The Discovery

Yelawolf discovers something shocking about Eminem.

“First off you don't know Marshall, at all so don't grow partial

That's ammo for my arsenal, i'll slap you off that barstool

There goes another lawsuit, leave handprints all across you

Good Lordy whoadie, you must be gone off that water bottle

You want what you can't have, ooh girl that's too damn bad”

-          “Superman”, Eminem featuring Dina Rae

Marshall hasn’t been on a proper date in over a year. He’s always been uncomfortable with being catered to, much less appreciated at all. James is the first guy Marshall has been with that didn’t try to take his picture or his jewelry. After coming out to friends and family- respectively- Marshall didn’t expect the men he dated to treat him any different than the way women from his past treated him. It all just came with the territory though: being famous didn’t mean you automatically get respect. The last guy Marshall dated was a nightmare. He was so possessive over Marshall that the terrified rapper barely left the house- which he still unfortunately sticks to today- not to mention the constant beatings from him. It took him four months, a therapist, and a restraining order to get out of that relationship. Marshall guesses that the real reason he’s so nervous is because he doesn’t want James to go from Prince Charming to Papa Doc.

 

So he stands in the mirror, fixing his fleece sweatshirt several times; each manipulation feels more irritating than the last. He can barely breathe, his throat feeling tight and uncomfortable. He looks in his own eyes and is startled by the sadness in them.

 

“F**k you,” he says under his breath. “F**k you for ruining me.” He knows his ex is far away, probably punching through a wall, but he also knows that the coward can’t hear him, so he feels safe.

 

He takes a deep breath. He’s ready. He’s strong. He’s brave. James won’t hurt him.

 

Please.

 

It’s all Marshall has to pray for as he puts on his Adidas and spits out his gum, his face feeling hot and his legs are weak. The air in the room is so thick that it clings to him, cutting through his clothes and chilling his bones; he feels faint as a damp perspiration douses his palms and he takes a deep, narcotic inhaling-like breath as he realizes that these are the first signs that he has a crush.

 

One of those crushes that penetrates your chest and singes your heart. One of those crushes that consumes your mind like an electric pulse. One of those crushes that makes you feel like you could levitate off the ground if you wanted to. One of those crushes that makes you feel so happy yet so sick to your stomach at the same time.

 

Marshall hasn’t felt this way since his drug days, and this lets him believe that this crush is just as potent as a crushed Ambien. Just then, a car-horn beeps twice through the windows like the air of a nice breeze::

he can’t hold it in his hand but damn does it feel good.

 

He checks himself out in the mirror one last time to make sure that he looks close to perfect for James, and then he races downstairs like a child on Christmas morning- a cliché that makes his heart dance at the truth behind it. Time to open his present.

 

As he approaches the front door he makes sure that every light is turned off and each lock on the ivory guard is set. He’s not going with a bodyguard- Jesus Christ what was he thinking- and he needs to make sure the fort is being held down since his girls are vacationing with Kim for the week. As a final thought, he puts some condoms in his wallet just in case he wants a little more from James other than a candlelit dinner. He takes a deep breath and marches his way outside.

 

James is right out front, holding the passenger side door open like Marshall is the Queen of England or some s**t.

 

“Hi,” Marshall greets with a blush. At first, he expected to walk a million miles down his driveway and for James to be sitting in his car- impatient. He realizes that he’s very much underestimated the young stud.

 

“Hello,” James nods. “You look cute.” Marshall just can’t look at him so he climbs into his car, biting his lip in embarrassment. James climbs into the front seat, adjusts his mirrors, buckles his seatbelt, and takes off- all with Marshall paying very close attention to him.

 

“You can change the station if you’d like,” James offers, breaking the silence. It’s seven ‘o’ clock and it’s still light out- relatively; so when James looks at his date he is bereft by the sun’s reflection in his date’s eyes- making a wondrous image in the red light of the sky behind him. Marshall is truly something else.

 

James approaches a highway enveloped in beautiful lights with a street drenched in the afternoon’s rain when Marshall fumbles with the radio- finding a jazz station that tingles his ears.

 

“You like jazz?”

 

“Love jazz,” Marshall admits. James chuckles and suddenly Marshall wants to sink and disappear in the leather seat.

