Bandom One-shots book 3

Night Train ! Part Four !

The bus is quiet, except for the low hum of the engine and the soft click of the guitar strings as Slash absentmindedly fiddles with his instrument. The road stretches ahead of us, dark and endless. The world outside is a blur of lights and shadows, but inside the bus, time feels like it's standing still. I should be asleep—hell, everyone else is—but I can't shut my mind off. Not tonight.

I've been working on this new song for days. It's been itching at the back of my brain, something about the beat, the riff... but I can't get the words. The song doesn't feel complete. And when I try to write, it's like everything that comes out is flat—too clean, too perfect. Not what I want. I need the chaos, the grit. The rawness. But I'm stuck, and I can't figure out why.

Izzy's sitting in his seat across from me, his head tilted back, headphones on, but I know he's aware. He always knows. He's been watching me scribble in this damn notebook for hours now, probably hearing the frustration building in my breath every time I scratch out another line that doesn't feel right.

I drop the pen, and it clatters against the seat. I let my head fall back against the wall, staring up at the dark ceiling of the bus. The lights from the dashboard are the only things illuminating the space. They flicker intermittently, casting long, shifting shadows across everything.

"Something's off," I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, but Izzy hears me.

He pulls his headphones off and looks at me with that steady gaze of his. I can feel the weight of his attention, not demanding anything, just there. There's no rush in him. He doesn't push. He never does.

"Talk to me," he says quietly, his voice low but clear in the near silence of the bus.

"I can't get it right, Iz," I say, my voice strained. "I've got this riff in my head—I know what I want—but the words don't fit. They don't have the edge, the anger, the... the rawness, y'know? It's like everything is too damn clean. Too safe."

Izzy doesn't respond right away. He just watches me, the same calm expression on his face. And then he shifts his weight, leaning toward me slightly, his fingers lightly brushing over my shoulder. It's his way of grounding me. Letting me know I'm not alone in this. That I don't have to figure it all out by myself.

"You're thinking too hard," he says, his voice soft but confident. "You don't need to make it perfect. Just let it come out."

I groan in frustration, looking at the scribbled lyrics in my notebook. "I've tried that. I've tried writing it all down, letting it flow, but every time I think I've got something, it doesn't feel right. The words sound like someone else wrote them. They're just... words."

Izzy's eyes flick to the front of the bus, where Slash is lounging, absently strumming his guitar. It's not anything specific—just that loose, free-flowing kind of sound he makes when he's not trying to write a song but just feeling it. Izzy looks back at me, his lips pressing into a thin line as if weighing his next words carefully.

"You're putting too much pressure on it," he says finally, his voice quiet but sure. "You know Slash? He never tries to write a song. He just plays what's in his head. Let it come out of you like that."

I'm about to argue, but Izzy cuts me off with a small, almost amused smirk. "Trust me, Axl. I know you. You're making it harder than it needs to be."

I lean back in my seat, feeling the exhaustion weighing on me, but something about Izzy's words sticks. I don't have to make this harder. I've been trying too hard to force it. The riff's been stuck in my head for days—it's there, it's alive, I feel it—but I've been overthinking everything around it.

Without saying anything else, Izzy gets up and walks over to where Slash is sitting, and he taps him on the shoulder lightly. Slash looks up, clearly not expecting company, but when he sees Izzy's serious face, he raises an eyebrow.

"Hey, man," Izzy says, hands in his pockets. "Axl's getting too stuck in his head. You got that riff you've been playing? Think you could play it a little louder?"

Slash grins, clearly already understanding the situation. He picks up his guitar and starts playing that same riff again, just letting his fingers move through the notes. It's familiar now—something we've all heard before, but in the stillness of the bus, it feels like it's growing, filling the space between us.

I feel the beat in my chest as I listen. It's like the song's been there all along. And then, without even thinking, I stand up and walk toward Slash, grabbing my own guitar, plugging it into the amp. The sound fills the small space, loud and raw, with the rhythm pulling me in. I close my eyes, letting the music take over for a moment.

And then it comes.

"Loaded like a freight train. Flyin' like an aeroplane. Feeling like a space brain. One more time tonight. Look out!"

I don't even think about it, just let the words spill out. They're messy, imperfect, but they feel right. I sing them under my breath, feeling them in my bones, and then I open my eyes to find Izzy standing by the door, watching me with that soft, knowing smile. His eyes are like a lighthouse guiding me through the fog.

"That's it," Slash mutters, still playing, his fingers effortlessly pulling out that riff that has become the heartbeat of the song. "That's what I'm talking about."

I turn to look at Izzy, who's still standing there, arms crossed but relaxed, watching me like he's waiting for me to realize something. And I do.

"Night train," I whisper under my breath, the words feeling right. "It's a goddamn night train."

Izzy's lips curl into that subtle smile, the one that makes my heart flutter. He doesn't need to say anything. He just knows.

"Yeah," he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Night train."

I start singing the lines again, louder this time, and the words start to spill out in a flow that feels natural, like they've been waiting for me to stop fighting them. I don't think about the words anymore—I just let them come.

"I'm on the nightrain, bottoms up! I'm on the nightrain, fill my cup! I'm on the nightrain!"

Slash looks up, grinning as he picks up the pace, feeding off the energy in the room. The riff picks up, and I'm lost in it now, the music taking over. The song is alive. It's raw. It's angry. It's everything I wanted.

Izzy steps forward and leans against the wall, watching me like he always does. But this time, he's not just watching—I can see it in his eyes. He's proud of me. He's proud of us.

By the time the song's starting to come together, Slash's riff is now a full, pulsing energy in the bus. The rhythm is wild, the words even wilder. I'm not thinking anymore. I'm feeling. I can hear Izzy's soft chuckle behind me as he watches the magic happen. He's seen this before—how the chaos comes together. But this time, it's different. I feel like I'm writing for the first time.

I stop mid-sentence, suddenly realizing something. The anger, the frustration, the mess—it's all in the song now. It's not perfect, but it's real. It's us.

I turn around to face Izzy, and this time, it's not just a glance—it's a look full of meaning. Full of gratitude.

He knows exactly what I'm thinking. Without saying a word, he crosses the space between us and pulls me into a hug, his arms tight around me. It's simple. It's silent. But it says everything.

"Thank you," I whisper against his shoulder.

Izzy just chuckles quietly and pats my back. "Told you it would come. You just had to let it out."

And as I hold him there, surrounded by the riff and the beat, I realize he was right. The words came when I stopped fighting. They came when I let go. The song is alive now. Raw, imperfect, but real. It's the nightrain. And it's finally on its way.