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Izzy's ears pricked at the faint stumble through the left wall of his hotel suite. Axl's room, he mused, sitting bolt upright on the bed. He listened to the soft pad of feet down the hall, the sounds slightly hesitant, unstable, like Axl was finding it difficult to co-ordinate himself. A few seconds later the man barged through the unlocked door to Izzy’s room, his ginger head in his hands.
Izzy's heart went out to him. He rushed over, pressed guiding hands to his bandmate's shoulders and helped him onto the room’s overstuffed loveseat. Axl's face was screwed up in pain, and he had to bite back a whimper after slumping a little too quickly as he sat down. He felt softer, thinner, under Izzy's fingers.
It was like he was wasting away.
"I see the headache is back," Izzy observed. Axl started to nod, then winced and stopped.
"I feel like shit," he said in a frighteningly small voice.
Izzy petted him for a bit, massaging Axl's shoulders, the nape of his neck, until the man had softened into the loveseat with little moans of appreciation. He gently threaded his fingers through the fine strands of Axl's hair, letting it slip over his fingers like silken threads. Axl had his eyes shut, his head in Izzy's hands, eyelids flickering as he was trapped between pleasure and pain. Izzy, for a moment, admired the long smudge of lashes resting against cheeks.
"I'll get your medicine," he said, once he was bored.
"Thank you."
Axl was always appreciative of even the tiniest scraps of affection when he got like this.
Izzy swept to his travel bag and opened the compartment where kept his supply of drugs, both legal and Illicit. Axl had been ill for near a month, and Izzy's stock of medicines had only gotten bigger. He popped two sugar pills from a packet of Nuramol and grabbed the bottle for head cold mixture that Axl had asked him to pick up from the pharmacy. With a glass of water and a dessert spoon, he returned to his patient.
Axl struggled upright as he approached, mouth tightening with every jerky movement. Izzy knelt beside him, a hand at his back to help keep him steady, and Axl leant gratefully with him, letting out little gasps.
"Open your mouth," Izzy said quietly, and when Axl acquiesced he placed the sugar pills on his tongue, little white tablets on soft pink muscle. Axl's eyelashes fluttered, watery gazing at him. Izzy held up the water. "Drink."
Izzy didn't know whether to thank his upbringing for Axl's instinct to follow orders when said in a certain tone, or whether to thank genetics. But it was like feeding a kitten. Axl obediently swallowed the water in long gulps, his throat working fast to keep up as Izzy tilted the cup a little too quickly. Water spilt over his chin, and he spluttered, sweetly red with embarrassment.
"Damn. Sorry, man," Axl chocked out. He sounded horrified by his own weakness, his inability to even drink a cup of water without making a mess.
Izzy soothed him. "Don't be sorry. It's not your fault."
He poured a spoonful of what Axl thought was head cold medicine, and brought it to Axl's mouth. A slight pressure of stainless steel against the soft flesh of his bottom lip, and Axl's mouth clasped over the cold metal. Izzy watched him swallow.
He remembered when Axl first got ill.
Axl had caught it off Izzy, who had managed to fight it off without much fuss, but the illness hit Axl harder. So bad that the entire band had to hold off on gigs because Axl was unable to perform in his condition. From then on, the hotel was polluted by the noise of Axl coughing and spluttering and generally being disgusting background noise to Izzy's daily life. Axl insisted on doing the shopping, the tidying, and continued scribbling half-baked music ideas and lyrics in his notepad in the lounge as Izzy grew steadily more furious at each hacking cough. He'd have happily done more chores if it meant Axl could go noisily recover somewhere else.
It was when the vicious headaches kicked in that Izzy started getting interested.
Axl physically couldn't stomp around and make a nuisance of himself when he was in pain every time he blinked. Headaches rendered Axl smaller, quieter, less argumentative and more grateful for Izzy's attention. He slowly grew dependent on Izzy, and Izzy had the rare opportunity to find out just how deeply Axl trusted him.
He'd never had so much control over another human being before.
Using his drug contacts, Izzy managed to obtain placebo versions of various medicines, and stocked the shelves with them whenever Axl asked him to buy something. A steadily weakening Axl took them himself without even realizing what was wrong. The thought wouldn't even have crossed his little mind.
After helping Axl mop the water off his shirt, Izzy assisted him back down the hall. Axl's brows furrowed as he concentrated hard on placing his feet, resting some of his weight on Izzy's hands. The shapes of his back felt so comfortable, so warm. Izzy just wanted to cling to him, even as Axl trembled in pain. It was difficult to restrain the impulse.
