Breath

Headaches and Hotels (Slash)

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Slash x Fem!Reader, SMUT!

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It was too much. The noise, the lights, the heat. Everything felt like too much.

You were used to life on the road and all the hustle and bustle that came with it, so your senses were perfectly capable of handling intense stimulation. Tonight, however, they were just not up to snuff.

You had begun to feel off that morning when you woke up feeling dizzy and with a dry throat. Assuming it was mild dehydration, you had downed sixteen ounces of cold water and continued about as normal. Slash got up by ten o'clock and joined you for a brunch date.

His calloused hand held yours across the table while he looked softly into your eyes.

"Hi, honey."

You blushed. "Hi."

His brow furrowed. "What's wrong?"

You shook your head. "Nothing. Bit tired, that's all."

He nodded and didn't ask again. Later, right before he went onstage, he kissed you briefly on the lips.

"You have your water bottle? Phone?"

"Yes," you whined. "I'm good."

He seemed reluctant to leave, but you wished him good luck and shooed him away.

You almost always sat on a chair adjacent to the stage while the band performed. London, L.A., Barcelona, wherever. There were often professional photographers who took glossy shots of your boyfriend while he wailed on his guitar, but you snapped grainy shots of him anyways.

You weren't feeling it tonight. The dizziness had returned in full force, this time accompanied by a headache. A merciless, pounding migraine. It was horrible. All you wanted to do was enjoy the show, not suffer quietly on the sidelines.

Your stomach was queasy, and the sips of water you took did nothing to keep it at bay. The metal handles of your chair were slick with sweat in the spots you were gripping them. You couldn't do it. You had to leave.

The applause was deafening as you stumbled offstage. It was your baby's solo. And you weren't there to cheer him on.

A few of the crew members spared you passing glances as you walked by, but nobody took the initiative to assist. You gingerly sat down on Slash's trunk and hugged a leather jacket of his to your chest. Like an idiot, you hadn't brought your purse with you, thinking all you'd need was your phone. Looked like the wooziness had fucked up your brain, too.

You breathed in and out deeply, hoping it would help. Fortunately, the relative silence in the bowels of the backstage had soothed some of the pain.

The set finished twenty minutes later, and Slash had a minute or two to spare before the encore.

"Babe!" He had handed his guitar to one of the stagehands and so was free to hug you.

You managed to get to your feet and melted into his arms. He instantly could tell something was wrong.

"I looked over and you weren't there," he mumbled into your hair.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. To your embarrassment, a few tears leaked from your eyes, and you began to shake. "I wanted to celebrate with you because it's the final show. I wanted to-to take care of you." You were crying now.

Slash pulled back and pushed a damp strand of hair off your cheek.

"S'okay. Shh. It's okay, honey. Tell me what's wrong."