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

AXL VIII

"It was by year's end of 1989 that the cracks of Guns N Roses had fully formed. With the infamous Mr Brownstone incident in October, where Rose publicly talked of the band's impending death from heroin overdose, and with guitarist Izzy Stradlin entering rehab by November, it seemed that the band that had produced Appetite for Destruction would be no more. Drummer Steven Adler had already entered rehab earlier in the year, being replaced at an AMA's performance, but was rumored to already be re-addicted to heroin and cocaine. It was reported by staff that Rose's already volatile behavior was increasing heavily and that working with him for more than an hour at a time was 'like pulling teeth'. Arguments and walk outs were now a common occurance from all members, but Rose was the most frequent."

// Kerrang article 1997

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w. poor mental health, reference to suicidal thoughts, reference to mental illness

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Axl hissed as he pressed his fingers onto the studio's heater, the cracked, red skin screaming at the contact. October had slowly turned into November with only the leaves cracking the pavement and scathing winds as a sign. It was nothing close to Lafayette, Los Angeles always managed to keep a warmer air than that Midwest hell did, nothing about LA was even close to that town. Not it's horrifically boring people that went to church five times a week and and only wore white and a couple shades of blue, all forms of leather and denim nowhere in sight; not it's row of small cramped wooden houses all along the same road with the exact same yard of wilted grass and scratchy bushes; not the place where the girls wear too long skirts and the boys were too short church pants.

Maybe that last one was just his family, when he had finally had a growth spurt at thirteen there had been no rush to buy the pants that were far too small, even if they had kept Amy in dresses that came closer to skimming her ankles then her knees.

He pulled his hands away from the heater, sufficiently toasted even if the tips were still a tinge white and cold, they would warm up eventually.

His footsteps echoed around the studio as he made his way to the piano, it was so eerily quiet. It was just him, the closest living person being down the hallway at reception. Living, it already felt like ghosts occupied the place, a whisper of acoustics and second hand cigarette ash.

Maybe Lafayette would never leave him, Izzy would always be a reminder of the place. Sometimes it felt like Izzy was a tumor, leaching into him and refusing to let him go, a painful indication that he would never be able to escape, something he could cut out, discard and throw away and finally be free of that shitty town and the shittier people. But he wouldn't, he wouldn't pick up that knife, not when it risked cutting himself open, not when he would bleed so hard. Izzy was latched to him through blood, it ran thick and warm through his fingers and nothing could stop the flow. Izzy might be a connection to Lafayette but he was the best part about it.

Yet Izzy wasn't there, he had been booked into a rehab facility near San Francisco two days ago, far away from the dangers and poison circling around the City of Sin. The weather was a bit colder there, he wondered if Izzy had packed for it, they were never the type to wear thick hats and scarves no matter how their skin froze.

They had hugged tightly, Axl feeling Izzy's nails clutching into his jacket, the same time as in the Vegas hotel even if there had been no tears. There had been a resolute determination in Izzy's eyes, his eyes darkened but with no blown pupils and knitted eyebrows. Izzy's fingers had been bleeding, the nails chewed down raw, dry skin cracking in the wind. He had shuffled into the taxi but his shoulders hadn't been hunched and his head had not been nodded forward.