He helped Axl lie down in his bed, moving slowly so as not to irritate his headache. Axl sighed as he finally rested against the pillows, smiling weakly up at Izzy with honest gratitude. Izzy glanced over his kind face, and perched on the edge of the bed next to him, pressing the back of his hand over Axl's forehead.
"The fever's gone."
Izzy was oddly disappointed.
Axl blinked up at him from under Izzy's hand, oblivious as ever. "Yeah," he said, with a small smile. "I think I'm finally getting better."
Izzy had liked the fever.
He remembered it well. A small, shaking Axl splayed out on his back, murmuring in pleasure as Izzy gently pressed a cool flannel over his forehead, trusting eyes gazing blearily up at him with so much gratitude that Izzy felt like the most important person in the world. He was so vulnerable like that. So malleable to Izzy's whims.
Izzy had always adored Axl, and wanted desperately to show it, but Axl never let Izzy look after him before. He was stubborn, self-absorbed, and hated even the thought of having to rely on another human being and share control.
As Axl's eyes flickered shut to fall into dreamless sleep, Izzy waited, watching. Illness had done much for Axl's character. Izzy realised, with a faint stab of regret, that he couldn't let Axl get better. This Axl, the sick one, the one who had handed over care of his body into Izzy's hands without a second thought, he was perfect.
With a final brush of his fingers through Axl's soft hair, he stood, and left to make a phone call.
A few days later, after obediently swallowing his painkillers, Axl was violently sick.
Izzy found him on his knees, crouched over in the bathroom, emptying the scant contents of his stomach into the toilet. He was crying, and shaking, and when Izzy appeared he visibly reacted in panic and embarrassment and squirmed pitifully against the cold tiles. Izzy knelt beside him, rubbing at his back as Axl retched pathetically, shushing any half-formed complaints. Axl's skin prickled with cold sweat. It clung to his skin in clear beads at the back of his neck.
"I thought I was getting better," Axl whispered, voice hoarse.
His eyes were wet with tears. Izzy got him some tissue paper, and after helping Axl to his feet, spent the next few minutes standing behind him at the mirror as Axl self-consciously dabbed at his face until he deemed himself presentable. Izzy thought he looked adorable. He scratched his fingers over Axl's ear, and Axl leaned into the touch, his eyelids dipping close.
His new hobby kept him very occupied, with all the research and planning that went into it. Izzy didn’t know much about medicine or illness before this, since nobody in his circle or family was prone to illness before. But he learned how to change that soon enough, with the help of books and some bought advice from doctors who prioritized money over their oaths. Maybe he could’ve been a doctor in another life, he mused.
Izzy knew the functions of Axl's body intimately now, getting himself vaccinated and then timing the introduction of new diseases so that Axl never fully recovered. He never let Axl slip too deeply into illness either. The band still needed to tour and produce music, after all. He was so weak that he could be hospitalized if Izzy overdid it. And that was rather beside the point.
It got to the point where he was ignoring his other responsibilities in order to further his experiments with Axl, whose steady deterioration was far more interesting than anything in the recording studio. Axl's simple trust in everything Izzy did was a marvel in itself. As the evidence mounted up, Axl seemed to remain oblivious.
One evening, Izzy had Axl leaning next to him on the couch. He'd shut the curtains and turned off all the lights, and in the semi-darkness they listened to sports radio frifting over from the stereo in the far corner of the room. The sports was for Izzy, the darkness was for Axl. His latest disease induced painful photosensitivity. Izzy made a mental note to avoid diseases with such symptoms again. They couldn’t afford to take another pause in taking gigs, even with Axl’s fragile health these days.
"I need to go to the hospital."
Izzy glanced at him, distracted by the voice of the commentator, who was excitedly recounting the play that was just made by the home team. Sounded like a great game tonight. "Hm?"
"I've been sick for way too long. I think I might have something serious. I might have cancer."
Izzy let out an annoyed huff. "You don't have cancer."
Ax’s head whipped up from Izzy’s shoulder, then he winced away from the pain of sudden movement. When he was prepared to open his eyes again, he looked up at Izzy, gaze with sharp anger, but also a creeping note of fear, one that’s been lingering there for some time, growing steadily larger by the day. "This isn't normal, Izzy. I almost passed out on stage the other day, and I think people in the crowd noticed. I can’t go on like this, man. I might need help."
