Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Spring 1988

Friday

"You there?"

Alan's voice fades into the wash of white noise and static swirling around in his head. He sways on his feet, barely finding his center of gravity, the landline nearly slipping from his fingers.

"Izzy?" Alan repeats, sharper now.

He clears his throat, blinking harshly through the stupor. "Uh. Yeah, yeah…could you um—" he shifts, swallowing down a lump of something that tastes like bile starting to rise rapidly, "—say that again? Think the reception's bad."

"Are-o-smith." Alan enunciates like he's a toddler. "We worked out a deal. You're opening on the next leg."

The words hit him at the same time as the rush of vertigo does. The hotel room snaps off its axis.

The corners of his vision start to close in, vignetted and burning with black splotches. His knees give, and before Izzy can even catch himself on the edge of the nightstand, he's out like a fucking light.

—

A Few Days Prior

"I dunno. Seems pretty ballsy to me." Izzy shrugs, sliding Axl's notebook back over the bedspread, reticent about dabbling in politics. The pages crinkle against the sheets, dog-eared and stiff with coffee rings and manic scrawlings.

Axl chews on the end of his pen in consideration, skimming over his own chickenscratch between the margins, half lyrics, half manifesto. "Yeah, but you said the same about One in A Million. Nobody kicked up shit." He says around the cap, words garbled but ever defiant.

Izzy looks up from his acoustic, propping himself higher against the godawful floral hotel wallpaper. "Not yet, they haven't," he counters, having enough intuition to know that if they ever decide to release that one publicly, it'll be a guerrilla warfare PR situation.

Axl sighs through his nose. "Not like I'm saying anything bad."

He snorts, fingers gliding across the frets. "Calling it a 'human grocery store' is pushing it."

"Take that shit up with the government, man," Axl says flippantly, suddenly enthralled with the socio-economic state of Reagan's America. "They're the ones pullin' the strings."

"Whatever you say, Guevara," Izzy says, smirking.

Writing about drugs and girls is easier, in his humble opinion. Tsk, tsk, how superficial of you, Stradlin…

Axl closes his book and chucks it on the small nightstand wedged between their beds, reclining with a stretch against the shrieking box spring. "Has Iowa always sucked this bad?" He gripes, sinking low.

They've been stuck in the middle of Des Moines all day with fuck all to occupy themselves with other than the sad excuse for a hotel bar—and even that got dull when the frumpy bartender, Beth, stopped finding their jokes funny after the tip money ran dry. Now it's getting dark, and they're bored, but not bored enough to get restless. The golden hour when downtime doesn't feel suffocating yet.

"Beats sittin' at home." Izzy mumbles, half-listening to the complaints, fumbling around with something slow and bluesy. The notes drift aimlessly in the warm air. "I heard Rockford's alright. Be there soon."

Axl hums in weak agreement, also half-listening, scissoring open the blinds behind him like the massive expanse of cornfields will magically turn into a titty bar. When it doesn't, he turns his attention back over.

"Speaking of Rockford—" he starts, sitting up a little straighter, a small, wolfish smile starting to curl. "We'll be there on your birthday, right?"

Izzy's fingers hesitate against the strings as he tries to recall the schedule. Days are already starting to muddy. "Think so."

Axl nudges his socked foot hanging off the bed with his own, teasing. "The big two-six. You're fuckin' old now."

His eyes slice sideways, brow furrowed playfully in mock offense. "We're the same age."

"Yeah," Axl grins wider, stealing a cigarette from Izzy's pack on the nightstand. "I'm old too." He lights it, talking around the bobbing filter. "You wanna do anything when we're there?"

Izzy slides the guitar off his lap and scrubs his face, brushing back loose strands of black that've been cropped around his ears lately. He got tired of always untangling the matted mess, so he gave up the ghost and did a big chop—or, rather, Duff tipsily snipped it in the bus's back lounge.

"Nah…just do what we always do." Izzy dismisses.

Which is code for: a carton of smokes, an eight-ball if he can score, a bottle of something full-bodied and red, and everyone leaving him the fuck alone for 24 hours. Maybe a chocolate cupcake with a candle stuck in the middle, too, if he's lucky.

Axl exhales grey clouds towards the ceiling, continuing to rib. "Want me to sing Happy Birthday on stage?"

Izzy glares. "I'll fuckin' strangle you. I'll do it."

"With what? Your liver-spotted old-man-hands?"

Despite himself, Izzy laughs through his words. "Get fucked, dude."

Axl's smile melts into something more genuine in a familiar, boyish way, copper lashes crinkling around the edges of his eyes. He shifts, busying his hands, picking at the shredded denim by his knees, combing out a stubborn tangle of frayed threads.

"Seriously, though—" He tilts his head to look at Izzy through strands of red. "Ever think we'd actually be doing this shit by now?"

The question hangs in the air for a second. Earnest in a way that catches Izzy off guard.

Axl has a habit of slipping into these moments so gently without warning, just suddenly there. Vulnerable and unguarded, which rarely comes without some heavy baggage of feelings—and all that other pansy shit he's unnervingly good at. When Izzy meets his gaze, he still sees flashes of the fourteen-year-old version of him. He's buried in there somewhere, still temperamental, but in a different manner.

His default is usually just a shrug and a noncommital meh, dodging the mushy poetics, but for some reason, he matches Axl's sentiment this time. "I always hoped we did," he muses, folding his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling like a slideshow of memories is being rewound. "But, nah…never thought we'd get past Indy—let alone headlining."

Axl hums, nodding slowly, like he's been thinking the same thing, but needed to hear someone else say it first. He continues to lean into the nostalgia, suddenly feeling the urge. "Keep forgetting to thank your mom for letting us make so much noise in the garage."

Izzy's quick to laugh. "She never fuckin' lets me forget."

Another kiddish smile forms around his cigarette, but it fades just as fast. Another parental memory resurfaces, this one less pleasant. Axl speaks softly, almost like he's trying to sneak the words in. "Stephen tried to call me the other day."

Izzy's eyes dart over. Whenever he's brought up, Izzy's learned to pick and choose his words incredibly carefully. He clears his throat, knowing that this topic is an easy gateway to a trashed hotel room and Axl going MIA for three days. "You guys talk?"

He shakes his head, throwing the smoldering cig in a half-finished Coke can. "Ain't shit to say. Amy and Stuart aren't there anymore, no reason to keep checkin' in."

They both let the silence breathe. He knows better than to push, but he also knows that Axl wouldn't have brought it up if he didn't want to talk about it. Neither of them has ever been great at outright saying something's bothering them; it's easier to nudge it into conversations slyly and hope the other picks up on it.

"He leave a message?" Izzy asks, pulling the guitar back into his lap, strumming mild and lazy chords, giving Axl something to focus on besides the topic.

He sighs, tongue rolling around his mouth like he's chewing the words. "Yeah, somethin' or other about wanting to 'reconnect.'" Axl's voice drips with venom on those last syllables. "Said I should give my mom a call, too." He fidgets against the sheets, like even mentioning these people makes him prickle with hives.

Izzy keeps his tone neutral. "You gonna?"

"Fuck no." He laughs, sharp and humorless. "What's there to say? 'Sorry I kicked the shit out of you for ten years?' 'Sorry I let him kick the shit out of you for ten years?'" Axl pauses, jaw working over with a harsh grind. If he doesn't stop this train of thought now, it'll derail entirely. "Nah. Don't wanna talk to 'em. Not yet, at least."

The solemn notes drift between them, filling the heavy quiet.

"Good," Izzy says simply, like putting a pin in the discussion. "Leave that shit behind. You're better off."

Axl glances over, a fragile shard of vulnerability flickering behind his eyes before he looks away again. He pivots the attention from himself. "You talk to your old man lately?"

Izzy's pick falters against the strings for a heartbeat. He thinks about their last conversation and the empty promises that filled the hospital room. "Not since I visited when he was laid up."

Oh, how things have changed since that summer.

He focuses his attention on the frets, not wanting to be reminded of what it felt like to see Rich connected to tubes, or everything that's happened since. Some real good, some real confusing. Some he might not ever get to share with anyone.

"Kev said he's doin' alright, though." And he'll leave it at that.

Axl stays quiet for an extended beat, lost in his own head, which is never good.

Finally, after a clearing of his tight throat, "He ever…" Axl trails off, eyes glazed and distant. The question lingers in the stale air anyway.

"Hit me? Yeah. Not like—" Izzy stops himself, realizing there's no good way to finish that sentence. "Not like what you had to put up with."

It's not a scoreboard of who had it worse growing up, but little backhand slaps for mouthing off pale in comparison to when Bill would show up at his bedroom window in the middle of the night, purpleish-black shiner on his eye, just needing to escape for a few hours.

Axl nods slowly, understanding passing between them without needing elaboration. They've never spelled the traumatic shit out for each other in explicit detail, but they don't really need to. They recognize the same ghosts living in the shadows under their eyes. He finally props himself up straighter, shaking off the heaviness like a wet dog. His default coping mechanism is to compartmentalize, move on, and not let it fester, or it'll rot him alive from the inside out. Save the real brutal shit for a song—or an impromptu psychotic break. It's a coin toss each time.

"Well," Axl says, slapping his thighs, forcing levity back into his voice, "'least we turned out alright, yeah? Could've ended up a junkie—oh, wait." His smirk returns, serpentine, but lovably impish.

Izzy hits him with a deadpan look. "Hardee-har."

Axl chuckles, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, shoving his feet into boots. He's getting antsy, Izzy can tell by the way he ping-pongs between topics without pausing for breath.

"Alright—'nuff of this therapy shit. Think I can talk Beth into givin' me some ass?" It's a rhetorical question. He'll chase it regardless of the answer.

