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Current Music:Thom Yorke- After The Gold Rush (Neil Young Cover)
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Subject:Time To Cut It Off
Time:05:06 pm
Current Mood:accomplishedbirthday!
Title: Time To Cut It Off
Pairing: Carl Barat/Conor Oberst
Rating: PG-13 at the most. :/ No porn this time, sorry.
Summary: Somehow Conor Oberst ended up drunk on Carl's kitchen floor. He's not sure how.
Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure these two have never ever met, let alone made out. Which is sad.
Author's Note: A silly birthday present for mresundance! Many happen returns, Jesse, sorry there's no cock. ♥

"The thing is," Carl starts, and hiccups, and has to start again. "The thing is."

"The thing is you're drunk," Conor says. He's sitting on the floor across from Carl, and even though he's leaning against the cupboard door, he's swaying a little. That, and the fact that he doesn't seem as nervous as usual, are the only clues that he's not totally sober himself. "That's what the thing is."

Carl is pretty sure that's not the thing. "No," he says, and takes a long swig out of the wine bottle. They'd been using glasses at one point, but then Conor broke his and Carl's had rolled away somewhere and, well, it was easier to drink out of the bottle like total barbarians than go to all the trouble of getting new cups from the top shelf. Especially since Carl usually has to stand on a chair to do it. He's not sure he'd be able to keep his balance if he stood on a chair now.

"The thing is," he says, straightening. He remembers now. Kind of. "The thing is. Um. The thing is. Jim Morrison."

Conor giggles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It's kind of cute. Carl tries not to think about it too hard, though, because it might make him cross-eyed. "Jim Morrison isn't a thing," he says. "'S a singer. He's dead, too."

"Yeah, I know, but look- thing about Jim Morrison is- is he was a poet, right? Drunken poet. Drunken American poet. Like you."

Conor makes a face but smiles anyway. Americans like being compared to Jim Morrison, Carl thinks. They can't help it.

"But Paul Simon," he begins, and Carl groans.

"Stop talking about bloody Paul Simon! And don't give me that Neil Young either, not again. Jim. Jim Morrison, alright, listen. When he sang 'Break On Through' it was fucking... fucking transcendental, right?" Carl has a little trouble with that word, so he says it again, more slowly. "Trans-cen-den-tal. 'I found an island in your arms and a country in your eyes.' It's like-" Conor nods fervently to everything he says and reaches out and grasps Carl's knee with one hand and there's nothing wrong with that, nothing at all, except Carl has had a lot to drink and it throws him a bit off-balance and he slips sideways onto the floor. He takes Conor with him somehow and he starts giggling away, his elbows digging into Carl's ribcage.

Carl is on his back staring at the ceiling. It is not, he decides, a particularly dignified position to be in.

"Why," he asks of his ceiling fan, "am I here?"

"That's deep," Conor says, but his face is mashed into Carl's stomach and it comes out muffled and distorted and far away. Carl shoves at him, but he clings.

"Not like that," Carl says. "I mean why am I here, drunk on my kitchen floor, with you?"

Conor looks at him. There's laughter still in his voice and he's smiling broadly, but his eyes look big and sad. Maybe they always look that way. Maybe that's just his face. "You remember," he says. His fingers dig a little into Carl's ribs. It hurts a little, like a cat kneading with its claws out. "We were at that party in 2004, in New York-"

"Whose party? We don't know the same people. I'd remember going to a party with your people. All sad boys and... and girls in quilted skirts. And boots. Why do your people wear those fucking boots?"

"It wasn't that kind of party."

"I mean it's not as if they even look good."

Conor does not respond to that, and he is slightly miffed. It is a totally valid question. "And I didn't know many people there and you hated the music-"

"Oh, fuck," Carl says, memory hitting him like a hammer with a vendetta. "Was that the one where they were playing that humps song over and over?"

"That's the one."

"I was trying to suppress that memory," Carl tells him, a little sourly. Conor grins. He has not, Carl notices, gotten up yet.

"And we ended up on the same couch and you got drunk and told me all about that dude who, like, broke your heart," he continues. "That was how you said it, by the way. 'Broke me 'eart.'" His imitation of a British accent sounds more like a Dickensian orphan than Carl. "It was cute."

"I did fucking not!" Carl objects.

"You did. And then you wrote your phone number on my neck and told me to call you if I was ever in England."

"And four years later you decide to take me up on the offer?"

Conor shrugs. "I was in town. It's been a while. Your apartment is a fucking mess, by the way."

Carl tries to cuff him around the ear, but ends up bashing his knuckles against a wall instead. This is clearly due to the planets being aligned in his disfavour and not at all to the fact that he's pissed out of his skull. "Rude boy."

"And then I called you," Conor says. "And you said that you just broke up with your girl, and I decided it was time to get drunk on the couch again."

"Floor," Carl corrects him.

"Whatever. Anyway, here I am." Conor looks at him close, drumming his fingers on his chest. He shifted at some point and now he's half on top of Carl, one bare foot hooked around his ankle. Carl feels like he maybe should have seen that happen. Then he thinks that maybe he did and just didn't say anything. "Are you really leaving your band?" he asks, and he's almost whispering, like it's a secret. Like there's anyone around to hear... anything.

He nods. "Yeah."

"Why?"