 

“I wonder what other things I don’t know about Eminem,” James ponders. Marshall considers this for a moment.

 

“I think everyone knows Eminem like the back o’ they hands…it’s Marshall that they confused ‘bout.” The honest admission locks itself in James mind, and they stay quiet for a while as bass strings ring in their ears.

 

That’s when a bell sounds loudly in the car, stiffening both men.

 

“Oh, um…you should put your seatbelt on,” James suggest nervously.

 

“What if I don’t?” Marshall challenges. It’s not that he doesn’t want to put it on, but rather that he just doesn’t feel like it. He hates cars; hates driving them, hates riding in them, and hates being told what to do.

 

“You’ll die,” James admits. Marshall looks at him, straight face and eyes locked on the road. It’s almost humorous at how plausible the statement is: so firm, definite…and harsh. Marshall whips the seatbelt around him so fast that it gets stuck. James laughs. “Just relax, I’m not gonna crash the car on purpose.” Marshall just smiles, but it’s gone in a second. He knows all about car accidents.

 

But before he can depressingly reminisce- even before he can buckle the damn seatbelt- they arrive at the restaurant. Marshall doesn’t even pay attention to the name, just the sudden rush of James’ lips on his, so delicate and soft. They leave just as soon as they arrived.

 

“I just couldn’t wait,” James says boldly. It had gotten darker since when they first left so James is a fiction of shadows in front of him, and Marshall wonders just how much time had gone by since those nervous moments in front of the mirror.

 

“Well then I guess we should hurry up and eat so you can come back for more,” Marshall alludes. He’s not usual this flirty…this sensual. James, regardless if he saw the façade or not, licks his lips.

 

“Ya got that right.” And before Marshall could think, he’s pulled into another kiss, James’ luscious lips manipulating his heart in ways he couldn’t describe. This was different from the last kiss, more intimate and long. Marshall felt his legs collapse in the seat, smooth jazz pulling at his heart strings. He’s almost ashamed at how deep he’s in- not quite falling in love but hanging off of the cliff. James breaks away hesitantly. “Come on,” he says with glazed over eyes.

 

Marshall waits for James to go over to his side of the car like a devilish girl from the ‘60s. He smiles coyly at the young man when he opens the door, and James can’t help but grin. As opposed to Marshall, he’s falling- fast- into the rocky oceans of love below.

 

“They’re gonna give away our table!” James reiterates jokingly.

 

“Not for Eminem they won’t.”

.  .  .  .  .

 

Over salad, soup, and breadsticks they shared their worlds. James told Marshall about the tree-house he had in his backyard as a child, in which Marshall told James about how he used to try on his mom’s boyfriends’ clothes when he was about five, just to see if he could fit the image of what his mom wanted. James discussed how his brother stole his girlfriend in high school- which didn’t matter much since he had a crush on the editor of the yearbook; he thinks his name was Paul but he couldn’t really recall clearly. Marshall told a story about when Hailie got her first parking ticket and she cried for almost three days straight.

 

“She did not,” James challenges. He has barely eaten anything on his plate, too enthralled in Marshall’s little tales.

 

“You think I’m exaggerating? That girl has cried over spilt milk because she thought I would hate her for making a mess,” Marshall confesses.

 

“It’s a shame she thinks that way of you,” James replies, and suddenly the conversation gets a bit dark. Marshall swallows down a half chewed sausage piece before speaking- careful to lean in and avoid James’ eyes.

 

“Back in my tourin’ days when she was really young, she used ta believe that I would always leave if she did somethin’ bad,” he pauses for a second, trying not to get too emotional. “She was young y’know? She didn’t really understand why Daddy left for months at a time for- to her at least- no reason. It was rough durin’ those years. She blames herself a lot- even now- for what happened ta me…” he looks up to see if James understands, he looks sick…upset.

 

“I try to tell her that it’s not her fault, y’know? But it just stuck wit her for so long that…she feels that one day I won’t be around for good. Sometimes I actually think she’d be better off.” Marshall doesn’t understand why he’s confessing all of this to James- on the first date no less- but for some reason he just feels safe.

 

“So how are you folks doin’?” their excited and flamboyant waiter asks at the most perfect f*****g time.