"Not unless you pay for it," Izzy says, watching him shrug on a leather duster. Gussying himself up for lousy missionary with a Midwest five at best.

Axl straightens his collar, fixing his hair in the dusty mirror by the door with more care than it's worth. He fluffs it, then smooths it over, then fluffs it again. "I never pay for it." He emphasizes, opening the door and throwing words over his shoulder on the way out. "Don't wait up."

Izzy grumbles indistinctly, pushing the guitar off his lap again.

—

A handful of hours start to tick by, still no resurgence from his roommate. Probably six inches deep in the poor barmaid and slapping her around with his version of foreplay. To each their own.

Izzy's guitar has since been abandoned on the floor, dirty socks tossed carelessly on top. His right hand is now occupied with the TV remote, the left cradling a bottle of something bitter, cheap, and brown. He keeps flipping through channels, uninterested and vaguely irritated with stagnancy.

Nothing good on the news. A jack-knifed semi on I-80 and a flea market opening this weekend. Riveting.

Nothing worth paying attention to on MTV, either. Poison vid re-runs and Adam Curry feeding recycled interview questions. Boo.

He skips more channels, half static from shit reception. A commercial about pharmaceuticals. An infomercial about lights that turn on if you clap. He's about to just click the TV off and turn in early for once, maybe get a full night's rest for the first time in weeks—

A bass-heavy synth track starts crackling through the tiny speakers, followed by a nasally, obnoxiously performative mewling sound that could be mistaken for a wounded animal.

"Ooh, yeah. I think I do have a leak, Mr. Plumber."

His bottle pauses mid-way to his mouth. The title dances across the screen in bright red and pink neon script: BUSTY PAULINA GETS HER PIPES CLEANED!

Oh, good. Nothing like a little late-night Skinemax soft-core to really oil up his engine. He continues to watch. Not like he has anything better to do.

They haven't even gotten naked yet, so he's early enough in the action to pay attention to plot details. Apparently, the poor damsel's sink is clogged, and she's just oh so helpless. It's usually a fork stuck in the garbage disposal, dear.

The gentleman—who definitely doesn't have a Master Plumbing License—is rocking a perm, a thick handlebar mustache, and a fake dirt-stained wife-beater. He's already looking down at her with that predatory glint.

"I don't have any money," she pouts, bottom lip trembling, serving him forced puppy-dog glances. "Is there some other way I can repay you?" My God, she's Oscar-worthy.

This, to absolutely no one's surprise, is followed by the plumber ripping open Paulina's blouse without decorum. Revealing two giant globes of bouncing silicone, like her tits are spring-loaded.

"Jesus," Izzy winces, like the act is too violent even for him. But still, he's watching.

The plumber looks shocked despite the fact that he clearly showed up to this service call with a half-chub straining his work pants. "Well, ma'am," he grits, already unlatching his toolbelt, "I'm sure we can work something out." He sets down his wrench on the kitchen counter, even though a part of Izzy was expecting it to be used as a phallus.

The synth music swells, he flexes a pec, she bites her lip, her tits get fondled. Real by-the-book narratives.

He takes a big swig and settles back against the pillows, resigned to his fate and begrudgingly invested. The camera zooms in on her mouth as she drops to her knees, pawing at his zipper, looking up with that wide-eyed reverence that only comes from someone who knows they're about to get paid to take a load to the face. She draws in one deep breath and starts going to work.

Yeah. Okay. Fine.

Izzy shifts a little, adjusting himself through his jeans. It's ridiculous, on multiple levels. The acting is terrible, the dialogue is worse, she's making these godawful sloppy sounds, and he's facefucking her at an almost brutal pace to the point that it's just gross—but Jeffrey Jr. doesn't exactly care about production value now.

The camera points over the plumber's shoulder to give a front-row perspective, and she starts doing these breathy little helpless sounds, blinking up with watery green eyes that say use me, use me, it's okay, I like it.

They start to look a little too familiar.

Izzy's tongue flicks around his mouth, wetting his lips.

He palms himself through the denim once, more experimental than turned on, attempting to get the blood flowing. He thinks about those same eyes. The hands. The wet mouth. It's been days since he's gotten the chance to unwind, over a week since they screwed.

Fuck it.

He sets the bottle on the nightstand and reaches for the phone, dialing one room over. It only rings twice.

"Yeah?" Duff's voice comes sleep-rough and confused. Recognizable in a painfully endearing way.

"Hey, stranger." Izzy keeps his tone smooth, voice dropped, and suggestive.

He hears Duff shift on the other end, blankets rustling, springs creaking. Then comes the question he's asked so many times that it's surpassed routine, it's customary.

"You alone?"

There's a pause, then Duff laughs, soft and surprised. "Yeah. Slash's out with Steve."

"Mm," Izzy hums, eyes flicking back up to the TV. The plumber pries her off by the hair with a pop, guiding her up. "He comin' back soon?"

"Dunno." He says through a yawn. "Why?"

The plumber has bent her over the counter now, face pressed to the formica. He spits right in her snatch. Classy.

Izzy shifts again, giving himself another squeeze. "Just…" he clears his throat, "miss you." Which isn't entirely a lie.

Duff sees right through the bullshit. Like always. He snorts. "You're tipsy."

"And horny."

"So come over."

Izzy sighs through his nose. He wants to, desperately, but there's a song and dance to all this. "Too risky."

They don't necessarily schedule their fuck-breaks, but logistics are always at play out here. Who's where, who's awake, who might hear.

Izzy starts to go soft, immediately climbing into his own head. "Sorry for waking you, m'gonna go—"

Duff's quick to coo, voice going gentle. "Nah, s'okay…talk to me." He flops in the sheets, settling into the pillows. "What're you up to?"

"Watching really bad porn," Izzy replies dryly.

Duff chuckles, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, he blanches. "Wait…really?"

He looks up at the TV again. He's really going to town on her. She's howling relentlessly like a…well, like a pornstar.

"Yeah. Channel six. S'pretty bad." Izzy laughs.

"Then why are you still watching?" He says that, like he doesn't have half a mind to do the same.

"Bored," Izzy replies honestly, then, because he can't help himself, "and she looks like you."

"Fuck you."

"I'm tryin', but you're not making it very easy."

Duff groans, but it's not entirely from frustration. He scrubs his eyes harshly. "Well, if you won't come over, and the porn's bad," he starts putting the pieces together slowly, "are you calling me to talk you through it?"

Even though Duff can't see him, Izzy actually blushes. Suddenly very shy and very self-aware.

He waits a beat. "…Maybe."

Duff smirks wide enough to hear through the phone. He purposefully puts on a syrupy-sweet voice. "Aww, puppy…"

Now, usually, that stupid, condescending, gag-worthy pet name he's started using lately for some fucking reason would make Izzy grit his teeth and roll his eyes, but tonight, it just shoots straight below the belt.

Still, he puts up some sort of front. "Knock it off," he grumbles, not wanting to give away that his dick's starting to twitch again, "you into it or not? Let me know before I start charging Doug's card for the premium channels." She's kneeling down by his waist, sucking him off again, so they're obviously getting ready for the money shot.

"Alright, alright," Duff relents.

More crinkling sheets, like he's rucking down his sweats.

Izzy's already undoing his belt, leather sliding through loops with a quiet hiss. He pushes his jeans down his hips, kicking them to the floor. "So, uh," he fumbles for the right words, balancing the phone between his shoulder and ear. "You wearing anything?"

He cringes the second it leaves his mouth. Suave as always.

Duff's laugh cracks like a whip through the receiver and the thin walls. "Are you seriously asking me that?"

"I don't know the protocol here, dick!" Izzy huffs, half-mortified, not nearly drunk enough to be charming. "Just—" he groans, sighing, and tries again, "tell me what you think about when you do it."

"What—when I jerk off?"

No, genius. When you're filing taxes. Yes, when you're jerking off!

"Yeah." Izzy exhales, relaxing slightly, rubbing slowly to coax himself awake.

Duff hums in thought. "Um, usually you."

Which could be bullshit, but it warms Izzy's chest with enough satisfaction and want to feel like the truth.

He gives himself a firm squeeze at the base. "Yeah? Me doing what?"

Duff's quiet for a second, Izzy can practically hear him thinking, working up the nerve.

"I love it when you go down on me. You're getting really good at it."

Izzy closes his eyes, melting into memories, wrapping a loose palm around himself. He sighs into the feeling.

"And I—" Duff's voice catches, "Fuck, are you touching yourself right now?"

The words roll off his tongue naturally. "Mm. Wish it was you."

There's a wet sound on the other end, Duff spitting into his palm. He exhales low and ragged. "I keep thinkin' about the other night in Fresno—was so fuckin' hot."

Izzy shuts his eyes tighter, conjuring mental images from the recesses.

Before they hit the Midwest, they made a few pit stops for shows around Cali. They've developed a sort of routine on tour, not just Duff and Izzy, but all the guys. And memorizing those routines works especially in your favor when you're trying to pencil in getting sucked off somewhere. Axl always splits off to hide, and Stevie and Slash chase girls. So, in those delicate moments of stillness when it's just the two of them alone and unmonitored, things happen, like in Fresno.

They hadn't even gotten out of their sweaty stage clothes yet. Duff was prowling around all night, commanding the crowd in that electric, energetic fashion he always does. Bouncing from the riser to the edge, to the mic, everything short of just unstrapping his bass and diving headfirst into the pit.

True to form, Izzy was skulking in the shadows, only shuffling up to the mic when it was time for background vocals—but, still, he could feel the second-hand emotion radiating from Duff, and that was enough to make everything below the waist start cranking up the dial. Music is their universal language, and their biggest turn on. It never fails to land.

