him in. He was too warm and smelled of sweat, but it was still Hob’s smell, Hob’s warmth, and so it was nothing but comfort to Morpheus. 

“It’s okay, love. It’s okay that we lost.” There was no stopping the tears once they started, the fear and stress crashing down on him with Hob’s words, spoken even in the face of their loss. “You did so well. I’m proud of you, okay?” 

Morpheus didn’t understand how Hob could say these things when he had every reason to be mad at him, but he was grateful for it. Even if the rest of the team didn’t react as well as him, Morpheus felt like he would be able to stand their judgement with Hob at his side. Though it was only a matter of minutes before he felt more arms around him, hands clapping on his back and shoulders. A mix of Well done, Dreamy! and Good shit, boss! reached his ears, each member of the team coming over to congratulate him. They were all in good spirits, grinning wide, and Morpheus slowly began to relax under their steady praise, the reassurance that nobody blamed him for their loss. 

But only when a soft hand reached for his shoulder with the words You did well, son, did Morpheus relax completely, hiding his face in Hob’s neck and finally breathing normally again for the first time in weeks. 

- - - 

After that first match, Morpheus was slowly growing into his role as the second offence player. Without the fear of failure weighing on his shoulders, he was able to play in a way he had never been capable of before. He had fun. 

Of course, he had always been good at football, and he had always gained a certain form of joy from seeing his skills develop and having them acknowledged. But he had never had fun playing with others. The Riggers had tolerated him for his skill, but they hadn’t played with him. None of them had been anywhere near good enough to keep up with him, even if they had tried.

Playing with the Fiddlers was different. 

Hob was incredible, he saw the game in ways Morpheus had never before considered, offered advice and tricks and actually managed to teach him things. His technical skills were great as well, though they were not nearly as precise as Morpheus’ own, which were built from hours upon hours of non-stop training and repetition, in contrast to Hob’s quick improvisational talent. He was quick at coming up with a new move, whereas Morpheus was quick at finding the right move for the right situation. By all accounts, it should come as a surprise that the two of them managed to work so well together. But after an initial period of familiarisation, they functioned like they were made to play with each other. 

Game after game they became better, weaving through the opposing team without difficulty, communicating by a single glance. It was the most fun Morpheus had ever had playing this sport. 

The fact that they won almost every game after that first one became a certainty, inevitable with the force of nature Morpheus and Hob had become. 

And the fans of Fiddler’s Green had picked up on it immediately. By the fourth game they were screaming when Morpheus scored, and by the eighth game a song erupted in the fanblock. 

Mister Sandman, bring me a Dream! Bum Bum Bum Bum, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen!

It came as a total surprise, his nickname having apparently reached the fans, and Morpheus tried his best to hide the tears in his eyes as the people cheered at him when he waved in response. Fans were cheering at him for the first time in his career, and had even come up with a chant, all while he was having the time of his life playing for a team that supported and cared for him. 

It was as close to heaven as Morpheus thought he might get.

At least until, one game, he had to be reminded that his life was simply not like that. 

During their fourteenth match of the season, after he and Hob had scored a goal each before the break, Morpheus found himself in a one on one with one of the defenders. The man was big, bulky, and by default, slower than him. But his instincts were good, and so they were head to head for several seconds, fighting for the ball, until Morpheus gained the upper hand and was about to move past the other man. That was when he suddenly grabbed Morpheus by the shoulders and shoved him into the advertising boards, hard enough to rob him of the air in his lungs. 

Moments later, in which Morpheus was still regaining his orientation, he felt something wet hitting his face. It was… familiar, which only added to the panic he felt rising in his chest. Spitting in his face was one of Roderick’s favourite methods of degradation, whenever he had wanted to remind Morpheus of how dirty and sinful his existence was. 

“Do you think I will be outplayed by a little cocksucker?” The man was yelling, his face close enough to Morpheus’ that he could feel his breath hitting his cheek with every word. Another shove, and Morpheus was falling to the ground, his back hitting the board hard. “You won’t get away with it, little fag, because nobody here gives a shit about you. Nobody will come and help you. You’re nothing.”

Morpheus wasn’t sure when exactly the voice of the defender turned into that of Roderick, but he knew that it was his old trainer that he heard screaming at him by the end of it. Flashes of a cane were appearing at the edge of his vision, and Morpheus cowered in fear from it, trying to shield his body as much as possible and closing his eyes against it. The yelling continued, insult after insult thrown at him, all of it in the voice of a dead man. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Morpheus heard Lydia’s voice, the words PTSD and triggers and panic attack making their way through the screams and the growing sound of his own breathing, which was getting more hectic by the second. The words were closely followed by breathe and comfort and safety and a mantra of Hob Hob Hob Hob. Morpheus tried to force them past his lips, through the gasping breaths he was taking and the sobs shaking his body. Everything would be alright if Hob was there. Hob would protect him, against Roderick and Alex and everyone else, he was safety and comfort. 

