Bandom One-shots book 3

Paradise Found (Izzaxl)

~Axl Rose POV~

It's a lazy afternoon in some halfway-nothing town in the middle of nowhere. I can barely remember where we are—some hotel in some city—but it doesn't matter. What matters is that we're here, and we're about to make something. Something real. Something that's gonna stick with us, something that's gonna outlast us.

Izzy's sitting on the edge of the bed, guitar in hand, looking as cool and collected as always, like he doesn't have a care in the world. He's got that nonchalant air about him that just makes everything look effortless—like it's all so easy for him. It's how he always is, even when he's lost in the middle of a song idea, eyes flickering over the strings, his mind somewhere else. It's like he's not even trying, and I hate it because it makes me try harder.

I'm sitting at the little table in the corner of the room, scribbling down a few lyrics on a napkin. My mind's a little fried from the show last night, from the chaos of it all, but there's something nagging at the back of my head. I can feel it. Something's about to click.

I glance over at Izzy. He's in his own world, strumming slowly, almost absentmindedly. His dark hair is falling into his eyes as usual, and his expression is a mixture of concentration and boredom, like he's on the edge of something but doesn't care enough to dive in headfirst. But I know him better than that. I know when he's close to something. He always acts like he's not trying, but when he really gets into it, you can see the wheels turning beneath the surface.

I toss the napkin aside and lean back in my chair, watching him. I can feel the air in the room change, like there's an invisible thread pulling between us, drawing me in. He's always had that effect on me, but today, it's more intense, like I'm drawn to him in a way that's almost magnetic.

"Come on, Izzy," I say, my voice low. "What's on your mind?"

He doesn't look up. Just keeps playing, his fingers moving effortlessly over the strings. It's that same damned riff—he's been playing it for hours, repeating it over and over again like he's waiting for something to break loose.

"What?" he asks, not even pausing.

"You're playing the same damn thing for the last hour. What are you thinking?"

Izzy gives a short, quiet laugh, one of those dry ones that doesn't quite reach his eyes but still carries a certain warmth. He's always so guarded, so closed off, but when he laughs like that, even just a little, it's like the walls come down for a second. Like he's letting me in.

"I'm thinking it's missing something," he says, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. His gaze is unreadable, but I know him. I know when he's not fully giving in.

"Missing what?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he shifts on the bed, stretching his long legs out, a casual motion that somehow feels deliberate. "Maybe it needs... a little more." He strums the guitar again, that same riff, but this time it feels different. More electric. More alive.

I can feel it. Something's happening. The way he's playing—there's a rhythm in the air now, a pulse—and I'm starting to hear it, too. I can hear the bones of a song coming together. A song that could be something.

I get up from the chair, crossing the room to him. He shifts over slightly, making room for me on the bed, but he doesn't move his guitar. His fingers are still picking out the riff, just that steady, hypnotic rhythm.

I sit beside him, close but not touching. I don't want to disturb whatever this is, but I can't ignore it either. It's like we're both caught in the same current, and we just need to find the right words to make it real.

I grab a pen and flip through the pages of my notebook, my mind racing to catch up with what Izzy's already started. The lyrics are coming in fragments, bits and pieces—images of a place I can't quite describe. It's something familiar, yet foreign, somewhere I know I've been, somewhere I know I want to be. Somewhere we both want to be.

I look at Izzy, and this time, he looks back. There's something there, something unspoken between us, and for once, neither of us is trying to hide it. We both know what this is. We both feel it.

"Paradise..." I mumble, more to myself than to him. "Paradise City."

Izzy's fingers stop moving for just a second. It's the briefest of pauses, but it's enough. I can see his eyes shift, a flicker of recognition passing through them.

"What did you say?" he asks, his voice low, almost like he's not sure he heard me right.

"Paradise City." I repeat it, more firmly this time. "It's gotta be that. It's gotta be a place. A city. A paradise."

Izzy's gaze flickers down to his guitar again, and then he nods slowly, like something just clicked into place for him. The strumming resumes, a little faster now, a little harder. It's like he's found it. He's found the key to the whole damn song.

I'm already scribbling down the first line of lyrics as it comes to me, the words tumbling out of my mouth as they fit together: "Take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty..."

Izzy hums the riff under his breath, his eyes still focused on the guitar. The melody's growing, and I can feel it building in my chest, in my bones, in the space between us. He's in it now, fully. We both are.

I'm not sure how much time passes, but eventually, we've got it. The foundation of something that feels bigger than either of us. It's more than just a song. It's more than just words and music—it's this shared thing, this moment between us, this quiet understanding.

I put the pen down, taking a breath, and for a second, I let the silence hang in the air, the sound of the city outside bleeding in, the noise from the street drifting up through the hotel window. It's like I'm hearing everything for the first time. The whole world suddenly feels alive with possibility.

Izzy stops playing again, setting his guitar down beside him. He doesn't say anything for a moment, but when he does, his voice is quieter, softer than usual.

"You think it's gonna work?" he asks, his gaze flicking to mine.

I know what he means. He's not talking about the song. He's talking about us. About this.

I smile, just a little. "It already is."

I don't need to say more. He knows what I mean. And just like that, there's a quiet understanding between us, a comfort in the way we've always worked. A song, a city, a place where everything makes sense—even if we don't have all the answers yet.

"Yeah," Izzy says, his voice a little hoarse, a little uncertain, but there's something else behind it too. "Maybe you're right."

I get up from the bed and walk to the window, letting the light from the streetlamp outside spill in. I look out at the world for a moment, and I feel that feeling again, like there's something waiting for us just around the corner. A place we both want to be. A place where everything feels right. A place where we can leave everything behind.

I turn back to him, and I can see the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even though he's trying to hide it. I smile too, and it's like the world shifts, just a little.

"Take me down to the paradise city," I whisper, more to myself than to anyone else.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like we're already there.