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Adjusting	By : Bia Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 7351 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Eminem (Marshall Mathers). I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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JC sat up as the door opened, knowing who it was without looking. It wasn't like he'd been asleep, too worked up from his earlier call to Em. He'd been unable to quiet his thoughts after that. He glanced over at the clock; three in the morning and Justin was just getting in. He thought if he looked hard enough he could see traces of Britney all over him.

Justin stumbled into the room. JC sighed as the smell hit him; even at this distance the scent of vodka was thick. He and Britney had obviously been enjoying themselves. JC didn't speak, only watched as Justin undressed then clambered into bed. When the big hands reached for him, JC scooted back. He did have some pride. He wasn't about to just roll over like a good bitch.

~~~*~~~

JC shifted beneath the arm locked around his waist. Justin's face pressed into the curve of his neck, one leg flung out over his hips. Pinning the slighter man to his lover's side. A part of him wanted to get up and shower. To wash the last few hours off his body, and out of his thoughts. But he didn't want to wake Justin. Not now. Though he probably needed to put some antiseptic on the bites, he was certain Justin had broken the skin at least once. He wondered what it looked like.

mouth 'you' wet 'don't' slick 'mean' sharp 'no' pain

He knows what it feels like. A slow slide, ticklish slippery drops of blood. Pooling at his collarbone. Can't quite work up the energy to wipe it away. It's only one of many. He never was the brightest bulb. He thinks they must be staining the sheets. Justin's an artist. Is this art? Splatter of red on ivory, canvas sheets. His blood the medium. In indigo shades caught beneath the flesh. Spilling a red river from the secret place. Maybe he is his lover's new masterpiece. Justin certainly knew how to play him. No matter how he had protested Justin knew his body too well. Knew just where to touch him. To make him ache. To make him beg. To make him hurt.

hands 'say' heavy 'yes' tight 'jayce' limp

All the while, those eyes. Watching. Always they'd watched him. That wasn't new. He'd done so since they'd met. Through the years what was behind them changed. Back when they were 'mice', there had been awe tinged with fear. But not for long. In Germany, trust and home. When they'd returned home, a slow shift from brotherly to lustful. By the time they'd gotten involved, full of love. But always there, behind everything else was a sense of possession. A hint of ownership. For the first time since Justin had turned that hungry gaze on him, he felt like property. And coming from somewhere in the depths of his memories, he heard Lynn whispering about how Justin was hell on his toys. Breaking them long before they should've been. As he lay in the dark, trapped in Justin's arms, he couldn't escape the growing chorus of terrified voices in his head. Ones that wondered what if, just what if he hadn't given in?

Em stared at the vcr, frustrated more than words could tell. The fucking thing was still blinking twelve goddamn o'clock. He was nearly thirty; he should know how to program a vcr. He ignored Dre's laughing. Or tried to.

"Do you need me to call, Proof?" snickered Dre from where he lounged on the huge couch. Highly amused by Em's battle with the machine. He'd come over with every intention of interrogating the rapper. But watching him proved an amusing distraction for the moment.

"Fuck no." Em said, hitting another button. Scowling in indignation as the recorder spat the tape out at him. He'd never hear the end of it. Though seeing as it was Proof who'd programmed the shit before and lost the manuals, maybe he could blame the lack of progress on him.

"Better hurry," said Dre, flicking through the television guide he'd picked up. "Hailie's program starts soon."

"I know. I know," muttered Em. After several minutes of random button pressing, he admitted defeat and called Proof. Dre's smug amusement beginning to work a nerve. Ten minutes later, only vaguely more knowledgeable he set out to try it again. Turning on the satellite this time, "What channel?"

"Nickelodeon," answered Dre, tossing aside the guide. It was time. Dre had never had much use for subtlety. Not when dealing with his own people. Despite their relative ages, most of them needed to be reigned in like rowdy teenagers. "Em what's up with you?"

"Huh?" Attention focused less on Dre than on the screen. Or actually the persons on screen. His brow furrowed as he stared at Chasez. Looking for something.... When Timberlake dropped into the chair beside Chasez, he growled.

"That...that there," said Dre, sitting forward. "You've been on edge for weeks. Slim has been twitchy for the last four days."

Despite Dre's harried tone, Em couldn't look away from the screen. Chasez looked well for someone who'd supposedly been suffering form laryngitis just four days ago. He thought, remembering the excuse his band mates had given for his absence during an interview earlier in the week.

'Hey guys welcome back. It's Tuesday, and Valentine's week here on T.R.L,' said Carson. "Who better to kick of this week than N'sync. Of course, our first question is where's Chasez?' Justin shifted forward on the couch as if getting ready to share a confidence, ‘He got laryngitis a couple days ago. The fever was making him cranky, so we left him at him.' The audience awwed.'

Em snorted. Laryngitis his ass, he'd known that was a lie the minute Timberfuck had said it. Not with Chasez having reamed him out the day before. He frowned staring harder at the television. He'd been worried about the kid since then. Chasez, dumb ass or not, seemed like a tough sonuvabitch. Anything that would keep him off camera had to have been serious. His gaze narrowed as on screen Timberfuck crowded the kid. Damn back off, he thought. Give the kid some fucking room to breathe.

"Are you even listening to me," barked Dre, standing up.

Em's head snapped around. "What?"

Dre's eyes narrowed, and he started pacing. "This. This mood. You said what had Shady bugged was done."

