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"That's beautiful," Hob says against Dream's ear and Dream shivers. The melody flowing from his fingers does not falter.
It's Tuesday, the day the New Inn is closed. They're sitting at the dusty piano, Dream in Hob's lap. It came up during conversation that Dream can play every instrument known to (and forgotten by) man, and has, intentionally and unintentionally, inspired most of the things played on them.
Naturally, Hob insisted that he prove his claim. So here they are, with Dream's long fingers on the well-worn keys and Hob's fingers splayed on Dream's hips.
They're so close Dream can feel the music of Hob's mortal body directly against his back, travelling through the echoing vacuum of Dream's empty shell and translating into the music coming to life under his fingers.
"It is you," Dream tells Hob. "It is not of my own making. It is the sound of your body." Hob is warm against his back; so warm. He is the hearth Dream wishes he'd had during his imprisonment. Dream imagines being naked in Hob's arms and shivers once more.
"Of my body, huh?" Hob's fingers wander, dancing lightly down Dream's thighs, softly stroking back up again. "And what of your body?" Hob's breath, too, is soft and warm against his neck.
"No," Dream says, fingers unerringly playing on. "My body does not work like that." The music flows around them like water in the golden afternoon light.
"We'll see." Hob whispers the words into Dream's neck and then presses a kiss there, slow and savouring. His fingers, still wandering up and down Dream's thighs, venture further inward where the skin under black trousers grows softer.
Dream exhales, and the melody changes tempo, slowing, his fingers clinging to the keys like honey. Hob's fingers find the place where his legs meet and his flesh is already straining against the fabric from the inside.
"I don't believe one second you're without music, Dream." He carefully explores Dream's length with nimble fingers before unhurriedly opening the button and zipper and reaching inside.
The sound coming from Dream in that moment can best be described in human terms as a deep oh. His fingers stop for a fraction of a moment before continuing to play, trembling and staggering. Hob's thighs are bracketing his own, and Dream can feel him hot and hard against his backside.
Hob caresses his balls and then further up until he reaches the spot where Dream is leaking with want. He draws his fingers over it, coats his palm and then takes Dream in hand.
There's a dissonant clang as Hob tightens his fist on the upstroke and Dream's hands drop from the piano onto his thighs. His head falls back with a moan, his legs spreading Hob's as his body stretches and strains into the offered touch with joy.
"Like that." Hob brushes the words onto Dream's neck with his lips. "See?"
Dream does not. He has his eyes closed, his head resting on Hob's shoulder, willingly succumbing to the pleasure Hob offers. A string of moans and pants flows over his lips, surrounded by Hob's warmth from all sides, his hot, beating heart against Dream's spine, the firm movement of his gentle hand between his legs.
"Beautiful," Hob sighs and that is all it takes for Dream to suck more air into the cosmos of his insides and cry out, his body going rigid in the embrace of his lover.
"Beautiful," Hob says again as he slowly works Dream through his orgasm and then draws his hand back at Dream's overstimulated whine. The silence after is like an old blanket, well-worn and comfortable between them, only broken by soft breathing.