Chapter Text
Dream is always staring at Hob’s lips whenever he speaks.
It’s something Hob has gotten used to… or so he tries to convince himself. Dream is hard of hearing– not quite deaf, though his hearing is deteriorating. He’d met Dream like this, after his hearing loss began so, without really having to explain why, Hob was able to roll with it– with how Dream has always relied on reading lips.
It did become harder– watching Dream’s gaze drop to his mouth– once Hob realized he had developed a crush on his friend.
Nothing ever prepared him for those deeply crystalline eyes to focus on his lips, even during the most banal of conversations. Hob’s pulse would skip and jump, faltering over his words and laughing at himself sometimes. He wondered what Dream was thinking, during those moments when he would stammer and stutter over a sentence for seemingly no reason. It certainly made conversation drag on a little longer, Dream often having to ask Hob to repeat himself with a patient, almost coy smile.
Or– lord help him– if they were in a dark place like a backyard bonfire or a bar, Dream would lean in close, his face scrunching adorably as he tried to understand the conversation happening around him, and Hob would have to speak directly into Dream’s good ear, a hand cupped over it, like he was telling him a secret.
“I can’t hear a thing in this place,” Dream groused in Hob’s ear, both of them leaning against the bar and surrounded by minimal lights and thumping bass lines.
Hob leaned into Dream’s space, the man automatically turning his head to catch his voice.
“Let’s get out of here, then.” Hob’s lips brushed the shell of Dream’s ear and Hob was just drunk enough to not apologize over it, but the brief contact set his skin on fire regardless.
They soon found themselves walking along the waterfront, the temperature dropping in the cool night air and a breeze kicking up to match the waves on the water. Dream tugged on his jacket before stuffing his hands in its pockets, knocking his head back as he took a deep breath, tasting the city air. Hob watched fondly, the street lights they passed under giving Dream’s skin an orange glow, warm and inviting, and he had an easy expression on, the quiet hour giving him some reprieve.
Neither of them spoke, which Hob sometimes preferred… After knowing Dream for nearly a year now, he’d gotten used to these quiet moments, happy to just enjoy each other’s company. Hob liked that the most about Dream, how he was able to find solace and comfort in the silence, rather than feeling the need to fill it with small talk.
It’s late so there aren’t many people out among the scattered benches and picnic tables, as they are properly walking now into a rest area which usually would be bustling in the daytime. Vendors around them closed for the evening or just breaking down.
They come up to one that still looks open, a chalkboard sign boasting snacks like hot dogs and tater tots. Hob slows and points out the open and lit up stall.
“Food?”
Dream’s gaze sweeps over to the sign, his brows lifting in interest and he nods, turning with Hob as they approach the counter.
Unfortunately they no longer have food, the person behind the stall informs sadly, but they are still serving alcohol. With a sideways glance at Dream, Hob gives in and orders a night cap, and Dream follows suit.
So, here’s a funny thing. Hob watches Dream discuss their cider list with the cashier, and his eyes flick down maybe once or twice during the conversation. And, maybe it’s difficult to tell while he’s not facing Dream, but Hob could swear Dream doesn’t have his gaze affixed to other people’s lips while in conversation with them.
Hob of course has no idea how much Dream really relies on reading lips– how the whole interpretation works for him, matching lip movements to the words… but Hob could swear that he never needs to hyper focus on people’s mouths; he always seems to get along just fine without prolonged eye-to-mouth contact.
In fact, now that he is tipsy enough to overthink, Hob is certain Dream hadn’t always stared at his lips. Hob had naively always attributed that to his hearing declining… but that didn’t make sense, as again, Dream never needed to stare for very long when in conversation with literally anyone else.
Drinks paid for, Hob and Dream walk a little out of the way of the path, finding a bench in a patch of grass and collapsing onto it with matching sighs.
Hob slowly sipped his beer and Dream, from his cider, staring out at the lit up skyline beyond the water. The windows in the skyscrapers were high and far away enough that they resembled stars, reflecting off the water too. It was pretty, Hob always preferred the city when the sun went down.
Dream did, too. Much of their experience together was shared after hours.
Hob stares at Dream’s profile, how he can somehow still see his long lashes even in the limited light, the point of Dream’s nose, his devastating jawline that Hob has fantasized pressing his lips to, cupping it with his hand, nudging his nose along until he was in Dream’s sooty hair. He wanted to know what it felt like, to tangle his fingers in that hair, comb through it lovingly and also pull it just to hear what sounds Dream would make if he did so, exposing the line of his throat so Hob could latch his mouth onto it.
