80s Band Imagines

💚Slash #20- Come Home

It's too quiet in this house.

Not peaceful, not serene—quiet like something's been cut out of it, like the absence itself is screaming. The refrigerator hums. The clock in the kitchen ticks too loudly. And that's it. No music drifting down the hallway. No boots thumping against the wood floor. No off-key humming that drove me crazy but secretly made me smile.

Slash took his music with him when he left.

I don't know if that's the thing that hurts most or if it's just the thing I keep noticing.

The mug in my hand has gone cold. I've been holding it so long the handle has molded into my palm, the coffee inside untouched. I still make it for two, out of habit, like he's going to stumble in any second, hair mussed, smelling faintly like rain and cigarette smoke, wrapping his arms around me from behind. He'd always steal the first sip, make that satisfied groan, and hand it back like he was doing me a favor. I used to pretend to be annoyed. Now I just wish he'd do it again.

We've had fights before. Big ones. Ugly ones. But this time... this time feels like he took more than his jacket when he walked out.

-

I remember the first time we met, how out of nowhere it all was.
It was at a friend's backyard barbecue, one of those humid late-summer nights when the air clings to you and smells like charcoal. I was leaning against the fence, avoiding conversation, when I heard someone behind me mutter, "This music sucks."

I turned, ready to agree, and there he was—black T-shirt, ripped jeans, a beer in one hand, the faintest smirk on his face. His eyes had this odd mix of warmth and danger, like a campfire you couldn't decide whether to sit next to or run from.

We ended up sitting on the back steps, talking until everyone else had either gone home or passed out. He had this way of leaning in when you spoke, like every word was worth catching. And when he laughed—really laughed—it was sharp and sudden, like a breaking wave.

Even then, I noticed he held things back. Not because he was shy, but because he didn't hand out pieces of himself freely. So when he did offer something—about his childhood, his first guitar, the way his mom used to sing to herself in the kitchen—it felt like being trusted with something rare.

-

The quiet now is worse because I know exactly how the noise used to sound.

It's been five days since the fight. Five days since the door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame. Five days of rerunning every word we said, trying to pinpoint the exact second we stopped arguing about dishes or bills or where he'd been that night, and started arguing about everything else.

He was volatile when pushed. Not dangerous, not cruel—just... combustible. I used to think I could weather that because it was paired with the way he'd cup my face when he apologized, or the softness in his voice when he said my name.

But that night? He didn't come back to apologize. He didn't come back at all.

-

One of our worst arguments happened about a year ago, over something stupid—he came home two hours late from band practice. I was already irritated because the sink was full, the laundry still in the dryer. I made a sarcastic comment about him acting like a roommate instead of a husband.

He snapped.
It wasn't about the dishes. It never was.

We didn't speak for two days. Then, one rainy Sunday morning, he came into the kitchen, grabbed my wrist gently, and said, "I'm not good at this. But I want to be better." He didn't say sorry outright, but he made me coffee and sat with me in silence, letting the rain be our truce. That was his version of making amends—quiet gestures instead of words.