"It is," snapped Em, gaze drawn back to the screen. Conversation over as far as he was concerned. He frowned seeing Chasez's hands in their usual position. Tucked firmly beneath his shoulders. In fact, they'd been that way the entire interview. Em studied the kid. After a moment, he decided he was wrong. The kid didn't look well at all. He looked wrecked. He could see why as Timberfuck threw an arm around his shoulder. An arm Chasez immediately scooted out from under. Somebody really needed to tell Timberfuck to back off.

Dre wasn't near ready to let this drop. Not when Em had been twigged about something for the last month. Not when Slim had been on edge for the last four days. Sure as fuck not when a simple phone call was enough to set him off. No. He wanted answers. And he wanted them fucking yesterday. Starting with, "Who was it on the tape, Slim?"

"Nobody," growled Em, seeing the growing desperation in the kid's eyes as Timberfuck kept pushing up on him. He wondered why no else could. It made every protective instinct he had flare up. He'd only seen the kid three times in as many months. So how come he could see what his 'brothers', Slim sneered in disgust, couldn't? Em didn't know but it irritated the fuck outta him. Part of him itched to beat the hell outta Timberfuck the next time he saw him. He really need someone to make him... "back off," muttered Em, inaudibly as on screen Timberlake crowded the kid again.

"Don't fucking tell me nobody again Slim," snarled Dre. "Who pissed you off?" He paused as another thought occurred. "Or better yet who did you piss off?"

Em's head snapped up as Dre came to a halt behind him. He could hear the rising impatience in his mentor's voice. He didn't like keeping shit from Dre. Hell, he rarely kept shit from Dre. He was more family than blood to him. But this wasn't his shit to tell. Movement on the television caught his eye again, as Timberfuck clasped the back of Chasez's neck.

"Back off," he muttered, and stomped down on the urge to swear. He knew that was just gonna bring more questions from Dre. And at the moment Em didn't know who he meant.

Dre didn't like that tone. He frowned studying his boy, where he crouched beside the television. Hands braced against the sides for balance, were now clasping it with a white-knuckled grip. The tense line of his back, leading to the bowed head. Dre could see the violence waiting to erupt. He made a note to up the security around Em. He didn't need a repeat of the Detroit incident. "I don't think so, Slim. You've been twitchy for too long. Ever since that phone call, I ain't blind."

Em didn't answer, he couldn't. 'Cause Chasez had finally pulled his hands from their hiding place. There in technicolor for all the world to see. Nearly violet bruises barely hidden behind the leather cuffs wrapped around wrists, that suddenly looked very fragile. To Em's knowing eye, they were obviously fingerprints. His gaze darkened, and he couldn't look away. It was hard to bruise wrists like that. You had to be put a lot of pressure behind the grip, even then it had to be for a decent length of time. Someone had to really be trying to do it. Em had no doubts as to who.

The interview was obviously over as Chasez and the others were standing. He wondered what was going through Chasez's head. The kid had been trying to stay out of Timberfuck's way the entire spot. Maybe, he really had gotten through. His gaze darkened further, lip curling into a snarl as Timberfuck zeroed in on Chasez. On screen the blonde moved up behind the kid just as they began to file off stage. Just before they vanished behind the curtain Timberfuck latched onto Chasez's wrist. The kid winced. Slim saw red. If the kid couldn't make him, Slim was going to make Timberlake "Back the fuck off," he hissed.

He gave into the violence, shoving at the television as he stood. It toppled to the floor with a resounding crash. For a second all was silent, as the television lay in smoking ruins.

"Goddamn! Slim," barked Dre, eyeing the mess. He couldn't let this go. Slim was to close to the surface. He looked like he was one step away from committing murder. He couldn't be trusted like this. Bad things happened when Shady was lose. "Who the fuck was on that tape?"

Em stood panting, head bowed. Shoulders trembled with a rage he hadn't felt since... well since the last time he'd thought Hailie was in danger. He fought to reign in his temper, to shove Slim back in his cage. "Dre, I'm tellin' ya. It's my business. And I'ma handle it. Trust me, please."

Instinct was screaming at him to keep pushing. To not let Em wriggle out of this. 'Cause thing were rotten in the state of Shady. He was beginning to think it had been going on for longer than he'd thought. But Em was asking him to trust him, had said please. He knew that was as close to a plea as Em was going to get.

Em waited for Dre to decide. He hoped Dre would let it lie. 'Cause he wouldn't lie to the man. But he wasn't coming clean. If Dre didn't drop it, he knew things were going to be tense between them.

"Fine," muttered Dre, still reluctant. "On one condition."

"What," asked Em quietly, secretly relieved. While he knew pretty much nothing could ruin their friendship, he hated arguing with Dre. So whatever concession Dre wanted he was pretty much going to agree to.

"You get your ass outta this house," snapped Dre. So far the extra men he'd hired had given him shit. Except to say Em hadn't left his house in almost a week. Idle Em was not a good idea. "I don't need your ass sitting here brooding. Go out tomorrow. Get laid--"

"Tomorrow's Valentine's," muttered Em, quite aware of the date. It would be the first in years he and Kim wouldn't be together.

"No shit," said Dre. "In fact, there's an Anti-Valentine's thing being thrown at the Viper room. Go. Get laid. Calm, Slim the fuck down. Before I have to start hiding bodies."

"Body," growled Slim.

Dre glared but let it slide. He trusted Em to keep his word, though he wasn't so sure about Slim. God, maybe he was the one who needed a shrink. Den mother for a bunch of convicts.
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