The last time they met, Gerard called him "Slim Shady," but it turns out he had it reversed. That was more Marshall than he's seen him since, too soft and sanded down around the edges. This time is different - Gerard finds him - sitting on the toilet, fully clothed, hunched over so far his forehead is pressing against his knees. He sits up like a mechanical wind up doll running out of steam.
"Pete Wentz," Eminem slurs, eyes heavy lidded. "I knew you'd be back." He smells like the bottom of a forty and looks worse. "Or should I call you Puke Wentz?"
Gerard presses his lips into a thin line and thinks about leaving. They're supposed to be out in the audience, smiling serenely while they congratulate their competition and pretend to care. This might be the first year Eminem wasn't nominated for a grammy (not that Gerard is paying attention.)
"Kidding. You're, uh..." He waves his arms sluggishly through the air and Gerard sighs.
"You don't even know the name of my band, do you?"
Eminem laughs at the reference, slaps his leg hard, and fills with life. His pupils are the size of pinheads, the sclera is as cracked as the land surrounding an active volcano. Gerard is never going to stop and neither will he; he'll probably DJ his own funeral.
"My Chemical Romance!" he shouts. "Not my fault," he explains, scanning the tiles. "Can't see."
Gerard saw a pair of glasses next to the sink but he doesn't say anything. Maybe this will make everything easier. "You hate these things too?"
Eminem is barely dressed for the occasion in a black t-shirt that probably cost over a hundred bucks and a hoodie thick enough to hide a rifle in. His hair isn't bleached anymore but he's wearing a durag and a hat, like he's trying to hide it.
"Only when I don't win."
Gerard rolls his shoulders, sweating inside his jacket. "At least I got nominated."
It feels meaner now that he's said it out loud, when it was really just self deprecating. Gerard doesn't budge when Eminem shoves him. His fingers are white, pressed tight against the marbled doorway of the stall. He locked the exit when he came in after waiting until the cokeheads filtered out. Now they're finally alone. Is that as creepy as it sounds?
"Alright, bitch," Eminem says. For a second Gerard feels like one of women in Eminem's music videos. "Let's see what you got."
It happens too fast. Eminem pulls him down instead of pushing him and Gerard falls, knees gracelessly knocking the floor. It's a pretty nice bathroom - shiny and clean with couches for stretching out across and doing lines off your friend's stomach - but they're doing this over the empty shitter. Gerard flinches before Eminem's hand comes in contact with his head.
"C'mon faggot," Eminem goades. "This is what you were lookin' for, ain't it?"
Fuck butterflies, it feels like there's a hummingbird trapped inside his chest, beating its wings against his ribcage. He digs his fingers into the meat of Eminem's thighs to steady his shaking hands, but he doesn't seems to notice. Gerard has sucked dick for people less famous in even dirtier bathrooms, but somehow this takes the cake.
Gerard presses eagerly into his lap, nosing along the zipper seam. He's still expecting a different kind of blow when Eminem scrambles to undo his fly and pull his cock out. Blunt nails scrape his scalp when he grabs a handful of hair and grinds his crotch into Gerard's face. The shaft takes up all the space in his mouth and demands more, rubbing against his palate and inching toward his uvula.
"You like it," Eminem says, mystified, when Gerard shudders. "You really are a hungry little cocksucker."
Gerard's voice is barely a whisper. "Yes."
It feels good to feel bad, and Gerard is addicted. He groans when Eminem buries a fist in his hair and pushes into his throat. It contracts reflexively as Eminem forces his rod deeper, until his balls are brushing his chin. Gerard gags and tries to blink away the tears but ends up with blurred vision.
"It's running," Eminem jeers, motioning to his makeup. "You look like a sloppy bitch."
Gerard wore cheap mascara on purpose; he's supposed to look like the perfect train wreck. Someone outside bangs on the bathroom door. Has it been that long already? Gerard licks the precum from his lips when he pulls back for air.
"I know."
"Hey, homo," Eminem snaps, thrusting his hips. "I didn't say stop."
He yanks Gerard closer by the black tie around his neck and slaps his cheek with his dick. It throbs, hot and heavy against his skin when Eminem rolls his hips. Gerard shoves a hand between his own legs to ease the tightness of his pants, but he doesn't have enough time or coordination left to worry about his own arousal.
"You hard?" Eminem asks, shoving a foot between his thighs until Gerard falls back on his ass. "Just from sucking my dick?"
He grinds the sole of his expensive sneaker into Gerard's erection until he gasps. It hurts, but Gerard wants more. Eminem squints as he stands, heaving himself upright one limb at a time. Someone else outside the room complains and the doorknob jiggles. Gerard stares up at him undeterred, watching him palm his own shaft, expression twisted in concentration.
"Open up, cockslut."
Eminem penetrates his mouth one last time, sinking into the hilt before pulling out, oozing cum thick spit from the tip. He drags his cock over Gerard's pink tongue and starts jerking himself off, arm rigid, pace bruising. In just a few tight gripped strokes he squeezes his eyes shut and blows his load, spraying streams of spunk across Gerard's quivering lips.
"Yo, my bad," Eminem says, like he's just coming back to consciousness. There's cum strung from Gerard's eyelashes like tinsel mid-December. "You just have that kind of face."
Gerard is just as breathless even though he never moved from his spot on the floor. He wipes his wrist through the translucent goo and tries not to smile. It's a compliment, if he's ever heard one.