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Dream quickly strides through the doors of room 5B of the community centre, with less time to spare than he'd like because he’s only got thirty minutes between his class and his shift, and the commute takes him twenty minutes on good days. His arms are packed with a mountain of stands and binders and instrument cases, towering so high the topmost is resting against his brow. Today something is different though, because in his careful peeking around the corner of the pile of things he can just about see the corduroy trousers and sneakers of one of his new students. He really can't see much because of the cases in his arms. He's glad though; maybe he won't drop it all, this time. Last week he had to restring two ukuleles.
“Oh, good. You must be the extra muscle I requested,” Dream jokes.
The hesitant “Um…” he gets as a reply is really quite cute, and the face of the man who carefully unburdens him from a handful of cases is, too. He’s got the most gorgeous salt and pepper hair, warm eyes and a kind face and a beard that makes Dream’s fingers itch with the urge to touch.
He seems very unsure and lost though, so Dream directs him to put the cases down and help him with the chairs. And if Dream looks some more, well, that’s between him and the (very nice) backside of those corduroy trousers.
Chatting on, he tries to ease some of the hesitancy he feels rolling off the other man like a fine mist, and if he’s flirting a little, too… Well, it certainly can't hurt, can it? Dream is confident enough to handle a “no” if he gets one, and the faintest possibility of a “yes” is too enticing to pass up in this case. Only just before class starts does he realise that he’s never even given his name. When he does, he’s offered a name in return, and a hand to shake, and Dream might be inclined to hold on fast. Sadly, he has to refrain in favour of teaching class. Which is a shame, really.
Hob sits down a few chairs to his left, which gives Dream an excellent excuse to let his eyes wander again and again as he walks his class through chording and strumming, and assists a few left-handed people by handing out some differently strung ukuleles.
Hob is taller than him, seeing as they were eye to eye earlier and Dream is wearing his favourite boots. He's aged in the sense excellent wine is aged; invitingly beautiful and rich, not old, but mature. He's got lots of laugh lines and dimples that tell of a kind, easy smile. The white at his temples, shown off by the haphazard ponytail, puts a molten kind of want into the deep parts of Dream's pelvis.
There's softness, too; around his middle, under his chin, in his eyes, hidden by a baggy shirt and artful scruff and a frown. Dream can see the telltale haggardness of depression and insomnia and low self-esteem, so achingly familiar from his own past. He can see the bags under Hob's eyes, and the way his cheeks fall a little inwards, his hunched posture. Nothing good food and good sleep and a bit of love couldn't fix.
Hob is not the fastest learner. Neither is he the slowest, but he starts out frustrated and visibly feels worse the farther along the lesson goes. Dream catches Hob looking at him a few times, not only at his hands, like Hob would need to to follow his instructions, but a long, thoughtful sweep over Dream's entire body. The possibility that Hob likes him, that Hob could find him attractive makes him bite his lip and smile back, openly, and, Dream hopes, enticing.
Dream decides to take this slow, well, slower than he usually takes these things. He thinks that Hob would be worth it, and more importantly, that Hob would need and deserve it.
So Dream looks, and smiles, and watches him set up the chairs at the start of each lesson because he's ridiculously early every time, even earlier than Dream. He gently encourages, talks, and, on one bright, warm occasion, gently touches Hob's shoulder. He dreams of Hob that night for the first time. Not fantasising, no, a real dream that leaves him all squirming and panting upon waking up.
Paired together with what he has planned for the next lesson, Dream should have known he would stand no chance of honouring what he swore to himself. The next Monday, it all goes to shit.
For the fourth lesson Dream likes to make everyone play a simple song of four chords, and encourages his students to sing along. It usually boosts the enthusiasm and drive of the class. But hearing Hob sing, hearing that warm, insomnia-rough voice like it's honey and wine poured directly into Dream's stomach almost makes him lose his mind.
Dream wracks his brain how he can possibly, believably ask Hob to stay, when the universe decides to grant him a boon—Hob stays behind unprompted. Helps Dream to put back the chairs, and Dream feels fidgety with want, unable to look away from the muscles working beneath the back of Hob's shirt.
Gently, he asks after Hob’s age, and soothes down the self-deprecation that simmers just under Hob’s surface with an honest compliment and a touch, because he can’t help himself, and because he thinks that Hob might see his own strength better if someone were to lean onto it. If someone were to point it out and lay it clearly for him, if someone spelled it out on his skin, if someone showed him that there is still a wealth to give from where he believes himself used-up and empty. So Dream sinks to his knees in front of a breathless Hob, to take, to give.
Hob is not hard when Dream pulls him out of his trousers, but he didn't expect him to. Instead, Dream nuzzles into his belly, peppers it with kisses and soft bites, over his hip and down his furred thigh. Dream scratches his fingers through the hair and breathes deep. Even if Hob won't get hard, he'd like more of this, Dream thinks. All of it. To explore, to see.