 

“We’re good, thanks. Um…more breadsticks?” James says as if their conversation never happened. Marshall can’t determine if he’s thankful or offended.

 

“Sure!” the waiter says excitedly, bouncing away like a puppy.

 

“Jesus Christ, can he be any more fake?” Marshall complains.

 

“What? Like a full-blooded English and German chap dining in an Italian restaurant?” James asks sarcastically. They laugh, but Marshall won’t let him get off that easily.

 

“You shouldn’t be complainin’ about me dining on Italian, James,” Marshall whispers. James licks his lips again like he did in the car, and suddenly Marshall’s pants are a little too tight for comfort.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll be putting those lips to good use later,” James says. He gives Marshall a s**t-eating grin just as the waiter gives them their breadsticks- thoroughly confused at the silence between them.

 

“We’ll take a check too,” Marshall says.

.  .  .  .  .

 

Back in the car, James is going about two miles an hour- or at least that’s how Marshall feels.

 

“You can go faster than the speed limit, y’know…” he sounds impatient- mad even, but James just laughs at the pitifully cries.

 

“I am! Relax,” James utters. Marshall, however, is having none of it.

 

“James, I’ve been waitin’ all my life. I’m almost forty f****n’ years old and I’m tired of waitin’, d****t. So you better drive faster or I’m stuck with my right hand tonight.”

 

Suddenly they’re flying down highway and Marshall thinks to himself how glad he is that he put his seatbelt on this time.

.  .  .  .  .

 

James is so forceful and Marshall just loves it. He pushes his way through the front door, clutching Marshall in his warm and strong hands as his mouth latches onto his. James pushes Marshall into a wall, pressing his lithe body against it almost painfully and covering Marshall with his own. Marshall is doused with James; his scent, his warmth, his groans. Blood was soon rushing between Marshall legs, and he makes it clear by grinding against his man.

 

His man.

 

“Mmm, baby,” James sighs and Marshall can feel his hopeless whimpers coming on when James grinds against him. Marshall’s eyes roll back in his head and he just wants more of James, so he reaches down and unzips him, feeling the most massive bulge in the world. He wants to be afraid- it is the first night after all- but he just marvels at it and rubs it through those f*****g Calvin Klein’s.

 

“Marshall, wait,” James says, breathless. Marshall’s bewildered, too intent on getting what he wants to even process the thought of waiting. “Before we do this, I have to tell you something.” James looks nervous, and Marshall can feel his heart pumping furiously in their embrace.

 

“Yes?” Marshall asks, breathless as well. James looks away.

 

“This is very difficult for me to say, but…” Oh God. “I’m HIV+.”

 

Marshall blinks for a second, surprised and baffled. He suddenly realizes that he’s making not just an illicit sexual escapade, but a dangerous one. Good thing he’s still got the condoms.

 

“Okay, thank you for tellin’ me,” and he sidetracks James with a fiery kiss, making James moan in surprise. Truth is, Marshall just doesn’t care, and for that James is grateful.

 

Removing their clothes slowly they move to the living room- the only room on that floor. Bad thing was, all they had was a table.

 

In between fiery kisses, James asks, “You okay on a flat surface?”

 

“Yeah, no problem. I’ve been fucked here several times anyway,” Marshall jokes but James doesn’t find it funny.

 

“Guess I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson, then,” James growls. Marshall is naked and vulnerable and so ready for any lesson that James wants to teach him.

 

So he lies down on the table, spreading his legs like a cheap w***e as James suits up with one of Marshall’s condoms. He kisses Marshall’s stomach, crawling up his body. When James reaches Marshall’s face, he leans down to kiss him passionately, to which the older man did what came naturally: pulling James’ body closer to his. Their kiss formally ends, but James continues to kiss every part of Marshall’s face; his eyelids, ears, and his neck many targets. Then James moves down Marshall’s body again, lifting his butt off the table. Marshall knows what’s coming next but isn’t prepared for James’ voracious assault.

 

James’ tongue on his most private area shocks him, and he moans as it digs deeper within him, preparing Marshall for what is next. It’s hot and wet and he’s moaning uncontrollably when James stops, climbs up his body once again with the face of pure, evil lust staring deep into Marshall’s eyes.