Around Morpheus, the lights were suddenly dimmed. Hands gently grasped his head, covering his ears, and another sob left his lips at the relief he suddenly felt. He hadn’t noticed how overstimulated he had become, how loud the voices around him had been and how bright the lights. The hands had to be Hob’s, because no one else had ever touched him so gently, and no one else would know that light and noise might bother him. Morpheus simply had to make sure. Concentrate on the voices he could hear, the actual voices, not that of Roderick’s ghost still pestering his mind. Between the shouts of players and fans, he could finally hear it, a soft repeating of Dream Dream Dream. When his ears registered Hob’s voice, his nose was quick to follow, noticing Hob’s smell was everywhere around him. Opening his eyes was easier then, knowing that his friend was close, and so he managed to squint into the dimmed light after blinking a few times. 

What he saw then was Hob, shirtless, holding his jersey over their heads to block out light and cameras and onlookers alike, softly repeating his name over and over again. It was just them in this little bubble, and Morpheus finally felt like he could breathe again, like the air was reaching his lungs, and so he gasped desperately for air, trying to get his breathing back under control. But finding a rhythm seemed impossible, and with every second he continued to struggle he felt himself drifting back into a panic. But then arms pulled him against a strong chest, his ear pressed to bare skin, and he could feel it rise and fall beneath him. Follow the rhythm, in and out, in and out, until he was finally breathing normally again. 

“You’re doing so well, Dream. That’s it, take your time.” Morpheus knew the sound he made upon registering Hob’s words again was embarrassing and weak and pathetic, but right that moment, he did not care about it. Hearing Hob, not only his voice but his words, had become one of his greatest comforts over the months. Everything would be alright with Hob there. 

“Hob,” he managed to whisper, and when his friend only pulled him in closer he said it again and again, until hands were running up and down his back, through his hair, and Hob was pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

“I’m here, my friend. I’m here.” 

Only then did Morpheus finally feel secure enough in his breathing to move away, to look at Hob, and notice that his hand was bloody, his knuckles a deep shade of purple. 

“You’re hurt.” He frowned, cradling the hand carefully in his and turning it around for inspection. 

Hob shrugged, jostling it, and winced. 

“You should see the other guy.” A terrible response, and Morpheus made sure his facial expression told Hob so. 

“Don’t hurt yourself on my account.”

“He deserved it for being a little bitch.” Morpheus looked at his friend disapprovingly, and only received a kiss to his cheek in response, which must be wet and salty from tears. Not that Hob seemed to care about it. “I had to show him that someone does care about you, alright? That we won’t stand for homophobic bullshit, on or off the pitch.”

It shouldn’t have made warmth grow in Morpheus’ chest to hear Hob would fight to protect him, to prove his care and acceptance of him. But it was the first time someone stood up for him, and he couldn’t help but feel touched by such a display of love. He didn’t feel worth that effort and sacrifice, but couldn’t help craving it anyway. 

Of course, he said none of it. But Morpheus hoped Hob could feel it in the hug he pulled him into. “Idiot.”

His friend hummed and hugged back, not denying it, and Morpheus couldn’t help but giggle into his chest, the adrenaline of the situation coming down on him all at once. 

“Let’s get out of here?” Hob whispered after a while, and Morpheus frowned. 

“But the match isn’t over?”

“Well, I received a red for punching that douchebag, so it is for me.” Morpheus scoffed, and Hob only laughed at him for it. “And while you could totally continue here, we could also go home and finish watching Lord of the Rings.”

“You’re a tempting man, Hob Gadling.” 

A wink, eyebrow waggle and eye-roll later, Hob put his jersey back on and helped Morpheus up to his feet, from where he could make out the rest of the team standing around them. They stood in a half circle, shielding them from the other players, the cameras. Standing to protect them. Well, everyone but Cori, who was wearing Hob’s captain’s armband and standing above the guy that had attacked Morpheus, talking to the referee. The defender really did look worse than Hob, right eye swollen and nose at an awkward angle, most definitely broken. 

There was some satisfaction in seeing him writhe in pain as a medic pressed antiseptics to his face. 

But there was no time to relish it, as their movement was noticed by the team and suddenly Morpheus was enveloped in a group hug, the now familiar feeling of hands clapping his back and grabbing his shoulders grounding him like few other things could. None of the men judged him for who he was, none of them cared, and they proved it by hugging and touching him without fear, in front of everyone. The Riggers had never stood up for him, had never touched him, and had laughed at the idea of offering protection. 

The Fiddlers were nothing like them. They were a family. 

Perhaps he would heal one day, with their help.