Chapter Text
Axl isn’t sure when he first notices. Well, he is sure. He knows the exact moment when he’s standing in front of the mirror after his shower and something isn’t quite right.
You wouldn’t really notice if you weren't looking. But Axl was. There's just something that’s off about him. He can see it, but can’t say it. It goes deeper than the surface and Axl can’t find a word other than damage. He’s not perfect, he knows. How could he ever be even close to perfect? He wasn’t worth the trouble.
So he built up his walls, drank, did drugs, radiated anger, and pushed everyone away. That was always the answer. Bad day? Get drunk, and act like a general asshole. Bad performance? Get high, act like an asshole. It was an almost perfect solution, except for the fact there’s always a fallout. He’ll wake up with his head pounding from last nights splurge of Jack Daniels, or itching for another fix. The cycle repeats. It never fixes the problem. He’s not even sure what the problem is at this point. He bites his lip as he turns in the mirror. Flaws. He was so full of flaws it hurt to look at. How the hell could anyone stand to be around him?
Then, there’s Slash. Axl loves him (he may not say it enough, but the point still stands), but he just looks perfect. He plays perfect, fingers dancing across strings with dark hair over his eyes. He radiates something, and it just screams at Axl. Screams that he’s not good enough to be with him. He’s not talented enough, he doesn’t push hard enough, he isn’t enough. The voice in the back of his mind calling bullshit is smothered by the others telling him otherwise. Slash doesn’t have a fucked up head like he does.
There’s a rap at the door before it clicks open. Slash is standing in the doorway, hair brushed back from one side a little bit so Axl can see more of his face. He's smiling in that perfect fucking way he does, and Axl tries not to shrivel inside. He can feel his mind clicking into another mode, the one that leaves him scrambling for something to hold onto. He deserves so much better than some piece of shit like you, his brain supplies for him. The cigarette that hangs loosely from Slash's lips accompanied by the smell of leather, alcohol, and something very uniquely Slash that floats into the room.
“Babe,” Slash says and Axl tries not to shiver. It still sounds foreign rolling off of someone else's tongue. He swallows and tries to pull himself together, shove the thoughts to the back of his mind.
“Hey,” Axl says, groping along the edge of the sink till his fingers curl around a hairbrush. He tries to look nonchalant as he runs it through his hair, staring at his reflection. He looks like shit. Being on the road, playing shows, drinking, getting high, just don’t make for a necessarily well-rested person. Slash is still standing there, eyes roaming his naked torso soaking in everything. He doesn’t flinch (a small miracle on its own) when Slash comes and stands behind him. He stands still when he feels arms wrap around his waist. Slash lets his chin rest on his left shoulder. Axl sets down the brush. He looks at both of them in the reflection of the mirror. He watches Slash take the cigarette from his lips and grind it into the white porcelain of the sink. Slash places a kiss onto his shoulder and he shivers. His eyes slip closed. He’s floating there, with warm lips on his neck and cold tile under his feet. Slash’s lips move up to his neck, and his head tilts to give him better access of its own accord. Slash is now working over his ear, and there's something about the feel of leather on his bare skin that is oh so good. It physically hurts him to move away.
He can’t do this, not tonight. Slash looks confused but makes no move to return to what he was doing. Axl almost wants him to continue, finish what he started, just to prove himself wrong. He doesn’t, for once he actually listens to Axl. He tries to keep everything together and brushes by his guitarist and into the bedroom. There's shit everywhere, bottles and clothes thrown around. They’ve only been here two days and it looks more like two months. The bed in the center of the room looks extremely welcoming.
Axl slides into the sheets and tries not to feel guilty when Slash is silhouetted in the doorway of the bathroom. He watches his fingers twitch like he’s looking for a smoke before he walks over to the bed. Axl buries his head in the pillow and listens to the sounds of clothes falling to the dirty floor. The bed dips beside him and a weight settles against his back.
Slash feels solid behind him, with his nose buried in Axl’s hair. Axl knows that Slash will give him space if he asks. He would understand. When they all started out together, living in the streets half the time, they all got used to the moods he would sink into. He doesn’t really want space though. He wants someone to hold him and tell him it’s okay (even if it’s so far from the truth) and not let him go. He closes his eyes against the burn of tears that shouldn’t be there. He has no reason to cry. He forces himself to not think, to just sleep and let himself fade away.
In the hazy moment, before he slips away, he hears the man behind him say something, “I love you.”
They don’t do this part very well. I love you, is reserved for when Slash thinks Axl is asleep. I love you, is for when Axl knows Slash is so drunk he won't remember anything the next day. I love you is something one person says and the other knows. I love you too, Axl thinks. Then he’s gone with a soft breath.
~~~
The next morning Axl wakes up to cold sheets, a pounding headache, and a knock at his door. He growls and screws his eyes shut. Way too early to deal with anyone's shit. He props himself up and notices there's Advil on the bedside table with a half glass of water. He’s almost angry that Slash would do that, of course, he cares that much. He grabs the pills and pops them in his mouth, and takes a gulp of water. The knocking on the door starts up again. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and groans.
