A/N: Yay for another idea! I've already spoken this one over with my darling Piyototo but, heh, it'll stay here until I get inspired to write more for this idea~

Oh! And yes, Piyototo, I'm fairly sure that I'm Aizaki so...~

Inspired by: The A Team- Boyce Avenue (cover), One Song Glory- Rent: The Musical

Go and check them both out cause they're freaking awesome~ And yes, I know the first chapter sucked and whatnot but meh, it needed to go somewhere else where I won't feel inclined to finish it until I want to... *shrug*

Anyway, enjoy this small snippet I have~

-The A Team-

He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd been nervous before performing- his palms were sweating slightly and for some reason he felt like his legs were shaking, the muscles tense and quivering slightly under his jean clothed skin.

Oh, if he screwed this song up...

And then he froze, chuckling under his breath-

The worst thing would probably be his twitter account being blown up with "better luck next time" and "omg ur still perfect- and I still wanna have ur babies~" from his fans.

Of course...she was watching. And she knew damn well that she was the entire reason he even decided writing the song in the first place. Granted, she never did-

Raking a hand through his shoulder length blonde hair, he pulled the mop back and off his neck and tied it up with the ponytail holder on his wrist, sighing.

Why did she always show up during times like this? Jesus, it's not like she was actually-

Stop.

No.

Enough of her- if he didn't get his ass on stage and on that piano bench in a matter of seconds, he'd probably have an angry mob on his hands...and he really didn't feel like being harassed today.

The blonde jerked on his hair, tightening the holder surrounding it and nodded- though this was more to himself than the stage manager currently sitting on the couch- when did she even-?

He pulled his hands down and shoved them into the pocket of his jeans before walking onto the stage, listening to the thudding of his shoes against the hollow boards and the progressively increasing sound of screams and yells from the stadium until he froze next to the ebony dyed piano and awaiting microphone.

Slowly, steadily, he sat on the bench and pulled the microphone down a slightest bit closer to himself-

Now or never.