 

“You might want to hold onto something.” But he has nothing to hold onto.

 

When his- big- member first penetrates him he feels immediate pain. Marshall hasn’t done this in a very long time and he isn’t exactly adapted to men of this size. But James just kisses around his face and whispers for him to relax, and it feels like butterflies on Marshall’s skin.

 

“I’m ready,” Marshall pleads. James ducks his head to suck on Marshall’s neck as he thrusts powerfully into the older man. Marshall makes breathy moans and grips so hard on James’ strong shoulders. Each long drive into him tingles his skin and makes his c**k pound with a steady pulse. James reaches up to place a searing kiss on his lover’s lips, hitting a spot inside Marshall that makes him scream. God, did Marshall need this.

 

“Never stop,” Marshall demands followed by breathy whimpers. James bites the man’s now plump and swollen lips.

 

“As you wish, love.”

.  .  .  .  .

 

A part of Yelawolf’s mind is telling him that he’s a moron for going all the way to Detroit to bother his boss at nine ‘o’ clock at night. Another part is also telling him that he needs to see Marshall like he needs air to breathe. He’s just so f*****g…sorry for hurting him so much that the man can’t even sleep at night. He misses hearing his boss’ voice ring in his ears, misses the songs they did together in L.A., misses the smell of his cologne when they hugged, f**k…he misses the hugs period.

 

And when you’re sorry and aching for the person that you care about, you do some fucked up s**t, like buy a plane ticket to Detroit that arrives at 8:30 at night after doing a show in Europe.

 

What’s even crazier is that the front gate is open and so is the front door. Anything could be going on in there (a robbery, Marshall sleeping, his daughters having a sleepover) and he wouldn’t know because it’s pitch black in the house. Before Yela walks in he takes a deep breath, nervous suddenly. Marshall will probably not want him there.

 

But maybe he will.

 

It’s late at night and he’s probably asleep.

 

Maybe he’ll be excited to see you.

 

The worst that will happen will probably be Marshall kicking him out and he has to find a hotel to stay in.

 

Maybe he’ll let you stay.

 

Yela’s got to stop praying for good things to happen because Marshall f*****g Mathers will most certainly not want to see him.

 

Maybe…

 

So he barges in before his fantasies can get the better of him, but he hears pants and moans coming from the left of him, and he fears the worst.

 

A pang of jealousy hits him just before he looks over and sees…

 

“Oh my God…”

 

“Oh my God!”

 

His boss’ legs flail around some dude’s- naked- body and his face is one of pure horror. It takes all but a second for Yela to realize that he’s f*****g having up the a*s sex with some random f****t.

 

“Jesus Christ!” And Yela shields his eyes away from the scene, blindly guiding himself out of the room.

 

Once Yela’s in the main stairwell- albeit bumping into a few walls on the way there- he sits on the first step, breathing heavily. He tries to process what he saw, but all he can really see is his boss’ face: riddled with pleasure as some muscled dude pounded into his a*s.

 

Meanwhile, Marshall believes wholeheartedly that it was just a dream. His signee did not just walk into his house at nine ‘o’ clock at night. His signee did not just see his boss get his a*s fucked by someone he didn’t know. And his now boyfriend was most certainly not pulling out and trying to get his clothes on as

fast as he could.

 

“He…he f****n’ saw me! Oh my f****n’ God!” Marshall babbles. James is giving the older man his clothes, but Marshall is so shocked that he doesn’t even acknowledge him.

 

“Yes, he did…it’s not the end of the world,” James tries to tell him, but it isn’t helping the older man and suddenly he’s crying his eyes out now.

 

“What do I t-tell him?” he wails and James is over there in a second, fully clothed and wrapping his arms around his love, trying to comfort him.

 

“You’ll tell him that it was a mistake and he shouldn’t be coming over here in the middle of the night,” James adds, really pissed at that point by the stupidity of the southern rapper. Marshall shakes his head.

 

“No, James. You don’t understand…he doesn’t know.” Marshall falls into a fit of sobs and he thinks he’s cried more times in this week alone than he has during his entire life.

 

“What do you mean ‘he doesn’t know’?” But James does understand, just surprised really.

 

“I never had the courage to tell him,” Marshall says honestly.

