Wide Awake and Dreaming
Title: Wide Awake and Dreaming
Author: bello_romantico, Kat, or just me!
Rating: Perhaps 14A?
Warnings: Some kissing and language
Summary: In a dark hotel room, Paul and John dream the very same dream.
Wide Awake and Dreaming
John Lennon and Paul McCartney lie on the floor of yet another hotel room; limbs sprawled and glazed eyes gazing up at the ceiling. Their precious joints have long since been smoked and silly smiles stretch across their faces - Paul’s plump lips wear a joyous, goofy grin and John’s thin ones are perched crookedly on his face in a cheeky smirk. The lights have been shut off for a reason that had made perfect sense in their foggy minds an hour ago and little by little, the twists of shapes and colors before their eyes have faded away, leaving a simple floating sensation in their veins. The colored smoke in their minds hasn’t yet fully disappeared and they feel as weightless and high as clouds in the sky.
Paul rolls onto his side, looking over at John with hooded eyes. The bassist nudges his friend with clumsy fingers and whispers, “John… Hey, John…”
The guitarist grunts, swatting in a disoriented manner at Paul’s hand, and shifts his body so that he is facing his friend. Paul is still grinning from ear to ear, his big brown eyes shining dreamily. “Yeah?” asks John, voice sounding far away to his ears.
Paul opens his mouth, readies his vocal cords for words, but collapses into giggles. Hiding his face behind his skilled hands, he chokes out, “No! I can’t… I can’t say!
John frowns, confused by his friend’s high-pitched giggles, but soon finds them funny. Laughing, he reaches over with hands that feel heavier than usual and pries the bassist’s fingers away from his face. “What’re you on about?” asks John, words blurred
Paul shakes his head, a crimson flush creeping into his cheeks and John notices this with a snort - it was usually girls who blushed! The bassist giggles again and murmurs, “I can’t tell you - you’ll think I’m being stupid.”
“Try me,” challenges John with a tilt of his angled chin, “I’ll tell you if you’re being stupid or not.”
Paul laughs, vision a little hazy, but his face falls serious abruptly. He quiets and he looks quite alert for a moment, something sparking a memory. He leans in confidentially and John imitates his songwriting partner. “I’ve wanted to tell you this for a long time now,” confides the bassist with an honest pursing of his lips.
John is all the more intrigued and he replies encouragingly, “Well go on then - tell me!” Settling himself into a comfortable position on the floor with his head supported by his hands, he looks positively delighted - Paul is going to tell him a secret
The younger man still looks worried and keeps shaking his head from side to side, gaze fixated on the floor with a frown knitting his eyebrows. “My un-stoned self wouldn’t be happy if my stoned self told you… He wouldn’t be happy with me at all… Disappoint - or, no. Embarrassed - he’d be embarrassed,” mumbles Paul, talking to both himself and John.
John laughs loudly, waving this worry away with a sweep of his hand. “We’re not stoned!” he exclaims brightly, smiling with a scoff, “We’re dreaming!”
This brilliant insight coaxes Paul’s gaze from the ground, a quizzical crease between his brows. “Are we really?” he asks curiously, interested in this theory.
“O’ course!” replies the guitarist airily, “I feel like I’m dreaming… Don’ you? I’ve got that kinda light feeling in my head and my toes and my hands…” He wiggles his fingers for effect, raising his eyebrows as if to say, ‘See?’
The bassist copies his best friend and notes in awe how the little muscles in his fingers feel as light as feathers, his hands so light they might just melt into the air… “Me too!” exclaims Paul, delighting in this shared symptom, eyes riveted on the motions of his fingers.
John nods knowingly, tucking his chin into the palms of his hands again. “In that case,” he concludes knowledgeably, “since this is all a dream, we can do anything we bloody want to.”
The older man watches realization slowly dawn on his band mate’s face, a light sparking in the bassist’s brown eyes. “Yeah…” he breathes, “Yeah… You’re right!”