Just as he lovingly sets his teeth to the soft flesh of Hob's thigh, he feels Hob's cock twitch against his cheek. Dream pulls back a little to watch it flush red, filling slowly, nodding upwards as if to greet him.
Hello to you, too, Dream thinks, and takes the head into his mouth with a smirk and a pleased hum. Gently, carefully, he sucks Hob off, sliding his cock over his tongue right up against the back of his throat, feels the muscles of Hob's thighs shiver beneath his fingers. Dream lets them wander upwards to knead at Hob's ass, saliva pooling in his mouth at the first salty taste of precome.
The only sounds are the wet slurping of Dream's mouth and soft huffs of breath and little aborted moans, trapped in Hob's throat. Dream wishes he wouldn't, that Hob wouldn't quiet himself, but he is also dimly aware of the public setting they're in. So he fantasises instead what Hob would sound like if they were somewhere more private, what Dream could do to him if he just had a little lube and a bed and a closed door between them and the rest of the world. Mournfully, he pets over Hob's hole, pushes Hob's cock deeper into his throat so he gags, spit running over his chin and into Hob's pubic hair.
His imagination intertwines with reality, forms a golden, fiery line of want out of Hob's sounds and his taste and the velvety softness on Dream's tongue, of the yearning for more and the shiver in Hob's thighs, draws the sparking electricity of it right down to Dream's painfully hard cock.
The groans coming from Hob are getting louder now, and Dream can't help but feel a little smug. As Hob's hips begin to stutter and twitch, Dream looks up at his face to see. There's a pain-like quality to the shape of his brow, a needy desperation to the way his jaw relaxes and tightens again on the next delicious sound coming out of his mouth.
And then, just as Dream swirls his tongue and takes him deep again, as he tries to get a glimpse of Hob's red, wet tongue, Hob opens his eyes and looks at him.
It's so earnest and naked that Dream feels it like a lightning strike, feels it running down his spine like fire, violently drawing his balls up until he comes into his pants untouched with just a jerk of his hips. Dream doesn't even falter, just winks at Hob and keeps going. This is what seems to pull him over the edge, too, and he comes down Dream's throat with a strangled cry, locked behind clenched teeth.
For a moment, everything but the present is washed away from Dream's mind as he is filled with Hob's smell and taste quicker than he can swallow. He lets it run down his chin and smiles, and hopes that Hob doesn't notice the slight wobble of his knees as he helps him up.
He declines Hob's offer of reciprocation by pulling Hob's hand to the crotch of his jeans, and then his cock makes a valiant effort at rising again when Hob licks the fingers that were just palming the damp denim.
Dream wants so much to back Hob up against the wall again, to press some kindness into his skin with his body, to take him home. But Hob looks a little overwhelmed, and tired, and so Dream keeps the kindness to his words and starts packing up his things to give Hob some space.
All of Dream's past entanglements, be they relationship or one night stand, had a fervent, equal give and take, a careless hunger to them. Hob, Dream finds, he wants to spoil, to take his time, to give until Hob cracks. He scolds himself for thinking about relationships and love after just one taste of Hob's cock, but he can't help it.
He carries the armful of folded notestands to his car and then goes back for the rest of it. Hob is still there, zipped back up and slightly less unmoored, at least Dream hopes so. He walks past Dream just as he stacks the last instrument case into the cradle of his arms, nodding a silent goodbye without meeting Dream's eyes.
Dream watches him leave, his shapely backside, his marginally less hunched shoulders, his careful, slightly wobbly steps, and has to hold onto the cases and binders tightly so as to not drop anything. His imagination runs rampant, having snatched its leash away from him. Hob in his bed, on his front, naked, relaxed and pliant from a long, thorough back massage, Dream's own fingers tingling. He'd follow the paths of his fingers with kisses, lips and tongue drawn over soft places, down and down and down until he'd reach Hob's ass, and then he'd slowly, indulgently eat Hob out until his jaw aches, until all the relaxation from the massage has drained away, replaced by trembling, shivery need.
In his mind, Hob is groaning and rutting into the mattress as Dream's fingers breach him, then shamelessly moaning and whining as Dream gently but unerringly pets his prostate until Hob ruins his sheets.
Fuck, Dream is so far ahead of himself it isn't even funny anymore. Sighing, he moves to put away the ukuleles and binders into the trunk of his admittedly very dirty car and wishes he'd given Hob a peck on the cheek as goodbye. He'd make Hob breakfast, too. Maybe he should ask his sister to teach him how to make her divine scramble.
Only as he is already pulling into the garage of the building where he shares a large flat with his siblings, he realises that he has not kissed Hob, not properly.
Oh, well. Something to dream about until next Monday.