Bandom One-shots book 3

Mr Brownstone ! Part Six !

It's 1985, and we're deep in the middle of touring—everything's chaos and motion, night after night, city after city. The adrenaline, the high of the crowds, the feeling of the stage beneath my feet... But none of that ever lasts. You come down, and the fall is quick and hard.

That's when you feel the weight of everything. The constant pressure, the exhaustion, the loneliness that creeps in when you least expect it. And when it all starts to press in on you, there's always something to numb it. Something to take the edge off.

It's been a hell of a ride already, but this band, we're living it fast. And with that speed comes a price. But none of us are slowing down anytime soon.

The bus smells like stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke. We're all spread out, doing our own thing. Slash is sitting at the front, smoking a joint and playing around on his guitar, eyes half-closed, completely lost in his own world. Duff's over by the window, tapping out a beat on his knee, probably lost in his own thoughts too. Steven's passed out in the back, his legs stretched out, snoring loudly, while Izzy is sitting across from me, looking as calm and detached as always, but I know better. He's as restless as I am.

I'm sitting there, staring out the window as the highway stretches into the night. The lights blur together, and I feel that familiar itch in my chest—the urge to create something, to pull that piece of raw energy and emotion out of myself and turn it into a song.

The problem is, it's been harder than usual lately. I've got a lot on my mind, and I can't seem to put the words together in the right way. So, I'm just staring out the window, trying to breathe through it, when I feel Izzy's eyes on me. He's watching me like he always does, not saying a word, but I know he's sensing my frustration.

"Something on your mind?" Izzy asks, his voice low, but the concern is clear. He knows me too well.

I turn my head slightly, meeting his eyes. He's wearing that half-smile of his, the one that says he's ready for whatever I'm about to throw at him. I don't even need to explain. He just gets it.

"I don't know, Iz," I say, dragging a hand through my hair. "I'm trying to write something... but nothing's clicking. It's like I'm just stuck in my head."

Izzy leans back against the seat, arms crossed, his gaze thoughtful. He doesn't rush me to explain. He just listens.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks, calm and steady, the way he always is.

I shake my head. "I just... I don't know if I've got anything left to give. We're on the road all the time, and the pressure's building, you know? The shows, the fans, the media... Sometimes I don't even know who I am anymore."

Izzy doesn't say anything for a moment, and I can feel the weight of the silence between us. He knows I'm not talking about the fame. It's everything else. The addiction, the numbness, the emptiness that comes after the rush of the show. He knows I've been struggling with it for a while now, even if I'm not always open about it. But he doesn't push.

Instead, he stands up and walks over to where Slash is sitting. Slash looks up as Izzy leans over, whispering something in his ear. Slash's eyes light up, and he immediately starts toying with his guitar, plucking out a few notes absentmindedly. Izzy shoots me a quick look—one of those looks that says, You ready?

Before I can respond, Slash starts playing a riff. It's simple, loose, and raw. Almost like he's not even trying. But there's something in it. Something about the way the notes feel like they're speaking to me.

I stand up, walking over toward Slash, my heart beating faster as the sound seeps into me. There's an energy to it, an undeniable pulse. It's gritty, unrefined. The kind of thing that makes you feel it. And that's when it hits me.

I don't have to force it. I just have to feel it.

"Hey, Axl, you gonna sing or what?" Slash grins up at me, still playing.

I don't even think. The words just come, spilling out in a rush. It's like the riff unlocked something inside me, and suddenly, I'm not thinking anymore. I'm just reacting.

"I get up around seven. Get out of bed around nine. I don't worry about nothing, no because worry's a waste of my time"

The words tumble out, raw and hungry, full of that feeling I've been carrying around for so long—feeling trapped, suffocated, addicted to something that can't be good for me, but I can't stop. I sing the first lines, not sure where they're going, but knowing I'm getting somewhere. Slash doesn't stop playing, his fingers flowing over the strings, following the rhythm of the words.

Izzy is watching me, standing off to the side, his arms crossed and a soft smile on his face. He doesn't need to say anything. He's been here before, seen me write like this, when the music speaks louder than anything else.

The words come quickly now, building on themselves, getting darker, edgier, more desperate.

"Show usually starts around seven. We go on stage around nine. Get on the bus about eleven. Sippin' a drink and feelin' fine"

Slash nods in approval, keeping that same steady riff going. He knows where this is going now. So does Izzy. I can see him tapping his foot, keeping time with the beat, looking at me with that steady, quiet pride.

"You got it now, man," Duff says from the back, turning around and grinning. "That's the one."

I nod without saying anything, already lost in the music. The words are flowing now, uncontrollable, like a dam bursting. It's coming out of me faster than I can write it down. The riff keeps me grounded, and it's like I've unlocked a part of myself I've been trying to bury.

"We've been dancing with Mister Brownstone .He's been knocking. He won't leave me alone. No, no, no. He won't leave me alone"

The whole bus feels alive now, buzzing with the energy of creation. Duff's got a beat going on his knee, Steven's stirring in the back, and Izzy's leaning against the wall, still watching, just being there. It's the perfect storm. The chaos of life, the pressure of everything, the highs and the lows—it's all there in the song.

By the time we get to the chorus, I'm almost in a trance, the words flowing through me like they belong to someone else. This isn't just a song. It's a release. A way to channel everything I've been feeling, everything I've been fighting against.

"I used to do a little, but a little wouldn't do

So the little got more and more

I just keep trying to get a little better

Said a little better than before"

And then it hits me—the title. It's the thing that's been floating around in my mind since we started. It's not just about the feeling of addiction; it's about the man behind it. The one who keeps you coming back, even though you know it's killing you.

"Mr. Brownstone," I say aloud, more to myself than anyone else.

Izzy looks up at me, his eyes softening as he nods. "Yeah, man. Mr. Brownstone."

It's perfect. Simple. Raw. And it's all there. The addiction, the struggle, the never-ending cycle of wanting something more, even when it's tearing you apart.

Slash keeps playing, his fingers still dancing over the strings, as if he knows the song isn't finished yet. But it doesn't matter. We've got the heart of it. We've got the edge, the grit. It's everything I wanted. Everything I needed.

We're all in it together now, feeding off each other's energy, and by the time we finish, I know we've got something special. Something that's real.

Izzy walks over to me as we finish, placing a hand on my shoulder. "You good now?"

I smile at him, feeling a sense of release, a kind of freedom I didn't expect. "Yeah, man. I'm good."

And just like that, the song is born. Raw. Real. Honest. It's our truth laid bare. And somehow, I know it's going to be the one that sticks.