 

“Well you get some.”

 

And it should be easy, but suddenly a pang of nerves hits Marshall like a speeding bullet. He never told the kid, never really had to, but now it was obvious. And now the realization that he had to be upfront and honest with the kid was just too much to bear. Sure it was easy to tell Paul, Royce, 50, his kids, his ex-wife even…but this was just too hard for Marshall. It wasn’t even because he knew the kid was homophobic.

 

Marshall knew that the real reason he just couldn’t confess the obvious was because he had never cared so much about someone’s opinion more than this stupid kid’s.

 

~*~*~

 

Yela is like a tombstone. He’s pale, stiff, and morbid. He’s not mad, nor upset, but he’s hurt. He’s scared. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he just sits on that same step, trying not to think about much of anything.

 

He’s hurt, though; yet he doesn’t know why. Of all of the things he could’ve been right now, he’s hurt. He guesses it has to do with Marshall not telling him…but it wasn’t like he ever had to. It must’ve been because he didn’t feel like Yela was an important person to confide in. That hurt the worst. Yela was basically being told that he didn’t deserve to know. So Yela tries to be as non-judgmental as possible…maybe Marshall will trust a dishonest man.

 

“Hey, man,” a quiet voice says, turning on a hallway light. Yela disdainfully looks up at his boss, but the abrupt anger dissipates as soon as he sees him. The light is casting a ring around his boss’ body, making him look like an angel. And his face is masked with regret and dried tears…he made Marshall f*****g cry.

 

“Hey,” Yela says somberly. Silently Marshall takes a seat next to the kid, and Yela is strangely offended by the huge gap between them.

 

“So…” Marshall starts, but it’s very difficult to develop a conversation when your heart is thumping and the topic is extremely awkward.

 

“Why the f**k didn’t you tell me?” Yela demands. He f*****g needs to know before he goes insane, but he’s surprised by the anger in his voice. He refuses to look at his boss, who’s staring right at him- frightened.

 

“Why do ya think?” Marshall remarks softly.

 

“Why don’t you tell me the reason?”

 

“Because oh I don’t know…the f****n’ homophobic rant I got the other day maybe? Maybe the fact that you’ve been callin’ me all the damn time just to bug me ‘bout stupid s**t? Or maybe the fact that I don’t even know you that well?” Marshall seethes, fuming. He knows James can hear him from the living room, patiently waiting.

 

“You know me well enough…” Michael says so quietly Marshall can barely hear. Marshall goes quiet as well. “How many people…” and Marshall knows what he’s asking, but Michael looks up at him anyway.

 

“My friends and family,” Marshall confesses vaguely.

 

“So…your kids?”

 

“Yup.”

 

“They don’t have a problem with it?” Michael’s voice cracks a bit, and Marshall begrudgingly feels tears well up again.

 

“Nope,” he says, shaking his head.

 

“Why not?” The comment stings Marshall and all of a sudden they’re back to square one.

 

“Well yeah, of course. They love me no matter what,” Marshall says, surprisingly calm. Yela just furrows his brow, not understanding. “Wouldn’t you still love your kids if any of them was gay?” Marshall asks just to make a point, but suddenly Yela’s eyes go black.

 

“Don’t you go f****n’ bringin’ my kids into this!” Yela shouts. Marshall leans back, frightened again.

 

“If you can talk about my kids and question their integrity without even knowing them then I can do the same for yours,” Marshall states bravely. Yela goes quiet once again, grinding his teeth in the process.

 

“Do you not trust me?” Michael asks, looking into Marshall’s eyes for any hint of sympathy towards him.

 

“I don’t know.” That hurts worse than saying ‘yes’ because now his boss- not his friend- is stuck in limbo and it’s all Michael’s fault.

 

“Who’s he?” he asks, looking away and staring at the door. Oh how he wishes he could just escape already. Why the f**k did he come here?

 

“He works for me. Don’t you recognize him?” Cigarettes. Fan mail. Yeah he f*****g recognizes him.

 

“Not really.”

 

“Well…we’re dating,” Marshall points out obviously, giving a nervous laugh, but Michael isn’t laughing. He looks at his boss again.

 

“Why him…” and he almost says ‘and not me’ but Michael stops himself short, terrified that the thought even plagued his mind. But Marshall still gets offended.