An empty venue shower stall was all they needed, really. They've done it in poorer conditions. Whatever was possessing them both that night, be it booze, powder, or just post-show adrenaline thrumming through veins, it was enough to tip them both over.

Duff, for once, started to call the shots. Worse, Izzy allowed him.

He cornered him against the tile, fingers still split and trembling from bashing his strings, barely gritting the words out.

"Mouth." Was all Duff said, pushing at Izzy's shoulders.

The smug asshole that he is, Izzy cocked an eyebrow. "What—no please?"

Duff didn't take the bait. Just fished his already hard dick out through his waistband and started jerking himself, eyes locked on Izzy's face.

Izzy had never been on the receiving end of a proper skullfuck, and apart from the spit, tears, snot, and gagging, it was actually kinda…nice being out of control. And if there's anything that Izzy excels in getting addicted to, it's relinquishing control. Sometimes all it takes is a little bit of persuasion.

"Fuck, it was hot," Izzy grunts into the phone, strokes picking up speed. His hips jerk up into his fist. "Keep going."

Duff matches his pace. "You like it when I'm rough with you?" His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that makes Izzy's spine tingle.

Izzy's words hesitate, but his hand is moving faster now. His mind takes that idea and runs a marathon with it: Duff pulling rank, Izzy just surrendering to the pleasure and letting himself be thrown around. Terrifyingly alluring. The rhythm of his wrist starts mimicking the thought of how Duff would probably bounce him against his cock without mercy. He bites down on his lip, phone cord tangled around his forearm. On the TV, the plumber is finishing all over the chick's face with a series of barbaric, comically exaggerated grunts, but Izzy's not paying attention anymore.

He's thinking about something else entirely.

About how he's not envisioning himself as the plumber anymore, like he usually would, but the girl. On his knees. Letting himself be used. He wants it so fucking bad he can nearly taste it.

Before he can even register what's leaving his mouth, in a haze of desperation and being just at the edge of the drop off—

"I want you to fuck me."

Duff doesn't answer, but Izzy can hear the slick, stuttered drag of his palm.

He whines, blinded by bliss that's within reach, almost torturously honest. "I want you to fuck me so bad, baby, fuck—"

Nearly there. Just a few more.

Now's the moment Duff starts babbling without a filter, along for the ride and loving it. "Yeah? You want that, puppy? I'll give it to you. I've been wanting to fuck you for so long—"

And that's the straw that cracks Izzy's fucking spine in half. Because even though he's saying the filthiest thing imaginable, Duff still talks to Izzy with tenderness. Like he's still something worth gentleness in his eyes. Izzy cums with a choked-off noise, a strangled whimper getting caught high in his throat. His hips lock, sticky mess spilling over his knuckles and across his stomach. He breathes shakily, heart galloping behind his ribs, and he can hear Duff doing the same on the other end. Both wrecked and ragged.

They both lie in stunned silence for a moment, receivers dangling limply by their ears.

Izzy doesn't even have the opportunity to think, why the fuck did I say that out loud before movement comes from the other end of the line.

"You serious?" Duff mutters after a minute, voice shot.

He crashes back into reality, feeling the weight of his own confession and having to live with it. He retreats into the shell momentarily. "Uh, maybe…" he stammers, buying time, "if, y'know, you're into it." Bashful in admitting this fantasy he's harbored for longer than Duff's even been in his life.

"…Okay," He sounds reverent now, almost awed. "Talk more about it later?" Because if anyone knows that forcing too much too fast makes Izzy tuck tail and run, it's Duff.

Izzy hums, wiping himself sloppily with the bedside tissues, silently avoiding committing to the topic and hoping it's forgotten just as quickly as it was brought up.

Duff yawns, drained from the sudden phone sex coup. "You gonna be okay over there? Or should I sneak over anyway?"

He considers it. He misses the warmth, the weight of an arm slung over his ribs. It comes seldom unless they get put in a room together, which isn't until Wisconsin in two days.

Izzy shakes his head even though Duff can't see him. "Nah. Wait until Oshkosh. I like working for it."

Duff laughs sleepily, "Pervert."

"Always."

Izzy's chest does something complicated every time they get too comfortable. Like they're still in the apartment. He's still learning when's an appropriate time to let the guard down.

He sighs, eyes flicking over to the bedside clock. "Get some sleep, yeah? Bus leaves early tomorrow."

Duff makes a soft little noise, the one he always does when he's settling into bed. "'Kay, night."

"Night, honey."

Izzy rests the phone in its cradle and lets his head sink into the pillows. On the TV, the credits are rolling over a freeze-frame of the chick's glistening face.

Yucky.

All in all, a pretty normal day.

—

Two more shows came and went without leaving a lasting impression. Another gig, another crowd, another place conquered. It's hard not to come off as nihilistic when you're in the business of burning down towns and vanishing before the smoke even clears, but, hey, he chased this dream. Can't really complain now that he's in the middle of it.

Somewhere in the junction of I-39 and Route 26, a little after crossing the border into the Badger State, the Guns-Mobile starts to fall into a lull. Steve and Axl decided to partake in one too many post-show libations, so they crashed into their bunks immediately. Which left the rest of them, still too wired to sleep, to plant a happy little campsite in the front lounge.

Slash is sprawled out on one of the benches with his new baby, a maple Taylor acoustic sitting proudly in his lap. Plucking around with something half-shaped and groovy, but has the potential to be. Izzy's folded in on himself beside him, bony knees tucked to his chest, wedged behind the driver's partition, watching yellow lines bleed into black and the red taillights of a Cadillac up ahead. Duff, opposite the two, is stretched languidly on the other bench seat. Some nights, he prefers sleeping out here; the bunks can't really contain a tall drink of water that's all legs.

Their long-time driver, Bobby, is at the wheel, occasionally muttering to himself about semis that keep cutting him off.

Nobody's filling the air with conversation, partly because they don't really need or want to. There's something about the in-between hours and the dead space after shows that allows them to breathe and exist. Secluded in their little bubble, a hive-mind organism, familiar with each other in a way that doesn't require effort.

Slash strums the same progression he's been tinkering with, melodic in its familiarity. He and Iz have been workshopping new stuff for weeks, but haven't been able to nail down anything concrete. He downpicks a little lick, a simple CGAD, but Izzy's lips twitch at the sound.

"That's the new one, right? The ballad?" Duff pipes up, still half-sloshed from the backstage after-party, mouthing around the lip of his can.

Slash hums, fingers forming around a Dsus2. He nods over at Iz, "You write lyrics for it yet?"

He feigns ignorance, as usual, but his eyes flick to Duff for a brief second. He's had verses burning holes through his notebook for months, warring with himself about any of it ever seeing the light of day.

"Nah, nothin' worth showing yet." He fidgets, feeling curious stares linger.

Slash continues to pluck, soft bridges fading into gentle choruses. Duff starts humming a bassline to match, falling into a groove almost on impulse. Izzy watches them go back and forth, carving out art from thin air and void. He smiles to himself. This is how the good shit always manifests. Not in some hospital-sterile studio with a producer breathing down their necks, but in the noiseless stretch on buses and in shitty hotels or halfway out an elevator door when the inspiration strikes. The music just happens, man. Something that gels. Something that's theirs.

Bobby hits a deep pot hole, and the whole bus lurches forward. Duff's beer sloshes down his wrist, Slash's new acoustic bangs around with a distorted twang, and Izzy nearly hits the ceiling.

"Christ, Bob!" Duff groans to the front, wiping beer off his pants.

"Blame the state of Wisconsin, I don't pave the fuckin' roads!" He yells back. "I'm more worried about my suspension."

Izzy rubs the tender spot on his head he whacked against the overhead storage, amused at this circus, despite himself.

Slash settles the Taylor gently back in its case, figuring that was an omen to quit while he's ahead. "See you guys in the morning."

"It is morning." Izzy mumbles, pulling out the sore muscles in his legs until his knees crack.

Slash is already halfway into his bunk, pulling at the curtain. "You know what I mean."

The bus rolls on, falling into quiet save for spinning tires and gravel spitting up at the undercarriage. Izzy looks over at Duff, nothing stopping him from tucking into his arms but a few feet and too many intruders. Their eyes meet for half a second, and an identical, private smile passes between them.

Only a little bit longer.

"You sleeping out here?" He nods to the couch, watching Duff's eyes droop heavier with each blink.

Duff hums low, settling into the stiff leather, resigning to the little good hours of sleep he can still afford.

The bus hits another bump, less violent this time, and they all sway like sailors on a ship. Izzy peeks from behind the partition, watching more yellow lines blur. The Caddy takes an exit, leaving nothing but dark. He swivels his head and goes to say something to Duff, but his mouth's already parted, chest rising and falling in even swells.

He knocks on the wall behind Bobby's head, just to fill the vacuum of silence. "How much longer?"

Bob checks a road sign as it flies past. "Four, five hours."

Izzy stands, hanging on to a cabinet handle as the bus bears left. He unfurls a balled-up fleece blanket wedged between cushions and drapes it over Duff. Before retreating to his bunk, he gently threads fingers through his hair, ruffling and scratching with unspoken affection.

Duff barely stirs, head tilting slightly into the warmth. Izzy lingers for a beat longer, his thumb brushing against Duff's temple, committing the sight to memory even though he's seen it a million times before.

He pulls back, then slips into the shadows.

—

Holiday Inn Express shines like a beacon of hope and safety—or, rather, an actual bed to faceplant in. Absolutely none of them linger in the lobby, barely enough energy to muster out a good morning to the front desk clerk. Between Bobby taking the sharpest turns imaginable and Steven waking up at six-thirty to puke violently in a grocery bag, nobody really slept. The second the five of them get room keys from Doug, they're shoving into the elevator and disappearing down long hallways like roaches scattering.

