![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
amfiguree[N'sync/Eminem] [Chris/Eminem] [NC-17 -- Language]
Chaptered
Author's Note: Err, yes. I finally plucked up enough courage to bring this fic into the light.
The Story: Once upon a time there was a white, fucked up boy who loved dancing. Someone finally found his talent and he became a white, fucked up boy who loved dancing who was rich and famous. But he screwed up along the way, because he was greedy, and one day the world stopped and it was over. He's different now, and in love, but he wishes he'd changed earlier.
In Chapters: Someone
Chris watches him intently, the scrawny, white boy in a corner of the dance floor. It's easy to spot him, his pale, almost milky skin, a stark contrast to the honey tones of his partners, and the darker shades of the grainy walls. Chris' camera is already rolling, as he films the kid, wondering if he's found his lucky break.
There's a cadence to the motion of the dancing body that's pleasing to watch, like he's in sync with the music, like his body knows exactly what to do to catch the essence of the beat.
Chris smiles, impressed.
boy who loved dancing
It's Marshall's typical weeknight routine - has been ever since he moved here five months ago - to be out at a club on weeknights. He follows the alleys and the lesser-known roads, and gets himself into a sleazy club, with faulty strobe lights and blaring hip-hop music, full of black kids save himself.
He never drinks – they told him it'd interfere with the pills – never even goes near the damn bar, but he stays on the dance floor for hours. It's easy, in a way nothing else is, and the never-ending energy feeds him, waves of pulsating beats, as it slidesburns through his veins.
Slide. Snap. Twist. Pop. Beads of perspiration form on his forehead, the room a mute swirl of colors and noise. Marshall welcomes it, concentrating on the fluidness of his movements and the pop-crack of his joints. His dancing comes as easily to him as the ability to breathe, and he moves like water flowing with the current, smooth and effortless.
Marshall doesn't look at anyone, doesn't hear the catcalls or the scattered applaud of approval, doesn't feel anything but the hum of the music weaving through him, intertwined with the burn of his muscles, his clothing already clinging to his body like a second skin as he dances the night away.
once upon a time
Marshall knows his mother hates the idea of him leaving the house. She loves him, she always says, and in the kind of neighborhood they've been forced to live in for the past couple of months, it's not safe for him to be out wandering the streets alone at night. He could get hurt.
"There are people who'd tell you to take it up the ass like a fuckin' man before they beat the living hell outta you." Marshall barely flinches as she throws the kitchen towel at him. "We're white, and we treat them like shit, and they can't do nothing about it. But we step on their property and they'll kill us. They'll take the knife and stick into you when you're not lookin'."
Marshall's tired of listening to the same speech every night. He'll slip out of the house, two hours later, when everyone's asleep and no one's there to hear the creaking of the door except the neighbor's old bulldog. He grits his teeth, and starts drying the dishes.
white, fucked up
Marshall doesn't know how long it is before he finally finds his way out of the club. He stumbles, slightly when his vision blurs, and he thinks he might have gone too long without water and forgotten.
"Fuck," he croaks. With his voice like that, Marshall knows he's screwed something up.
"Whassamatter, white boy? You lost?"
That can't be a good sign, and the gruff mocking quality of the voice sends sluggish agonizing alarms resounding in his head. The sudden, searing hit-by-a-truck pain at the back of his skull can't be any better news.
Then his world is promptly pulled out from under him, and his vision fades.
who was rich and famous
Marshall hates crowds. He's been doing this for a long time now – three years - and he still hasn't been able to curb the prickle of fear that creeps up his spine and spreads throughout his body every time he's about to compete. It annoys, and worse, it unnerves.
It was easier when he'd been unknown, without the world peering over his shoulder, waiting eagerly for him to make a mistake. He fair stalks onto the dance floor, and he regains a semblance of confidence before the music starts.
Then it all comes back to him, and he manages a quick, neat two-step, before letting his body take over, flowing along with the beat. There are at least a thousand people who stand when he ends his performance, and three thousand more outside waiting for him while he climbs into his limousine.