 

“I think it’s time for you to go.” Just then that f*****g friend stealing cocksucking f****t comes into the room offering his arms- which could break Michael in half- to Marshall and his boss beams at him. They are locked in an embrace when Michael leaves, slamming the door.

 

He feels hot tears rolling down his cheeks and he’s sickened by them, his heart breaking into a million different pieces. When he finally gets to his car and shuts the door he’s bawling, dropping his forehead onto the steering wheel as tears pool onto his pants and he’s never felt so betrayed.

 

He also can’t quite remember a time in his life where he’s cried this hard.

 

~*~*~

 

Michael seems to always have the same dream. It happens every month or so, and it always ends the same way too.

 

He’s placed on a battlefield covered in dying grass and broken tree limbs, the ground shakes with the explosion of bombs. Gunshots fill the air with a terrifying noise that was once filled with the easy sound of birds chirping. His face is matted with dirt and blood, soft scars so fresh and intimidating. He’s enveloped with a fatigue ordered by the government- they were supposed to be able to breathe, absorbing a breeze so the troops wouldn’t die of heatstroke- but Michael ends up sweating profusely in a mixture of stress, back-breaking labor and a hideously warm climate. His teeth chatter while he’s running, praying to God that he doesn’t get shot in this dangerous open area. Even if a bullet hit him in a non-fatal place, finding a nurse or an infirmary was very difficult at this stage in the war. So many soldiers wounded and some not fully recovered yet jeopardized the health of the remaining few- and Michael was lucky enough (or maybe not) to have been able to survive this long without a bullet wound paralyzing him. But it’s not a good time to count your blessings when they’re running dry and so are you.

 

Michael finally finds enough rough foliage to hide under- a hut that’s strictly small but sickly sweet. So he groans through clenched teeth as he’s getting his gun ready at a speed so swift one can only be taught how to do it. Michael had only trained for a few weeks, being scared straight and taught some valuable lessons: shoot anything and everything that doesn’t represent the American flag. So here Michael is, terrified but aware and his eyes are like an eagle as he shoots at seemingly nothing- just wide open air clogged with a smokey haze on enemy lines. He hears a string of enemy bullets shooting back and now Michael is pissed, but before he can do anything something falls with a loud thud next to him and he just knows in his heart that it’s a fellow soldier.

 

And this is the part of the dream where everything changes.

 

He rushes over to his fallen sergeant, as he’s seen multiple times. Bullet wound to the chest. He’s lying on his stomach and Michael is careful to hide himself in the rubble of the earth as he checks to see if there’s a pulse.

 

None, like always. Michael wants to cry but he can’t do it here, not like this. He was told to move on and he does in every single dream, but not this time.

 

This time, as he cries rivers on his cheeks, clearing away the dirt and grime like a mountainous terrain on a U.S. map, he turns over this fallen soldier just so he can see his face.

 

It’s rough at first, the dead body heavy and stiff but still warm, but finally he’s turned over.

 

Michael looks at the pale face, angelic and sweet, and realizes that it’s Marshall.

 

Michael wakes up, covered in sweat on his hotel bed, gasping for air and sitting up. He starts to cry again, not understanding how something so familiar could change in a second. It takes an absurdly long moment for him to calm down and he thinks to himself how he needs to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

 

He also needs to make sure he’s the best god damn friend Marshall Bruce Mathers III has ever had.

 

“Half of these muthafucking rappers don't know s**t

ain't seen a gangsta ain't seen a brick

and then they wonder why when the OG's come around

Yelawolf get the respect I get

cause I never walked into another man's house

and tell em what I think about the way he lives

I done a little dirt of my own and I won't throw stones

so I get back what I give”

-          “S**t I’ve Seen”, Yelawolf featuring Trae Tha Truth

Author's Note

This is absurdly long and stupid and it took me forever to do but I hope you enjoyed my poor attempt at porn. Yelawolf is starting to become more accepting so i hope you guys liked that and yeah. Feel free to point out lapses in grammar. Thanks for reading. HOLY SHIT THE PASSWORD I NEEDED TO ENTER TO BE PUBLISHED WAS "WHITEBOY" I'M PEEING MYSELF