The guitarist smiles a toothy grin, feeling quite satisfied with himself. “So,” he prompts, “what’s your secret, Paulie?"
Paul sighs and presses his lips together, thinking very hard, his eyes shifting, unseeing, from side to side nervously. A part of him knows that he shouldn’t be doing this, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “You’re sure this isn’t real?” asks the bassist carefully, “You’re sure you won’t remember any of this?” Paul’s mouth hangs open a bit after his last question and he is breathing deeply - his large front teeth peak out shyly from behind his slightly parted lips. John notes in a faraway place that he loves Paul’s big teeth.
Nodding vigorously and putting the ‘Paul’s teeth mental note’ aside, John wants to reassure his friend that they are safely dreaming this whole entire thing. How else could they feel this way? Besides, John can distinctly remember falling asleep… At least, he thinks he can… No matter - surely they’re asleep.
“Positive,” affirms John and he adds, “I’m in your dream, so I’m just a figment of your imagination… I won’t remember a thing!” He snorts as he says this in an attempt at being blasé, but ends up sounding congested.
This seems to please Paul because he smiles gratefully and nods to himself, muttering faintly. “Just a dream is all it is… That’s all…” Looking up, Paul reaches a decision. Scooting closer, he smiles dazzlingly and breathes, “Okay, I’ll tell you!” It looks like he’s looking forward to this as much as John.
John comes closer, waiting excitedly. For a moment, they both just look at each other - Paul’s smile fades to a wistful grin, scanning John’s face thoughtfully - thoroughly - while the guitarist twiddles his thumbs, patiently awaiting his best friend’s wonderful secret.
Paul drops his gaze with a nervous laugh, a funny feeling stirring in his stomach - nerves? This is just a dream, he tells himself, you’re not even really talking to John… You’re talking to dream-John. Paul’s heart rate calms a little and he finally starts.
“A few months ago,” begins the bassist and, before he can continue, John claps his hands gleefully - this sounds like a story! Paul smiles weakly and pushes on, “We were writing a song - I can’ remember which one it was now - but I remember I was watching you play your guitar.”
John smiles broadly - he likes this story… so far, it’s about him. “Go on,” urges the older man eagerly, eyebrows arching encouragingly, “A bloody good secret, this is!”
Paul pauses momentarily - as if catching himself and realizing what he is about to say - but keeps going nonetheless. “You were playing guitar and I was plunking away on the piano, but I remember I got all caught up in your fingers and the way you were playing…” Paul’s voice drops to nearly a whisper, “I couldn’t stop watching your hands… Beautiful, they were.” At this point, he isn’t even looking at John anymore; he’s gazing at some spot on the floor as if the moment is being replayed there. Curiously, John looks there too. Snapping his head up, Paul looks at John who’s now returning his gaze and a very real - very un-dreamlike - wave of nausea - like he’s just done something very wrong - hits him like a piano dropping on his head.
This feeling causes him to stumble and stop his story. “And… Well… yeah,” concludes the bassist awkwardly. Suddenly, his body doesn’t feel light anymore, but heavy - incredibly heavy, like the air suddenly has a mass it’s all crushing down on him. He wonders if John is feeling this sudden weight pressing down on him too, but his friend looks blissfully oblivious. Soothed somewhat by his friend’s calm expression, Paul lets the next words spill out of him before he can stop them, “And, ever since then, I haven’t been able to stop noticing little things about you that… I really like.”
The oxygen in the room triples in its weight and Paul is surprised he’s not being crushed into the floor by this point. Heat - suffocating, stifling heat - creeps into Paul’s blood and it mounts to his cheeks, making them burn a flaming red. Should he be feeling this way in a dream…?
John, not picking up on any of Paul’s embarrassment, takes his friend’s confession as a lovely compliment. “Well, thank ya, Paulie,” he coos, reaching over to ruffle his friend’s hair. “That’s a really nice secret…
Paul pushes John’s hand out of his hair, not sure if he’s enjoying this dream anymore… John isn’t taking him seriously. “That’s not my… whole secret,” murmurs the bassist, eyes dropping back to the floor again, unsure of whether or not he should continue.
