hot, drunk, and FUNNY., tag; oli babyyyy.

[Dorian Obsidian Vaughn]

There were things in life that even Dorian couldn't figure out, no matter how many hours he sat at his piano, staring blankly at the keys. Even when a chord would blast from beneath his fingertips and he would thunder away for a few minutes, this wasn't solved. It wasn't an uncommon thing, his turning to music to help in understanding Isla Vance - it was also common knowledge that nothing he played helped even slightly.

It was times like these - and any other time that he had an excuse, actually - that Dorian turned to his best friend. Oliver rarely got involved enough with girls to have problems with them, and while Dorian really respected that, he couldn't find himself to share the lifestyle. Being quite terrified of, ahem, accidents, he avoids one-nighters and the like. Still, despite their different lifestyles, Dorian had always deeply appreciated Oliver's friendship, and he was fairly confident that the feeling was mutual, since everyone knew that Oliver could be friends with whomever he wanted. Still, he was pretty sure that Oliver trusted him more than others, and if he didn't... well, he didn't want to know, because as far as our dear little musician was concerned, Oli was his best friend.

It was close to midnight. And by close to midnight I mean that it was actually about two in the morning, but it was also a Saturday night, so Dorian was confident that whichever girl Oliver had slept with had already wrapped up (ignore the pun) and gone on to her next call. He was also confident that Oliver would still be awake and hopefully (or perhaps not) dressed again. Regardless, Dorian made his way across the city to Oliver's place, far to distressed to care if he interrupted something. Surely Oliver would understand how very, very dire the situation was.

A bottle of vodka held in his left hand, Dorian finally located the door and raised his right hand, pounding on the surface of the door and taking a deep breath. "Oliiiiiiiiiii!" He called, leaning his face against the door. "Let me in, ho!"

[Oliver Joseph Ottenberg]

He still wasn't quite sure if he'd just had sex. And it completely wasn't his fault - jetlag was a reasonable excuse for falling asleep, surely? And it had hardly been down to him that Joceline had decided to drop him a message twenty minutes after he'd got home from Dubai. And you could definately get jetlagged even if you'd only been away for a weekend, whatever she said. Joceline is an idiot, he decided. The furthest away she's been is, a pondering moment, that time he'd taken her to San Francisco because he was drunk and she was bored and they were both sick of the miserable weather. Pah!. Well, at least no-one could say he was judgmental. And anyway, what sort of guy would intentionally fall asleep? Stupid, stupid Joceline. He'd get the driver to take her home - and the porter to never let her back in.

If nothing else, though, her angry silence allowed him half an hours peace - time enough to mix a rum and coke and turn on some very softcore porn - before she made her own way out. He'd only found out when she'd slammed the door loudly (presumably in the hope that he'd follow, as if she'd be so lucky), in response to which he phoned down to the doorman. He answered on the first ring. "The woman who just left? Yes, if you could...well, y'know. I'd be most grateful...". Being 'grateful' to what he, in all his insufferably arrogance, considered 'the little people' was the closest Oliver got to kindness.

After scowering the TV guide for a few minutes, he changed onto some lame game-show channel, on which some badly dressed Japanese people played a bizarre game involving space hoppers, and settled back into the suede sofa, drink almost spilling from his hand. Joceline's absence would allow him to catch up on some desperately needed sleep, or so he believed, until someone began to slam their fist on the door of his apartment. Bugger, bugger, bugger them (certainly literally, once he realised it was Dorian).
"Sorry, who is it?" He asked jokingly as he made his way towards the front door, pulling his black bathrobe a little tighter around his body. Pulling the door open, he raised his eyebrows at the walking personification of alcoholism and melancholy before him. "It's just going to be one of those nights...

[Dorian Obsidian Vaughn]

Dorian had gotten used to Oliver answering the door in his bath robe, and he knew full well that it meant that he had been correct in assuming that the very pissy looking woman in the foyer had slept with him. This caused him to smirk as he stepped past Oliver into the apartment, pushing the bottle of vodka into Oliver's hands whether he wanted it or not. "She looked pissed, by the way. You may consider sending flowers in the morning." He mumbled as he stalked into the living room and promptly threw himself to the floor in front of the television.

Curling up, he lay on his side for a second before rolling onto his back and stretching out. "I can't take it, man," he huffed, throwing an arm over his eyes in an overdramatic expression of his vexation. Instead of launching into a girl rant, however, Dorian simply laid there for several long minutes before rolling back onto his side and peering over at the television. "What the fuck, Oli?" Shifting, he sat up a bit, squinting at the television. A single, dark eyebrow quirked before he turned to look over at Oliver.

"Do you have any orange juice?" He asked, scratching at the back of his neck as he contemplated the vodka that he had unceremoniously shoved at Oliver.

[Oliver Joseph Ottenberg]

Oliver shrugged as the vodka bottle was shoved towards him and accepted it (something in lieu of rent?), taking a swig.
"She looked pissed, by the way. You may consider sending flowers in the morning," Dorian told him, and he shrugged again. "Somehow, I don't think even that would repair it. But hey!" The jocular attitude wasn't even slightly faked - he hardly cared at all, and was in fact grateful for the oppurtunity to spend time with his slightly hero-worshipping best friend.

Ignoring Dorian's somewhat half-hearted lament, he added some of the vodka to his rum and coke, and took a sip of the revolting concoction. "Don't be fucking ridiculous, dear. OJ? Here? Do I look like your grandmother?" He hoped not. "I really think you need to get laid," he told his friend matter-of-factly, and decided not to mention his earlier jetlagged casualty. "What's your bitch done this time?" He asked. Only 10% sarcasm.

i write crap, i write crap, i write crap, i write crap.

