This is to Izzy (also known as Raa, I., the Greatest - I love you hon!), my Glasgow guys Rob and Dan, 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...
Ooops! I told some people I'd post about weekly. That hasn't happened. But! I've got good excuses: I'm busting my ass off in my summer job, and my beloved laptop took an unexpected vacation. Plus general laziness & other character faults. Anyways, I'll do my best in the future!
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, as in people personally known to me (like ex-boyfriends...), is either purely coincidental and unintended, or not in any way malevolent (no, not even ex- boyfriends... I'm just too nice).
NEEDING YOU CHAPTER 13 By Neqs
Fuck touring. After only a week on the road, Marshall felt like he'd had enough. He had grown to realize that he really hated the bus. It was cramped and smelly and full of people who didn't know about him and Lance.
It was the last part that upset him the most. Not only because he couldn't call his boyfriend from the bus and say silly sweet stuff, or gush (as far as he knew how to gush, anyway) about the green-eyed singer to his friends. No, what really bothered him was that he hadn't found the courage to tell the others about Lance. Only Bizarre knew, and Dre of course. Still, that left four of his closest friends in the dark about the most important thing going on in his life at the moment.
The worst was that he couldn't for the life of him figure out why he just couldn't say it. 'Guys, by the way, I'm dating Lance from Nsync.' That didn't sound so bad, did it? He would die before making Lance think he was ashamed of him or anything.
It wasn't as if he was still in the closet to the guys, anyway. They'd been close for so long, and some of them had figured Marshall out before he himself had gotten a clue. Not all of them had been instantly cool with it, but they weren't sheep. They could see that Marshall was still the same, their whacked, white little brother. They also noticed that Marshall was a lot easier to live with once he got over his self-destructive denial phase.
So. It shouldn't be such a big deal that Marshall was in a serious relationship with a male pop artist. Except that...
He had never done that before. A serious relationship - the concept had seemed alien to him before he'd met his mild-mannered Southern boy. He'd had his share and a half of one-night stands, even while he'd had to deal with the 'closeted gay-bashing rapper' thing. It had actually made things easier sometimes, because either the guys he hooked up with didn't believe he was really Eminem, and if they did and told someone, nobody would believe a word they were saying.
The other members of D12 had even proudly bragged, even if only among the group, that Marshall would fuck anything that moved.
Oh.
'Fuck' might be the keyword here. Everything up to this point had been only fucking, even his bitch wife he'd thought he loved at some point before she stabbed him in the back and he started to really hate her. So, love. And all those sappy actions and behaviors that came with it.
The guys had never had to deal with a boyfriend before. Not even with a fuck buddy really, because although they might have known of them, or even known them because of some other connection, but they'd never been forced to sit down and really face the guy their friend was banging. And this thing with Lance went far beyond mere sex. The sex wasn't 'mere' anything, though. It was amazing...
Marshall shook himself to clear his head of the haze of arousal that came at the thought of Lance and sex in the same sentence. Well, Lance was sort of synonymous with sex... The way he smiled, his voice, his eyes... No! Marshall got a hold of himself. Daydreaming wasn't the issue here. The issue was his miserable mood that made him want to bite someone's head off. The bus, the guys, the concerts where some dumb fuck fans got themselves hurt, and the fact that Lance's group was in rehearsals, learning new choreographies for the upcoming tour. Lance was nothing if not a conscientious worker, and he was usually exhausted and half asleep when Marshall managed to get him on the phone.
Marshall trusted Lance. He really did. But he couldn't help feeling like he was being gradually and inevitably dumped. Little things made him more and more convinced that Lance was brushing him off whenever they spoke. They always talked about loving and missing, true. But sooner or later Lance had to go rehearse, go to bed, or go make an important phone call. A fucking phone call! What was more important than his boyfriend?
And on top of all that, Marshall also felt guilty about feeling so insecure and for doubting his boyfriend. He was being such a girl! Lance was a busy guy, and he was working like a maniac to learn the new steps while also juggling his other business responsibilities. Marshall knew he should just be proud that his lover was so smart and hardworking; he just wished he had been hardworking on him!
So, all things combined, it was an irritable, frustrated, doubtful, and generally pissy Marshall Mathers that strode through the hotel lobby. He wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot shower and climb into safe, soft, peaceful bed. But that was not to be.
As he made his way straight to the elevators through the mostly deserted lobby, he saw a hotel porter and the elevator boy (what did they call those guys?) talking. More like flirting, he observed with scorn and rising resentment. The porter seemed young, barely eighteen, with his red hair and blue eyes and freckles. The elevator guy was older, twenty-something (what kind of a loser was he?), with darker coloring that contrasted quite dramatically with his pale complexion. He also seemed to be sneering down at the shy redhead.
