First of all, I'm terribly sorry it has taken me so long to get this chapter out. Frankly, I'm suffering from loss of faith in my own abilities as a writer. With that and some other stuff going on in my crappy life, I haven't had much inspiration. I'll try not to make you wait so long in the future!
Oh, and you might want to refresh your memory a bit, the beginning refers to the ending of chapter 10...
This is to Izzy, my Glasgow guys, and all the other wonderful people who have graced me with their kind comments. Hell, it's to everybody who takes the time to read it! Enjoy...
Disclaimer: This story is not meant to imply anything about the true sexuality or personal lives of the celebrities mentioned. Adult (m/m) content, don't be illegal, stuff like that. Any likeness to real persons (like ex-boyfirends...) is either purely coincidental and unintended, or not in any way malevolent (no, not even ex-boyfriends... I'm just too nice).
NEEDING YOU By Neqs Chapter 11
"Marshall, you're a surprisingly sophisticated and enlightened man. I didn't know you had it in you," Justin Timberlake said to him the next day, out of the blue. Eminem had him by the throat in an instant. Instinct. Whatever.
"And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Okay, that gaze looked both murderous and startled. Strange. Would have been strange, if Justin had had enough air to ponder the situation.
"Uh, Lance told me... Chill, dude, it's nothing to be ashamed of!" Justin tried to assure the rapper.
"I'm not ashamed of it, fuck no! It's just, you know, a very private matter to me. I know you and Lance are like best friends and fucking 'adopted brothers', but did he really have to tell you that?" Marshall was just a bit exasperated now.
"I just wanted to say that I think much more highly of you now."
"Um, thanks." Marshall was embarrassed now. He took his hand off the singer's throat.
"Really, I'd do it if I had the time, the energy, and the brains for it." What?
"What are you talking about?"
"The studies, man. I promised Lance I wouldn't say a word - oops! Well, I promise I won't tell anyone else!"
'The scatterbrained little...' Marshall didn't know whether to be relieved, mightily irritated, or wildly amused by the misunderstanding.
"Yeah, it's a big secret, it could fuck up my career if it got out, so don't blab or I'll castrate you!" Marshall growled at the younger man, scowling to hide the twinkle in his eyes.
"Okay! You can totally count on me! I'm just gonna go now, okay? Bye!" And with that Justin fled. After he had been gone long enough to be securely out of hearing range, Marshall burst into helpless laughter. He was still snorting amusedly and wiping his eyes when Lance came into the room.
"What's so funny, hot stuff?"
"Long story. Come here and I'll whisper it in your ear."
Lance stepped closer, and Marshall pulled him into his lap, hands roaming on his back as he described the whole thing in a low voice, punctuating it with lewd licks and nibbles. Lance was soon giggling at the image of the earlier scene, and at the attention he was receiving from his man. By the time the story was over, they were both a bit flushed and out of breath.
"Bed?" Lance suggested with an urgent shift on Marshall's lap.
"Bed. Now." Hand in hand, they raced to the bedroom, putting all thought of serious matters out of their minds.
Marshall Mathers was nervous, like a young man introducing his first serious girlfriend to his parents. Well, Lance wasn't a girl and Dre wasn't really Marshall's father, but otherwise the simile was close to the truth.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs once again. Lance turned to look at him, reaching out to hold his hand, smiling reassuringly.
"Come now, babe, everything's gonna be just fine. You have nothing to worry about. I'm the one who should be worried, remember?" Lance was being logical, but logic had very little to do with the situation.
Marshall flashed his boyfriend a wan smile. He was feeling nauseous. Was it too late to back out of this? Maybe. Maybe he could pretend to be sick and call the whole thing off. He thought he could easily fake illness in his present condition of imminent nervous breakdown.
Just as he was leaning towards the idea, his plans were negated by the arrival of the person they had been waiting for.
"Sorry I'm late, boys. What a terrible first impression I must be making," he puffed, breezing over where the pair had been sitting in the private dining room.
Lance smiled in reassurance. Marshall noted absently that his lover had been doing that a lot lately. How come Lance was being so calm and collected about this? Not that Marshall wanted him to fuss or panic or be otherwise upset, but couldn't he just pretend a bit? He sighed in resignation.
"Don't worry about it, sir. It's a pleasure to finally meet you. You are very important to Marshall," Lance intoned in his soothing voice, making Dre smile in appreciation.
"Such a nice boy, with such a nice voice. If that singing career of yours ever comes to an end and you need to actually work for a living, I'd be happy to recommend you to a phone sex company or two," Dre joked, shaking Lance's pale hand. They laughed politely. Dre settled himself down opposite the younger men.
