Dream Passage

by Merry Amelie (MerryAmelie@aol.com)

Archive: MA only
Category: Alternate Reality, Qui/Obi, Romance, Series
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Dreamy Quinn and Ian
Series: Academic Arcadia -- Story # 33 -- The Files section of the MA list has the stories in order, along with their URLs. My MA story page: http://www.masterapprentice.org/cgi-bin/qs.cgi?keyword=merry+amelie
Feedback: Is treasured at MerryAmelie@aol.com
Disclaimer: Mr. Lucas owns everything Star Wars. I'm not making any money.
To Alex, my friend and beta
Thanks to Ula for her excellent suggestions.

Quinn shifted restlessly, caught in the depths of a dream: he and Ian were both college roommates in their sophomore year, before they'd become lovers, and Quinn had been invited to the Prentice home over Christmas vacation.

He let it play out, aware on some level that he was dreaming, but the action remained unaffected...

Quinn woke up, happy to see the distinctive angularity of Monty's room; he slept there on his visits to the Prentices, since Monty had already moved on after graduating from college. Pushing the quilt aside, he stretched out over the sheet on the twin bed, arms and legs hanging off the edge, newly freed after being bent in slumber.

The old heater was no match for December in Padua, so Quinn quickly donned robe and moccasins for a trip to the bathroom. He shaved and brushed his teeth, but there was no shower waiting for him; the plumbing necessary to add one was prohibitively expensive. Quinn settled carefully in the clawed tub; he'd learned the trick of immersing himself by adapting some aikido moves to the tight fit.

He had never liked taking baths, gratefully switching to showers when old enough. 'Stewing in your own juices' aptly described the situation to his mind. A shower was the best way to get truly clean. The antiquated plumbing presented the only drawback to visiting Ian, however.

The room held the scent of Mrs. Prentice's rosewater and glycerin soap, mixed with Tom's peppermint toothpaste. It was scrubbed immaculately clean, though there were cracks in the white tiles, originally laid over a hundred years ago. A pedestal sink with toiletries covering it, commode, loofah, herbal shampoo, mismatched towels, generic tissues, and five books on a wicker hamper were the room's other occupants. A worn brown rug served as a bathmat.

Quinn finished washing quickly, in case Ian had yet to bathe. He dried thoroughly, a fairly long process for him, and put on the clothes he'd brought in: a Bailor sweatshirt over jeans. Quinn gave the tub a thorough cleaning, and made sure the floor was dry. He checked Ian's room, but it was empty, bed already made.

Quinn went downstairs, the aroma of blueberry pancakes drawing him into the kitchen. Jocasta Prentice was there, sitting at the oaken table sipping coffee.

"Good morning, Quinn," she said cheerfully. "Ian's buying the paper; I thought he'd be back by the time you came down."

"Hello, Mrs. Prentice." He waved off her attempt to get him coffee, and noticed she'd brought over 'his' mug from the cupboard. He poured out himself, and topped off her cup also.

"Did you sleep well?" Jo's voice was warm.

"Yes, thank you, much better than in the dorm."

"Good. Monty's glad his room is being used again as something other than a museum."

Both of them chuckled at this.

"Would you like breakfast now, or do you want to wait for Ian?"

"Have you eaten already, ma'am?" Quinn asked diplomatically.

"Yes, with Mr. Prentice, so it doesn't matter to me."

"I'll wait for Ian then."

"You've been waiting for him a long time, haven't you?" Jo asked cryptically.

Quinn instantly understood just what she meant, however. "I'd rather not discuss it," he said, desperately trying to circumvent what instinct told him was a no-win situation.

Jo patted his hand. "I'm sorry, Quinn. We've gotten on so well together that I thought you might feel comfortable talking to me about it."

Quinn flushed, clearly unsure of what to say.

"I've seen the way you look at him," Jo said softly. "I'm his mother, Quinn. It's my job to notice these things."

Quinn cleared his throat, but couldn't speak.

"You love him." It wasn't a question.