"Let's go home," he says to Chris, who smiles.
finally found his talent
Realistically, Marshall has Chris to thank, for saving him, twice over, and both in the same night, but Chris never brings it up, and Marshall never talks about it, apart from the reluctant 'thank you' he'd offered when he'd first signed with Chris.
He'd woken up on a couch, white but for the stain of red beneath his head where the blood hadn't clotted. His mouth was dry, like cotton, and he barely had enough strength to sit up when a stranger approached, bearing a glass of water like a peace offering.
"I'm Chris." It was said without pre empt, and Marshall blinked. "I saw you out the back of the club – you were out like a light. Thought you might appreciate spending the night indoors."
"The guy," Marshall asked, after gulping down the liquid. "What happened?"
Chris' eyes were steel cool. "What guy?"
Marshall looked down into his glass, ignored the smudges of red fingerprints not his own on the sides. "Okay," he said, even though it wasn't a real answer. He put the glass down.
Chris eyed Marshall critically then, wrapping his thumb and index finger around a bony wrist. "Need to beef up."
Marshall scowled, jerking his hand back. He felt his temper rising already, hot and unstoppable. "Fuck off."
"Don't think you want me to do that," Chris smiled, but it didn't reached his eyes. "I've got an offer for you."
A camera had been held up, and Marshall had watched himself dance on screen, enthralled.
screwed up along the way
"Listen. Nate, listen to me!" Marshall shakes his brother, gentle but insistent, till he's staring down into eyes not unlike his own – mottled brown with anger and defiance. "You're gonna go to school. You're gonna grow up good, and you're gonna know shit. And then, when you got your diploma, you'll come home. Y'understand?"
He kneels, so he feels like they're seeing eye-to-eye – at least literally, if no way else. "M'not letting you end up like me, you got it?"
"What, a world idol? A multi-fucking-millionaire with a career I'd kill for?" There's hidden, desperate admiration in Nathan's voice, and Marshall shies away from it like a snake that might poison him.
"Ain't gonna last forever," he says, feeling the fear curl in his throat, like a vice he can barely breathe past. But he recognizes the fire in Nathan's eyes, unquenchable and so damn familiar; the same glint is reflected in his own.
He's wanted fame since before he can remember learning the alphabet, since before he can remember his dad leaving to buy a drink and never coming back, since before he can remember Nathan. And now that he has it, he wants more.
Marshall's not stupid. He knows he's riding the high tide, and once it's past his time, the waves will be all over him, and he'll sink to the bottom where all the forgotten lie.
Doesn't stop him from crouching a little lower on the surfboard.
So fuckin' selfish, he thinks, but he can't handle Nate when he hasn't even figured out what to do with himself. He doesn't know how.
and he became
The changes, Nathan reflects, had been small. Gradual. He hasn't noticed, till his birthday, that it's been four full months since Marshall's written. Or called. Or remotely tried to contact him.
There had been everyday phone calls, at first, five fleeting minutes of contentment and near-ecstasy. Then that had dwindled. Weekly letters became his constant source of comfort, of family. And then even that had become a furtive memory. There had been the occasional postcards, and the even rarer phone calls, but after awhile, it had stopped completely.
Nathan can't even be surprised.
He thinks it's almost tragic, how he probably would've become the same way.
because he was greedy
"I'm going to do this fucking gig." Marshall holds the metal window grills in front of him in a white-knuckled grip. "Chris, you know you can't fuckin' stop me. So don't try."
"You're not going to be able to do shit with that foot," Chris says calmly, coolly, like always. And it makes Marshall want to shove his fist in Chris' face, to see if the façade would crack, if Chris would yell, or run, or better yet, throw a punch of his own. But he doesn't.
"Gonna try."
"Bull. Shit." Chris is up in his face in an instant, anger written clearly in his eyes. "You're not going to fuckin' walk until your ankle's healed."
Marshall swallows, and watches Chris watch his adam's apple bob up and down. Then he bends his head, and for one glorious moment he's kissing Chris, sudden and sure. Their lips mash against their teeth and it's nothing like Marshall thought it would be, everything he didn't think he'd want.
