(no subject)
I don't normally go online before work, for the very good reason that it is STUPID EARLY, and while I can manage to get myself out of the house by seven am, most of it's just well practised sleepwalking. But today is a special day!
First thing: extreme happy birthday wishes to the very wonderful lelise!
Second thing: it is my turn for Awesome April fic, so thanks to msktrnanny for beta, and here goes...
Circumferences
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, trailing JC into the kitchen.
JC scrubs a hand through his hair, distracted. "Sure she does," he says. "She just--"
He stops and looks around. His hair is sticking up weirdly. Justin hands him a comb, picks up JC's keys and twirls them around his finger.
"She's just, you know," JC says, frowning into the mirror around the cracks. "She's just."
"What happened to the mirror?" Justin asks. "No, but she doesn't."
JC makes a face at his distorted reflection. Justin hands him the keys.
JC's hand is already on the door, but he stops. "J --"
"Go!" Justin yells at him. "Don't get fired!"
*
"Lance's momma doesn't like me," Justin says, drawing circles in the margin with his pen.
His mom looks up from the pile of matching shirts, startled.
"I think," Justin amends.
She sets the iron back down and it hisses, exhaling a little cloud of steam. "Oh, I'm sure that's not true," she says. "You really think that?"
"I don't know," Justin says. "Maybe."
His mom comes out from behind the ironing and puts her arms around him over the back of the chair. "Everybody likes you, baby," she says. Her hair brushes the side of his face and he can smell her perfume, flowery and familiar. "Who could resist you?" she says, and he smiles.
"I'm done with the math," he says. "Can I stay here tonight?"
*
"I think Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, cutting the tomatoes in half and putting them flat side down on the chopping board in a straight line like round red beads on a string. He cuts each of the halves in half again down the middle and then each of those bits in two, carefully, so the tomatoes don't fall apart.
"What?" Joey says, over the sizzle of the pan. "Did she say something?"
Justin turns all the tomato-halves around so he can chop them the other way. "No, nothing, she's nice and everything," he says. "I just don't think she likes me."
Joey leans over, and pokes him in the ribs. "They don't have to all be exactly the same size, dude. A little less measuring and a little more speed, maybe?"
Justin waves the knife upwards, and Joey backs off, hands in the air. "Whoa! Fine. Mister Artistic Temperament, do it your way." He goes back to the stove top and stirs.
Justin finishes with the tomatoes and scrapes them into the pan.
"I think you're imagining it, anyway," Joey says. "She's just different than your mom."
*
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, unwinding the phone cord with one hand and watching it coil back on itself with slow determination.
Trace stops mid-sentence. "Janice's mom doesn't like me," he offers.
"I'm not dating Lance," Justin says quickly.
"Well then," Trace says, "fuck her. Why d'you care? Hey! Guess who got kicked off the football team?"
Justin makes a non-committal noise. There's a pause. Justin can practically see Trace frowning, back at home, sitting on the green couch with the spotty pattern.
"She's probably just jealous," Trace says eventually. "'Cause her kid is weird."
"He's not weird," Justin replies automatically, but he's laughing. "Well, only a little. You got kicked off the football team?"
"No, man, Mark Serrano got kicked off the football team. You remember him from Mrs Ballard's class? You're not gonna believe what he did..."
*
"I don't think your mom likes me," Justin says, sitting on the carpet, trying not to disturb the piles of clothes and homework strewn around. He wonders if the conversation would go better if he sat on Lance's bed, but it's a little late for that now.
"Justin," Lance says, and he sounds tired, he looks tired. But apart from that Justin's not sure. Lance is hard to read. Kind of like his mom.
"No offence," Justin says, because you have to be careful, talking about people's mothers.
Lance sighs. "She isn't," he starts. He rubs his eyes. Justin goes and sits on the end of his bed anyway, where Lance can see his sympathetic listening face properly.
"She doesn't really want me to be here, is all," Lance says. "She worries about it being, all being one big mistake."
