Bandom One-shots book 3

My Michelle ! Part Seven !

It's 1985, and we're on tour, the whole band living out of a cramped bus that smells like stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. The high of the stage still lingers in my veins, but as the adrenaline fades, it's like everything starts to settle into a dull ache. Every night, we give it our all for the crowd, but the quiet after the show is when the real mess starts to seep in. And tonight's no different.

I'm pacing the aisle of the bus, my mind racing, trying to put together something—anything—that can get me out of this headspace. I need to write. I need to feel something. But it's like every thought is a fog I can't see through.

The guys are scattered around, doing their usual things. Steven's passed out, his leg propped up on the seat, looking like he might have had too much whiskey again. Slash is up front with his guitar, fingers lazily working through some riff. But it's Duff I'm focused on right now.

I can hear him in the back, scribbling in his notebook, his bass quietly thumping as he hums some half-formed melody. It's his usual routine when he's working on a new song. No big deal.

Except tonight, it is a big deal.

I've been sitting here for the past few hours trying to come up with something, but I'm stuck. And there's Duff, working on some new idea of his own, like it's the easiest thing in the world. I don't know why it's bothering me so much—maybe because I'm frustrated, maybe because I can't seem to find anything worth writing.

But whatever it is, it's eating at me.

I walk over to where he's sitting, his back to me, still scribbling. He's always so damn calm about this. Doesn't seem to break a sweat. I stand behind him for a second, watching him work, feeling that tight knot in my stomach grow tighter. Finally, I can't keep it in anymore.

"Hey, what are you writing?" I ask, my voice a little sharper than I meant it to be.

Duff doesn't even flinch. He looks up with that lazy grin of his and shrugs, not giving me any clue as to what he's up to. "Just something. A new idea I've been working on."

I lean over, looking at the pages of his notebook. "Really? Another song? You got a hundred of those things already."

Duff doesn't get defensive—he never does. He just looks at me, totally unbothered. "Yeah, I guess. But this one's different, man. You'll see."

"Yeah?" I snap. "Different how? What's it about this time? Another girl you met somewhere? Another fucked-up relationship?"

Duff's smile doesn't fade, but I can see something shift in his eyes. "It's about someone I knew. Someone real. Someone who... well, she wasn't exactly easy to forget."

That's it. Something about the way he says it, like he's holding back something important, gets under my skin. I've been trying to write my own damn songs for weeks now, and here he is, writing a new one with no problem. It just feels... wrong. It feels like I'm the only one not moving forward, like I'm stuck.

I can feel myself getting angrier, my hands balling into fists at my sides.

"Why don't you just tell me the damn thing, man? I mean, I don't have anything else to do but listen to your crap."

I realize, a little too late, how harsh that sounds. But it's too late to take it back. The words are out, hanging in the air between us.

Izzy, who's been sitting quietly near the front of the bus, watches the exchange, his gaze flicking between me and Duff. I can see him weighing it—should he step in, should he not? But I'm not really thinking about that. I'm too busy trying to choke back the frustration building in me, the frustration at myself, at this tour, at everything.

Duff, to his credit, doesn't take offense. He just looks at me for a second before nodding like he's thinking it over.

"It's a song, Axl," Duff says quietly, setting his notebook down and giving me his full attention. "It's just something I'm feeling. You know how it is. You write what's in your head. It's not always pretty."

That's when I hear it. That dark, grinding rhythm in his bassline. It's simple, but it's raw. It's got this edge to it, like something sharp and broken. And suddenly, I'm pulled out of my head. I'm starting to feel it. And before I even realize what's happening, I find myself moving toward Slash, whose guitar is already echoing that same raw sound.

Izzy stands up now, moving quietly toward me. He places a hand gently on my shoulder, his fingers warm but firm. I don't pull away from him, though I'm still tense.

"Hey," Izzy says softly, his voice low, calm. "Take it easy. Don't let it get to you. Whatever Duff's got, it's not a competition. Just let it happen, okay?"

I glance at him, but I'm too far gone to really take it in. The words are bubbling up inside me, and I can't stop them. I need to say something, and I need to say it now.

Duff stands up slowly, his bass slung over his shoulder, and starts playing the riff again. His fingers move effortlessly over the strings, and it clicks. It's not just a riff. It's a feeling. I know this song, or at least I think I do. I can hear it in my head now, the rhythm, the tone, the words—it's starting to come together.

I'm starting to see where he's going with it.

I don't even realize I'm speaking until the words tumble out, cutting through the air between us like a blade.

"Your daddy works in porno. Now that mommy's not around. She used to love her heroin. But now she's underground. So you stay out late at night and you do your coke for free. Drivin' your friends crazy with your life's insanity"

Duff doesn't flinch when I start singing. Instead, he keeps playing, matching my energy. Izzy, still standing next to me, watches carefully but says nothing. His presence is a quiet anchor, something steady that keeps me from spiraling.

The words flow faster now. I'm caught up in it. This thing that Duff has started—his feelings, his thoughts about Michelle, whoever she was. It's in the music, and now it's in me, too.

"Well, well, well, you just can't tell. Well, well, well, my Michelle. Look out"

The chorus comes together, raw, almost like an incantation. It's powerful. It's full of tension, of darkness, of addiction. I know exactly what it is now—this is the song. This is the release I've been needing. It's not just about Michelle. It's about every damn thing I've been fighting against—love, hate, desire, addiction.

I sing the next lines, and it all clicks. The lyrics pour out in one fluid motion:

"Sowin' all your wild oats in another's luxuries. Yesterday was Tuesday. Maybe Thursday you can sleep but school starts much too early. And this hotel wasn't free. So party till your connection calls. Honey, I'll return the key"

Duff grins when he hears me sing that last line. He doesn't say anything, but there's a kind of silent approval in his eyes. It's like he's been waiting for this moment, too. Like he knew this was how it was supposed to go.

I look up at Izzy, finally seeing him clearly again. He's smiling, a little relieved. He pats my shoulder gently, a quiet acknowledgment.

"You good now?" Izzy asks, his voice still calm, his fingers brushing lightly against my arm.

I take a deep breath, nodding. I don't even realize how much tension I've been holding until it starts to release.

"Yeah. I'm good."

And for once, I don't feel the need to compete. I don't need to be the one to write every song. Sometimes, it's just about being in it with the guys. Creating something together.

Duff's watching me with that knowing grin, and I can feel the weight of it all lift off my shoulders.

This is the moment I needed.