Carl can't think of anything less maudlin or more true than what he says. "Because it's time. Like with Annalisa. It's time to cut it off."

Conor nods, looks thoughtful. Maybe a little sad, too. But again, that could just be his face. "Are you gonna-"

"No," Carl says. He knows what the question's going to be. What the question always is. "No, not with Pete. That can't happen again. That's done."

Even though he wanted it to. Even though he hoped that maybe this time it'd be different. It couldn't.

Conor nods, reaches up as though to push his hair out of his eyes. There's not that much to push anymore- it had been long when Carl saw him last, an unruly mop that hid half his face, but now it's short like a regular boy's. A regular boy who does not get drunk with Carl Barat and climb on top of him on his kitchen floor. "Good," he says, softly, carefully, and kisses him. He tastes like cheap wine and nothing at all.

His body is surprised, although his mind isn't really. There's a certain part of him that has never grown past thirteen and it still gets still and silent when he is kissed, like it can't believe it's actually happening. That part of him is totally willing to go along with it, though, and the rest of him is drunk enough to think this is a good idea, and he is enjoying Conor's mouth and Conor's tongue and the breathy little noises he makes when Carl slips his hands under his shirt and touches his skin when he remembers they had been talking about something and bursts out, "Jim Morrison!"

Conor looks down at him, blinking. "Uh," he says. "Not exactly?"

"No, no, Jim Morrison, I was saying something about him and how he... um... poetry and, and decadence and the American dream and. And. Fuck."

Conor ducks his head when he smiles sometimes. It's something that Carl has noticed before, though he's never noticed how much he likes it 'til now. "I think it's time to cut you off."

He glares at him. "You kissed me," he says accusingly. "Now I'm all off my head."

Conor nods solemnly. "I did," he says, and leans closer until his mouth is an inch or two away. It's a good mouth, a soft, shy-looking thing. It's a good mouth to kiss. "Is that bad?"

"No," Carl admits after a minute, and Conor does that little smile and when he kisses him this time Carl is ready for it and it's Conor who pulls away first, a little flushed, a little, hah, bright-eyed.

"You know," he says, "when I came over here I was going to get you drunk on a couch. It was a very specific plan."

"I have a couch," Carl says. "It's in the living room. Smells a bit, though."

He looks down at him, bites his lip, and asks, "Is it roomy?"

"Fairly."

Conor pulls him to his feet, only wobbling a little. "Come on," he says, pulling him through the door. "Oh, and hey, before I forget, do you want to know something about Neil Young?"

"Not really."

He ducks his head and smiles again in a sort of bashful, mischievous way, and Carl decides that this is a good idea all on its own. A very, very good idea. "Too bad."
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mresundance
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-04 10:10 pm (UTC)
Neil Young enshrined in fic. Albeit, he's not making out with Stephen Stills or anything, but still. It's quiet something to have him, Carl, and Conor all within spitting distance of each other.

AND OH DRUNK CARL. THIS IS SO DRUNK CARL. YES. YES INDEEDY. THIS IS DRUNK CARL.

And sly Conor pulling some seduction on drunk!Carl. SO CUTE. OMG.

EEEEE.

*dolphin noises*

Also, I am in love with this: He tastes like cheap wine and nothing at all.

HOLY SIMILIES BATMAN. I WISH I HAD THUNK OF THAT ONE FIRST.

*more stranges noises*

OMG, THANK YOU S'MORE AND AGAIN! This was a totally awesome birthday treat. Plus the Harem.

*SNOGS*

:DDDDDDDD
(Reply) (Thread)


ishyface
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-04 10:47 pm (UTC)
I AM SO GLAD YOU LIKE IT.

BUT THOSE HAD BETTER BE PLATONIC SNOGS YOUNG MAN.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)


mresundance
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 04:29 am (UTC)
MOST DEF.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)


mresundance
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 04:30 am (UTC)
OMFG BARAK OBAMA IS PRESIDENT. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

*CONFETTI*

FUCK YEAH.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)


ishyface
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 06:14 am (UTC)
TEAM AMERICA

FUCK YEAH
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)


naanie
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 01:07 am (UTC)
This is funny, I like it.
(Reply) (Thread)


ishyface
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 06:14 am (UTC)
Thanks!
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)


lara_aine
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-05 02:08 pm (UTC)
*Squee* Conor/Carl is sort of my secret OTP.

So pretty *paws*
(Reply) (Thread)


villey
Link:(Link)
Time:2008-11-06 06:46 pm (UTC)
Best idea ever!

God...they make a hot pairing.
(Reply) (Thread)


alicedawkins
Link:(Link)
Time:2011-10-22 07:56 pm (UTC)
Oh my fucking god, I don't know if you still visit here, but holy shit, I love Conor and I've always wanted to see fics abt him, but I always thought it would be...I don't know, disrespectful? I've always been afraid to search for Conor fic, cause I thought it was probably gonna be bad!fic written by angsty teenagers, with a really badly written Conor, who would be a walking cliché, and then I actually said ''What the hell?'' and searched for Conor slash, and couldn't find any, and was actually a little relieved (and I think I never used so many commas on a sentence before).

And then I stumble upon this. THIS! This is perfection! It's funny and light, and they're literally the two most gorgeous men in the world, in my opinion. Thank you so much for this!
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