(no subject)
Title: Chin On Your Knees
Pairing: Tim Kasher/Conor Oberst
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: "You finished the song with your chin on your knees like you belong." - Los Campesinos!, "International Tweexcore Underground"
Summary: The usual prose about drunken first kisses.
Word Count: 622
Disclaimer
Notes: For __didntthinkso and _poetic_harlot_. Not as bad as I'd thought it could be.
Conor's sitting on the side of the stage, when you play at a club in downtown Omaha, and he's watching, smiling. He's watching you. He's hugging his knees to his chest, his chin resting on his kneecaps, and he's got this dreamy smile.
If Justin knew how bad you wanted his kid brother, you think you'd get a serious talking to. Or maybe you'd get beat up. Or hell, maybe he'd approve.
You think you might have to talk to Justin about it, because even though his kid brother's fifteen and you're twenty, you want to hold him close and keep him safe.
Matt's introducing the next song, your last song, and you go and steal Jenny's tambourine from where it's sitting on your amp. You hold it out to Conor, help him up.
All your friends are smiling as he keeps rhythm and dances with you, his skin only paler under the unbearably bright lights, and he throws his head back as he laughs.
---
At the afterparty - really just a handful of people in the Obersts' basement, the parents gone, and a few bottles of this and that - Conor curls up on the couch. You sit next to him.
"You did good," you tell him, words a little slurred.
He's holding a beer, and he blushes. "Thanks," he says. You ruffle his hair, and your arm drops around his shoulders. He smiles, and leans into your side, and the two of you pass out like that.
---
By the time you actually kiss, he's sixteen. He's drunk in your apartment, and giggling over the fact that you've just spilled whiskey on your shirt. And he's kinda pawing at it, telling you, "Just take it off, Tim, 's no big deal."
And you snort, and you do, and then his hand is on your chest, thin fingers spread over your heart. His fingers are cold, and you cover his hand with your own, instinctively. He's stopped laughing.
"Tim," he says softly, "I think I really like you."
"I really like you too," you tell him. His mouth is small and flushed; he's always worrying away at his lips with his teeth. You want to kiss him.
You justify it like this.
One. Matt and Justin have seen him make out with Blake, at a party. Blake did not get a black eye. In fact, you don't think you've ever seen them hit anyone who Conor's kissed. They're your best friends, they trust you not to hurt him.
Two. You won't sleep with the kid. Not tonight. He is too fragile, too small, and he means more to you than the other boys and girls you've slept with. And, and no, telling you to take your shirt off was not him trying to seduce you, it was just common sense.
Three. Young as he is, he is your closest friend. And love, making out, you're supposed to do that with friends, with people you trust, and you trust no one if you don't trust him.
When you're halfway through number four, he huffs. "For fuck's sake -" He mutters, and then pushes his lips against yours. He tastes like whisky, and a little like the apple slices he was eating earlier. He pulls back after a moment, and he looks a little less sure.
"Wait," he says, nervous. "You did mean. That. You like... like like me, right?"
And his words are so young, so sixteen (or maybe six), and you laugh, and pull him close. "Conor," you start, and then give up on words. You kiss him, softer, more gently than he kissed you, and you wish you could communicate just how much you like him.
He relaxes visibly, lets out a happy little sigh. "Well," he says simply, putting his head on your bare shoulder, "that's good then."
Pairing: Tim Kasher/Conor Oberst
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: "You finished the song with your chin on your knees like you belong." - Los Campesinos!, "International Tweexcore Underground"
Summary: The usual prose about drunken first kisses.
Word Count: 622
Disclaimer
Notes: For __didntthinkso and _poetic_harlot_. Not as bad as I'd thought it could be.
Conor's sitting on the side of the stage, when you play at a club in downtown Omaha, and he's watching, smiling. He's watching you. He's hugging his knees to his chest, his chin resting on his kneecaps, and he's got this dreamy smile.
If Justin knew how bad you wanted his kid brother, you think you'd get a serious talking to. Or maybe you'd get beat up. Or hell, maybe he'd approve.
You think you might have to talk to Justin about it, because even though his kid brother's fifteen and you're twenty, you want to hold him close and keep him safe.
Matt's introducing the next song, your last song, and you go and steal Jenny's tambourine from where it's sitting on your amp. You hold it out to Conor, help him up.
All your friends are smiling as he keeps rhythm and dances with you, his skin only paler under the unbearably bright lights, and he throws his head back as he laughs.
---
At the afterparty - really just a handful of people in the Obersts' basement, the parents gone, and a few bottles of this and that - Conor curls up on the couch. You sit next to him.
"You did good," you tell him, words a little slurred.
He's holding a beer, and he blushes. "Thanks," he says. You ruffle his hair, and your arm drops around his shoulders. He smiles, and leans into your side, and the two of you pass out like that.
---
By the time you actually kiss, he's sixteen. He's drunk in your apartment, and giggling over the fact that you've just spilled whiskey on your shirt. And he's kinda pawing at it, telling you, "Just take it off, Tim, 's no big deal."
And you snort, and you do, and then his hand is on your chest, thin fingers spread over your heart. His fingers are cold, and you cover his hand with your own, instinctively. He's stopped laughing.
"Tim," he says softly, "I think I really like you."
"I really like you too," you tell him. His mouth is small and flushed; he's always worrying away at his lips with his teeth. You want to kiss him.
You justify it like this.
One. Matt and Justin have seen him make out with Blake, at a party. Blake did not get a black eye. In fact, you don't think you've ever seen them hit anyone who Conor's kissed. They're your best friends, they trust you not to hurt him.
Two. You won't sleep with the kid. Not tonight. He is too fragile, too small, and he means more to you than the other boys and girls you've slept with. And, and no, telling you to take your shirt off was not him trying to seduce you, it was just common sense.
Three. Young as he is, he is your closest friend. And love, making out, you're supposed to do that with friends, with people you trust, and you trust no one if you don't trust him.
When you're halfway through number four, he huffs. "For fuck's sake -" He mutters, and then pushes his lips against yours. He tastes like whisky, and a little like the apple slices he was eating earlier. He pulls back after a moment, and he looks a little less sure.
"Wait," he says, nervous. "You did mean. That. You like... like like me, right?"
And his words are so young, so sixteen (or maybe six), and you laugh, and pull him close. "Conor," you start, and then give up on words. You kiss him, softer, more gently than he kissed you, and you wish you could communicate just how much you like him.
He relaxes visibly, lets out a happy little sigh. "Well," he says simply, putting his head on your bare shoulder, "that's good then."