“There’s more?” asks John incredulously, eyes riveted on Paul.
The sinking sensation in Paul’s gut seems to grow with each passing second, but his tongue feels so loose and open that he wouldn’t be able to keep any secrets locked inside him even if he tried. Telling John these things - these things Paul knows real-Paul would never tell real-John - is making him feel sick, but he can’t seem to find a way to lie. His brain isn’t working right for some reason…
“I - uh,” mumbles Paul, ducking his gaze, not daring to look into those chocolate eyes of John’s that are intimidating - even in this dream of his. “Ever since that time, I’ve… uh, I’ve…”
John is practically bursting at the seams with anticipation. He wrings his hands and throws his head back giddily; unable to guess what it is Paul wants to say. “What?” he cries, “What the fuck is it?”
“I’ve wanted to kiss you.”
The words are blurted out so fast and so softly that it’s a wonder John hears them at all. It is stated like fact, without hesitation - all in one breathless confession. Those five words seem to echo in the silence of the room, bouncing off the walls, never leaving the atmosphere - the air seems to hang onto them, not wanting to let them go. Those six syllables have changed the mood in the hotel suite, everything suddenly quiet and on the edge of something - Paul feels as if he’s balancing on the highest point of a mountain, struggling to keep his balance. John’s smile has vanished and his expression is unreadable. Is he starting to feel that insufferable weight in the air…?
“You’ve wanted to kiss me,” states John blankly - it isn’t a question, but a confirmation that he heard right. Paul secretly burns in shame, thinking that somewhere along the road this has turned into a nightmare, but can’t deny it. He nods.
The older man frowns in thought, casting his gaze to the floor - that crease in the middle of his eyes forming when he’s concentrating. Paul knows that crease well and, for some reason, it’s on his list of reasons why he wants to kiss John. Even now in his dream, those thin lips he’s watched for months now look so enticing… Involuntarily, Paul opens his mouth to draw an aroused breath.
“Why haven’t you done it already?”
Surprised, Paul tears his gaze away from that mouth and looks up and into John’s eyes. Has he heard right…?
“W-what?” stammers the usually so smooth Beatle.
“This is your dream and so you can do whatever you want.” There’s a fierce glint in the guitarist’s gaze, almost as if he too knows that this might not be a dream and he’s daring Paul to contradict him.
Paul doesn’t. Everything is changing fast and it’s making his heart beat faster, making his entire body throb in time with his pulse, an ache blossoming in his chest and low in his belly. He wets his lips and swallows against his dry throat and mouth before speaking. “You’d let me?” he asks and somewhere in his dizzy head, he hates how tentative he sounds.
“It’s your dream, Paul,” says John seriously, no more smile on his face, “I wouldn’t be able to stop you if I wanted to.”
“I’ll stop if you want me to,” murmurs Paul, not being able to stop himself from pulling closer, gaze riveted by John’s - his anchor in this make believe game they’ll both swear never happened.
“I won’t stop you,” whispers John, eyes half open, “It wouldn’t be fair to ruin your dream.”
Paul drags himself even closer so that his and John’s face are now a breadth apart, the tips of their noses touching. God, yes, thinks Paul hazily, closing his eyes for a brief moment of sweet fulfillment - that small patch of skin on the tip of his nose that touches John’s has spread a current of buzzing tingles through his body, ghosting pleasantly over every square inch of his flesh. When he opens his eyes, John is looking at him, tendrils of his chin length hair sweeping into his face - another simple detail Paul adds to the list of reasons why he wants to kiss him.