Taking a deep breath, Hob set his drink down on the space next to him, and tapped Dream on the shoulder.
Dream turns, his expression curious and only a little faded, muddled from alcohol, though Hob swore Dream had less to drink than him.
Hob’s pulse kicks up once he realizes what he’s about to ask. He licks his lips and doesn’t miss how Dream’s eyes flit down to catch the movement.
“Why are you always staring at my mouth?”
Dream’s brows pinch, looking back up at Hob’s eyes with a patient stare.
“Because I need to?”
“No, why are you always… staring at my mouth.”
Dream doesn’t need to. Hob is certain of it. And Dream tenses up, his own lips parting silently, his gaze sweeping sideways.
After a beat, Hob panics. He hadn’t meant to put Dream on the spot, or make him feel awkward. He shifts to be just a smidge closer.
“I mean, is the way I speak difficult? Do I have some sort of lisp I’m not aware of?” Hob tries to joke, to lighten the mood, to brush off the question like it wasn’t aimed at Dream.
Dream doesn’t even look at Hob while he speaks, continuing to stare into the middle distance, turning the tin can in his hold around and around.
Finally, Dream sighs, his shoulders going with it as he turns to bodily face Hob, planting one foot on the bench and almost curling around his bent knee pressed against his chest.
“I’m going deaf…”
A sudden lump appears in Hob’s throat at the quiet, defeated way Dream speaks, his eyes downcast, staring at his drink.
“Figured I was, obviously,” Dream takes a breath, tapping a finger on the rim of the can now. “It's genetic, doctors think. No cure yet. My hearing is just…” he waves a hand around his head. “... deteriorating. Fast. I’ll lose it completely in my left ear within the next five years, and then my right will surely go soon after.”
Hob swallows hard, his throat clicking at the tightness in his throat.
Dream looks up and Hob feels his eyes burn at how watery and red Dream’s usual clear, blue eyes are.
“It sucks,” Dream proclaims with a choked off laugh, averting his gaze again. “No more music, no more podcasts… soon I won’t be able to hear the sound of my own voice…” his gaze tentatively slips back to Hob’s. “... or yours.”
Hob’s lips part, butterflies now twisting his stomach into knots.
“So I’ve been…” Dream’s eyes rove over Hob’s face, as if searching for the words. “... trying to memorize the sound of your voice.” He gives another broken laugh, his chin dipping to his chest.
“The way your lips move is unique, it helps carry your accent.” He pulls his head back up, resting it on his bent knee. “The way your tongue curls around vowels, the way you putter and stammer sometimes, it creates a profile, and I can attribute the sound of every letter to the way your mouth forms the words.”
Hob is speechless, a complicated mix of euphoria and sadness swirling around within him.
He must take a moment too long to sit on what Dream has just admitted, because Dream’s face falls, apprehension marring his beautiful features.
“Say something,” Dream whispers, his brows going up.
Hob can’t say anything. His pulse is racing and his throat is clogged with emotion. So instead he leans forward, gets his hands– which shake slightly– on either side of Dream’s face, and kisses him.
Dream gasps loudly against Hob’s lips before kissing back, shooting electricity down Hob’s spine, all the way to his feet and back up, clinging now to Dream and pulling him closer.
Hob parts for air and kisses Dream again and again, lips-only, but he can somehow still taste the honey sweetness of him, can smell it on his breath and feel it under his touch. One of Dream’s hands knots in the front of Hob’s sweater, yanking him closer still, holding on as Hob’s lips trail up Dream’s jaw– softer than it looks– peppering kisses along the way.
Dream breathes harshly into his ear, wet and raw, tucking his head into the crook of Hob’s neck, and goes still. Hob holds him there, one hand going around the back of his head while the other finds his hand on his sweater and disentangles it to hold instead.
Hob listens as Dream breathes deeply, collecting himself, his other hand coming up around Hob’s shoulder and just… holding on.
Nothing needs to be said, though Hob’s mind is swimming with words, but he keeps them in, opting to shut his eyes and feel the warmth of Dream around him, caressing his pointy knuckles and combing his fingers through Dream’s hair. This is enough for now, holding on, knowing they have time after this.
And Hob has always enjoyed the silence they shared.