In a sense, Mrs. Prentice had made things easier for him; there was no point in denying what she already knew. "Yes." Quinn heard her sigh, and it almost broke his heart. She was disappointed then, just as his own parents would be.

"Thank you for telling me the truth. I know it wasn't easy." Jo sighed again. "You're a very private person."

"I've always liked you," Quinn managed, "but I was afraid you wouldn't like me much if you knew how I felt about your son."

"Oh, Quinn -- I've had over a year to come to terms with this. I think you're a fine young man, and that hasn't changed a bit." Jo gripped his hand. "You're good for Ian."

Quinn smiled at this, but Jo could feel the tension in his fingers.

"He doesn't know, does he?" she said, again not a real question.

Quinn shook his head. "It's better like this."

"For whom? Sounds like you're making his decisions for him."

"He's my best friend, and I want to keep it that way."

"I've seen how he looks at you too, you know." Jo's hand tightened on his. "Somehow I don't think you'd be taking much of a chance."

A cautious hope began to grow in Quinn. "There have been a few times I've wondered," he admitted.

"So have I," Jo said softly. "When Ian's with you, he's as happy as I've ever seen him. A light's in his eyes that wasn't there before."

Quinn swallowed. "You'd actually like me to tell him, then?"

"I want Ian to be happy, whatever it takes. That's all I care about."

He took a deep breath. "Thank you. I've got a lot to think over."

After breakfast Ian and Quinn went for a walk in the crisp air, setting off for the town square, center of the holiday festivities.

Ian touched Quinn's elbow with cold fingers. "You looked pretty grim when I came in this morning. Is everything okay with you and Mom?"

Ian was far too observant for Quinn's peace of mind. "Just fine, Ian." Quinn paused, wondering how much to confide. "I'm trying to work something out, that's all."

Ian gave him a sunny grin, and said, "Let me know if I can help."

"Thank you."

They'd reached Main Street, where they were surrounded by Christmas activities and decorations. There were carriage rides to a nearby park, hot mulled cider and tiny spice cakes at the information kiosk, evergreen and pinecone wreaths on shop doors.

The cider warmed them on their way as they visited various stores in search of presents. The men finally settled on a make-your-own-pottery place, where they produced creditable gifts, Ian firing a rich blue bowl and Quinn a forest green. The kiln kept the place so warm that additional heat was almost unnecessary while they were working.

When the two went outside, their ceramics bubble-wrapped and bagged, the cold surged through them immediately, so they burrowed into their jackets and strode for home.

Quinn and Ian came back to a house redolent with the spice of lebkuchen and shortbread. They were hungry and exhilarated from their walk. Jo had to actively resist pinching their candy apple cheeks. After greetings and thanks for the proffered snacks, they headed up to Ian's room to talk and munch.

Ian put on Ziggy Stardust, then leaned his back against the mattress edge, his denim-clad legs sprawled over the carpet, sneakers moving to the beat. After a moment, Quinn joined him shoulder to shoulder. Ian had thrown back his head to rest on the side of the bed, his eyes thankfully shut as Quinn drank in every detail of the temptation of his throat.

Quinn would always associate Moonage Daydream with Christmas at Ian's, no matter the incongruity. He reached out to trace his index finger along Ian's flannel collar; Ian's eyes remained closed, through unawareness or its opposite, Quinn couldn't say.

Lost in the song, lost in Ian, Quinn barely remembered to take his hand away before Ian opened his eyes.

Ian said sleepily, "It takes you to another place, doesn't it?"

'You take me there,' Quinn wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come, and he settled for a nod.

"Great vacation, hmm?"

"Oh, yeah," Quinn said enthusiastically, his emotions needing an outlet. He handed Ian some shortbread, making sure to brush his fingertips with casual deliberation. "I thought we wouldn't get to see each other for another month."

"Your folks picked a good time to go to Europe."

Quinn nodded. "It was nice of your parents to invite me over."

"They're still missing Monty. Mom says it's great to have two of us running about the house again."

Twin shrugs at the sentimentality of mothers.

That night Ian perched on Quinn's bed before heading for his own. "Have you solved your dilemma yet?"

