There lies a universe where no offense began a centennial deal of reverence; Robert Gadling never makes it to the brim pots behind the tavern. Clutching at a throat — at his own, smeared in blood — and not collapsing but sauntering until the laughter was no more, but a whisper at his ear when he fell on quiet arms. And heard the sound of her wings and the murmured, That is all.

As equally, there lies a universe where offenses were on the hearth and offenses made for Death began a centennial relationship. Irreplaceable, not a tavern nor the ale that used to stink before a neighboring public house afforded stouts along the taps. But a meeting between a mortal and a Stranger thought as Friend when neither were what they were.

An immortal and a dream.

Robert Gadling from the White Horse — or Rupert Golding within the inn, marking papers on the tapestry of a world he couldn't forget — was six hundred and sixty-seven, with the appearance of thirty-three and a stout that claimed his father must've dreamt this recipe, when a shadow met his own across a Reference? he had written. And not commanded, but merely asked, if he could spare it just a moment.

That he looks up.

Then a universe where a young man needs a seat will inquire if this is taken, and he will answer that is, and will wait another century before allowing it on the market is a shadow of an object that in no place it exists.

When a universe where his Stranger apologizes for the wait, having heard it's rather rude to impose so on a friend, is the shadow on his own — the shadow on his hand; an object in the world, permanence at a glance — as a barely-you-might've-noticed sort of smile had him fold. And what a difference, what delight, to be the audience of that look.

On the ear, when he hears him take a seat and press a pint. Hear him relish on the foam, bide the instinct to thumb it off, and pray the favor of a god he hadn't prayed to in a while when his Stranger — when his Friend — said his name like an answer. Like the first breath he'd ever taken once he realized he could take it.

On the eyes, when the immortal finds him like a mirror unto himself. Slouching but not slouching, laxing in every way, he'd never seen in all their ventures while pinching at his wrist. Before answering, Could be better, but I'm managing, and then a grin, when his Friend saw the papers, the blue ink, satchel bag, and the ale nearly finished before he asked him, Have you been well? But worded in such a way that what he heard was You've been keeping, and a quiet It suits you, while finishing his own stout.

On the mouth, hear him while all the years he'd wait for this, and the many more he would've waited to share this with a friend. And as a friend, leaning forward until he almost brought a knee against a dark winding leg nearly bumping into his own.

"Monochromatic is back in style." His Stranger — no, his Friend; let him parrot all he could, the other wore it like a crown — wore exactly what he imagined. But better. "It suits you well."

"You counter." There he was, like a reader who must've read this, and recited like a prayer for the ending that he wants. Because he meant it.

Robert Gadling, or rather his name was "Hob", had been his opposite in every century and society they've encountered, that he wants to wring him like a towel before he soaks him through the evening and have the immortal be as fascinating as every era soon-to-finish. And Hob, once he noticed, once he saw him in the light, once he felt him beneath the table, once a flower towards the sun, couldn't have asked him for something better.

Like a name, who he was, why himself for every meeting as there were others he could've turned, or why himself when he'd mistaken that his Stranger was a friend.

But not when a century and a third years of waiting laid to rest with every story he must've traded, convincing that this was real. And that his Friend, his constant, and the Being sharing drinks at every hour and on the hour, had him laughing like he'd done this right, had missed him — as he had missed him.

By two o'clock, he had a name and repeats it above a water.

That Dream — It's one of many, says the Friend, he'd won him back; and the Endless out of seven, his shadow sentient, But it is my function at its essence and my title above the rest; like the revelation was about the weather, or a napkin on the pavement, or just about anything you would point at while pissed inside a pub — had ordered at some point when Hob wrestled for a tenner in the bowels of a satchel sitting straighter than himself. And wouldn't accept it, but he could start, once Brian came around and said he was fine without a tip while wiping down their table.

But couldn't push it without a quid trying to make this an eleven, and Hob was easily all his age, insisting that he should have this.

As this was nothing compared to nothing he had known before this evening, and he deserved what Hob could give him for a night he often dreamt of. With Dream; Dream of the Endless; and Dream, his dear Friend; and Dream, who smiled lightly, who watched him without a doubt that happiness was a blanket that his friend wore rather well, and who nodded towards the money and the tipsy other man as if telling Brian he should take it or they'd be here until the morning.

That so he did, but not without saying that Hob could use this at a Tesco once the fried eggs and the bacon couldn't help him in the morning. And Hob countered with a few pills of the medicine from his satchel and downed a liter of all the water Dream had ordered and his own.

And repeats it — Dream, Dream of the Endless, my Friend — to fill his mouth in conversation and every letter upon his tongue. Not to babble, though he babbled.

He was earnest in his demand; every story is at its end when there is nothing more to share. Yet Dream, my Friend and the weight of it like a coin that could ferry him to other worlds had he asked him if he could; it has him reaching through the centuries and across the table like a shadow without a worry it would reach him, that he would follow to where it goes.

"And there's a park – " Fisted papers, essays he'd forgotten and a host of other things for his students by this Monday. And a moment neither stolen nor missing on his path when he pushes on himself that there's something he ought to share. " – near the White Horse. Between Gurney and Charles-Elizabeth. One of the Historical Weapons Guilds has demonstrations every Thursday, if you'd like – "

"Perhaps another. It is Friday."