"It's not a mistake," Justin tells him, putting all his sincerity into the words, twisting the corner of the sheet around his fingers. Lance shrugs. They sit in silence for a while, and Justin tries to work out whether it's an okay kind of silence or not. Then Lance pokes him with a toe from under the blankets. "Why are you still here, anyway?"
"I'm allowed," Justin says. "I'm sleeping on the couch. What happened to the mirror by the front door?"
"Chris happened to it." Lance chuckles, like bubbles coming up from a deep well. "He was throwing stuff. It was funny."
Justin decides not to go home until his mom makes him. It's not fair that Lance should get to be there when funny stuff happens. Lance didn't even know Chris a month ago.
*
When she visits after breakfast, he makes double sure to always say please and thank you and call her ma'am. He opens doors for her and asks about her journey and puts extra effort into his interested expression. He refuses to be drawn into the wrestling matches and water fights or anything that's likely to lead to things getting messed up or broken, and he even tries to be nice to Lance, complimenting him on his singing where she can hear and offering to give him extra help with the dance steps. He tries not to be dissuaded by Lance's freaked-out glare.
He makes her coffee and swirls it into a whirlpool with the spoon until he's one hundred percent sure the sugar's dissolved properly. When she smiles thankyou it doesn't reach her eyes.
By midday he's exhausted with the effort. She comes to rehearsal and he gets so flustered with trying to look pleasant and inoffensive while he's dancing that he messes up twice on the step-step-twirl in the chorus. They stop for a break and Chris grabs a fistful of his T-shirt and yanks him outside.
*
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says in response to the what's-your-problem, picking up the basketball that's outside the rehearsal room and weighing it in his hand.
Chris flicks him on the forehead. "Lance's mom doesn't like any of us. She thinks we're corrupting her baby. With our crazy showbiz ways."
"Ow," Justin complains, rubbing his head. Chris is vicious. "It's different, though," he protests. "People never don't like me."
"Hah!" Chris says, a short sharp spike of amusement. "Unlike the rest of us, who get spit on in shopping malls."
"What? No, but." Justin says. He balances the basketball on his finger and spins it and watches it, spinning and balancing.
Chris claps his hands around it, stopping it cleanly mid-spin. "C'mon, Justin, don't," he says. "She likes you okay. She thinks you're a nice kid. A little ... intense, maybe, but she knows your heart's in the right place."
"Yeah." Justin says. He's still looking at the basketball.
Chris taps the ball away and forces Justin's chin up with one finger. The ball bounces on the hard ground with a sad thwump and Justin looks Chris in the eyes.
"She doesn't love you," Chris says, and Justin squirms.
"I don't know what to do," he says, in a small voice that makes him kind of want to erase Chris's brain so he can say it again in a less pathetic way. "I don't know, I don't know why."
Chris twists his mouth up, frustrated. "Yeah, there's the thing," he says. "You know, most of us are content with maybe a handful of people loving us. You don't need everybody who ever met you to love you unconditionally, J, you really don't."
"But I don't know why," Justin repeats. He doesn't know how else to say it. "How can I - what do I do?"
"Nothing, J, listen!" Chris makes Justin look up again, pulls him up and makes him look at Chris instead of at his sneakers, which are his second best Nikes and are quite clean still except there's a shadow which might be a scuff mark on the toe of the left one. Chris's grip is hard and his eyes are hard and Justin doesn't know what he's thinking at all.
"You listening?" Chris says. Justin nods, as much as Chris is letting him.
Apparently satisfied, Chris continues. "You don't do anything. She might love you later. She might never love you. It doesn't matter. You're not going to worry about it. You're not going to try and change it. You're going to forget about it and you're going to go back in there and get back to singing and dancing like a good little popstar-in-training. You don't need me to reel off a list of all the people that do love you because you know."
He lets go of Justin's face and steps away from him. Justin doesn't move.
"You love me," he says, not quite bold enough to make it a question.
There's a nauseating moment where Chris doesn't say anything, just looks at Justin, expressionless. Then, "yeah," he says, and Justin breathes out.
