how soon is now? || w. a rose [i/v]

ANDY III

"I think he's always felt judged for who he is. Axl just feels very strongly and like fucking all of us, has his moments where those feelings look ugly. You lot love to talk about "passion and emotional and whatever the fuck else" when talking about his music, but when you hear about the emotions that went into it, you judge him for it. He's a human, who feels however ever the fuck he wants to feel, it's you lot who act like he should be pedestaled, show every mistake under a microscope. He never wanted to be perfect, you just expected that he somehow would be."

// Andy Bernow on press attention about her fiancé Axl Rose, 1992

_______________________

w. mentions of drug use, Axl being a little bit cruel, discussions of chronic medical conditions

_______________________

God I look tired, was the thought running through Andy as she looked in the bathroom mirror, the spotlights harshly blinding down her face. Dark purple bruises were a near constant state under her eyes, shadowing even further due to the crook of her nose, and her mouth was cracked and dry.

The schedule was so damn hard, they wanted so much recording done as well as production, she got they wanted the album out next year but the weight just kept getting heavier and heavier. Yoko's hands were cracked and raw and Eric was a sweating mess every time he left the studio.

Andy's only sleep were the seldom few hours she got with Axl every night, it was still the best quality sleep she had ever had, the warm arm enveloping her, his breath pushing against the shell of her ear and knee pushing into her thigh. Something about it felt so safe, like she was fully encapsulated, cocooned tightly under bed sheets and hot skin.

She always woke up to warm, her hair sticky and forehead damp but it was always worth it. It was hot but it wasn't uncomfortable, it wasn't like the boiling, stuffy heat of sitting under the sun but more of the electrifying, quick scorch of the kisses he gently laid over her spine or when their shoulders brushed against each other.

It felt like her body knew his so well, the way her back moulded into the curve of his chest, how easily her fingers always pressed over his shoulder blades and how perfectly their lips always locked together. Nobody had ever felt like that before, it was always too big or too small, teeth cutting and knocking bones. She could lie to herself and say it was because he was a rockstar, an experienced sex god who had probably gone through half the groupie population, but it just wasn't that.

Because that didn't make up for the way his hand always found a way to lace around hers when sleeping, it didn't explain his charmed smile whenever she discussed a new melody on his piano, even if he muttered under his breath and scowled at her suggestions for November Rain. She smiled, she was right and she had been proven it by the way he scribbled in his worn notebook.

The old leather was almost an extension of him at this point, everywhere he was, the old pages seemed to follow, with whatever was written in it, lyrics, random musings and the odd poem. She had never looked through it, but every morning with their shoulders pushed together, light peering through the curtains, he would talk through it. The odd line of lyrics, she would always point to certain lines to change, her chin resting on the blue flowers on his shoulder.

She had studied all of his tattoos at this point, some in moonlight and some in sunlight, but she was still positive the cross was her favourite. The details of the keltic knot to the obvious markers of each member. She had managed to get a grasp on each of them over the past week.

Discussing riff work with Slash was somewhat interesting even though she had to always watch to never bring up Yoko, she had made that mistake five days ago, she was never going to get that half an hour back. He was mostly cool though, his cig always falling out of his mouth and he was always around to drink some Jack with.