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

AXL XII

LA MEMORIAL COLISEUM STADIUM

MIND THE GAP (PLUS SUPPORT)

SATURDAY, JANUARY 20TH 1990

GENERAL ADMISSION, STANDING, ZONE F

DOORS OPEN AT 7PM

CONCERT BEGINS 9PM

// Mind the Gap concert ticket for Coliseum performance, 1990

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w.discussions of poor mental health and suicide, discussions of drug abuse

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Four thirty-seven. The glass clock on the receptionist's desk continued to tick away at his mind, counting down ever closer to four forty-five.

Axl shuffled on the cushioned chair, his head pressed against the wall and tapped his feet against the linoleum covered floor. There was no rhythm to be found; he huffed out of his nose, maybe Steven wasn't the only one then. He'd heard the tale of the cocaine out of Duff, who had shuffled in the feet at the studio around Izzy and all he'd done was put his face in his hands, feel his pulse burn through his fingers and scratch his nails deep into the skin.

Of course they couldn't have left it one fucking night. And they had called him crazy after 'Brownstone', he was the unhinged one that needed to calm down, he was the one that was going to bring about their downfall, he was the one who was gonna get killed.

He clenched his fists hard, trying not to think about forcing through the drywall behind them, for it to crack and crumble under the force of his hand. There was no one else in the room beside the receptionist in the corner, far more focused on her word search than her surroundings but he couldn't imagine having to explain that one to Sean.

He breathed. One. Two. Three. Four.

He stared back at that clock. Four thirty-nine.

He could just walk out, wander right back out the french doors and get a taxi back home. Press his head to the window and watch the dark January clouds pass by to whatever Zeppelin song was playing on the radio before reaching his before returning to his warm sheets and the woman that occupied them.

But he didn't, instead continuing to stare at the clock and the fake cacti on the reception desk. There was a radio playing, even if it's signal was full of static, playing some out of date Duran Duran song. Adi would know it, her collection of albums ranging from their first self-titled through to Notorious. She knew a lot of things.

He thought of her jasmine hair and the warm skin of her back pressed against his chest, the evenness of her sleeping breaths and her fingers loosely linked between his, the diamond of her ring leaving an imprint. He had left that that morning, wandering out into the infinite dark clouds of the LA skyline with a biting wind to match, worn sneakers wearing through the sidewalk.

The last time he had walked with the sun barely raised above the clouds and the wind burning through his ears it had been on a beach after he had threatened to blow his brains over the wall.

He clenched his jaw as tight as it would go, like a screw tightened as hard as it would go before it finally cracked and broke, his teeth grinding down against each other, gnawing down hard. It wasn't a good habit, it always left him with some kind of crook that left his jaw aching for days, producers, and the guys, both rolling their eyes at whatever issue plagued him from singing that afternoon. Yet he had to sit by while the others sobered up well into the late afternoon.