Date: Sat, 25 May 2002 15:51:44 +0300
From: Neea P. <nea_1@hotmail.com>
Subject: (Boybands) Needing You chapter 11

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!