Quinn shook his head. "You'll know when I do."

"I don't doubt it." Ian's warm green gaze punctuated this statement.

Quinn slept late the next morning, only awaking when he heard soft footsteps cross the room. He knew it was Ian without opening his eyes, and left them closed on purpose. Quinn craved the sleepy intimacy of being roused by his friend.

"Quinn," Ian whispered, "time to get up for breakfast."

Quinn didn't move a muscle. He felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. It was getting harder to remain still. Now Ian's hand rested on his forearm; Quinn wished summer were here so he could enjoy Ian's fingers on his bare skin. He couldn't keep feigning sleep much longer.

"Quinn, Mom's waffles are waiting."

So the clever lad thought that food would do it, eh? Quinn suppressed a smile, but pretended to stir. Unfortunately, there was a price to pay: the warmth of Ian's hand was withdrawn.

Quinn opened his eyes to find that Ian was still in his blue flannel pajamas with a robe over them, and another on the bed for Quinn. He gave Quinn a lazy morning smile, which woke him up completely.

"Ready for the day?" Ian spoke quietly in the hush of waking.

Quinn nodded, needing to touch him then. When he sat up, his nose brushed Ian's cheek as both tried to get out on the same side of the bed. The softness of that cheek, along with a hint of whisker, stayed with Quinn throughout the day.

And a full day it was. Family tradition decreed that excess clothing and household goods be given to charity on Christmas Eve. Ian and Quinn volunteered to box the donations, and soon had an efficient system of sorting and packing in place.

After putting the last sweater in the last box, Ian flopped on his bed and grinned up at Quinn. "I'll be glad to see the last of this lot."

"Too bad I couldn't give away some of my things," Quinn said, forehead creased as he sat down beside Ian.

"I don't know about that," said Ian. "How much call d'ya think there is for a sweatshirt that'd fit a polar bear?"

Ian grabbed the offending garment by the waistband and pulled. Unprepared for Ian's playfulness, Quinn pitched forward onto his friend's stomach. Pleasantly startled, Quinn allowed himself to savor Ian's firm heat for a moment before pushing up. The mischief in Ian's eyes was a perfect match for his own.

That night, Ian's parents went to sleep well before the young men grew tired. They padded down to the tree in their robes, and found the Christmas presents they'd gotten each other, momentarily distracted by the gingerbread men Jo had left on a plate by the hearth.

Taking the cookies and gifts to the couch, they curled up under the brown quilt, and opened one another's presents at the same time. Quinn had gotten Ian a medieval book of hours in a slipcase, and Ian had given him tubes of watercolor paint imported from Switzerland.

A hug became the most natural thing in the world then. The quilt grew even warmer when they pressed against each other under the soft material. More grateful at the excuse for an embrace than for his gift, Quinn basked in the closeness. Ian's strong arms snugged around Quinn's waist; Quinn could feel the flex of his muscles even through layers of flannel.

Quinn rested his head on Ian's shoulder, savoring his scent of sweetness and sweat. He might have fallen asleep there in the comfort of his friend's arms, if not for the sublime pleasure of Ian surrounding him.

"Quinn," Ian said, as softly as he'd woken Quinn up that morning. "I think I already know what you want to tell me."

Now thoroughly awake, Quinn stared into Ian's eyes, hoping to find a spark twin to his own and succeeding. Greatly daring, he kissed Ian's mussed hair. Quinn looked down at his face, where a radiant smile showed him the kiss was desired.

This gave him the courage he needed to push the words out. "I love you, Ian."

Though it seemed impossible, Ian's smile grew in brilliance. "I love you, Quinn."

Quinn shyly pressed his lips to Ian's, making their words tangible. Ian's mouth was as soft as those words, and reiterated them. The spice from their snack grew spicier as the kiss consumed them both.

Quinn woke up to realize that the kiss had become satisfyingly real. He opened one eye to find his professorial Ian on an elbow, right hand in Quinn's hair, his mouth even more spicy than in the dream.

Dreams might be seductive, but Quinn would never pass up his cherished reality.