He sounded upset, and a little bit frightened. His eyes glimmered in the dim light, staring at Izzy with a look that wasn't exactly an accusation, but Izzy could see that Axl was starting to get suspicious. Perhaps he'd been suspicious for a while, but thought the idea too ludicrous to bring up.
Izzy's mind, meanwhile, was running at a million miles a minute. He thought of an unbiased doctor, with an outsider's perspective, picking up signs of different diseases and deducing what Axl could not and would not see. Izzy didn't want lose Axl's trust, however misplaced it was. It meant too much to him.
"I'll sort it out," he said simply, and rubbed at Axl's shoulder. Axl's eyes flicked down to his hand, then back up again.
"I can do it."
Definitely suspicious.
Izzy changed tact, softening his voice in a way that always brought Axl over to his point of view. "I want to help you," he said earnestly.
The hardness in Axl's eyes faded as quickly as it had come, and after a pause he pressed his hand over Izzy's. He was so warm, so gentle, so dependent like this. The opposite of the asshole he was before. It strengthened Izzy’s resolve.
As the voice of the announcer came to a crescendo, Izzy leant forward in the darkness, kissed Axl's forehead, then his lips, like there was no more significance in such a gesture. Axl huffed and moved back. His eyes were wide, darting over Izzy's face, searching for the trick.
"Izzy …"
Izzy kissed him again, more forcefully this time. He crowded Axl against the sofa, cupped the back of his scalp and sucked at red lips that gulped down air and kissed back with a nervous tremor. It was like he was afraid he'd wake up.
He pulled away, and Izzy stared down at him, practically in Axl's lap. Axl looked terrified, exhilarated. "I thought you didn't-"
"I don't," Izzy interrupted. "Usually. But you're different."
Axl smiled widely at him, and stroked his fingers down Izzy's cheek.
The next day, Izzy arranged for Axl to meet a doctor.
Dr. Trevor acted his part as the consummate professional, visiting the currently delicate Axl at their hotel to look over him. He took samples and gave Axl a thorough physical as they laughed over stories about life growing up in church. Axl looked hopeful for the rest of the day. He came to Izzy, who was in the living room tuning his guitar, and kissed him deeply before going to bed.
"Thank you," Axl said with a shy smile, so close that Izzy had to do his very best not to grab him and do something terrible.
"It's not a problem," he said instead, and watched Axl's slow shuffle out of the room on bare feet.
He went to Victor Trevor to collect the fabricated results. The doctor was obviously conflicted, dithering over everything so much that Izzy wanted to slap him.
"Are you sure about this, Isbell?"
Izzy treated the man to his best grin. "When am I ever unsure of anything?"
Victor looked dubious, but he handed over the results all the same. "If it comes out that I've been a part of this-" he said loudly, an attempt at bravado, but Izzy interrupted him.
"It won't come out," Izzy said shortly, snapping the folder shut with a thin smile.
He went back home, to Axl.
Silently, he crept up the path to Axl's room, or rather Izzy’s room, since Axl had long since stopped requesting to have his own space as his condition grew more prolonged and severe. He deposited his coat over the couch and pushed open the door into the dim bedroom. Axl was on his bed, where Izzy left him. He'd torn off his all his clothes in a hot flush and lay whimpering in twisted sheets, clutching at his stomach with clenched fingers. He was in agony.
"Help me."
Those deep eyes, pleading.
Izzy sprung into action like a paramedic. He fed Axl his useless pills, soothed him, cooled him down with a wet flannel that he pressed with tender care over Axl's sweaty forehead. Axl looked delirious, like he was looking at the world from a slightly different angle. He seemed to take a while to react to anything, and he was trembling so hard that he almost vibrated against Izzy's fingers.
"You're freezing," Izzy said, worried.
Axl seized his hand, distressed, his fingers slippy with sweat. "It hurts," he sobbed. "Izzy, please."
He sounded broken.
Izzy peeled back the sheets and slid in next to his Axl, scooping the shuddering body into his arms and letting Axl clutch at him with a worryingly frail grip. His head twisted on the pillows, his ears and cheeks flushed as red as his hair as he panted loudly in the dark. Izzy leant closer, his lips brushing Axl's sweaty hair.
"I've got you."
Axl shook harder, and Izzy squeezed their entwined fingers.
"I'll always have you."