Iz and Duff peel off on the third floor. Room 312 is a siren call.

The door clicks behind them, and suddenly the entire world shuts the fuck up for a second. Blissful silence that isn't followed by asphyxiation.

They both chuck their duffels with a heavy thud onto the spare bed, toeing off shoes and leaving them wherever they land. There's a wash of salvation that steadies, like the world exhales and funnels down into one generic room with beige bedsheets and a TV bolted to a dresser.

Time. Space. Privacy.

Phew.

Izzy gravitates toward the other bed, pulled like a tractor beam to 150 thread count. He collapses into the pillows, letting out a sigh that's equal parts relief and exhaustion.

Duff's not far behind, peeling off his shirt and crawling in beside him. He doesn't hesitate to twine himself around Izzy from behind, one arm slung across his narrow waist, nose burrowing into the nape of his neck.

God, it feels like forever since we got to sleep like this.

He has a split second of resistance, that old instinct to pull away and keep up appearances, but then reality lands, soft like a rose petal.

Alone. Safe.

Izzy melts.

He sinks back into Duff's frame like he's been holding himself rigid for days on end and is finally allowed to let go.

"Mmm." Is all he manages. A deep, low noise from the middle of his chest, warm and utterly happy.

Duff smiles against him, lips moving in his hair. "Don't pass out yet, we should eat."

"Later." He grumbles, half-smothered in skin and pillows.

"Iz, you didn't eat last night—"

"Just a nap…Mother Hen."

He pinches the delicate bone of Izzy's hip from under his shirt, tutting his tongue in protest. "You're lucky it's your birthday tomorrow."

"That's right." Izzy bumps back against him playfully, smiling into the bedspread. "Birthday boy rules."

Finally, Duff presses a kiss to the thin skin beneath his ear, reverent. "Fine, half-hour tops."

—

It winds up being more like two hours. But it's two hours of deep, unbothered rest where time doesn't seem to exist, and anything outside the room feels like another planet. Duff kept him close, breathing him in, one hand possessively glued to his stomach, thumb rubbing slow circles across the expanse of taut skin. He feels the dips and ridges of muscle, hard bone that keeps threatening to break through. He's not eating right, not taking care of himself the way he should—the way that Duff could take care of him if they stopped moving for long enough.

Eventually, Izzy's stomach growls loud enough for Duff to feel beneath his palm.

He laughs softly against his shoulder. "Alright. Now we're eating."

Izzy flops over, a small smile etched at the corner of his lips. A part of him loves the pampering occasionally, even when he swears he doesn't. He stretches his arms above his head, joints popping like firecrackers.

"Breakfast still downstairs?" He mouths around a yawn that waters his eyes.

"Probably scraps," Duff mumbles, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

He unzips his duffel and rummages through, retrieving a squashed bagel and a sad little packet of grape jelly in a grease-stained paper bag that's been sitting for at least a day and a half. He chucks it over as Izzy props himself on an elbow.

He inspects for any moldy spots—not that it would stop him—and rips the bread into tiny pieces, scarfing them down.

"Gourmet," Izzy says, muffled with a cheekful of dough and jam.

Duff snorts, already busying himself with instant coffee packs left on the nightstand. "Better than nothing," he mixes the powder with lukewarm tap water, swirling it around with his finger, "eat."

They settle back into comfortable positions, propped side by side against the headboard as they both pick at the miserable spread of sustenance.

Duff winces harshly as he slugs down a mouthful of undissolved grounds. "Fuck, that's awful," He continues drinking it regardless, "thought we were supposed to be paying people to take care of us now."

Izzy smirks, always finding humor in less-than-desirable conditions. "Livin' the dream, baby. Starving artists."

He reaches over to brush back a few strands that fall around Duff's eyes, tangled and greasy from days on the road. He tucks them behind his ear, nudging his jaw with a loose knuckle in hushed fondness. Simple, stupid intimacy that they don't nearly get enough of out here.

Duff's head thunks against the wall after another harsh sip, eyes closing. "I miss Chloe."

Izzy hums, dipping stale bread into the jam. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He echoes, voice going soft and wistful. "Mandy said she's already twice the size. Keeps tearing up shoes and tryin' to eat her cat."

Iz huffs a chuckle, seeing the mental image clear as day. "We'll see her again soon." He says it as an empty comfort, even though they both know it isn't true.

Duff lolls his head over, resting his temple against the curve of his shoulder. "You miss the apartment?"

His chewing stops for a beat. For a second, he thinks Duff meant his apartment, still collecting overdue bills like it isn't vacant, but, no, he knows what he means. The apartment. Their apartment.

He thinks about the one-bedroom shoebox, the Christmas decorations still tacked up on the walls, his paisley-patterned button-up he left hanging over the back of the couch, and everything else they abandoned and left to die on Melrose.

"Yeah," he breathes after a minute, voice rough around the edges. "I do."

"Me too." Duff's fingers find Izzy's free hand, lacing together their fingers and squeezing gently.

"Only been gone a couple months." Izzy tries to rationalize, prying Duff away from this mushy train of thought.

"I know. Still feels long though, y'know?"

He can't really argue, because Duff is right. Time moves differently on tour, stretched thin and compacted all at the same time. Days blur and bleed together, nights even more so.

Quiet comes, unassuming and slipping into the stillness of the room. Izzy can practically feel Duff's thoughts, anxious and repetitive in the way they always spiral. He turns his neck slightly to kiss the top of his head, attempting to break the spell. He chucks the rest of the bagel down his throat, crumpling up the bag and throwing it over the side of the bed. Duff polishes off his coffee despite it being barely a step above dirt water, and they both recline into the mattress with a sigh. The nightstand clock blinks 9:50 in angry red numbers.

Soundcheck isn't until four. Show isn't until eight.

They have hours of nothing. Which should be a blessing…you would think.

—

You see, the issue isn't with having free time; the issue is with them specifically having free time. Why? Because when you give chemically dependent, easily bored, mid-twenty-something's nothing to do, they end up blowing 50 bucks worth of booze at the corner liquor store that was conveniently right next to the hotel.

Bye-bye per diem. Hello stockpile.

By one in the afternoon, they were both showered, rested, and fucking sick and tired of counting the popcorns on the ceiling—so now, at the edge of 2:30, Duff's got his second sweating vodka and OJ in his grasp, and Izzy's got his third glass of Bacardi and Coke tipped up toward the ceiling. The poor ice machine down the hall from their room hasn't caught a break. They're lucky they haven't gotten a noise complaint, considering Izzy's got his boombox crackling with homemade mixtapes.

Happily buzzed and rosy-cheeked, Duff stirs onto his belly, shirtless, shorts slung low, hair still damp and curling around his shoulders. He props his cheek in his palm, looking up at Izzy perched on the dresser, fiddling with the EQ of his stereo.

His eyes stay soft, but he clears his throat to catch the attention. "Hey—" he starts carefully.

Izzy looks up, humming in acknowledgement.

Duff's stomach does a little somersault. He presses on, knowing that it's now or never. "So…the other night. On the phone."

Izzy's hand freezes on a dial for a second. He looks away, busying himself again, not answering.

Duff's voice gets gentler. "Were you serious? About…y'know…?"

Izzy has an ironic moment of realization that the shit he says when drunk usually comes back to bite him in the ass—or more appropriately, do him in the ass.

He shifts his posture slightly, trying to appear unaffected, but there's still the intrinsic, internal bomb alarm that's blaring behind his ribs. Deflect. Make a joke. Change the topic. Retreat into being unflappable.

"I mean," he sighs, not able to avoid Duff's painfully earnest eyes, "yeah. I guess."

It's the foreignness that tempts him. Always poking the unknown with a stick and seeing if it'll bite back. His own curiosity has always been Izzy's greatest instigator.

"Were you serious about what you said?"

Duff nods, blond waves rustling against his jutting collarbones. "I mean, it's not that I don't like takin' it…" he smirks, wry and effortlessly charming from the booze, "but I wouldn't mind switching things up."

Izzy swallows a lump stuck in the middle of his throat, suddenly very intrigued by the patterns on the carpet.

Duff sits up and scoots over, patting the empty space on the bed in invitation.

Izzy's eyes track him beneath strands of black, waiting for the moment Duff rushes to say something disarming. Doesn't have to be now. Let's just talk about it first…

When that never comes, he's left with two big green eyes, blinking slowly, seductive, and infuriatingly handsome. Whenever you're ready, boo.

He kills the boombox and hops off the dresser, cocktail still in hand. He takes a long swig for courage, ice rattling against his teeth.

He crawls onto the mattress, a lot less graceful and sexy than he was hoping, the alcohol buffer making his gangly limbs looser and heavier. He settles beside Duff, just close enough to touch knees, hyperaware of his own body in a way that feels ridiculous.

Duff takes the opportunity to tease, only a little. Izzy makes it too easy sometimes.

"You look nervous."

"I'm not!"

The way his voice cracks unintentionally says otherwise.

Duff smiles, bumping his shoulder. "Kidding…m'kidding. You've done it a million times before, nothin' different."

Izzy's brows flatten. "I'm not the one riding bitch."

That earns a harsh crack from Duff's palm against his thigh.

Izzy winces through a laugh, rubbing the reddened skin through his sweats. "I do want to," his tone comes out more sheepish now, "I just…don't know if I'll like it or not."

Truth is buried deeply in that thought, completely masqueraded by fear. He knows he'll like it, and that alone still sits under his skin uncomfortably.

Duff leans in, pressing his mouth to the sharp ridge of Izzy's jaw. "Will you freak out if you do?"

His voice drops into suggestiveness; Izzy feels it land somewhere in his groin.

