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Mar. 18th, 2004 11:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[N'sync] [JC/?] [PG]
Schizophrenic
Author's Note: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
roncha78 at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fic_requests.
You watch him pace, his fingers nervously combing through his hair, over and over again. "What if they hate it?" He bites his thumbnail, distress painted clearly on his face. "What if they reject my album, and send all the copies back?"
"I don't think they're allowed to, babe," it's hard, fighting your laughter like this. It's not funny, it's really not, but JC can paint the strangest scenarios when he gets into his whole paranoid thing. "And I heard nothing but praise about 'Some Girls'."
He glances out the open window, where the moon is blinking, drifting in and out of view from behind the clouds. JC's foot begins to bounce against the floor, and when he pads to sit next to you on the bed, his eyes are bright and there's a smile on his face.
"People like my music," he says quietly, like it's some kind of revelation. "They wanna hear more. Just. I can't fucking wait for tomorrow to be here." His hands are still clenched, white-knuckled, in his lap.
Your hand is warm on his knee, and for a moment, the jiggling stills, but then the bed is moving again beneath you, and you can't stop the smile that crosses your face, or the roll of your eyes. "Jace, it's gonna be great."
"I'm not asking for success," he says honestly, apprehension streaking emotion in his eyes for a second, before it's clouded over, and fades. "Like I said, Justin's the star. I just. I hope people like the album."
He chews on his bottom lip, becoming nervous all over again. "But, it's just, it's my style, and if they don't like it, then what do I do? I don't wanna have to change my style, I mean, *I* like my style, and. But--"
You lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth, pressing a hand against his heart, feeling it stumble erractically beneath your palm. "I like your style, too."
There's a possibility the album's going to bomb. You won't deny that -- he's not stupid enough to accept it even if you are. But it feels right, comfortable, when he slides his hand into your free one, squeezing gently, and you pull back to look him in the eyes and say, "you'll do fine."
Wild fire dances in his eyes when he smiles, unadulterated ecstasy radiating from the corners of his uplifted mouth. "You think?"
There's the bouncing leg again, and you stifle another smile. "You do."
He bites a knuckle, the smile disappearing. "But that's not enough. It's not going to make anyone else like it."
"I'll go out and buy every single album that's not already been snapped up next week, if it makes you feel better." You catch the laughter that he's trying so hard to hold back, almost hysteric, half grateful.
He crawls over to bury his face in your neck, his lips warm on your skin, his arms sinewy and familiar around your waist. "Yes, please."
You have to swallow your own laughter when you realize he's serious.
Schizophrenic
Author's Note: Written for
roncha78 at fic_requests.You watch him pace, his fingers nervously combing through his hair, over and over again. "What if they hate it?" He bites his thumbnail, distress painted clearly on his face. "What if they reject my album, and send all the copies back?"
"I don't think they're allowed to, babe," it's hard, fighting your laughter like this. It's not funny, it's really not, but JC can paint the strangest scenarios when he gets into his whole paranoid thing. "And I heard nothing but praise about 'Some Girls'."
He glances out the open window, where the moon is blinking, drifting in and out of view from behind the clouds. JC's foot begins to bounce against the floor, and when he pads to sit next to you on the bed, his eyes are bright and there's a smile on his face.
"People like my music," he says quietly, like it's some kind of revelation. "They wanna hear more. Just. I can't fucking wait for tomorrow to be here." His hands are still clenched, white-knuckled, in his lap.
Your hand is warm on his knee, and for a moment, the jiggling stills, but then the bed is moving again beneath you, and you can't stop the smile that crosses your face, or the roll of your eyes. "Jace, it's gonna be great."
"I'm not asking for success," he says honestly, apprehension streaking emotion in his eyes for a second, before it's clouded over, and fades. "Like I said, Justin's the star. I just. I hope people like the album."
He chews on his bottom lip, becoming nervous all over again. "But, it's just, it's my style, and if they don't like it, then what do I do? I don't wanna have to change my style, I mean, *I* like my style, and. But--"
You lean over to kiss the corner of his mouth, pressing a hand against his heart, feeling it stumble erractically beneath your palm. "I like your style, too."
There's a possibility the album's going to bomb. You won't deny that -- he's not stupid enough to accept it even if you are. But it feels right, comfortable, when he slides his hand into your free one, squeezing gently, and you pull back to look him in the eyes and say, "you'll do fine."
Wild fire dances in his eyes when he smiles, unadulterated ecstasy radiating from the corners of his uplifted mouth. "You think?"
There's the bouncing leg again, and you stifle another smile. "You do."
He bites a knuckle, the smile disappearing. "But that's not enough. It's not going to make anyone else like it."
"I'll go out and buy every single album that's not already been snapped up next week, if it makes you feel better." You catch the laughter that he's trying so hard to hold back, almost hysteric, half grateful.
He crawls over to bury his face in your neck, his lips warm on your skin, his arms sinewy and familiar around your waist. "Yes, please."
You have to swallow your own laughter when you realize he's serious.
