out of tune

pregnancy ain't for the badboy

It's been three days since he learn that he was pregnant, and he was already at the end of his rope. The depressive, scared, and trying-to-be-cool Axl was replaced with the old bitchy one they had been yearning about for days.

He couldn't go an hour without complaining about something—whether it was the relentless pressure on his bladder, the constant kicks and jabs from the baby—because yes, he had to admit it was a baby, his baby—seemed to be constantly on the move, as if trying to make its presence known at every possible moment. The backaches were no joke either. The weight of his belly, which seemed to grow larger by the day, pulled on his lower back, making it difficult to find a comfortable position whether he was sitting, standing, or lying down. The simple act of getting up from his bunk was an ordeal, and walking down the narrow aisle of the bus felt like navigating an obstacle course.

"How the hell do women do this for nine months?" He grumbled as he shifted uncomfortably on the couch, his hand scratching gently on the itchy spot of his massive belly. Don’t blame him if he was practically turning this pregnancy into his whole personality at this point.

"I’m three days in and ready to kill myself. Maybe this is why men don’t get pregnant. We’d never survive it.” 

The others been accustomed to the frontman’s constant stream of complaints since ages, knew better than to try to placate him—Axl just needed to vent. Mean he was getting normal.

“Maybe you’re onto something there, Ax,” Slash said with a smirk, leaning back in his seat as he nursing his whiskey. “But hey, at least your legs are holding up. No swollen ankles yet, right?”

“Yeah, thank God for that.” He muttered, glancing down at his calves to double check them as if daring them to betray him next. “Small victories, right?” He reached for the pack of cigarette and light one, took a deep drag, only to cough violently as the smoke hit his lungs in a way it never had before.

“Fuck!” he choked, doubling over as the baby responded to his discomfort with another strong kick. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…”

Slash quickly moved to help, patting the redhead on the back until the coughing subsided. “Maybe time to lay off the smokes, man,” 

The redhead glared at the cigarette as if it had betrayed him, tossing it into the ashtray with a look of disgust. “Stupid thing doesn’t even want me to smoke,” he muttered darkly, rubbing his sore chest. “What’s next? I can’t even drink?”

“Goddamn it!” he muttered under his breath, tears of frustration welling up in his eyes as he threw a shirt across the room.  He was getting increasingly frustrated by the lack of clothing that fit his new shape. He had gone through his own wardrobe, trying on various shirts and pants, only to find that nothing accommodated his massive belly. Every piece of clothing was too tight, too small, or just plain uncomfortable. The loose clothes he’d been relying on were all dirty, tossed in the laundry basket and forgotten.

“There’s nothing that fucking fits! What the hell am I supposed to wear?”

Out of desperation, he decided to raid the other boys’ side of the bus, hoping to find something—anything—that might fit. But as he rummaged through their stuff, it became painfully clear that his bandmates were all too lithe, their clothes too slim to accommodate his new figure. Should he go for Earl's big shirts?