"I don't like you much, though, so it evens out," Chris says, and then he's grinning and grasping and pulling Justin back inside.
First thing: extreme happy birthday wishes to the very wonderful lelise!
Second thing: it is my turn for Awesome April fic, so thanks to msktrnanny for beta, and here goes...
Circumferences
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, trailing JC into the kitchen.
JC scrubs a hand through his hair, distracted. "Sure she does," he says. "She just--"
He stops and looks around. His hair is sticking up weirdly. Justin hands him a comb, picks up JC's keys and twirls them around his finger.
"She's just, you know," JC says, frowning into the mirror around the cracks. "She's just."
"What happened to the mirror?" Justin asks. "No, but she doesn't."
JC makes a face at his distorted reflection. Justin hands him the keys.
JC's hand is already on the door, but he stops. "J --"
"Go!" Justin yells at him. "Don't get fired!"
*
"Lance's momma doesn't like me," Justin says, drawing circles in the margin with his pen.
His mom looks up from the pile of matching shirts, startled.
"I think," Justin amends.
She sets the iron back down and it hisses, exhaling a little cloud of steam. "Oh, I'm sure that's not true," she says. "You really think that?"
"I don't know," Justin says. "Maybe."
His mom comes out from behind the ironing and puts her arms around him over the back of the chair. "Everybody likes you, baby," she says. Her hair brushes the side of his face and he can smell her perfume, flowery and familiar. "Who could resist you?" she says, and he smiles.
"I'm done with the math," he says. "Can I stay here tonight?"
*
"I think Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, cutting the tomatoes in half and putting them flat side down on the chopping board in a straight line like round red beads on a string. He cuts each of the halves in half again down the middle and then each of those bits in two, carefully, so the tomatoes don't fall apart.
"What?" Joey says, over the sizzle of the pan. "Did she say something?"
Justin turns all the tomato-halves around so he can chop them the other way. "No, nothing, she's nice and everything," he says. "I just don't think she likes me."
Joey leans over, and pokes him in the ribs. "They don't have to all be exactly the same size, dude. A little less measuring and a little more speed, maybe?"
Justin waves the knife upwards, and Joey backs off, hands in the air. "Whoa! Fine. Mister Artistic Temperament, do it your way." He goes back to the stove top and stirs.
Justin finishes with the tomatoes and scrapes them into the pan.
"I think you're imagining it, anyway," Joey says. "She's just different than your mom."
*
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says, unwinding the phone cord with one hand and watching it coil back on itself with slow determination.
Trace stops mid-sentence. "Janice's mom doesn't like me," he offers.
"I'm not dating Lance," Justin says quickly.
"Well then," Trace says, "fuck her. Why d'you care? Hey! Guess who got kicked off the football team?"
Justin makes a non-committal noise. There's a pause. Justin can practically see Trace frowning, back at home, sitting on the green couch with the spotty pattern.
"She's probably just jealous," Trace says eventually. "'Cause her kid is weird."
"He's not weird," Justin replies automatically, but he's laughing. "Well, only a little. You got kicked off the football team?"
"No, man, Mark Serrano got kicked off the football team. You remember him from Mrs Ballard's class? You're not gonna believe what he did..."
*
"I don't think your mom likes me," Justin says, sitting on the carpet, trying not to disturb the piles of clothes and homework strewn around. He wonders if the conversation would go better if he sat on Lance's bed, but it's a little late for that now.
"Justin," Lance says, and he sounds tired, he looks tired. But apart from that Justin's not sure. Lance is hard to read. Kind of like his mom.
"No offence," Justin says, because you have to be careful, talking about people's mothers.
Lance sighs. "She isn't," he starts. He rubs his eyes. Justin goes and sits on the end of his bed anyway, where Lance can see his sympathetic listening face properly.
"She doesn't really want me to be here, is all," Lance says. "She worries about it being, all being one big mistake."
"It's not a mistake," Justin tells him, putting all his sincerity into the words, twisting the corner of the sheet around his fingers. Lance shrugs. They sit in silence for a while, and Justin tries to work out whether it's an okay kind of silence or not. Then Lance pokes him with a toe from under the blankets. "Why are you still here, anyway?"