Shifting all of his weight onto his right elbow on the floor, Paul brings up his other hand to the side of John’s face, trembling fingers molding instantly to the curve of his cheek and sharp angle of his jaw. John’s face is hot in Paul’s already sweaty hand and it seems to sear through his skin. The feel of the older man flesh elicits a blaze of fire to rip through Paul and he swears he’s seeing stars - bright patches of white passing in front of his eyes. Cursing those stars obscuring his view of John, he blinks furiously - his eyelids feeling strangely lethargic - and draws another labored breath. The whisper of John’s lips so close makes a shudder pass through him and he can’t bring himself to look into his friend’s eyes. Paul knows this has never been a dream.
“Hold still,” breathes Paul, and he feels beads of sweat slipping down the valley between his shoulder blades. When he speaks, the tips of his lips brush John’s and the older man closes his eyes for a moment. Seconds tick by - lazy and suspended - and Paul hovers just a fraction of a millimeter away from touching his lips to John’s - sweet, sweet release from this plaguing desire. They breathe the same air, Paul’s sighs becoming John’s breaths and vice versa - every twitch of muscle in the other’s face is like a shockwave, they’re so close. Daring to glance up and into John’s eyes gazing down at him with a frightening intensity, Paul feels his heart twist - he knows this isn’t a dream either.
“Please don’t move,” whispers Paul raggedly, voice catching dangerously and he closes his eyes, parting his mouth slightly, tilting his head. “It will only be… a few seconds…” he murmurs just before pressing his lips - finally, gloriously - to John’s.
At first, John doesn’t respond and Paul can do nothing but administer long, lingering kisses - light as feathers - to the intoxicating mouth that keeps pulling him back in, the shore to the tide. When John begins catching Paul’s lips with his in tender nips, the younger man’s face screws up in emotion, eyes shut tight, never wanting to open them again. When they part for air between kisses, they draw breath from the other’s sighs and they can’t help but push their mouths together again. They kiss slowly; moans swallowed carefully, whimpers silenced just as they begin in the backs of their throats.
Paul doesn’t dare move his hand from John’s face, knowing that that would be crossing a line and John doesn’t move a hand to brush Paul’s on the floor - they silently build boundaries that will make the transition back to reality easier. Even now, toes are being inched over the line as the shy tips of tongues dart out to trace lower lips. Paul’s heart seems to be jumping up and down, up and down, in his chest, the sensation almost painful.
Neither of them notices the perspiration beading on their foreheads, but they taste the salt of the other’s sweat in their mouths and the aftertaste of pot lurking on the other’s breath. It’s the tang of their joints that they taste at the same time that makes a sobering jolt - a quick, bright flash of clarity - course through their veins. They continue kissing, but their mouths aren’t as pliant as they were seconds ago - the push and pull of lips isn’t as constant as it had been. They both know it’s over before it really ends - a sharp bittersweet taste spreading in their mouths.
Paul crushes his lips to John’s in what he knows will be the last time, his nose squashing into his friend’s, the tightness of a sob at the top of his throat. Their mouths are overlapped so perfectly and they both linger for much too long, deep breaths inhaled greedily through their nostrils, desperately trying to prolong this. Finally, with agonizing slowness, they pull their mouths apart, one point of flesh sticking their bottom lips together for a second, then seperating with a quiet, wet smack.
Filling his lungs with as much oxygen as he can, Paul feels his vision swimming and heart hammering. He doesn’t look up into John’s eyes, because if he does, he’ll kiss him again - he just knows it. Avoiding his friend’s gaze, Paul doesn’t pull away yet; their faces still so temptingly close. “There…” he whispers, “All done.”
“A bit more than a few seconds,” comments John, but the sarcasm isn’t there.
“It’s my dream, isn’t it?” says Paul, wanting to try for a laugh, but not even managing a smile.
John chuckles weakly, the noise barely recognizable as a laugh. “That it is.”
Lying back down on the ground and turning around so that he doesn’t have to face his friend when he wakes up from an actual dream, Paul murmurs into the darkness of the room, “See you when I wake up.”
The bassist hears a rustle of clothing that means John has copied him in lying down and turning away. Closing his eyes and refusing to shed the tears stinging behind his lids, Paul swears he hears John whisper ‘Sweet dreams’ but that could have very easily been a figment of his imagination.
