Bandom One-shots book 3

Sweet Child Of Mine (Slaxl)

~Axl Rose POV~

It's late, well past midnight. The moonlight is spilling in through the heavy curtains of my hotel room in some city I can't quite remember, but that's not the point. The point is, I'm lying here, tangled up in sheets, staring at the ceiling, thinking about him again. I've been doing that a lot lately—thinking about him. About Slash.

I can hear the faint hum of the city outside, the soft sound of cars cruising by, the occasional distant honking of horns. But it's all just noise, background static to the symphony playing in my mind. My mind's a tangled mess right now, but there's one thing that's clear: Slash. Always Slash.

Funny, isn't it? How we started out so... different. I mean, when we first met, I could barely stand the guy. He was loud, cocky, stubborn, with that damn top hat of his and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was this puzzle of a person, unpredictable, constantly throwing me off guard. And I—well, I was just me, brash, impulsive, always in my head, always acting before thinking. It was like we were two magnets, opposites that had no business attracting each other but somehow... we did.

Now, it's like I can't think about anything else. Not just his guitar playing, although that's enough to make my chest tighten and my heart race sometimes—but him, the way he looks when he doesn't think I'm watching. That little half-smirk he gets when he's trying to hide a laugh. The way he tugs at the strings of his guitar like he's unraveling some deep, secret language that only he and the world understand. And that laugh of his—god, that laugh.

I roll over onto my side, the sheet tangling around me, and I catch a glimpse of his silhouette in the dim light. He's probably out there on the balcony, just like he always is when we're on tour. A cigarette dangling from his lips, his face half-shadowed, his mind a million miles away. I'm guessing he's out there, thinking. About what? Who knows. He's got this quiet, restless energy, like he's always processing the world, figuring it out in his head, piece by piece.

But me? I'm sitting here, thinking about the last time we were alone together. Not just backstage, not just in the madness of the tour bus or the whirlwind of the crowd, but really alone. That night, in New York, after the show—when it was just us and a bottle of tequila, and the entire world felt far away.

It was one of those rare moments when everything felt right. The music had stopped, the fans had gone home, and we didn't have to be Guns N' Roses for a few minutes. We could just be... us.

I remember he sat across from me, back against the window, looking out over the city. I was sitting on the couch, the bottle of tequila between us. I poured us both another shot, and when I handed him his, he gave me that little grin, that smile that always messes with my head.

"You know, you're a lot more fun when you've had a drink," he said, his voice low, teasing.

I raised an eyebrow, not sure if he was joking or serious. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah." He leaned forward, his eyes locking with mine, that playful glint in them. "You're more... relaxed. Less... wound up. Maybe that's why you can't stand me half the time."

I almost laughed, but it wasn't funny. He wasn't wrong. Hell, half the time I didn't know what to make of him, especially when he was looking at me like that—like he was reading me, pulling me apart, trying to figure me out in a way no one else ever did.

But I didn't say anything. I just took a sip of my tequila, letting the burn slide down my throat.

We sat in silence for a while after that, the only sound the occasional clink of ice in the glass and the distant hum of the city.

And then, just as the moment started to stretch out into something uncomfortable, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time.

"You ever wonder, Axl, if we're just—" He paused, trying to find the words. "If we're just two sides of the same coin, you know?"

I looked at him then, studying his face, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

"A coin?"

"Yeah, like... like we're not that different. You and me. But we're always trying to pull each other apart, trying to be the opposite of each other, like... like we're not two halves of the same whole."

It hit me then. Something deep inside me shifted. He wasn't wrong. It was like he'd just cracked open something in me I hadn't even known was there. We'd spent so much time at each other's throats—arguing, fighting, pushing each other away—but maybe we were just two pieces of something bigger. Maybe that's what this whole thing had been all along. Not rivalry. Not just ego and pride. But something deeper. Something real.

I put my drink down and looked at him. Really looked at him. I saw the tiredness in his eyes, the way he held his shoulders, like he was carrying the weight of a thousand things on them. And I saw something else, too. Maybe it was just the booze, or maybe it was just me finally giving in, but I saw something that made my chest ache.

I didn't say anything right away. I didn't know what to say.

But he didn't wait for me to say anything. He just leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, like he'd said too much, like he was shutting himself off again. It's what he does when he gets close, when he starts letting things slip that he probably shouldn't.

But that night... that night, I wanted to reach across the distance between us. I wanted to close that gap, hold onto him, tell him I understood. I didn't. But damn, I wanted to.

Now, lying here, thinking about that night, I wish I had. I wish I'd said something, anything, instead of letting him walk away with that look in his eyes—the one where he hides everything behind his tough exterior. He thinks I don't see it, but I do. I see it all. The loneliness. The vulnerability. The parts of him he never shows anyone.

And me? I'm no better. I'm just as bad. I hide behind my anger, my need to be in control. But with him... with Slash, it's different. He's the only one who gets to see me in these rare, unguarded moments. He's the only one who sees behind the mask.

I sit up in bed, swinging my legs over the side. The room is still quiet, but now it feels different, charged with the weight of all these unspoken things. I don't know what's going to happen between us, where this thing we've got is going to go. But I do know one thing: I can't keep pretending I don't feel it. I can't keep pretending that it's just the music, just the band, just the shows.

I've spent so much time running from this, from whatever it is that's pulling me toward him, but I think I'm done. I think, maybe, I'm ready to see where this all goes. To let myself feel whatever this is.

I slip out of bed quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the night. I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and step out onto the balcony. And there he is—just like I knew he would be, cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes staring out at the city like he's got the weight of the world on his shoulders.

I stand there for a second, watching him.

He doesn't notice me at first, but then, when he does, he gives me that same smirk—the one that makes my heart skip a beat.

"You miss me already?" he teases, his voice low and familiar, like we're the only two people in the world.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest. Maybe I'm not ready to say it all yet. Maybe I don't have the words to explain what I'm feeling. But I can at least start here.

"Yeah," I answer, stepping closer. "I think I do."

And as I reach out, just a little, to stand beside him, I realize that maybe, just maybe, we're not as different as we thought. Maybe we're just two lost souls trying to find our way back to each other.

And that's enough for now.

The city hums around us, the night wrapping us in its quiet embrace, and for once, I don't feel like I'm alone in the world.

Not with him here.

Not with Slash.

~Sweet Child Of Mine~