Bandom One-shots book 3

Welcome To The Jungle ! Part Two !

~Going to be 10 more parts to this. Each part will be how Izzy and Axl came up with the songs on Appetite for Destruction~

It's well past midnight, and the hotel room is shrouded in that thick silence that only comes after a show—when the crowd's gone home, the adrenaline's worn off, and the noise of the world feels miles away. I should be sleeping. Hell, I want to sleep. But I can't. Not tonight.

The room is dark, only lit by the glow of a bedside lamp and the soft hum of the city outside. We're in Pennsylvania tonight, in some little town that barely registers on the map, but the show was killer, the crowd was wild, and we've got a few hours before we need to load up again. I should be letting my body rest, getting my mind to shut down, but I can't. I've got this song brewing, this nagging idea that won't leave me alone. I can't shake it, and I can't seem to get it right.

I'm sitting at the desk, scribbling down lyrics, scratching them out, writing them again, only to tear the paper into pieces. Nothing feels right. It's like I'm trying to force something that just won't come. I can hear the strums of a riff in my head, but I can't put the words to it. Every line feels hollow. Every note feels flat.

I rub my face, frustrated, and glance over at Izzy. He's sprawled across the bed, arms behind his head, looking half asleep but still alert. His eyes are half-lidded, like he's drifting off, but he's always attuned to me. Always knows when something's off.

He shifts, looking at me with that quiet intensity he always gets when he's really paying attention. I don't even have to say anything. He knows.

"You're restless," he says, his voice low, like he's not sure if I'm going to snap at him for pointing it out.

I let out a short, frustrated laugh, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah. Can't get my head to shut up tonight. Got this damn song in my head, but it's like trying to catch lightning in a bottle."

Izzy shifts on the bed, propping himself up on one elbow, his gaze sharp even through the haze of sleepiness. He doesn't ask what the song is. He doesn't need to. He knows exactly what I'm talking about. The damn thing's been gnawing at me for days now. A riff, a feeling, an idea that just won't gel into anything solid. It's there, just out of reach, but I can't seem to catch it.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, the sheets falling around him in a pile. I'm still staring at the mess of papers scattered across the desk when he gets up and crosses the room to me, his movements fluid, almost too quiet. He's always like that—so damn effortless, as if the world just slides off his shoulders.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks, not rushing, just offering.

I lean back in the chair, stretching my arms above my head. I'm not sure if talking will help, but at this point, I'm ready to try anything. "I'm just stuck. Can't get the words right. I've got the energy, the feel, the thing... I just need to wrap it all up in a way that makes sense."

Izzy sits down beside me, his guitar resting against his knee. The soft wood of it almost feels like it belongs there, like it's part of the scene, part of whatever he is. His fingers rest lightly on the neck, the faintest pressure. His eyes never leave me.

"You're not supposed to force it," he says, like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Let it come. Just let it happen."

I scoff, but it's not at him. It's at myself, because I know he's right. "Easy for you to say. You're always cool with this shit. Just pick up a guitar and bam—there it is."

Izzy shrugs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Doesn't always come like that for me either. But when it does, it's... different."

I feel like he's looking right through me, like he knows exactly what's going on in my head. He's not trying to fix me, not trying to tell me how to write this song. He's just there, existing in the same space, letting me be, letting me struggle without pushing too hard.

But I still need something. Something to push me over the edge. I rub my face again and look over at him. "I know the riff. I feel it. But the words, man... the words are a mess."

Izzy's expression softens, like he's waiting for something. Then, without a word, he grabs his guitar, adjusts it in his lap, and starts playing something low and slow. It's that familiar riff. That damn riff. The one that's been dancing in my head for days.

I sit there for a second, just listening. His fingers move easily across the strings, that signature rhythm—pulsing, primal, like the beat of a heart. It's a feeling, not a thought. It's raw and gritty, like a snake that slithers through the dirt but somehow ends up in your lap.

The more I listen, the more it clicks. This is it. This is the energy. This is what I've been missing.

I lean forward, grabbing my pen again, the words finally coming to me. It's like the floodgates open, and everything I've been struggling to find just falls into place. Welcome to the Jungle. It's chaos. It's loud. It's alive.

The rhythm of his guitar matches the frantic pace in my head, and I start writing. The words come in fragments, but they make sense now. They have the right energy, the right tone. It's about the wildness, the madness of it all. The city, the people, the power. The chaos of being alive in this goddamn world.

I mutter under my breath as I write: "Welcome to the jungle, we got fun and games, we got everything you want, honey, we know the names." My voice feels almost foreign in the quiet room, but it fits. The words hit something primal inside me.

Izzy looks over at me, not saying anything, just watching me work. He's there, his presence more comforting than anything. He knows what I'm trying to say before I do. He can hear it. He gets it.

When I finish the first verse, I glance at him, looking for his reaction. He nods, slow, like he's already heard it in his head, too.

"Yeah. That's it," he says, his voice low, but full of approval.

I exhale a deep breath I didn't even realize I was holding. "About goddamn time," I mutter, finally allowing myself to relax a little.

Izzy strums the guitar again, this time a little louder, a little harder. The riff feels more alive now, like it has weight. Like it's a living thing.

"Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day..." I start to sing, my voice rough but real. Izzy picks up on the melody instantly, playing alongside me, pushing me to be better, to reach further. He's in tune with me in a way that makes it feel effortless, like we've always been doing this together.

By the time we reach the chorus, it's like the song is fully formed, like the words and the music are finally speaking the same language. Everything fits into place. It's loud, chaotic, hungry—just like the world we live in.

The room feels charged, the air crackling with energy as the song takes shape between us. It's ours. It's real. The anger, the hunger, the intensity—it all pours out of us.

When we finish, there's a silence between us, but it's not awkward. It's comfortable, like we both know something just happened.

Izzy leans back against the chair, looking at me with that look again—the one where he's not sure if he's proud or amused or both.

"You know," he says, his voice low and lazy, "that might just be the song that finally breaks us."

I look at him and smirk. "I think you're right."

And in that moment, I know it's true. We're going to tear the damn place apart. We've finally found our groove, and this song—this song is our ticket to everything. It's loud. It's wild. It's exactly who we are.

I grab the pen again, scribbling a few more lines, and as I do, Izzy starts playing that riff again. It's the sound of something big. Something unstoppable.

"Welcome to the jungle," I whisper, just under my breath, and I feel a smile tug at my lips.

We're in it now.

And there's no turning back.