Chapter Text
The cheap, splintery, wooden stool Steven was sitting on creaked aggressively. The only furniture they had were two beds, a tiny kitchen set- not that any of them could cook, an old television his mom had donated to their cause, a musky-smelling moldy-green sofa with a suspicious-looking crusty white stain on one of its cushions, a table with a broken leg that had to be propped up with a crumbling cinder block, and two chairs; one which seemed likely to crumble under Steven in the next few seconds. The apartment itself was part of a squat, tannish-colored building whose paint job made it appear a similar color to an old lady’s ass. It had been built on the corner of La Cienega Boulevard and Fountain Avenue and had been something of a gift from Geffen after the record company learned of the fact that most, if not all, of the members of Guns N’ Roses were intermittently homeless.
Axl was sitting across from Steven, leaning back in his own chair with his boot-clad feet resting on the edge of the table. He had appointed himself in charge of handing out the rooms- a fact that was unsurprising to Steven. What did surprise him was that Axl had decided that he and Slash were to be sharing the larger of the two bedrooms while Steven had the smaller bedroom to himself. The drummer had expected Axl to demand that he have the smaller room to himself and shove the other two into the second bedroom. Steven supposed the singer was relying on Slash to get a girlfriend before the end of the week and move out, leaving Axl with his own, larger room.
Steven’s new room was one of the smallest rooms he had ever seen. It was so tiny in fact, that the cheap mattress and rusty metal bedframe took up an entire half of the room. The floor was covered with wall to wall carpeting that was a similar color to the musky-smelling sofa that was displayed in the front room, and the once white walls appeared to be covered in a thin layer of sand and cooking oil. The room also boasted a grime-streaked window on the wall next to the bed, a light fixture that looked oddly like a tit had been stuck onto the ceiling, and a closet so small Steven himself wouldn’t be able to fit inside. The closet had three flimsy-looking pink plastic hangers inside it- two intact, one on the floor with its hook snapped off.
Surveying what would be his only sanctuary between him and the outside world- at least until they got kicked out of the apartment- Steven tossed his two pillows and a set of sheets- another gift from his mother- onto the bed. The mattress, eager to please, coughed up a nice cloud of dirt when the pillows landed. With his garbage bag of clothes and drumsticks unceremoniously dumped in the closet, the drummer turned back to the bed.
It had never occurred to him that putting sheets on a bed might be difficult. In fact, Steven had many childhood memories of watching his mother quickly and skillfully make all the beds in the house once a week. Maybe making a bed was a skill everyone else had learned in school and he had just ditched that day. That was possible. Putting sheets on a bed was turning out to be an impossible task. The pillowcases had gone on just fine. He knew how to do that. But the bottom sheet was another thing entirely. First of all, the mattress was weirdly really fucking heavy. Secondly, every time he got a second corner of the sheet hooked under the mattress, the first corner would pop off. So he would have to go back and secure the other corner, only to watch the corner he had just secured ten seconds ago pop off. Steven was tempted to just say “fuck it” and sleep on the mattress, but if he didn’t get the sheets on the bed today, they were never going to go onto a bed again.
At around eight-thirty Slash’s curly mop of dark hair peeked around the corner of his door to tell him that dinner was served. Dinner, Steven discovered, was four bottles of Nightrain and some two-day-old bagels Axl “managed to get”. His words, not Steven’s. The three of them had some half-assed discussions about the band, mostly Axl talking about his big plans for when they became rich and famous while Slash and Steven nodded along and occasionally threw in an “mhm” or a “cool man” to make it sound like they were listening.
After dinner, Slash sat down on the couch to fool around on his guitar, Axl left to do whatever he did on the streets of LA after dark on a Monday night, and Steven went back to wrestling with the sheets. After a bazillion tries, he got the first sheet on the bed. The next sheet was way easier. No elastic corners to tuck under the mattress, just laying the sheet of cloth over the bed. After throwing on the patchy quilt that had several rips in it, as well as the two pillows, he was done.
He finished just in time to hear the front door to the apartment bang open. At first, Steven thought Axl had returned drunk after being kicked out of a bar. However, the voice that filtered out from the hallway was not an angry low one, but instead a still angry mellow voice with a hint of a gravelly feeling to it.
“What happened to Desi man? I thought you an’ Duff were staying with your chicks.” Slash.
“Fucking bitch threw me out.” Izzy.
“What’d ya do man? Fuck too many of her friends?” Slash’s laugh floated down the hall.
“Nah, did too much smack. Can I crash here with you guys?”
“‘Course man.” There was the sound of a lighter, then someone took a drag on a cigarette. “You’ll have to share with Steven though. Lucky fucker got the room to himself.”
Hypothetically speaking, Steven knew as soon as Izzy asked for a place to sleep that the two of them would be sharing a bed. He also knew that he carried just a little bit too much admiration of the rhythm guitarist that he could honestly call it friendly affection. He just wanted to make sure Izzy was happy all the time, no matter what personal sacrifices he had to make in order to keep it that way. Also, with Izzy he didn’t have to be in charge all the time; a very refreshing change to the strippers he usually hung out with, all of whom expected him to take command, which was exhausting. What Steven had not prepared for, was to feel a rush of giddy excitement at the thought of Izzy sharing a room with him.
The conversation in the front room drifted onto other things and Steven figured that Izzy would be staying up a while longer. Since he didn't want to deal with unpacking the rest of his meager possessions, and he was too tired to go out and talk with the other guys, he decided he'd just go to bed. Not bothering to close the door, he began tugging off his shirt, followed by his jeans.
Izzy came in just as his pants were hitting the floor. Steven felt himself flush scarlet as the rhythm guitarist's gaze drifted over him.
"Already getting undressed for me, sweetheart?"
"'Was just about to go to sleep," mumbled out Steven, suddenly really interested in the dirty green carpet beneath his bare feet. Izzy laughed.
"Alright, Steven." Izzy was still chuckling as he chucked his own garbage bag of stuff at the closet. "I've gotta go take a piss. I'll be right back."
Izzy left, the door remaining wide open with hallway light streaming in. Steven kicked his discarded clothes into a corner and climbed into the bed, pressing as close to the wall as possible and pulling the blankets up so that only the top of his head was peeking out. Not that he was afraid of the dark or anything, he just enjoyed the feeling of being wrapped in blankets. About a minute into his repeated attempts to fall asleep, Izzy came in. He didn't see anything since he was buried under the covers with his eyes squeezed shut, but he could hear Izzy's clothes hitting the floor. Then the rhythm guitarist closed the door and the room plunged into darkness. Fuck, this room got dark at night. Pitch black even. Steven couldn't tell the difference between his pillow and the wall. He burrowed further under the covers.
The bed shifted and creaked as Izzy climbed into it, throwing an arm over the drummer and falling asleep almost immediately. Steven stayed up a little while longer than that, jumping at all the creaks and pops of the building and listening to the man next to him snore loud enough to wake up the monsters that probably lived under the bed. If he got attacked tonight, chances were no one would hear his screams over the extremely loud snores coming from Izzy. Not that Steven minded the snores or anything. In fact, they were somewhat comforting. They blocked out all the other scary noises he could be listening to instead. The arm that had been lazily thrown over his side was also comforting.
Steven wondered if Izzy would mind if he scooted a little closer to him in the bed. He then remembered that Izzy was asleep, and would have no way of knowing Steven had purposefully snuggled up against him. Rolling over, the drummer finally fell asleep with his face almost touching the rhythm guitarist's chest and Izzy's arm wrapped loosely around his shoulders.