[Dorian Obsidian Vaughn]

Huffing, Dorian rolled his eyes. It didn't surprise him that Oliver wasn't going to make amends, but he decided to spare him the lecture. God knew he had tried enuogh in the past and knew better than to waste his time.

Don't be fucking ridiculous, dear. OJ? Here? Do I look like your grandmother?"
"You bloody lame ass." He grumbled, shoulders slumping. He wasn't usually one to drink straight vodka, but the bottle had obviously been tapped into on his way over, and now the musician could think of nothing but getting the taste out of his mouth. "Tastes like shit by itself," he pouted, then contemplated Oliver's next statement.

"I really think you need to get laid,"..."What's your bitch done this time?"
Half-heartedly glaring at Oliver, he pressed his lips together. "I'm not even going to go there. I'm not knocking some girl up so she can fuck up the rest of my career, dude, and if you were smart you'd be careful too." Rising, he stretched his arms up over his head, only satisfied when his back popped. "I ran into her at the park. Brought her back to my place." He began, pacing around the room and heading over to a window, which he peered out of. "I played for her, but nothing happened. I don't know what the hell... I mean, I ended it, but she makes me feel so fucking guilty about it all. Just by... existing. By showing up at Central Park. She made me feel like scum again." Looking over at Oliver, he shoved his hands into his back pockets. "Am I scum?"

[Oliver Joseph Ottenberg]

"I'm not even going to go there. I'm not knocking some girl up so she can fuck up the rest of my career, dude, and if you were smart you'd be careful too...she made me feel like scum again. Am I scum?"

Oliver hesitated. Had he not been a little more drunk, and therefore a little more sensitive, his response would immediately have been a jovial 'yes', and had he been a little more drunk, 'no'. That inbetween land of not-quite-wasted was more trouble than it was worth - and to remedy the situation, he took another gulp of the vodka, and shivered at the burn as he swallowed. Instead of comforting his best friend, he narrowed his eyes. "I am SO careful, okay!"

He paused, and tried to think of something a little more generous - but generosity wasn't quite his strong point. The fact was, Dorian was not scum, had never been scum, and never would be scum. In fact, if anyone was scum, it was the evil cow who made him feel like scum - or maybe the best friend who didn't tell him he wasn't scum. "I know this sounds harsh," did anything he said not sound harsh? "But you really need to get over her. It's not healthy. It's weird. And it's screwing you up. If anyone's going to screw you around, it's going to be me, or at least someone almost as attractive as me. Not some stupid girl who thinks she can mess around with you." Speech and eloquence over, Oliver collapsed onto the sofa and took another swig of his drink. "And, seriously, I mean, you've got me, you've got friends. What's so great about her anyway?!"

[Dorian Obsidian Vaughn]

"I know this sounds harsh, but you really need to get over her. It's not healthy. It's weird. And it's screwing you up. If anyone's going to screw you around, it's going to be me, or at least someone almost as attractive as me. Not some stupid girl who thinks she can mess around with you. And, seriously, I mean, you've got me, you've got friends. What's so great about her anyway?!"

Dorian watched him drink the vodka and listened to what he said, but he didn't respond for a few minutes after Oliver's little schpiel. A smile tugged on his face at the end, and Dorian was half tempted to move over and snuggle up next to Oliver just to add to it all. Instead he laughed faintly, shaking his head. "It's my own fault, though. She doesn't even do anything. It's just... it's just the fact that she exists, y'know?" Remaining at the window for a minute, he then walked over and took the seat next to Oliver, reaching over to pluck the bottle from his hand. Stealing a short swig of the offensive liquid, he promptly handed it back, making a face.

"And God damn you, you need to keep orange juice around here. How am I supposed to drink too if you don't keep orange juice? Jesus Christ." He coughed after he swallowed, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Sighing, he slumped back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. "I kissed her," Dorian admitted, sighing and closing his eyes. "And I know that's nothing to you, but fuck, man... Fuck." Opening his eyes, he turned his head to look over at Oliver, crinkling his nose. "I cuss a lot when I'm around you."

[Oliver Joseph Ottenberg]

"It's my own fault, though. She doesn't even do anything. It's just... it's just the fact that she exists, y'know? And God damn you, you need to keep orange juice around here. How am I supposed to drink too if you don't keep orange juice? Jesus Christ..I kissed her, and I know that's nothing to you, but fuck, man... Fuck. I cuss a lot when I'm around you."

"There's some coke in the fridge," Oliver offered, then ran his hands through his hair. He was shit at knowing what to say in response to emotional outbursts. They just didn't occur in his world, and this whole conversation left him wanting to turn around and scream at Dorian to get the fuck over it, less because he was pissed with his friend, and more because...he didn't even know why. Maybe it was because girls like Isla clearly didn't need or deserve guys like Dorian. "Dude, I'm not drunk enough for this. All I can say is, I don't know, get over her, do her, make her cry, forget her, find someone else - maybe not all of those and almost certainly not in that order. But she's not going to love you for being so damn indecisive. Girls like guys who are all like, cavalier and wild and cool and don't give a damn. You, my friend, definately give a damn." He had half a mind to go make the evil cow cry herself. Anyone but Dorian, man. It wasn't fair. He was mentally, like, six. It was like bullying the kid on (emotional) crutches. No-one did that.