"I'm going," he mutters as he pulls away, his breath fanning Chris' cheek.
"I said bullshit," Chris warns, his eyes dark, but then his lips are soft and pliant against Marshall's, and it's so different from what it should be that Marshall wants to laugh.
He's going.
one day the world stopped
Marshall strides onto the dance floor, and hopes no one notices he's hobbling. He can feel Chris' lips on his mouth, grazing his stubble-lined cheek, and imagines the man curled up in bed, back at home.
People are staring, some delighted, others disapproving. Marshall can't bring himself to care. The music is about to start, and there's the overwhelming rush of adrenaline; he'd probably liken it to the lightheaded giddiness of alcohol, but he wouldn't know.
He makes a sharp roll of his hand, and his body sways in answer, but then there's a crack that he knows isn't planned, isn't, and the pain is like that night back home, back in Detroit, abrupt and unexpected, blinding. When Marshall crumples to the floor, he thinks he sees a bone angled awkwardly, jutting against the flesh of his ankle.
he's different now
"Fuckin' crazy bitch, didn't your ankle teach you anything?” Chris gasps, wildfire in his eyes that matches Marshall's own excited pulse. Chris leaves an almost dark handprint on the window as he slumps back against his chair. "This is a goddamn car. It's got fuckin' suspension!"
Marshall doesn't really care. It's felt like for-fuckin'-ever since he's been able to drive a car on his own. He thinks that Chris understands, even while he's leaning back against the headrest, chest heaving.
He can hear the disappointment thudding in his chest as he kills the engine and hands the keys over to Chris. This doesn't come close to the thrill of dancing – and he knows he can't have that anymore.
and in love
When Chris takes the keys from Marshall, he touches his thigh, leaves his hand there for a long time. When he leans over, Marshall moves to meet him halfway, and they kiss sloppily, hands already moving to unbutton shirts, searching for skin.
"M'not lookin' for forever."
"Not offering," Chris mutters, against Marshall's lips, his small hands rough on Marshall's tattooed hip. But Marshall can feel the lie etched in Chris' skin, can taste it in their bruised lips.
It feels, almost, like he's dancing again.
and it was over
"You're lying," Marshall says, as he stares out the open window in disgust, his arms folded angrily, protectively, across his chest. "You're fuckin' lying, asshole."
Chris is just as furious, but there's an ache in his eyes that won't fade. "I said--"
"I know what you said, and I still don't fuckin' care. But if you think - if you think you can keep me here by telling me that my leg is fucked, you--"
Chris' hand is warm on Marshall's shoulder, and he has to swallow painfully and push the tears away, swallow his fear and keep the anger burning. His ankle can't be destroyed; it can't be. Itcan'titcan'titcan't.
"Don't touch me," he growls, but his voice hitches. Traitor.
"Marshall." Chris' tone is almost gentle, but the consternation Marshall can hear is too much. He's not going to lose it. He shoves Chris away, furiously, desperately, listening for the slam of flesh against stone.
"Don't." He sucks a breath in through his mouth, his teeth gritted together tightly, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, so forcefully that he knows he's going to see purple sparks when he pulls his hands away. "Don't say it."
He's terrified, but he'll never admit it. He's praying - something he hasn't done in eighteen years - and he's so fucking scared. He can feel arms, solid and comforting around his body, and he sinks into Chris' embrace, shaking. It isn't supposed to end up this way. Not like this.
Then he chokes, and the tears flow.
he wishes he'd changed earlier
Marshall watches the dancers onstage, almost enviously. His hands are clenched into fists by his side, his fingernails digging into skin. He's only been walking for two weeks, and the crutch is still an unfamiliar companion by his side.
His face crumples as he stares at the floor, at his foot, and takes a deep breath. The music still sways through his body, and he feels like he's coming alive again. One day, he hopes. It's impossible, and he thinks he knows that.
He hopes just the same.
-fin-
Chaptered
Author's Note: Err, yes. I finally plucked up enough courage to bring this fic into the light.