"Can we order now? I'm starving," Dre asked impatiently. The others agreed; Marshall hadn't been able to finish his breakfast, although he didn't feel hungry even now, and Lance was just, you know, polite.
They had been assured that the waiter would be discreet, and so they placed their orders calmly. They chatted of all kinds of things, mostly to give Lance and Dre a possibility to find points of reference. Of course, they already shared a point of reference that was very important to them both. They discussed him while he was in the men's room.
"Do you love him?" Lance was startled by the question that made him look up from his grilled chicken salad.
"Yes, I do." Their eyes met, their faces serious, and Dre slowly smiled.
"Good. So do I. You seem like the good kind, and I'd hate to have to snap you in half if you don't treat him well." The comment was worded like a warning, but it was also meant as a benediction, and it was understood as one.
"Marshall thinks he is tough, but inside he's just a big softie, like me." If Dre's tone hadn't been so serious, Lance would have had trouble keeping a straight face at the improbable description.
Dre wasn't finished, though. "He has a hard time juggling between his image and the real him, sometimes. He gets depressed, or angry, and does and says some stupid things he doesn't really mean. Don't let it get to you. It's just him having trouble living with himself, you know?"
Lance's answering nod was grim. "I know." Being a celebrity was hard enough. Being a gay celebrity was ten times tougher. Being a gay celebrity whose image demanded that he hate gays... Well, that was tougher than Lance liked to think of. He suddenly felt a wave of protectiveness wash over him. He'd be there for his man. Whatever happened, Marshall would have him to fall back on.
As he entered the suite after a tiring afternoon in the studio, Lance was met with a sound he couldn't place. He glanced at the CD-player, which was currently playing soft jazz. No, wasn't that. He followed the sound, trying to analyse it, drifting further into the suite.
'Something pretty. Soft, clear, no instrument. A voice. A male voice.' By the time Lance was standing in front of the bathroom door, he had realised what was the source of the mysterious sound.
Marshall Mathers was singing in the shower.
Lance opened the unlocked door softly, careful not to startle the rapper who was at the time singing something by Bon Jovi. Lance moved to lean against the counter, crossing his arms across his chest and closing his eyes in appreciation of the beautiful voice full of undisguised emotion.
Marshall turned the shower off and reached for a towel. The hand froze in place when Lance made his presence known by clearing his throat. "A lovely voice you got there, hon. How come I've never heard you sing before?"
After a few seconds, Marshall peeked sheepishly from behind the shower curtain.
"Uh... You've heard me sing before, of course you have." He was looking anywhere except at his smugly smirking pop singer boyfriend.
"Wrong. I've heard you rap, but I've never heard you use that wonderful, natural voice of yours. I didn't even know you had it. Why is that?"
"Um... It's nothing, really. I sing in the shower, who doesn't? I don't have a voice worth noting." Marshall was drying his dripping body now, unwittingly distracting Lance by rubbing the soft, fluffy towel over his pale, leanly muscular body.
"Your voice is beautiful, babe, and it would be a shame to waste it. And we know that we won't let your beautiful body go to waste..." And now Lance was standing oh so near, taking the towel from his lover and dropping it to the floor. He put his finger under Marshall's chin, lifting it gently until their eyes met. Lance's rare pale green were glowing with lust and appreciation, until they closed at the pleasure of the intense, all-consuming kiss.
"But-" Lance's eyes slowly filled with tears as he gazed at the other man, crushed. He tried one more time. "Isn't there anything that can be done? Is this it?" The tears were rolling down his cheeks now, and his lower lip was trembling despite his efforts to still it by biting it.
His nose was red, he looked absolutely miserable, and he had never seemed more beautiful to Marshall.
"Babe, you knew as well as I did that it couldn't go on forever, this careless existence of ours. The honeymoon is over, and the real world butts in. I've done all I can, but I can't delay the tour any longer. I'm sorry-"
Lance silenced him by placing a finger gently on his lips. "Hush, love. It's not your fault. I'm sorry for being such a big baby about it. I'll just miss you like hell!" And then he pulled his boyfriend into a tight hug.
Marshall squeezed back. His eyes weren't totally dry either, but he didn't want to make his lover even more depressed, so he tried to sound upbeat.
"Hey, it'll be alright, we'll talk on the phone all the time, irritating the hell out of other people, and we can visit each other whenever we have time. And we'll make time! And I'll never forget who I love, okay?" Marshall pulled back enough to look at Lance firmly. The younger man smiled with a visible effort, and leaned to rest his forehead on Marshall's shoulder.