His eyes flutter, leaning into Duff's lips that begin to pepper against his neck. "Dunno…maybe."

He can feel Duff smile against his throat. His breath fans hot, "You wanna find out?"

Fuck. The cockiness shouldn't be as hot as it is, but Izzy's already half-hard from the sound of promise in his voice.

Duff kisses him properly this time, vodka-laden and slow. Izzy's hands find his neck, his jaw, smoothing down the plane of his chest. He traces the dips in his ribs, the scar tissue on his shoulder; familiar territory that grounds him in some kind of control. Their tongues slide against each other for a while, long enough to become sloppy and aching in their tempo.

When Duff finally pulls back, his lips are kiss-swollen, irises swallowed by black. "Yeah?" He breathes against Izzy's mouth.

Izzy nods, wordless and impatient.

He smiles, unmistakable relief flashing for a moment. His hands drop to the hem of Izzy's shirt. "Arms up."

Iz obeys without thinking, already cock drunk and actually drunk, too invested and proud to back out. He lets Duff strip him, fabric ending up thrown over the abyss of the bed. Goosebumps rise on pallid flesh, but Duff's hands are quick to smooth with warmth.

"Lay back." He says gently, but with an edge of command.

That confusing, intoxicating guile of relinquishing control starts to burn low in Izzy's gut.

Use me. Use me. It's okay. I like it.

He does so, settling against the pillows, silver chain and pendant nestled in the dip of his throat, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Duff follows him down, hovering with that stupidly gorgeous smile still plastered wide.

"You gonna—um—" Izzy starts to trip over his words, eyes falling to the growing, intimidating tent in Duff's shorts, "do stuff before?"

Duff hits him with a deadpan look, fingers untangling the knot below his navel. "No, Iz. I'm gonna go in dry for your first time, actually."

Izzy's face heats, a mixture of embarrassment and petty anger. "You're a real boner-killer, you know that?" Then, almost as an afterthought and a personal fuck you: "And it's not my first time, asshole."

Duff's hands pause at the waistband. His eyebrow ticks up. "Oh?"

He backtracks, momentarily retreating into himself and trying to pull the foot from his mouth. "I mean—not my first time, like…putting something inside."

Duff, now thoroughly captivated with that information, leers wide enough to split his face in two. "Fingers? Or something else?"

Izzy's cheeks turn more fuchsia, incriminatingly so. "Fingers." He whispers, mortified even though they've told each other far worse.

"Yours or someone else's?"

Izzy punches his shoulder. "Mine, smartass. Did it once or twice."

More like almost every time he jerks off…but that's a need-to-know basis.

Duff chuckles, hands finding their way back to his midriff again. "Good. Means you'll enjoy it more."

He tugs the sweatpants down, and Izzy lifts his hips to help. Then he's bare, cock bobbing against his belly, exposed in a way that feels unfair when Duff's still mostly clothed.

He looks down at Izzy, predatory and adoring all at once, as he lowers himself between his legs. "You're still good with this?" He asks, hands smoothing up his thighs.

"Yeah, just—" This isn't the first time Duff's been between his legs, but knowing what comes after, knowing this time it'll be different, makes Izzy's dick drool shamelessly. He huffs out a breath, still trying to appear less nervous than he really is, "get on with it."

Duff smirks, playfully sucking a bruise on the scythe of his hip. "You're fuckin' bossy."

Izzy pushes at his head; zero manners. "I'm controlling. There's a difference."

"You want me to suck your dick or not?"

"You gotta stop talking first."

They've never been great at the whole pillow-talk thing.

Duff's mouth finally latches, but not in the place Izzy was expecting. It starts at his inner thighs, trailing feather-light kisses, roaming with maddening precision. He licks against veins, tracing the seam of his balls, flicking against the thin strip of skin above his hole. Izzy's fingers twist in the sheets, hips following the heat of his mouth, cock rubbing against Duff's cheek, and smearing sticky across stubble. When he finally suctions around the head, a groan tears through Izzy's throat at a humiliating volume.

Duff hums at the familiar taste, drowning himself in it, missing the flavor coating the roof of his mouth. He works Izzy over, bobbing at the pace he loves, loosening his throat, fluttering his tongue around the slit, just barely dipping it inside.

He collects a fistful of blond, tugging Duff's head in slow, graceful arcs. "Mmph, so fuckin' good, sugar."

Just when Izzy starts to lose himself in it and forget why they're even doing this in the first place, Duff pulls off with an obscene pop, a trail of spit connecting to his lips in a thin, lewd line. Izzy makes a pouting noise, watching Duff reach over to comb through his duffel again. He comes back with a small bottle of Astroglide, shaking up the tube.

"You always carry around bagels and lube?" Izzy jokes, watching him slick two fingers. "Gonna pull a rabbit out of a hat next?"

Duff smiles, adjusting his cock where it's threatening to tear a hole through his shorts. "Only if I get to cut you in half with a saw."

He resumes his prone position, inching Izzy's legs open again. "Relax for me."

"I am relaxed."

What else does he expect him to do? Woosah?

Duff's free hand squeezes the meat of his calf, eyes doing that unexpectedly sincere thing that makes Izzy's throat tight every time. "You're really not. Breathe, baby."

Despite feeling like it's dumb, Izzy draws in a long breath, forcing himself to exhale it slowly. Right as his lungs fully deflate—

Oh. Oh, fuuuck yeah.

The first press of Duff's finger is barely down to the second knuckle, but it already feels different from when Izzy does it himself. Bassist fingers. Solid. Long. Rough. He pumps it slowly, cooing, massaging his weeping cock in tandem.

"That's it," Duff encourages softly, watching Izzy slowly allow himself into it, "Just like that. Doing so good."

Izzy's first instinct is to tense, to make some sarcastic comment about the condescending praise, but then Duff plugs another finger, thicker this time, and words start to die on his tongue.

"O-Oh. Yeah." It comes out sounding feminine and high-pitched, stuttered in its cadence, but Izzy can't bring himself to recorrect.

Duff does something, angling just right, scissoring him open, and curling against a hard bump. Izzy nearly cums on command and cuts this little foray before they've even really started.

"Found it." Duff grins, smug, wicked, and pleased. "Yours is deeper than mine."

Izzy manages a half-laugh, half-lament, squirming against the bed, bouncing himself against Duff's fingers without even realizing. The connection between brain and dick was ripped clean out of the socket the second Duff started snagging his fingers just right, and the only thing he can focus any attention on is whatever you're doing feels good, so keep doing it. Kinda like that lab experiment where the rats hit the pleasure button instead of the food one until it starved to death—Izzy gets it now. He'd die happy like this.

He keeps pushing, crooking his fingers to rub against the spot relentlessly, memorizing every whine and wimper that fights to break through gritted teeth.

Izzy feels his balls already start to draw up tight, stomach muscles tensing. "Duff—" he strains, "gonna cum if you don't stop."

"You can if you want." He leans down to press another gentle kiss to his lower stomach, working his mouth upward while his fingers keep moving. "Takin' it so good. C'mon."

He whines brokenly, torn between fucking reveling in the attention and adoration and being pushed so far out of his comfort zone that he can't even see it anymore. Something always cracks in his chest when he's handled with care, like he's worth being cherished. Duff's always attentive when they're like this, but being beneath him, resigning to being small, and wanting nothing more than to be doted on…it makes old hooks that were planted long ago start to pull again. They're embedded so deep he forgets they're there until vulnerable moments like this bring them to light, when fragility feels less like intimacy and more like weakness.

The edge of the cliff is right ahead, and yet, that old voice rears up. Cynical and snarling. Cruel and archaic. Sin has always been just a word, but a word that burns like salt on a wound that never fully healed. It presses against his chest tighter with every curl of Duff's fingers, every heartbeat closer to climax tastes like vestigial, ingrained heresy.

Izzy's hand slips between their two bodies, wrapping around Duff's wrist to still the movement.

"Wait," he pants against his lips, "wait. I don't wanna finish yet."

Duff's brow crinkles, concern creeping in at the edges. "Want me to stop?"

He shakes his head, hair ruffling around the pillowcase, shoulders trembling as he tries to muffle the rush of every emotion too big to name. Izzy's grip on Duff's wrist loosens, trailing up his arm to cup his jaw limply. He blinks his eyes hard enough to refocus on Duff's face, cherubic in its sincerity, unwavering trust laced through green irises, always piercing through armor like a claymore. He grounds himself in the feeling of his cheek resting in his palm.

"No. No, I'm—" he swallows hard, unclenching, "I'm good. Keep going."

"You sure?"

Izzy nods, thumb falling to trace over Duff's bottom lip. He smiles against the digit, playfully biting and kissing the pad.

His fingers wiggle again, and Izzy sighs, spine relaxing into the bed. When a third, deft finger slithers inside, Izzy hisses at the stretch. Pain borders on pleasure until it starts to blur. Duff works him open slowly, giving a few measured, long, reassuring licks and kisses across his cock until the burn melts into something good.

When Izzy stops gripping, his body finally trusting the intrusion, Duff's heavy eyes land on his face. "Think you're ready." He removes his fingers delicately, mouth salivating at the pink hole stretched and pulsing around nothing.

The scary part is that Izzy immediately feels the loss and wants nothing more than to be full again. He spreads his knees wider, watching Duff's dick recoil free from his waistband, flushed and sensitive as he coats himself smooth.

He starts, "How do you want—"

Izzy's already reaching up toward him. "Like this. Wanna see you."

He figures he's already this gay, might as well go all the way into the end zone with it.

A flicker of something soft and smitten washes over Duff's face, a smile full of tenderness. He settles between Izzy's legs, one hand braced by his head, the other guiding himself into the beckoning heat.