The Story: Once upon a time there was a white, fucked up boy who loved dancing. Someone finally found his talent and he became a white, fucked up boy who loved dancing who was rich and famous. But he screwed up along the way, because he was greedy, and one day the world stopped and it was over. He's different now, and in love, but he wishes he'd changed earlier.
In Chapters: Someone
Chris watches him intently, the scrawny, white boy in a corner of the dance floor. It's easy to spot him, his pale, almost milky skin, a stark contrast to the honey tones of his partners, and the darker shades of the grainy walls. Chris' camera is already rolling, as he films the kid, wondering if he's found his lucky break.
There's a cadence to the motion of the dancing body that's pleasing to watch, like he's in sync with the music, like his body knows exactly what to do to catch the essence of the beat.
Chris smiles, impressed.
boy who loved dancing
It's Marshall's typical weeknight routine - has been ever since he moved here five months ago - to be out at a club on weeknights. He follows the alleys and the lesser-known roads, and gets himself into a sleazy club, with faulty strobe lights and blaring hip-hop music, full of black kids save himself.
He never drinks – they told him it'd interfere with the pills – never even goes near the damn bar, but he stays on the dance floor for hours. It's easy, in a way nothing else is, and the never-ending energy feeds him, waves of pulsating beats, as it slidesburns through his veins.
Slide. Snap. Twist. Pop. Beads of perspiration form on his forehead, the room a mute swirl of colors and noise. Marshall welcomes it, concentrating on the fluidness of his movements and the pop-crack of his joints. His dancing comes as easily to him as the ability to breathe, and he moves like water flowing with the current, smooth and effortless.
Marshall doesn't look at anyone, doesn't hear the catcalls or the scattered applaud of approval, doesn't feel anything but the hum of the music weaving through him, intertwined with the burn of his muscles, his clothing already clinging to his body like a second skin as he dances the night away.
once upon a time
Marshall knows his mother hates the idea of him leaving the house. She loves him, she always says, and in the kind of neighborhood they've been forced to live in for the past couple of months, it's not safe for him to be out wandering the streets alone at night. He could get hurt.
"There are people who'd tell you to take it up the ass like a fuckin' man before they beat the living hell outta you." Marshall barely flinches as she throws the kitchen towel at him. "We're white, and we treat them like shit, and they can't do nothing about it. But we step on their property and they'll kill us. They'll take the knife and stick into you when you're not lookin'."
Marshall's tired of listening to the same speech every night. He'll slip out of the house, two hours later, when everyone's asleep and no one's there to hear the creaking of the door except the neighbor's old bulldog. He grits his teeth, and starts drying the dishes.
white, fucked up
Marshall doesn't know how long it is before he finally finds his way out of the club. He stumbles, slightly when his vision blurs, and he thinks he might have gone too long without water and forgotten.
"Fuck," he croaks. With his voice like that, Marshall knows he's screwed something up.
"Whassamatter, white boy? You lost?"
That can't be a good sign, and the gruff mocking quality of the voice sends sluggish agonizing alarms resounding in his head. The sudden, searing hit-by-a-truck pain at the back of his skull can't be any better news.
Then his world is promptly pulled out from under him, and his vision fades.
who was rich and famous
Marshall hates crowds. He's been doing this for a long time now – three years - and he still hasn't been able to curb the prickle of fear that creeps up his spine and spreads throughout his body every time he's about to compete. It annoys, and worse, it unnerves.
It was easier when he'd been unknown, without the world peering over his shoulder, waiting eagerly for him to make a mistake. He fair stalks onto the dance floor, and he regains a semblance of confidence before the music starts.
Then it all comes back to him, and he manages a quick, neat two-step, before letting his body take over, flowing along with the beat. There are at least a thousand people who stand when he ends his performance, and three thousand more outside waiting for him while he climbs into his limousine.
"Let's go home," he says to Chris, who smiles.
finally found his talent
Realistically, Marshall has Chris to thank, for saving him, twice over, and both in the same night, but Chris never brings it up, and Marshall never talks about it, apart from the reluctant 'thank you' he'd offered when he'd first signed with Chris.