Whatever was going on, Marshall was not in a mood to care. Stupid fuckers flirting in a fucking hotel lobby, and he couldn't even call his boyfriend from his own fucking bus! Not to mention that he was being dumped.
"Fucking fags..." he muttered loud enough for them to hear, and glowered at them as he shouldered his way into the elevator. He had time to glimpse the porter's stricken expression before the doors closed.
"Twenty-first." The elevator guy (what kind of a hotel was this anyway?) obliged and waited a few seconds before opening his mouth.
"Faggots all around, man. Wouldn't believe how easy they are to lead on. Stupid little shits, like little Jake down there. I'm gonna set him straight when I get down again. Straight, get it?" The malicious tone got on Marshall's already frayed nerves almost as much as the half-wits wheezy chortles. He felt like bashing the dumb bastard's teeth in, but they were already there and he didn't need another lawsuit. And he definitely didn't want to have to see that idiotic sneer any longer than he had to.
"Whatever," he growled as he brushed past the bastard and stormed to his room, where his bags already waited for him. He just wanted to be alone.
After he had settled into his rooms, Marshall began to feel worse and worse about himself. He kept seeing the red-haired guy's crestfallen expression. He also remembered what the other guy had said, and felt a little sick. He was a hypocrite, and a total asshole, and he'd deserve it if Lance dumped him right then and there.
He looked at his phone, considered calling his boyfriend, and shattered the cell against the silk- papered wall.
Lance frowned at his cell phone. He'd been trying to get a hold of Marshall for a while now. Marshall seemed... odd whenever they spoke these days. Curt, suspicious even. Lance was often too wiped out from long rehearsals to try to define the exact tone his boyfriend used. Why bother? He knew he loved him. Whatever problems there were, they could be handled by talking. That is, if he could get the elusive rapper on the phone.
First Marshall had called at the most unfortunate times. When Lance was running late from rehearsal. When Lance was in rehearsal, unable to answer the phone. When Lance was trying to eat a hasty lunch before going back to rehearsal. The list went on and on and on. Lance felt like his whole life revolved around rehearsals, and it did, at least these few weeks right before the tour started.
Marshall couldn't understand that because he really had no set choreography or dance routine. He could just go there and rap, and be a generally mean motherfucker. What Lance didn't grasp was that there was no set timetable for practicing being nasty and offensive. It was supposed to come naturally, from the cruel, insensitive heart of stone.
Marshall rubbed his temples in rough circular motions. He didn't look at the sad remains of his cell phone, which still lay where they had landed after the impact. He didn't worry over his potentially destroyed and irreplaceable SIM card. Instead, he whipped himself into a hateful little private pity party.
'Sad little fucker! No better than the fucking cretin from the lift. The fearful rapper calls some guy a fag because he's pissy and misses his boyfriend. Worthless, less than nothing, stupid stupid stupid!'
Realizing that making himself feel worse wasn't helping anybody, Marshall tried to think rationally. 'Ok, so I said something slightly offensive to a total stranger. Ok, so the guy seemed like the kind to agonize over shit like that. And saying what I said made me a total hypocrite.' When you put it like that, it didn't seem so bad. So why was he still feeling like shit?
Deciding he needed some air, Marshall headed for the roof. He took the stairs even though it was about 20 stories up. Why not? It was healthy for him and for pitiful little creeps in elevators.
Somewhere around floor twenty-six Marshall started to hear a quiet sniffling sound from somewhere above. He proceeded more slowly, taking care not to scare whomever it was, especially if it was whom he suspected. It was.
Slumped against the door connecting the staircase to floor twenty-nine was a small figure in hotel livery. Even in the dim light Marshall recognized the bright red color of the guy's hair. Jake, the other guy had called him. He came closer cautiously, not wanting to cause the kid a heart attack. He didn't have to worry, though. The guy's face was buried in his hands, which were resting on his bent knees. He only noticed Marshall's presence when he slid down the wall to sit next to him. "What-" The guy tried to scramble away from the unexpected contact, almost tumbling down the flight of stairs before Marshall grabbed his arm to steady him.
"Careful there, kid. You don't wanna break your pretty little neck."
"You! I'm not- I'm sorry, I- Please don't hurt me!" Blue eyes had widened in terror as he recognized the other man. He tried to escape, but Marshall hadn't released his arm yet.
"Calm down, Jake. I'm not gonna hurt you. Now sit, and listen." After Jake had quieted down, more from shock and fear than because he believed the rapper's words. His eyes were red from crying.
Suddenly Marshall didn't have it in him to apologize. "So what are you doing here sitting all alone?" As if he didn't know.
"Dennis, the lift guy... he said some stuff," sniffle, "and after... I just couldn't handle it. I'm such a wuss." He hid his face in his hands again.
'Ok, maybe you are' didn't seem like the right answer in that situation.