"I'm allowed," Justin says. "I'm sleeping on the couch. What happened to the mirror by the front door?"
"Chris happened to it." Lance chuckles, like bubbles coming up from a deep well. "He was throwing stuff. It was funny."
Justin decides not to go home until his mom makes him. It's not fair that Lance should get to be there when funny stuff happens. Lance didn't even know Chris a month ago.
*
When she visits after breakfast, he makes double sure to always say please and thank you and call her ma'am. He opens doors for her and asks about her journey and puts extra effort into his interested expression. He refuses to be drawn into the wrestling matches and water fights or anything that's likely to lead to things getting messed up or broken, and he even tries to be nice to Lance, complimenting him on his singing where she can hear and offering to give him extra help with the dance steps. He tries not to be dissuaded by Lance's freaked-out glare.
He makes her coffee and swirls it into a whirlpool with the spoon until he's one hundred percent sure the sugar's dissolved properly. When she smiles thankyou it doesn't reach her eyes.
By midday he's exhausted with the effort. She comes to rehearsal and he gets so flustered with trying to look pleasant and inoffensive while he's dancing that he messes up twice on the step-step-twirl in the chorus. They stop for a break and Chris grabs a fistful of his T-shirt and yanks him outside.
*
"Lance's mom doesn't like me," Justin says in response to the what's-your-problem, picking up the basketball that's outside the rehearsal room and weighing it in his hand.
Chris flicks him on the forehead. "Lance's mom doesn't like any of us. She thinks we're corrupting her baby. With our crazy showbiz ways."
"Ow," Justin complains, rubbing his head. Chris is vicious. "It's different, though," he protests. "People never don't like me."
"Hah!" Chris says, a short sharp spike of amusement. "Unlike the rest of us, who get spit on in shopping malls."
"What? No, but." Justin says. He balances the basketball on his finger and spins it and watches it, spinning and balancing.
Chris claps his hands around it, stopping it cleanly mid-spin. "C'mon, Justin, don't," he says. "She likes you okay. She thinks you're a nice kid. A little ... intense, maybe, but she knows your heart's in the right place."
"Yeah." Justin says. He's still looking at the basketball.
Chris taps the ball away and forces Justin's chin up with one finger. The ball bounces on the hard ground with a sad thwump and Justin looks Chris in the eyes.
"She doesn't love you," Chris says, and Justin squirms.
"I don't know what to do," he says, in a small voice that makes him kind of want to erase Chris's brain so he can say it again in a less pathetic way. "I don't know, I don't know why."
Chris twists his mouth up, frustrated. "Yeah, there's the thing," he says. "You know, most of us are content with maybe a handful of people loving us. You don't need everybody who ever met you to love you unconditionally, J, you really don't."
"But I don't know why," Justin repeats. He doesn't know how else to say it. "How can I - what do I do?"
"Nothing, J, listen!" Chris makes Justin look up again, pulls him up and makes him look at Chris instead of at his sneakers, which are his second best Nikes and are quite clean still except there's a shadow which might be a scuff mark on the toe of the left one. Chris's grip is hard and his eyes are hard and Justin doesn't know what he's thinking at all.
"You listening?" Chris says. Justin nods, as much as Chris is letting him.
Apparently satisfied, Chris continues. "You don't do anything. She might love you later. She might never love you. It doesn't matter. You're not going to worry about it. You're not going to try and change it. You're going to forget about it and you're going to go back in there and get back to singing and dancing like a good little popstar-in-training. You don't need me to reel off a list of all the people that do love you because you know."
He lets go of Justin's face and steps away from him. Justin doesn't move.
"You love me," he says, not quite bold enough to make it a question.
There's a nauseating moment where Chris doesn't say anything, just looks at Justin, expressionless. Then, "yeah," he says, and Justin breathes out.
"I don't like you much, though, so it evens out," Chris says, and then he's grinning and grasping and pulling Justin back inside.