Yesterdays | Slaxl ❦

F O U R

It's 1996, and Axl releases a contented sigh as Slash's arm wraps around his waist. The warmth of his embrace emanates between them, and the terse kisses that feather along his shoulder sets his cheeks ablaze. Although, they aren't speaking, and the silence deteriorates Axl's state of serenity.

"You're mad at me," he breathes out, and Slash doesn't say anything, only proceeding to glide his plump lips along the singer's skin. Axl bites his lip, and he could feel the intensity of the room piling onto the distress wreaking havoc within his head. He sits up, pushing Slash off of him and glaring at the guitarist with vivid spite. "I know you're mad—"

"How can I not be?" Slash stands up abruptly, throwing the sheets off the bed and peering at Axl with pure acrimony in his eyes. "You ruined the entire band! Steven's gone, Izzy's gone, Gilby's gone— goddamnit, Axl! Everyone is fucking gone!"

Axl shudders at the acerbity in the other man's tone; in his lover's tone. But when he looks at Slash, there is no more love in his eyes. There's betrayal, and hurt, and irises no longer glistening with the beautiful amber they used to. Like a swarm of hornets erupting bitterly from their hive, each word aims to persecute Axl, to find and ravage him for all of the horrid things he had instigated. But it doesn't stop, and Axl feels himself swelling, and he feels himself suffocating.

"What happened at St. Louis— you caused it, Axl. The lawsuit against Steven, you spoke for us. The wellbeing of the band, it's signed to your name. These feuds with other bands, and all of these pointless fits with the press— they're all because of you, Axl! You, you, you!"

Slash's hands thrash as he speaks, voluminous curls bouncing atop his shoulders, and pure venom laced within his tone. And Axl can only peer back at him, the past decade of his life flashing by like some twisted slideshow. But the words drown out into some distant resonation, and all Axl can see is the past. The beautiful past when Slash held his hand tightly through tedious walks from one gig to the next. When Slash had kissed Axl's bruised knuckles, and allowed the singer to bandage his calloused fingers after each show. When Slash knew how much Axl loved him— how much Axl still loves him.

"Please don't leave me," he whispers, but the words are incoherent, stuck somewhere in his throat and unable to exude. But Slash had already turned his heel, and all of the words that Axl was too shocked to focus on blur into the distinct recognition that he was leaving, and for sure he wouldn't be coming back.

That day amidst the brutal autumn of 1996, Axl had lost the only part of him that made sense; this relentless love that tired his heart out from the moment he first felt it. On that day, Axl was desolated.

•.•.•

Slash glides his fingers along the fretboard of his guitar, listening to the lilting mewls that resonate from the amplifier. The metal strings feel rough again this sore fingers, or perhaps it was just gloom that made the actions feel tedious rather than exciting. With each sigh his treasured guitar released, Duff's bass followed with a firm 'thum' sound each time. And although Slash doesn't look up at the bassist, he can already sense the tenseness riveting between them.

"I'm not playing," Slash tells.

Thum.

"Axl's not here yet, it's pointless."

Thum.

"Can you quit it?"

Thum.

Slash growls, sinking into his seat and allowing the deep vibrations to echo around the empty arena before dissipating with the wind. Duff sits across from him, slender legs hanging off the edge of the stage as he peers on through the vastness before them. Slash could see the slight curl of his lips from where he is, along with the light wrinkle on his forehead. And for sure, the sight was not mundane, as Slash had grown used to the bassist's antecedent careless, go-lucky attitude.