"I love you too, Em. It's just that when our tour starts, too, it's gonna be even more difficult to find a time when we're both free from contractual obligations," Lance said with a sigh.
"We've got Dre on our side, babe. Well pull through, you'll see."
Once the door had closed behind Lance the next morning, Marshall was finally free to let the happy façade crumble like he felt his whole being was crumbling in a pile of dust, doubts, and bitterness on the floor.
It had been an unreal existence, and now reality was raising its ugly head again, forcing him to be someone he wasn't. It was even harder because sometimes he felt he really was that angry, bitter man who had something demeaning and insulting to say about everybody.
And he really didn't want to repeat all those things he'd done in his youth that he regretted so much now.
He remembered what it was like going to bed with the memory of every time he'd ever fucked up, cuddling tight the recollections of humiliations, failures, and disappointments forgotten by most everyone, except himself.
He'd worked all that shit out, and it had taken him a lot to face things about himself. He'd been able to purge most of his bitterness and self-hatred by writings songs, some of them practically dripping with venom. It made him sad and cynical that it was those poisonous songs that had made him so famous and rich.
'Fuck the fame and fuck the money!' Sometimes he wondered why he was still doing it when he was so sick of it. A part of him wanted to squeeze every drop of everyone who was stupid enough to like his music. Other times he was sure he kept doing it for the music: the joy of creating a song, the rush of performing.
Some days he just didn't want to think of what he'd do without his career. He was a young man on anyone's standards, but he felt so old and worn, and didn't consider the thought of people going in retirement at thirty so ridiculous anymore.
But then there was James, this new ray of light that showed him how empty his life had really been, a breath of fresh air that made him notice how stale the existence he'd thought he was content with actually was. It had hurt, letting change in, but he could no longer pretend that he was satisfied with being half there, hiding behind sarcasm and masks.
His James and his loony band mates had commented with varying levels of insight on how different he seemed from the image he publicly projected. That was a compliment, sure, but it would have been nice to actually know who he really was in the silence of his solitary life. Oh, he had friends, but sometimes he felt like he was playing a part even for them. But with James it was different, wasn't it? He felt so, and he fervently hoped so.
"Hey, Lansten, why the long face?" Lance looked up from his notes and tried to sketch a smile for Chris, without much success. "Trouble with loverboy?"
"No! We're great, no problem there. It's just. His tour is starting, and he has to go, and we'll go on tour soon too, and we'll see each other so rarely, and-"
"Okay, breathe!" Chris sat down on the sofa next to Lance, examining the latter's anxious face. "You really love the sick weirdo, don't you?" he asked with uncharacteristic seriousness.
"Don't call him that! And yes, I do. It would be so much easier if I didn't, sometimes." Lance's words delivered in that pained tone made Chris grimace. Daddy time.
"Okay. Firstly, you don't really mean that, and secondly, it would hurt his feelings to hear you say that. And we don't want to make Eminem burst a vessel in homicidal rage, do we? That's so old. And stop being stupid. I know it'll be hard, but if it's worth it, it's worth it. Is it?"
Lance felt ashamed and exhilarated. "Oh yes! I don't know what came over me just now, I'm sorry. God!"
Chris gave him a consoling pat on the knee. "You're just young, confused, and about to be tickled to death."
"I'm, what??" As realisation dawned, Lance made a quick escape and was soon darting around the break room with Chris in close chase, worries momentarily eased and tucked away.
Okay, kicking the wall was maybe the dumbest things he'd done in a while, Marshall decided as he wrapped the ice inside the towel and pressed it to his aching ankle. But there hadn't been enough things to throw; he liked his CDs too much to destroy them, throwing books was just wrong, and clothes didn't make the right thud when they hit something solid. And he certainly couldn't use anything that was Lance's to purge his frustrations, although he eyed the other's collection of hair care products wistfully. No, in the end he just decided to test whether kicking the wall would break a toe or twist an ankle first.
When his temper had cooled a bit, Marshall realised how stupid he'd been and how lucky he was not to have broken any bones, especially this close to starting his tour. So he just sat tight on the sofa, called the room service for ice, a bandage, and some medicinal chocolate chip cookie dough mint ice cream, and pouted sheepishly, feeling a bit silly. Now where was his ice cream?
TBC
Comments are greatly appreciated. Please send some to nea_1@hotmail.com. Even a short note lightens up my day and encourages to write. Thanks for the wonderful feedback I've received so far!