"People say stuff they don't mean all the time. I didn't mean what I said, hell no. I was just in a bad mood and, yeah. I took it out on you (and on my cell phone) and I'm, uh, sorry. That's right." Jake lifted his head in disbelief.
"Wha-at? You don't hate fags?"
"Nah, that's for dumb bigots. I gotta act a certain way, but that doesn't mean I believe it." Jake was looking fascinated now, listening to Marshall intently, his attention riveted to the rapper.
"I even know some gay guys, and they're good people. No different from the next man. I've got one gay guy who's a very close friend..." Marshall smiled crookedly and wagged an eyebrow. Jake's eyes bugged and his mouth hung open in amazement.
"No way! Really? That's so cool!"
"It's a secret. Nobody would believe it, but don't say anything to anybody, okay? I gotta go buy myself a cell phone now, but I want you to remember a few things, Jake, okay? First, people always say all kinds of stupid things they haven't thought. You have to do the thinking through-thing yourself, learn how to choose the stuff that's worth believing. Think of why they say the things they say, and base your decision to listen to them or to ignore them accordingly. And second, try to judge a bit better who to reveal your secrets to. That prick Dennis seemed like a bad choice." With a wink Marshall stood up, his friendly smile looking a bit odd on his normally grumpy face.
"So hush. I'd hate to have to kill you, man." The wink made clear that the threat was far from real. Jake watched Marshall Mathers disappear down the stairs in a happy daze. The evening had sure gone from ok to awful to terrific fast!
Thankfully the SIM card hadn't suffered any lasting damage. Insert new cell phone and voila! One functional phone with all Marshall's all-important numbers in memory. He closed his eyes to let out a relieved sigh before dialing Lance. The call was answered almost instantly.
"Em?"
"That's right, babe, expecting me?"
"I've been trying to call you for ages! We haven't had time to really talk in such a long time, it feels like I'm breathing rehearsals nowadays. So, is there something wrong with your cell? It gave this really strange message when I tried to reach you..."
"My cell? Um, it's fine. Yep. Good as new, actually!"
"Really? Hmm."
"Ok, I give! This has been a shitty day, and you don't want to hear all about it, but here it comes..."
Some fifteen minutes later Lance was shaking his head at his lover.
"Oh, baby, you sound miserable! Why haven't you talked about this before?"
"I don't know... You seem so busy, you've got enough on your mind without all this shit."
"And maybe you don't want to seem dependable?"
The reply came after a few seconds, and in a very small voice. "Maybe."
"Too proud for your own good, sweetie, that's what you are. Please don't take offense, but you seem to almost enjoy wallowing in your misery sometimes. Question: did you ever think about talking with Bizarre about this? I mean, he knows, and he seems cool with it. It would make you feel so much better if you had someone in the inside to talk to. Dre is also hundred per cent behind you, babe."
"Well, shit. Why didn't I think of that? You're just so smart, James, I don't know what I did to deserve you." Lance could hear from Marshall's voice that he was already in a much better mood. Good. Mission accomplished.
"I have no idea. You can be so damn dumb sometime, hon. Me dumping you? Not in a million years. And I'd never go with the silence treatment in that highly unlikely case of us breaking up from my initiative. But let's leave it at that, okay? No one's leaving nobody. Damn. I'm even starting to sound like you."
"Oh, I so enjoy corrupting the innocent. Especially the breathtakingly gorgeous, unbelievably sexy, amazingly bright and charming innocent."
"Yeah, yeah, you're the bad guy, Em. But I love you."
"I love you too, James. More than I can say."
"See, that's what we have to work on: communication! No, seriously, if something is troubling either one of us, we need to talk about it. If we don't, the things that are left unsaid will start to build a wall between us. In other words, when we stop talking and being honest with each other, we'll be in deep shit."
"I hear you. Damn I was lucky to fall for the smart guy."
"Sure you were. And babe? I'm very, very proud of how you handled that Jake guy. Not earlier, though I do understand that you were under a lot of stress - I mean when you came across him again later. You could have walked away, but you didn't. You totally made his day, hell, his year! So don't go beating yourself up for it anymore, you hear?"
"Got it. Now go get some sleep, babe."
"You too. You've had a long, tiring day. I don't want you to get ill or something."
"But you'd make such a lovely nurse! I bet I'd be okay again after less than six hours in your gentle care."
"Could be. But no stalling, mister! Dream of me tonight."
"I'm sure I will. Miss you."
"Miss you too."
"Love you."
"Love you too. And hang up right now! Call me tomorrow morning..."
TBC
Comments are greatly appreciated. Please send some to nea_1@hotmail.com if you have time! Even a short note lightens up my day and encourages to write. I'm especially glad to hear your ideas for the plot! Thanks for the wonderful feedback I've received so far!