He'd woken up on a couch, white but for the stain of red beneath his head where the blood hadn't clotted. His mouth was dry, like cotton, and he barely had enough strength to sit up when a stranger approached, bearing a glass of water like a peace offering.
"I'm Chris." It was said without pre empt, and Marshall blinked. "I saw you out the back of the club – you were out like a light. Thought you might appreciate spending the night indoors."
"The guy," Marshall asked, after gulping down the liquid. "What happened?"
Chris' eyes were steel cool. "What guy?"
Marshall looked down into his glass, ignored the smudges of red fingerprints not his own on the sides. "Okay," he said, even though it wasn't a real answer. He put the glass down.
Chris eyed Marshall critically then, wrapping his thumb and index finger around a bony wrist. "Need to beef up."
Marshall scowled, jerking his hand back. He felt his temper rising already, hot and unstoppable. "Fuck off."
"Don't think you want me to do that," Chris smiled, but it didn't reached his eyes. "I've got an offer for you."
A camera had been held up, and Marshall had watched himself dance on screen, enthralled.
screwed up along the way
"Listen. Nate, listen to me!" Marshall shakes his brother, gentle but insistent, till he's staring down into eyes not unlike his own – mottled brown with anger and defiance. "You're gonna go to school. You're gonna grow up good, and you're gonna know shit. And then, when you got your diploma, you'll come home. Y'understand?"
He kneels, so he feels like they're seeing eye-to-eye – at least literally, if no way else. "M'not letting you end up like me, you got it?"
"What, a world idol? A multi-fucking-millionaire with a career I'd kill for?" There's hidden, desperate admiration in Nathan's voice, and Marshall shies away from it like a snake that might poison him.
"Ain't gonna last forever," he says, feeling the fear curl in his throat, like a vice he can barely breathe past. But he recognizes the fire in Nathan's eyes, unquenchable and so damn familiar; the same glint is reflected in his own.
He's wanted fame since before he can remember learning the alphabet, since before he can remember his dad leaving to buy a drink and never coming back, since before he can remember Nathan. And now that he has it, he wants more.
Marshall's not stupid. He knows he's riding the high tide, and once it's past his time, the waves will be all over him, and he'll sink to the bottom where all the forgotten lie.
Doesn't stop him from crouching a little lower on the surfboard.
So fuckin' selfish, he thinks, but he can't handle Nate when he hasn't even figured out what to do with himself. He doesn't know how.
and he became
The changes, Nathan reflects, had been small. Gradual. He hasn't noticed, till his birthday, that it's been four full months since Marshall's written. Or called. Or remotely tried to contact him.
There had been everyday phone calls, at first, five fleeting minutes of contentment and near-ecstasy. Then that had dwindled. Weekly letters became his constant source of comfort, of family. And then even that had become a furtive memory. There had been the occasional postcards, and the even rarer phone calls, but after awhile, it had stopped completely.
Nathan can't even be surprised.
He thinks it's almost tragic, how he probably would've become the same way.
because he was greedy
"I'm going to do this fucking gig." Marshall holds the metal window grills in front of him in a white-knuckled grip. "Chris, you know you can't fuckin' stop me. So don't try."
"You're not going to be able to do shit with that foot," Chris says calmly, coolly, like always. And it makes Marshall want to shove his fist in Chris' face, to see if the façade would crack, if Chris would yell, or run, or better yet, throw a punch of his own. But he doesn't.
"Gonna try."
"Bull. Shit." Chris is up in his face in an instant, anger written clearly in his eyes. "You're not going to fuckin' walk until your ankle's healed."
Marshall swallows, and watches Chris watch his adam's apple bob up and down. Then he bends his head, and for one glorious moment he's kissing Chris, sudden and sure. Their lips mash against their teeth and it's nothing like Marshall thought it would be, everything he didn't think he'd want.
"I'm going," he mutters as he pulls away, his breath fanning Chris' cheek.
"I said bullshit," Chris warns, his eyes dark, but then his lips are soft and pliant against Marshall's, and it's so different from what it should be that Marshall wants to laugh.