" – let me walk you."

There's a universe where his Friend would've walked out when he heard this, leaving everything at the table for an answer at his push; there's a universe in collision when he sobers at his touch and can feel the other like a shadow coming slowly up his arm.

That they're — they're not standing, but a chair's been pushed out; and grasping for what it's worth is his Friend.

"I'll bring you home."

And a part of Hob doesn't meet him; a part of him looks ahead, a part of him knows an ocean wouldn't exist without his Friend for the waters at their deepest were the color of his iris. And reminds him of all the nights he'd seen himself in that mirror, searching for an answer behind a flicker in a grin.

The White Horse lies abandoned near Gurney and Charles-Elizabeth and has stood with all the parlor that the thirteenth hundreds would be proud of: shattered windows; grimy stones; rotten things and ruined; and a tasteful spray of paint for peace, love, and safety as the headstone for a grave left to London and the elements. No visitors, no flowers, no blessings or the damned for a body still alive though the world thought it wasn't — as the only ones it remembers have moved, or have gone, or have changed in many ways that the old ways don't exist. And no memory can bring it back with all the character and the charm and the ale that used to stink and the splinters at the tables, but Hob believes him.

The way he says it, like a promise and a vow, as Dream had asked him if he'd heard him right — that he had no intention to ever die, blooms a frightful tiny thing that Hob refuses to say it's hope.

Because it isn't.

It's something greater than the sums of being here and knowing Dream had wanted this; he'd been more than willing to continue — and been a Knight, a Prince, a Counsel, a Friend at the hour they're holding hands, at the hour he shared his name. And moreso than a title or the stations he had claimed, he's the patience of a shadow looming closer from where it is when the lights were unforgiving — but in the darkness, you're alive. That when he rises, there's a universe and the collapsing of another within the eyes Hob could study if he could watch from across the table. And there lies a universe where Dream ignores it, out of fear and out of heart; yet he doesn't.

He insists, if Hob should have him for a friend, that he could walk him to his doorsteps if he preferred the company. And continue about the White Horse, the demonstrations at the park, what's waiting until he sees it and the excitement in the air, and how the performance was a letter penning somewhere from the heart with modernity as the witness and the tavern its audience. While modernity, as their witness; and The New Inn, their audience held a breath they couldn't be holding when Dream waits for his. And he gets it, like a name trying to flutter from his mouth.

Hob squeezes for an answer. Dream helps him from the table. And Hob's listing at his shoulder, nearly bumping at his forehead and almost catching what little breath had risen from his Friend.

"It's on the table!"

Twenty quid is out the wallet at his breath, and nothing mirrors the exasperation nor the shoo-ing out of Brian when he looks at Hob, then looks at Dream, before mouthing: Treat him well. And the words were as pointed as an arrow through the head when Dream catches every fumble between the table and the door. Steadying were his hands and Hob was sure he'd never fall and wasn't frightened when the shadows came to swallow where they were. As The New Inn wears a blanket made of darkness and a cloak swishing at every step when the front door becomes another.

Because at a flat in the heart of London, Hob Gadling makes it home with all the homework left ungraded and a Friend — he knows by name; who stirs him from a thought, a distant daydream growing near of everyone he'd ever loved waiting to meet him at a tavern and that the first one beyond the door is the same one at his arm, asking for permission if he could enter beyond the door.

"As a monarch?" Hob glances.

"Safe tidings, however brief." And at the weight of it, could you blame him for falling harder than he has?

His Friend, once a stranger and now illuminous as a dream, could hold the collective unconsciousness but not faith that he'd been forgiven.

For running.

For his pride made him selfish at a tavern that would die without an apology and an immortal without a friend; and for thirty and a third years of waiting at a pub, never knowing if tomorrow his Friend will show up and pausing what might've been the stories he could've told.

As there lies a universe where Hob cares, where he's been angry and upset, where tossing isn't words but a stout he hasn't finished, and he will drag through the mud an apology from a Prick. And Dream wouldn't blame him; he'd accept it as a gift. As equally, that there's a universe where Hob doesn't do it, Dream accepts whatever answer and denial he should give. And if he's waiting for the other, Hob does the opposite when he presses at his forehead and nuzzles to his Friend.

"You'll find a spare key under Stanley if you remember to put it back." And he shows him — the potted plant is not as heavy as it looks; the copper key has had it better on a keyring and not the bricks that've bent it seven ways but is nowhere near a Sunday. But it works, miraculously; it fusses at the door until Dream and his Dream-ness has it straighten on the lock. And it's not the only thing that straightens.

"Robert Gadling – "

"C'mon."

Hob pulls him through the doorway; the spare key is on the counter along with knick knacks and a satchel and paracetamol in the morning. And Dream's a flower made of iron, yet he yields towards the sun as the light and honey water of Hob's happiness bends him fat.

That you couldn't blame him when he fell; you can't blame him for the fall. Dream sauntered vaguely downward into Hob's gentle arms.