Sweet Agony (Slaxl)

III

Axl's POV:

I woke up feeling numb. The curtain to my bunk was thrown open by my guitarist in a cold sweat. "What are you doing?!" I demanded.

"You're awake." He sighed, sounding relieved. "And alive."

"Will you shut up?" I groaned, sliding out of my bunk. I hated it when he did this. He'd panic all of the time, treating me like I was made of glass. It's one thing to worry, but to worry as much as he did was just annoying. But I guess it goes without saying since I already mentioned the tiny crush thing.

"You worried me last night. These attempts are freaking me out."

I rolled my eyes, walking away from him. "You're such a girl." Slash followed after me while I poured myself out a nice, small morning shot of tequila. As if he'd heard me open the bottle, Duff came rushing out.

"Don't start the morning shots without me!" He shouted, overly enthusiastic about drinking a little bit of alcohol. If anything, Slash should be worried for him. I thought that they were best friends. So he wasn't left out, the guitarist poured himself a shot as well. All three of us lifted them into the air before draining them. Duff shot Slash a look, nodding towards the back room again. They both left, and I was alone.

"Finally alone again," I sighed. I sat down on a bench that squeaked under me. "So you feel the pressure too?" I asked it. I laid back down, feeling very tired. Energy came in spurts for me. I would feel alive when on stage, when drinking after the show, or when having too much sex, but any other time of day I was exhausted. I closed my eyes, longing for a short cat nap before soundcheck.

Someone tapped on my shoulder, waking me up. "We've gotta go to soundcheck," Izzy said. "It's time, y'know?"

I sat up, groaning while I rubbed my eyes. I wasn't ready for soundcheck, I wasn't even in the mood to go on stage tonight. "Where's Slash?" I asked, looking around for the man perpetually wearing a hat and shades.

"Right here," he answered, coming out from the bunk area with a brush in his hand. He pulled on the curls of his hair with it hard, nearly ripping them out. "Didja need something?"

"Just wondering where my protector was is all," I muttered. I'd hoped maybe I'd gotten away from him, but such an idea like that would be fucking crazy. Then again, my life is fucking crazy, isn't it?

Spurs jungled against the floor of the bus when Duff came out, cowboy boots already covering his feet, and a cowboy hat on his head to boot. "Well, golly," I started, "what're we doin' down in these here parts?"

"Har dee har har," he pretended to be amused. He continued his walk out and off of the bus, followed closely by the band's other blond.

"I think that's the ninth time you've said that joke," Izzy recalled. "It's getting a little old." My jokes were getting old? Dammit, I was getting old. I was too old. I should be dead by now. I shot Slash a dirty look as I thought of all the times he'd saved me. 

"Good fucking night!" I told the crowd while I stepped off. The rest of the band followed closely behind me while the crowd roared, begging us for more songs. 

"We should give them an encore every once in a while," Slash suggested, wiping the sweat off of his forehead with a white towel. "Just to shake things up."

"Ten song sets every night and I'm still fucking exhausted," Steven complained. "I can't do any more than that, and we don't have many more songs to give them."

I couldn't listen to more, I was already out the door and out of the venue entirely. The cold night air hit my shirtless body, penetrating even through my leather pants. I ran my hands up my arms to keep them warm while I ran farther and farther away from the venue. "Try and catch me now!" I dared my guitarist. I hadn't thought about how I was going to kill myself, though. Since it wasn't a thought, tonight wouldn't be the night that I went and followed through with it. Instead, I simply ran in the cold air hoping to catch cold. If I got sick then I wouldn't have to get out of the safety of a bed. The only problem would very well be the fact that I could never by any means stay out of Slash's grip if I was sick. He'd be all over me. Then again, he seems to be all over me now. Is it really all that different?

I sat down on the curb, resting my chin on one of my hands while I looked out. Cars passed by me, most oblivious to my presence. That's crazy though. Everyone knows my name, everyone knows who I am. If they're not stopping, then it's because no one really cares about me. Dammit man, I could kill myself and no one would ever go to my funeral. What a great sight it would be. Here lies W. Axl Rose, he couldn't get anyone to show up to his funeral because they couldn't get an autograph to prove that they were there. He couldn't get anyone to show up because they were afraid that he might start a riot if they tried to get a bootleg. He couldn't get anyone to show up because he refused to take them to his dressing room. He couldn't get anyone to show up because no one really gave a shit about him, he was just deemed 'cool' and therefore everyone was by definition required to like him, or at least pretend to. Rest in fucking pieces. I laughed loudly at the thought. The sound came from deep within me, sickening to hear but so fucking beautiful all the same. 

But my hero caught up to me. The guitarist came over to me, putting a hand over my mouth to stop me from laughing. "It's freezing cold and pouring rain," He said. I hadn't even noticed the water falling from the sky. I thought it might've been tears, but it felt so natural it didn't even bother me. "You're gonna make yourself sick," He scolded me, putting a leather jacket over my shoulders. 

"Good," I laughed. "Maybe then someone else might pay attention to me." He pulled me to my feet, starting to walk me to the nearest hotel. "But I don't wanna-" I started to complain.

"Shut up, Axl. I'm taking care of you."

I ended up sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, three warm towels covering my head, legs, and midsection. I sniffed, taking another tissue out of the box and blowing my nose again. I trembled, still not warm. I'd taken an extra hot shower on Slash's insistence, and now the air was freezing me to death. It was too cold to even take of the towels and get dressed to wrap myself in the cheap, white sheets and comforter the hotel room offered. "You should really change into clothes," The guitarist reminded me. He had come out of the bathroom, dressed only in pants as he crawled into the hotel room's other bed.

"I'm cold," I complained. 

"You'll be warmer if you get dressed." I shivered in the towels, holding them closer to myself, the movements making them adjust and expose parts of my skin. I decided that he was right, finding a shirt and pants in the suitcase. I pulled them both on and buried myself under the covers of the bed I was sleeping in for the night. I still felt freezing as I pulled the comforter and sheets higher, holding my knees all of the way up to my stomach. Slash must've known I was so fucking cold I wasn't going to be able to sleep, so he got out of his bed and came into mine. "Move over," He told me. I did, clinging to him.

"You're so warm," I sighed. I didn't care that I was laying my head on his chest, tangling my legs with his, and wrapping my arms around his stomach. I hated being taken care of, waited on hand-and-foot, but I suppose that it could be nice every once in a while.