He's going.
one day the world stopped
Marshall strides onto the dance floor, and hopes no one notices he's hobbling. He can feel Chris' lips on his mouth, grazing his stubble-lined cheek, and imagines the man curled up in bed, back at home.
People are staring, some delighted, others disapproving. Marshall can't bring himself to care. The music is about to start, and there's the overwhelming rush of adrenaline; he'd probably liken it to the lightheaded giddiness of alcohol, but he wouldn't know.
He makes a sharp roll of his hand, and his body sways in answer, but then there's a crack that he knows isn't planned, isn't, and the pain is like that night back home, back in Detroit, abrupt and unexpected, blinding. When Marshall crumples to the floor, he thinks he sees a bone angled awkwardly, jutting against the flesh of his ankle.
he's different now
"Fuckin' crazy bitch, didn't your ankle teach you anything?” Chris gasps, wildfire in his eyes that matches Marshall's own excited pulse. Chris leaves an almost dark handprint on the window as he slumps back against his chair. "This is a goddamn car. It's got fuckin' suspension!"
Marshall doesn't really care. It's felt like for-fuckin'-ever since he's been able to drive a car on his own. He thinks that Chris understands, even while he's leaning back against the headrest, chest heaving.
He can hear the disappointment thudding in his chest as he kills the engine and hands the keys over to Chris. This doesn't come close to the thrill of dancing – and he knows he can't have that anymore.
and in love
When Chris takes the keys from Marshall, he touches his thigh, leaves his hand there for a long time. When he leans over, Marshall moves to meet him halfway, and they kiss sloppily, hands already moving to unbutton shirts, searching for skin.
"M'not lookin' for forever."
"Not offering," Chris mutters, against Marshall's lips, his small hands rough on Marshall's tattooed hip. But Marshall can feel the lie etched in Chris' skin, can taste it in their bruised lips.
It feels, almost, like he's dancing again.
and it was over
"You're lying," Marshall says, as he stares out the open window in disgust, his arms folded angrily, protectively, across his chest. "You're fuckin' lying, asshole."
Chris is just as furious, but there's an ache in his eyes that won't fade. "I said--"
"I know what you said, and I still don't fuckin' care. But if you think - if you think you can keep me here by telling me that my leg is fucked, you--"
Chris' hand is warm on Marshall's shoulder, and he has to swallow painfully and push the tears away, swallow his fear and keep the anger burning. His ankle can't be destroyed; it can't be. Itcan'titcan'titcan't.
"Don't touch me," he growls, but his voice hitches. Traitor.
"Marshall." Chris' tone is almost gentle, but the consternation Marshall can hear is too much. He's not going to lose it. He shoves Chris away, furiously, desperately, listening for the slam of flesh against stone.
"Don't." He sucks a breath in through his mouth, his teeth gritted together tightly, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, so forcefully that he knows he's going to see purple sparks when he pulls his hands away. "Don't say it."
He's terrified, but he'll never admit it. He's praying - something he hasn't done in eighteen years - and he's so fucking scared. He can feel arms, solid and comforting around his body, and he sinks into Chris' embrace, shaking. It isn't supposed to end up this way. Not like this.
Then he chokes, and the tears flow.
he wishes he'd changed earlier
Marshall watches the dancers onstage, almost enviously. His hands are clenched into fists by his side, his fingernails digging into skin. He's only been walking for two weeks, and the crutch is still an unfamiliar companion by his side.
His face crumples as he stares at the floor, at his foot, and takes a deep breath. The music still sways through his body, and he feels like he's coming alive again. One day, he hopes. It's impossible, and he thinks he knows that.
He hopes just the same.
-fin-
no subject
Date: 2004-11-25 12:02 am (UTC)Also, though, the post is riddled with links to an advertising search engine. You probably didn't put them in there yourself, so you've probably got spyware or adware on your computer. you should go download Ad-Aware from Lavasoft -- http://www.lavasoftusa.com/software/adaware/ -- and Spybot S&D -- http://www.safer-networking.org/en/index.html -- and run scans.
no subject
Date: 2004-11-28 07:54 pm (UTC)