Before he can get up, the door opens. Duff is standing in the doorway looking way to put together for whatever god-awful hour of the morning it is. He crosses his arms as he takes stock of the room, eyes filtering from the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels near the foot of the bed to Slash’s jacket thrown over the couch.
“Ever heard of fucking knocking,” Axl snaps. It hardly sounds intimidating from his point of view curled up in the sheets.
“Yeah, but I guess some assholes just don’t know what to do if someone knocks on their door,” Duff huffs as he walks into the room sidestepping a pizza box.
“I was asleep,” Axl says, almost whining. Duff throws open the curtains and Axl hisses and presses his face into the pillow. Duff chuckles as he kicks an empty beer bottle away from the bed.
“Slash told me to check on you,” Duff says as if that answers all of life’s questions. Axl knows what that means. It’s code for: your-boyfriend-is-worried-but-he-won’t-say-anything-so-he-sent-me. It’s not the first time they’ve gone through these motions.
Axl contemplates saying something snarky back or storming into the bathroom. Before he could do either, the door flies open and slams against the wall. Axl flinches at the loud sound that echoes around inside his head. Steven almost falls through the doorway as he stumbles to a halt.
“Duff, Izzy took my drumsticks!” Steven pants slightly out of breath. Axl doesn’t have to be looking up to know that Steven is getting the death glare from Duff. He’s been on the receiving end enough times.
“Why do I get the feeling there was a reason for that?” Duff says evenly. He’s sat down on the bed, and Axl has the urge to go curl up next to him.
“I needed to practice,” Steven whines and Axl smiles into the crook of his arm. They’re all very familiar with Steven’s ‘practice’. With drumsticks, anything can become a drum and Steven is the king of constantly banging away on anything and everything.
Duff takes a deep breath, and Axl is pretty sure he’s nursing a hangover himself, “I’m sure Izzy will give them back if you ask.” Steven starts to say something else and Axl can hear his jaw clack shut and he assumes Duff must have finally communicated something through his look. Axl rolls out of bed after the door clicks shut.
“Do you wanna talk?” Duff says, still seated on the bed. Axl snorts as he sniffs a shirt he had picked up from the floor. He pulls it on and runs a hand through his hair. He’s okay at the moment, he still has a handle on his mind.
“Sure, should I start up a chick flick too? Maybe you can braid my hair and we can cry together while we’re at it,” Axl says still not looking over at Duff. Belatedly, he realizes he’s put on Slash’s Led Zeppelin t-shirt.
The bed creaks as Duff stands. He walks over toward the door, but pauses, “I’m serious. If you need me, I’ll be here.” Axl flips him off without sparing a glance over his shoulder.
When the door closes Axl slumps onto the couch. Slash’s jacket is next to him and he picks it up. He presses his nose to the leather and takes a deep breath. He needs to get his shit together, and soon.
He can keep it together for the rest of the tour. He’s gotten good at bottling it all up.
So, he gets up pulls on a pair a pair of pants that cling so tightly it’s borderline uncomfortable, and laces on his shoes. He squares his shoulders and raises his walls before stepping out into the hallway. Walking on the dirty carpet he opens the next door down from his room.
Steven is sitting in the middle of the room, shity TV flickering in front of him. Duff is sitting with his legs curled under him tucked into the couch. Izzy is leaning against the head of one of the beds with a pair of drumsticks in one hand and a magazine in the other. Slash isn’t anywhere to be seen. Duff and Steven lookup, Izzy doesn't even flinch. Duff’s room always seems to be the central hub of activity even when they all have their own room.
“Hey,” Axl says. He casually strides across the room and sits down next to Duff. He gets a look from him, which he ignores, and tries to focus on the TV. He shifts, trying to get comfortable.
“You guys are fighting,” Izzy announces from the bed. Everyone knows he means Axl and Slash.
“How would you know?” Axl sneers across the room, hoping the issue doesn't get pushed too far.
“You didn’t fuck last night, I would have heard. That only happens when you’re fighting,” Izzy shrugs not even looking up from his magazine. Bastard.
Duff chokes on air and Steven cackles from the floor. Axl feels his face heat up and he flings a pillow across the room. Izzy ducks it easily and smirks at Axl, “Am I wrong?”
“We’re not fighting, asshat,” Axl growls crossing his arms.
“Sure, that's why Duff went to check on you and why Slash left this morning,” Axl is mad now. He wishes Izzy was wrong. That he could snap right back at him and they wouldn’t have to deal with this. But he does. Instead, he looks back at whatever stupid show Steven was watching. The flashes of the TV fall on blind eyes. Axl crosses his arms over and pulls himself tight hoping no one else will bring it up.
He’s fine. Slash will come back, drunk and maybe high, but fine. They’ll kiss and makeup. Axl will go back to yelling at everyone and they’ll play the gig tonight. Things will be fine. They always turn out fine in the end.