He traces the head around the throbbing rim in slow circles, barely sinking inside. "Don't tense, okay?"

Izzy exhales a shaky breath, willing his body not to fight this. "Yeah. C'mon."

The first shift forward is…fuck. It's a lot. Almost too much. More than his own or Duff's fingers, and for a split second, Izzy locks up tight. An immediate reaction to invasion. His body still hasn't learned when it's okay to just let go.

"Breathe." Duff reminds him, voice pinched. Attempting to stay still despite the fucking agony of wanting to engulf himself completely.

Izzy puffs out sharp, short breaths through his nose. Overstacking thoughts trample each other, too fast for him to keep up with.

This is okay. No, it's not. You want this. No, I don't. This is wrong. So, everything else you've ever done has been right?

"Hey…" Duff's soft coo breaks through the static, a gentle knuckle sweeping over the curve of Izzy's jaw. "Stay with me, yeah?"

Izzy blinks, forcing himself into the present. He finds the eyes, his unfaltering lighthouse.

You're here. I'm here. Let's do this shit the right way for once.

Izzy nods, not breaking the eye contact, and Duff pushes in deeper.

A groan rumbles through Duff's chest, part pleasure, part being squeezed like a fucking vise. A sharp inhale gets lodged in Izzy's throat, teetering on the brink of wanting more and wanting to run away and pretend he's never fantasized about this since he was old enough to understand sex and the roles involved. But there's something about being so full, so close, so here. Despite all the noise in his head, something in his soul is telling him it's right.

When Duff's fully seated, balls flush to supple cheeks, he drops his head to hide in Izzy's neck. "You good?" He strains, arms shaking to support his own weight and the ten tons of self-control.

Izzy's arms move before his brain tells them to, wrapping around the dip in Duff's waist, palms landing on his shoulder blades. "Y-Yeah, I'm—you can move."

He hardly rolls his hips in a movement that shouldn't even qualify as a thrust. Izzy catches the restraint, ego bubbling, despite himself.

"I'm not gotta break, you know." He grits stiffly, even though a part of him might.

"I know," Duff mumbles against his neck, "just wanna make sure I don't hurt you."

Izzy scoffs, absolutely not believing the next words he's about to say, and hating himself a little for it. "Christ's sake, just fuck me."

Duff takes the bait, never knowing how to deflect the taunting. He pulls out almost entirely, then pushes back in without any pause.

Izzy mewls. Like a fucking chick, complete bodily betrayal.

"Ooh, I like that noise." Duff digs, head rising enough for his padlock chain to graze Izzy's nose, lips curving smug. "Can you do it again for me?"

Izzy doesn't even have the chance to spit out a go fuck yourself, because on the next thrust, he hits that fucking spot again with brutal aim.

His legs hook around Duff's waist, fingers tangling through sweat-damp hair and pulling. "Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Duff—"

He's quick to coo, quicker to meet the rhythm of Izzy's hips. "I know, puppy. I know."

From above, Duff's utterly transfixed. He watches the blunt pressure of his cock swell and distend Izzy's lower stomach with each deep, filthy grind. Visual proof of just how inside he is. Every roll makes Izzy's body sing and pulse in harmony, like it's been patiently waiting for the opportunity to be treated properly.

Duff commits the feeling of Izzy's insides to explicit, seared memory, knowing that this moment might be a once-in-a-blue-moon kind of deal. Velvety walls, greedy puckering hole, bony knees hoisted by his reddened face—it's fucking divine in the most debauched way.

He smothers him between tacky skin, kisses, and tender coaxing. He scoops under his knees, folding him deeper into the mattress. "Feel so fuckin' good, Iz. God, you feel good."

His blunt nails scramble to hang on to the notches in Duff's spine, feeling crushed and confounded with devastating pleasure. A type of slack-jawed, empty lungs, every-nerve-ending-on-fire bliss that Izzy's only dreamt about.

"Touch me." He gasps, voice splintered in two, needing more and needing it now. "Please."

Duff doesn't gloat or make him beg, only wraps one calloused palm around the girth of Izzy's swollen, crying cock, stroking in time with the roll of his waist.

He arches into Duff, nails digging tiny crescent moons into the meat of his biceps. Everything whites out, stars exploding in the corners of his vision. "Gonna cum, gonna—fuck—"

Duff leans in to capture his words in a messy kiss, lips locking together, feeling Izzy's body wind tighter and tighter like it's trying to fight off the impending surrender. "Cum for me. S'okay, c'mon."

Izzy registers the warmth splattering across his stomach before the euphoria hits. Like that blink-of-an-eye moment after he pushes the plunger on a needle, or sniffs up and waits for the rush to drown him.

This is better than that. Worse in the way he can get addicted to it.

A tremoring sigh bursts throughout his chest, shaky and moaning like his nervous system doesn't know whether to rejoice or sob. Duff milks him, watching reverent and proud as every long, hot rope leaks over his knuckles and paints Izzy's sternum. On reflex, Izzy clenches around Duff hard. The sensation alone is enough to shatter him entirely, following Izzy down the rabbit hole as he drives his hips forcefully one last time, burying to the hilt and spilling deep.

Time truly starts to lose meaning after that. They both float adrift in the subspace, delirious, steeped in post-everything feel-good chemicals that make the room soft around the edges. Izzy feels a familiar cloud-like state occupy his head, the same fog as opioids, but loaded with more consequences—if that's even possible.

Duff narrowly pulls his face from Izzy's collarbone, eyes glazed and half-lidded. "You okay?"

It takes Izzy a moment to register that the rumbling against his chest is words being directed at him. His eyes peel open one at a time as Duff's face swims into focus. He tries to form a sentence, but it comes out more like a garbled string of noises.

He weakly raises a thumb before his hand splats back onto the pillow beside his head. "Yesh, so goo—" The effect is all the same.

Duff smiles with a weak snort, pushing back curled and knotted hair from Izzy's forehead. He pets him rhythmically in soothing motions, soft kisses landing around his neck and jaw, trying to keep him grounded in gentle, habitual touch to distract from the empty, aching feeling that always comes after having something yanked out.

"Gonna pull out now, okay?" He murmurs against Izzy's temple, "Try not to squeeze."

He makes a small noise, half an acknowledgement that bleeds into protest.

Duff withdraws slowly, and Izzy winces at the drag against raw skin. His body clenches reflexively at the loss, oversensitive and rejecting the absence. He whines softly at the feeling.

"I know, I know. Easy." Duff pacifies, still petting and scratching long strokes through damp hair. He grabs a shirt thrown over the bed, carefully wiping Izzy's stomach. "You did so good…so proud of you."

Even in the midst of the haze, Izzy's throat gets firm and dry at the spoiling flattery. Something scalding and vulnerable always lodges that he can't swallow down. He starts to shift away, fidgeting, an instinctual impulse to hide when the fever cools.

Duff's hand settles in the curve of his neck, thumb brushing his jaw, coaxing him back. "Hey. Don't do that—lemme take care of you."

Izzy blinks, not able to avoid the weight of his gaze. He forces words out, even though every nerve is screaming at him to fall back to the usual routine. Don't get so attached to this feeling, even though you can feel him dripping out of you.

"M'here." He croaks, a shred of reluctance barbing the words.

"Good." Duff's voice wraps over him like a blanket, snuffing out the sting. He leans up to kiss his forehead, his nose, then finally his lips. "You wanna sleep again for a bit?"

He nods, already feeling the pull of physical exhaustion again. His limbs are too heavy, thoughts too clouded, but there's this pleasant ache blooming low in his muscles. He knows he'll feel it tomorrow; Duff's branded him bone-deep.

They soften against each other, and Izzy makes a gentle, contented noise from high in his throat. He burrows deep in his chest, nose tucked in the hollow of Duff's throat, where he can smell sweat, sex, and musk that's so uniquely him. Mine. Safe.

Both their eyes drift closed, the last dregs of restraint finally bleeding out of Izzy's shoulders. His fingers twitch every so often, consciousness toeing a line between lucidity and dreams. They find Duff's, and he laces them together loosely, holding on even in sleep.

—

The guys never really need an excuse to party. But being that it's Jeff-Birthday-Eve, they took that as a green light to start throwin' them back after the show.

Oshkosh was run-of-the-mill explosive. The crowds are starting to get bigger, which is weird. Not bad weird…just…different, Izzy supposes. It's very Twilight Zone hearing 3,000 people sing the words you wrote on the back of a pizza box when you were down bad and strung out, convinced nobody would give a shit. But, funny enough, they do, in increasingly large numbers.

After the gig, the guys and some random tagalong chicks all pile into someone's room, Slash and Axl's maybe, hard to tell when they're all identical. They crack into the rider leftovers from the venue: awful beer, and even worse whiskey and soggy hoagies, but it's free, and they're all still technically starving artists, so get it while the gettin's good.

The post-show humdrum commences: decompressing with pussy and Heineken, attempting to ignore the ever-growing tinnitus that gets worse with every stop.

Izzy's tucked away in a corner armchair, unsubtly shifting his weight around like he's got ants in his pants—or more realistically, Duff's parting gift still trickling out. He clenches every so often, almost as if to check if the muscles still work. They do, albeit sorely. He ignores it and nurses a beer, fading into the chaos around him.

A girl he recognizes from the front row inches into the room, auburn hair teased to Christ, probably seventeen but swears she's nineteen—check my ID, officer. No, it's not fake! She sidles up with that trying-to-be-enigmatic look, a pretty creature, but out of her element. She flips hair-sprayed ringlets over one shoulder, casually perching on the arm of Izzy's chair, close enough to press her bare thigh under the cutoff of her dress to his shoulder.

"You were amazing tonight, you guys are really cool." She breathes, all heavy purple eyeshadow and sparkly lip gloss.