The next morning over breakfast in the hotel dining room, Paul sits in between George and Ringo, eyes riveted inside his slowly draining cup of tea.
The first thing that had greeted Paul when he awoke was the sight of a sleeping John and everything came back to him in a vivid flash of emotion - the damp skin of John’s lips against his and the sweet breath of his sighs in his mouth. Paul had stumbled to his feet with a rush of adrenaline (fear) and gone straight into the bathroom - as far away from his friend as he could get.
The whole morning had been an exercise in avoiding John - averting his gaze from that all-knowing brown one, carefully sidling out of the way when he passed for fear of brushing flesh - and so far he’d been successful.
“Have any nice dreams, lads?” asks John from across the table laden down with plate of food, glasses of orange juice and cups of tea and Paul feels his heart drop into his stomach.
Glancing up from the depths of his drink, the bassist’s wide gaze finds John’s to already be on him. The older man has an unreadable expression on his face - a cryptic, crooked smile on his lips - and Paul feels his heart hammering against the confines of his chest in dread. Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, oh, fuck… He somehow manages to keep his face neutral and weakly shakes his head, staying silent.
“Don’t remember,” mumbles George, shoveling eggs into his mouth, fork clinking loudly against his plate with each eager scrape for food.
Ringo takes a thoughtful sip of his tea. “Not one I plan on sharing,” he answers pleasantly, chuckling before taking another sip. “You, John?”
Paul doesn’t realize how hard he’s gripping the handle of his cup until he feels his hand lose circulation - cold sweat has blossomed on his temple and he labors to keep his breathing even. He’s hanging on John’s every move, wishing - hoping, praying - that he doesn’t say anything… Inevitably, his gaze sinks down to his best friend’s mouth, eliciting a faraway ache, but he wrenches his eyes away in shame.
The guitarist shrugs nonchalantly, that funny smile still on his face. “Had a nice one, I suppose,” he says, voice light.
Paul breathes an internal sigh of relief and goes back to examining the contents of his tea cup.
“Kissed a beautiful bird in mine,” he continues with that same light, lilting tone.
The bassist’s eyes shoot up again, frightened, meeting John’s in a nanosecond. The guitarist lets his smile slide and he quirks his head in a barely noticeable motion, a meaningful look passing between the two that goes unnoticed by the other Beatles. There’s hope in John’s eyes that Paul knows must be mirrored tenfold in his own because a hint of mirth twitches at the older man’s mouth as he stares at the bassist.
“So did I,” says Paul, voice a little horse, speaking for the first time that morning.
George and Ringo glance in his direction, but Paul just shrugs, little somersaults of joy rippling in his stomach, and he goes back to his tea. Suddenly, the sun streaming in through the windows of the room seems a little brighter.
“Maybe you had the same dream,” chortles George before cramming a whole piece of toast into his mouth.
Ringo laughs. “They spend so much bloody time together, they probably did.”
Again, Paul looks up from his tea and into John’s eyes.
“We just might’ve,” murmurs the guitarist with a rare, gentle grin, as warm as sunshine and the honey in Paul’s tea.
Paul smiles for the first time all morning, a bubbling of relieved laughter building in his throat. Eventually, they both go back to their breakfasts and Paul swallows his laughter with the final gulp of his tea, cheeks puffed in a smile.
Something small has just shifted - something much less grand than the Earth shifting off its axis or the currents in the oceans changing direction - but Paul feels it. As he reaches for the blueberry jam, he feels the burn of John’s gaze on him and he catches it with a shiver running up his arms. Yes, something small has just shifted, but not out of place. No, this shift is like a puzzle piece finding its nook or a book slipped back to its rightful place on a shelf - it’s just right. Not new, not out of place, not awkward - right.
Spreading the jam across his piece of toast with even strokes of his knife, Paul’s mind is elsewhere - floating up flights of stairs back to the hotel room he shared with John.
He hopes breathlessly that they dream the same dream again tonight.