Just For Tonight

“About fucking time,” Eminem muttered as the taxi driver parked at the entrance to the grand hotel. He threw a wad of money at him and, grabbing his statue, hastily made his exit.

“Thanks for paying my way, Slim,” Trent remarked as he climbed out behind him.

“It’s nothin’ like that, an’ you know it.” He breezed hurriedly through the door, trying to gain some distance between them. “And stop fucking calling me that!”

Noting his obvious discomfort, Trent continued the game with a pleasant smile. “I know, I know – Marshall, right?”

“Yeah, I don’t fucking get why people can’t tell the two apart.” He frowned when Trent kept following him. “And don’t you have somewhere else to go?!”

“Just my room.” The corners of Trent’s mouth quirked in amusement. “And I’m not taking the fucking stairs.”

“Whatever.” Eminem stood in front of the grand elevator, staring at the falling numbers above the doors and avoiding Trent like the plague.

“So, did it really bother you when I called you a wigger?”

“Don’t fucking talk to me no more.” Eminem was practically snarling under his breath.

Trent grinned, “It did, didn’t it?”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

“You didn’t tell me to shut up, you told me –“

”Well, I’m telling you now!”

Trent laughed, “And you honestly think I’ll listen?” Before Eminem could react, he shoved him playfully – perhaps a little too playfully - into the opening elevator. “I don’t take orders from anyone.”

Eminem fiercely shoved back, not paying any attention to where he landed as he slipped his keycard through a slot on the elevator panel. “And what makes you think I do, fag?”

Trent pulled from the wall he’d collided against, startled momentarily when the elevator began to rise. Nursing his aching bicep with a firm rub, he returned his frustrated glare at Eminem. “And why do you keep calling me a fag?”

“Well, you called me a fucking wigger.” With a shrug, he added, “Besides, it’s not what you think. Faggot, I mean.”

Uncertain if it was intrigue or bored curiosity on his behalf, Trent asked, “What do you mean, then?”

Another shrug, as Eminem kept to himself on the other side of the elevator. “Faggot. It’s not supposed to be some word for gays. I use it to mean people who suck, plain and simple.”

Trent stood immobile for a few moments, the words slowly taking root inside his brain until they helped trigger an expression of what one could only phrase as repulsed astonishment. “Don’t you realize how fucking offensive that is?!”

Cranky and confused, Eminem raised his voice, practically barking. “What are you talkin’ about -now-?!”

He shook his head, unable to believe that a grown man could be so ignorant. “You call everyone that ‘sucks’, everyone who annoys you a ‘faggot’. So in other words, you’re telling people that being gay is a bad thing, you shitfuck!”

Eminem raised his eyebrows, appearing more entertained than frightened. “Whoa, and why are you so offended? I thought you weren’t gay.”

“Does it matter if I’m gay?” Trent hadn’t met someone who stirred the mixture of his emotions in quite some time – he hated how much he enjoyed it. “Do I have to be gay to be offended by that, NO!”

“You didn’t answer my question.” Eminem crossed his arms, awaiting an answer.

Combing his hair with both hands, Trent linked his fingers behind his head, eyes narrowed and ever so serious when he finally spoke up. “And what if I am?” Not surprised by em’sem’s widened gaze, Trent reclined against the opposite wall, head tilting up and meeting the ceiling light. “What if I am, -Marshall-? Are you gonna encourage your mindless followers to beat me up, huh? Write a song called ‘Trent Reznor is a Fucking Faggot’? How are you gonna preach to your public about me?”

Refusing to meet his gaze, Trent simply stood silent as the elevator continued ascending toward the highest floors – penthouse suites reserved for the wealthiest clientele. He didn’t know what kind of answer to expect from Eminem, if any. Soon, however, the silence was broken by a soft-spoken voice, sounding as though it had been relieved of some burdensome act. “Look, my music is supposed to get a rise outta people - that’s the beauty of Slim Shady, of Eminem. But if you’re gonna get so fuckin’ worked up over it, I’m sorry, then.”

Trent pushed himself off the wall, hands now at his sides, knowing his expression was as incredulous as he felt. “What?”

It was then that Trent took notice of Eminem – Marshall’s expression. It was one of reluctance coupled with slight regret; not something one would. ”I said I was sorry. Take it, ‘cause I don’t apologize often. Especially for my music.”

Just then, the elevator halted with an audible ding, and the doors opened to reveal the exclusive suite that Eminem had rented for himself. Yet neither man so much as breathed, and Trent observed as Eminem’s frown sy mey melting into an almost tranquil smile.

“Wanna come in?”