Izzy's eyes do the obligatory pass over her tits, but they don't hold his attention too long. "Thanks," he says lowly, tipping back his can.

She doesn't move; if anything, she shuffles in closer, testing the waters and hoping for a bite.

Izzy sighs internally, knowing the game. Reluctantly, just to keep up the smokescreen, he snakes an arm around her tiny waist, gently squeezing the jut of her hip.

She giggles happily, leaning into it like it's a victory.

It's perfunctory. Mechanical.

Across the room, Duff is doing the same. He's got the usual big-chested blonde draped over his lap, fingers drumming and kneading the black stockings decorating her legs. He's smiling, laughing, playing the part, but his eyes still flick over every few minutes. Always a silent check-in.

They agreed to this. Had to, really. When more people started orbiting them, which by proxy meant more chicks, it was either this—occasional performative groping and calculated PDA—or run the risk of someone eventually noticing that one day Duff and Iz just stopped hunting for ass coincidentally at the same time.

This was easier, sorta. Or more survivable, at least. They made a deal. No weird feelings if they have to play it up in public, no jealous outbursts if a girl decides to get handsy. The pair of them got their fill of that shit a while ago. Anyone remember the debacle in Lafayette? Just me? Alright…

It's all jazz, baby. Theater. Cover-ups and misdirections.

The jailbait hanging off Izzy's arm leans in tighter, a well-manicured hand landing in the middle of his chest. "Do you think we could go somewhere a little quieter?" She squeaks, ever-optimistic.

Izzy glances up at her, taking in the Aquanet halo, cheeks pink with glittery blush. She's cute. Real eager. Maybe if she asked him that question a few months ago, he would've indulged, but now he just puffs a light laugh through his nose.

"Sorry, honey," he says apologetically, squeezing her hip again, "We leave early tomorrow. Just gonna try and sleep."

Her face falls, but she recovers with a practiced pout, batting long lashes. "Aw, okay…rain check for next time you guys come through?"

Izzy smiles knowingly, feeling that stupid guilty conscience boot into gear when she flashes the kicked puppy look. "Hold me to it, baby. Thanks for comin' to the show." He fishes around in his front pocket for spare picks he always keeps stashed and places one in her soft palm. He pats her butt with weak affection as he rises, fulfilling his mandatory saving face duties for the night.

She lights up again, girlish smile spreading wide. She nods emphatically, elated.

Izzy feels shitty for leading her on even that small amount, but this is the norm now. Impersonate, deflect, and somehow persist. He catches Duff's line of sight as he leaves, showing the I'm outta here silent look.

"Yo, Iz—wait up," Duff maneuvers the blonde off his lap, mumbling some excuse to make a quick exit.

She harrumphs, but ultimately lets him go. Steven scoops her up before Duff's even halfway out the door.

He finds Izzy pressed against the wall in the hallway, cupping a little lighter flame at the end of his cigarette. Duff shuffles in beside, exhaling hard, raking long fingers through his hair, and ruffling. "God, I fuckin' hate that."

Izzy hums, inhaling a drag until the paper burns halfway. "Yeah. Me too." He passes it over between pinched fingers, gray ribbons curling up toward the ceiling. "Coppin' a feel ain't so bad sometimes, though."

Duff chuckles weakly around the filter, tasting Izzy's lips and leftover beer on an inhale. "Still feel shitty when they're bein' nice though, y'know?" He presses his head to the wallpaper, flicking ash onto the carpet.

Izzy nods wordlessly, shifting his weight. His face screws up with a wince when he puts too much pressure on his thighs, muscles still tender from where Duff pressed into them.

"You good?" He asks.

Izzy's cheeks heat. He clears his throat, "Yeah. Just—" fuck I'm about to sound like such a bitch, "sore."

Duff's lips curl into a smirk. Cocky in an endearingly stunning way. "Sorry."

"No, you're not."

The smirk spreads into a real smile. "No, I'm not."

Duff flips his wrist over, checking the time; the hands tick faintly in the quiet. "Oh—hey," he bumps Izzy's shoulder, "it's tomorrow. Happy birthday."

Izzy turns his wrist and does the same. 1:45 am. "Huh. Guess so."

"Does twenty-six feel different than twenty-five?"

"My back hurts more."

—

Morning always comes too fucking quickly when you barely get a few good hours of sleep. None of them uses alarm clocks anymore; that's what Doug's fist is for.

"Mornin', boys! Bus leaves in thirty!"

Izzy and Duff groan in harmony into pillowcases.

More pounding follows. "Up, guys. I mean it."

"WE'RE UP," Izzy yells back, immediately wincing at the volume of his dry, sandpaper morning voice. He rolls over and presses against a warm, bare torso, fighting the urge to burrow. He knows if he does, he'll be deep under again.

The physical ache has faded into a dull hum, nothing more than stiff thighs and a sensitive ass, but the mental pangs still linger. He's come to somewhat terms with whatever he and Duff do is their business, and anyone getting too curious can go screw, and yet, there's always that tiny sapling of doubt the morning after. What's the Good Book say about uncertainty?—Verily I say unto you, ye have faith in gay sex? Somethin' like that.

Duff shifts slightly, squinting at the small slivers of stabbing sunlight that bleed into the room. "G'mornin'…birthday boy." He rasps deeply, warm and rumpled with traces of sleep.

Izzy grumbles from the middle of his chest, already sick of the good tidings. He should get used to it now; he'll have to put up with this shit all day from everyone. It's not that he has an issue with getting older; it's inevitable, and he embraced impermanence early on, but he's a cynical fucker—one year older, one year closer to the grave.

"C'mon," Duff says through a yawn, patting his thigh, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a soft groan.

Izzy doesn't make much of an effort to get a move on. "Mm. In a minute." He watches Duff straggle around the room, pulling on jeans, brushing out the knots in his hair, throwing shit into his bag without folding it. Easy, familiar, and domestic—everything that comes few and far between.

"You gonna get up?" Duff asks, one arm through his shirt, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth.

Izzy pulls a mock offended face, motioning to himself. "No birthday suck off?" He says dryly, still sprawled in tangled sheets.

Duff snorts and rolls his eyes, tossing a balled-up tee at his head. "It's still early. See how I feel later."

They pack in comfortable silence, the routine shuffle that always comes the morning of leaving: don't forget the toothbrush, check under the bed for any socks.

By the time they stumble up to the bus outside, the rest of the guys are falling into line at the door, stuffing bags into the undercarriage.

Slash's head is the first to perk up. "Hoo-ho, there he is."

Stevie's quick to dogpile with love, putting on an awful Marilyn voice. "Happy birthday, Mr. President."

Izzy snorts, trying to fight a smile and failing. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fuckin' old, I know."

Axl bumps his shoulder as they load their bags, looking at Izzy with a familiar concoction of nostalgia and fondness. "Happy birthday, dude. Carpe diem from now until the gig."

"Lucky me."

Everyone claims their usual spots. Duff and Slash hide in their bunks, wanting to sleep off whatever the fuck they continued to drink last night. Steven retreats to the back lounge, and Axl and Iz camp out in the front. After Doug concludes the mandatory head count of crew guys, the bus lurches forward, and Oshkosh starts to disappear in the rearview.

Barely a half hour down the highway, Izzy's already reclined on the bench seat, hands folded behind his head, eyes closed but not really sleeping. A heavy plop on his chest rouses him. He cracks one eye, looking down.

"Birthday reading material," comes from Axl on the other bench across the aisle.

Izzy lifts the magazine from his chest, inspecting the cover. He snorts lightly at the date in the top right corner. "It's two months old."

Axl levels him with a glare, but a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. "It was the only one the gas station had, ungrateful fuck."

Izzy smiles, flipping open the February issue of Penthouse. Right as one eye is skimming over an article, and the other is inspecting a firm pair of boobs, Axl fades off into a nap. The bus falls into a lull of quiet, whirling tires, and the rustle of a centerfold being unfurled.

"Psst."

Izzy doesn't hear it, or pretends not to. He keeps flipping through the pages, thoroughly invested in learning about the Miss Pet of the Year runner-up.

"Psst."

Again, silence.

"Psst!"

Is there a fucking fly in here?

"Iz!" Steven harshly whispers.

He finally looks up toward the source of the noise. Stevie's still all the way in the back lounge, silently urging Izzy to join him with an exaggerated wave.

"What?" He says, full volume.

He presses a finger to his lips conspiratorially, eyes wide, waving him over again with more haste.

Izzy sighs, knowing he won't quit. He chucks the mag aside and shuffles toward the back.

"Close the door behind you." Steven presses, voice still hushed.

He cocks a brow. "Why?"

Steven rolls his eyes with deliberate annoyance. "Christ sake, you're so paranoid, just—close it!"

Izzy relents, sliding the divider. He turns back with an expectant expression, hoping whatever disrupted his titty viewing session is worth it.

Steve pats the space beside him. "C'mere."

There's a split second of hesitation in Izzy's steps. Steven's got that gleam in his big wet eyes, something that reeks of trouble. Regardless, he drops his weight beside him. "What's up?"

Steven's smile grows boyish, excitement curling the edges. "I got you somethin', but you can't tell anyone."

Izzy's eyebrow twitches, apprehension fading into curiosity. "Why?"

"Because," Stevie beams that 1000-watt smile, digging through the front pocket of his jeans. He retrieves a little baggie, dangling it between their faces. "Only enough for us."

Inside sit six circular, little white pills.

Lemmons. Stamped. Bona fide barbiturates.

Izzy's eyes turn to saucers. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, a choir of angels starts singing Gloria in excelsis Deo.

"Ludes?"

"Ludes," Steven confirms, an equally smug grin spreading wide. "The real shit. You know how fuckin' hard it is to find legit Lemmons? Dude I knew in Wisconsin owed me a favor—"

"Steve." Izzy interrupts with a raised palm. He takes the baggie, holding it up to the flickering yellow-toned light overhead like he's a pharmacist inspecting quality control. He guffaws, breathy and disbelieving, cradling the pills. "You are a fuckin' legend."

He smiles again, bumping Izzy's knee with his own. "Happy birthday, man. You wanna split one?"

The first time Iz did Quaaludes was around '78 in his cousin's basement, raided the fuck out of his aunt's medicine cabinet. The last time Iz did Quaaludes was probably '81, some kegger in Hollywood. They still hit the same every time—warm and floaty in the good way, like the entire world gets wrapped in wool and nothing sharp can touch you. They disappeared not long after that, got too expensive, too hard to find. Fuck the FDA, man, housewives and burnouts had to switch to Xanax.

He pops open the bag and slides out two, putting one in Steven's palm. "Cheers. Thanks, man."

They clink their pills like it's a wine glass and swallow them dry. Izzy pockets the rest of them carefully, precious cargo.

"They're probably old, so give 'em a while to kick." Stevie rises with a stretch, sliding open the lounge door. "M'gonna go pass the fuck out."

Izzy nods, watching him climb into his top bunk. He's left with the rumble of the engine and the quiet thrill of anticipation starting to buzz under his skin. He leans back in the vinyl seat, eyes sliding closed.

Good to be king, ain't it?

—

Two hours later, and they're parked in the motel lot in Rockford.

Fucking nothing. Duds.

He knows they take a while, shit isn't like everything else he ingests, where the rush is immediate and electric, but still. The disappointment snuffs out any edges of a high within reach. Now he's just pissy and impatient. He and Steven get put in a room together, and before the door is even shut behind them, they give each other the same dissatisfied look.

"Nothing for you either, right?" Steven asks, tossing his bag on the far bed.

Izzy shakes his head with a slanted frown, dropping onto the edge. "Nah. Think they're bunk."

Steven flops backward with a groan, scrubbing his face harshly. "Ugh, sorry, dude. My guy swore they were good."

He laughs to himself, fishing the baggie out of his pocket. Dealers always swear it's good—takes one to know one.

"Maybe they're just too old and lost the kick." Izzy mumbles, eyes scanning the remaining pills through the dirty plastic, shaking the bag around like that'll somehow restore potency.

It's bullshit logic, and he knows it. Ludes made in the 70s were strong as fuck, and a few years of dormancy wouldn't kill them; but that's an easier thought to digest than admitting he might've burned through his tolerance too fast over the years—that his body's too used to being so loaded on something, anything, that a normal dose does jack shit now.

Steven props himself on his elbows, watching Izzy fiddle with the bag. "You gonna take another?"

He's already got one between his fingers, smoothing over the stamped lettering. "I mean—fuck it. My birthday."

Stevie laughs. "You always get fucked up like it's your birthday."

"Exactly," Izzy says, putting it on his tongue and tasting the bitter chemical burn, "so what's the difference?"

He laughs it off like it's a joke, which it is…mostly. But there's a spike of hot truth woven through the middle that Izzy refuses to confront. The fact that he always needs to be high. That being stone-cold sober grinds against his teeth like a drill bit. He can't even start the day without caffeine or nicotine—forget being on stage in front of thousands of people without a buffer. It's insulation, a layer between himself and everything else. Yeah, it's his birthday, and he's moderately happy at where he is in life, but he's getting fucked up like he always does, just with a convenient excuse this time.

Fuck all that therapy shit. He washes down his second pill with sink tap water.

Steven continues to watch. "You want me to take one with you? Keep company?"

"Nah, man. I'm sure we'll party after the gig—save it for then." Izzy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?" Steven asks, despite not having any moral high ground when it comes to substances.

"Yeah. M'good."

Neither of them pushes it.

Steven ventures out of the motel shortly after, mumbling something about wanting food or sightseeing before soundcheck or whatever the fuck—Izzy wasn't really paying much attention. He's more focused on harping over the fact that nothing is fucking happening yet.

Stuck in northern Illinois with overcast skies and ticking hours until soundcheck, he's starting to itch. He's laid out physically, but mentally, he's pacing. The sacred liminal space of downtime starts to curdle with boredom, and relaxation tastes like restlessness.

Not hungry. No interest in watching TV. Listening to music doesn't even seem appealing. The corner store across the street has a blinking red neon OPEN sign buzzing in the window; he can practically hear it whispering to him.

Somethin' to take the edge off, handsome?

Yes, dear.

He rolls off the edge of the bed and grabs his wallet from the nightstand. One foot out the door into the hallway, he sees Duff doing the same thing.

"Heading out?" Duff asks, shrugging on a denim jacket.

Izzy hums. "Goin' to the corner store, want anything?"

"Six pack if they have any."

"Sour cream and onion chips?"

Duff smiles sweetly. "Please. Just hang on to it for me—I got an idea stuck in my head, and I'm gonna try to write it out on the bus." He nods, and they both split down separate ends of the corridor.

The store's got that fluorescent-lit, everything-stinks-of-bleach vibe, but they're fully stocked with beer, wine, and snacks at least. He heads straight for the booze aisle, scanning the bottom shelf where they keep the cheap shit. Budweiser and greasy chips for the ol' lady, a two-for-one sale on bottles of red for him. The clerk barely even looks up when Izzy pays, just bags the items and slides a few quarters in change across the counter.

Back across the street, his room for the night is still vacant. Izzy cracks open the first bottle, sipping straight from the nozzle. He grimaces around the spigot, tasting sour and plastic, but it goes down easily enough. He settles back in his bed, bottle resting between his thighs, anxiously drumming his fingers against the glass.

Come on. Kick in already. What's the holdup?

He tips the bottle again, a longer gulp this time. The wine starts warming him from the inside out, but not exactly in a pleasant way. More like a sleepy, and vaguely nauseous tendril starting to wrap around his gut. Still no sign of the Lemmons doing what the fuck they're supposed to.

He checks his watch, early afternoon, hours until he has any responsibilities that need to get done.

Maybe one more?

The idea arrives unsolicited, but once it worms its way into his head, it's hard to shake off. What's one more? He's already taken two, and they did fuck all. What's the difference between two and three?

A voice rears up in the back of his mind. You know the difference. You're just being fucking impulsive.

Funny how that voice started sounding a lot like Duff around the beginning of the tour—maybe even before that.

Izzy pulls out another pill and washes it down with a warm slurp.

When ten more minutes pass, and the only thing manifesting itself is dogshit merlot, he forces himself into the shower. Figuring the ludes were a bust and his best shot at getting loaded today is through booze, and if anyone decides to throw him a birthday eight ball.

Under the stream, the muscles in his shoulders and neck finally start to relax. The bathroom tilts just slightly, like the floor is at a five-degree angle to the left instead of flat. Izzy blinks hard through water droplets, feeling his limbs drag with sudden weight like someone filled his bones with wet concrete.

Okay. Finally. Now we're talkin'.

He settles into the feeling, letting the hot water and steam submerge him. He tips his head back, basking in the warmth. The tap runs cold eventually, but when he spins around to twist the faucet off, the room doesn't just tilt anymore—it nearly drops out from under him completely.

His hand grips a handle for leverage, knees suddenly growing weak. "Whoa—" He presses his back against the cold tile, trying to shock his system awake, scrubbing his eyes back into focus. Nothing changes. Colors in his vision go too slick around the trim like a painting left out in the rain.

Ah, shit.

Everything hits at once, the farthest thing from gradual and gentle.

He manually commands his movement—one heavy leg over the edge of the tub, then the other—and fumbles around for a towel. The motions come too unwieldy, disconnected, like he's piloting himself from a distance. He wraps the scratchy cotton loosely around his waist, leaning against the wall as he stumbles further into the room. His heart starts hammering behind his ribs, a distress call from his nervous system that he tries to placate.

Relax. You're fine. You're high. Just ride it out.

But his heart is beating louder now, Izzy can feel it in his throat, fingertips, and ears. The pattern on the bedspread starts morphing into something organic and crawling. The taste of metal floods his mouth, the corners of his vision not fuzzing anymore, but going out entirely.

He reaches for the wine bottle on the nightstand, needing something familiar—nearly empty, when did that happen? His hands don't cooperate, the bottle tips, spilling dark red across cheap carpet.

"Fuck," he slurs, but it sounds foreign to his own ears, garbled and washed out. He manages to pull on sweatpants, crawling into bed, but he's losing time with every blink now.

One blink, his hair isn't dripping anymore.

Two blinks, the sky is getting darker.

Three blinks, Steven is still gone—when did he leave? Soundcheck, right. They have soundcheck at five. Did Izzy go? He can't remember. What time is it?

A sudden piercing needle drills into the base of his skull, scalding and serrated. He covers his ears, wincing. It won't stop, it won't stop—

Phone. The phone is ringing.

He tries to roll over, but overestimates the swing, toppling onto the floor instead. He clambers upright, the room spinning, and spinning, and fucking spinning. He fumbles for it, knocking it off its cradle, bringing the handset to his head.

Alan's English inflection comes tinny and distant through the static. "Bit of a birthday gift for you, I reckon."

The words that follow punch through his chest more than land.

Aerosmith. I'm opening for fucking Aerosmith.

This is it. This is everything, man.

…But he can't even feel it.

Izzy can't even access the joy or terror or even disbelief. Only numb and floating so far away from his body that the news might as well be happening to someone else.

This is everything I've ever wanted, and I'm too fucked up to even be here for it.

His legs buckle like a ghost pushes him; he sees wine-stained carpet rushing towards his face.

Then, nothing.