Book Two : Aveline. | Slash Fanfiction

chapter nine

~*~
NINE - 1992, On The Road.

A BLUR. IF there was any possible way for Aveline, or Duff, or Izzy, or Matt, or even Axl to describe the night prior; it was a blur.

As they rose with thundering headaches, they discovered themselves awakening in abnormal positions in abnormal places, distributed all over the space of the tour bus. Aveline opened her eyes with a dull ache in her legs and neck, sunken in the bathroom sink with herself somehow curled within its perimeter, her legs dangling aloft the edge - which presumably caused the ache to the back of her knees - and her head wedged between the two taps, arms crossed uncomfortably along her body. Duff woke with a startle, tumbling from the height of the table in which they had all played poker from, a few condom packs stuck to the dried drool upon his face and a kick from reality as he landed, harshly, upon the carpet bellow. Matt was in the kitchen area, half in the cooler, half sprawled upon the floor with a limp, frozen hand to regret his drunken decisions the night before. Axl had no clothes on - unsurprisingly - but was crammed on top of the kitchens cupboards, squashed between the ceiling and the wood with a very, very foggy memory. Izzy had no recollection of piling on everybody's clothing, but he was sweaty and sticky when his eyes peeled open, wrapped in more items of materiel than he believed he even owned.

"The fuck?" Izzy grumbled, attempting to peel off a leather thong from the mountain of clothing upon his waist.

Incoherent groans sounded out from Matt as he stirred, the quiet grumbles soon transferring into that of pain as he attempted to cradle his throbbingly cold arm, consoling himself as he wrapped it in one of the many jackets Izzy removed from his body. Duff remained upon the floor, slowly and gradually removing the foil packets from his cheeks with a sigh of defeat, his thundering headache beckoning for another tasty drink.

Peering over the edge of the wood, Axl decided that he was officially in need of genuine help to get down. How was he to do it? He would have to jump, that was for sure, but he couldn't just slither his naked body over such jagged wood and leap down - virtually onto Matt who had positioned himself to sit with his back against the cooler, instead of his arm inside it. It was practically suicide, plummeting seven foot with no plan on how to land. So, he yelled out for the only reliable source of brains he knew of - that wouldn't be as hungover, at least - with a shaky yet powerful voice. "Slash," he yelled out, "Slash get your ass over here."

A few moments passed before a mound of black, wild hair, smoking a glowing cigarette appeared through the doorway, his fingers reaching to remove the fringe from his eyes as he peered up, cursing under his uneven breath. "What?" He pushed, glancing up to find where the annoying ginger was positioned. Saul closed his eyes briefly, muttering a quiet 'fuck me' before crushing the end of his cigarette into the white ashtray, filled with toxins and joints, before stretching up and taking a hold of Axl's shoulders, making sure he didn't trampled upon Matt who was totally out of it, and pulled him toward the edge. Axl grunted but didn't protest as his naked skin crawled along the rough wood, a few jagged edges piercing his complexion, as he wrapped his arms around Saul's.

Eventually, after a few moments, Saul managed to slowly lift the man down, his weight shaking his arms as he did so. Saul took a sharp look down, curling his eyes shut with upmost regret, cursing bitterly, "Fuck me," he said again. "Put on some fuckin' clothes, Ax, would ya?"

"Sorry, man." He laughed, patting his shoulder thankfully. "I don't remember a thing from last night."

"Clearly." He scoffed, brushing his grip away. "Take a shower or some shit."

"Why?" Axl sniffed his armpits nonchalantly. "Do I smell?"

"Like death." Saul responded, flicking open the red and white pack of Marlboro cancer sticks, positioning one in his mouth with a sigh, igniting the end of it and breathing in the toxins repeatedly, staring Axl in the face blankly.

The ginger scoffed and held out his hand for a cigarette, expecting yet receiving nothing. "C'mon, man, sharing is caring." He grinned, motioning with a nod for Saul to place a stick in his hand and light that baby up for him.

Only Saul didn't do that, instead rolling his eyes and shrugging his shoulders, speaking dryly and coldly; "Too bad I don't give a shit, huh, Ax?" He stated, spinning on his heel and sauntering down the thin, wobbly corridor and into his bunker. Perhaps touring would be a little easier if the band still got on. But they didn't. And Saul just had to learn to accept that weather he liked it or not.

~*~

Aveline had never been a strong drinker. At least, that's what she repeatedly told herself as her and Saul downed their fifth Tequila shot in a row. But now, with the burning alcohol streaming down her throat as her stomach ached from giggling and snickering so vibrantly for things not holding any humour, Aveline discovered that she quite enjoyed drinking heavily. And she slowly began to understand why Saul adored the taste so dearly - It truly cleared the mind.

"I have..." Saul trailed off, descending into a small high-pitched giggle. "I have a fucking joke." He laughed, more to himself than anything else.

Aveline rolled her eyes and took a swig of the whisky bottle, rolling her hand in a motion of his continuance. "If you have to." She sighed, teasingly, with a glimmer of amusement within her hickory eyes.

"Okay, okay," he smirked, "alright, okay." A short pause followed. "Why do bees have sticky hair?" He questioned, giddily shaking her shoulders, thick with anticipation and intoxication.

She frowned and tilted her head to the right, the familiar crinkles in her nose re-appearing as she scrunched up her features in confusion. "Bees have hair?"

"Of course they do, dipshit." Saul scoffed, rolling his eyes half heartedly. Somewhere through their alcoholic binge, Saul had gifted Aveline with his top hat and she had allowed him to wear her pearl necklace that hung low on his shirtless chest. "Stop ruining my comedy gold, man, why do bees have sticky hair?" He repeated.

"God, I don't know, Saul." Aveline grumbled, rolling her eyes in a mocking departure.

"'Cause they use honey-combs." He stated, falling into a tumble of girly-giggles, his hair descending all over his vision as his cheeks tinted an adorable shade of crimson from his lack of whisky tangled breath, lungs beginning to ache from his roars of amusement. Aveline wasn't too far behind, snickering quietly as she shook her head, in total denial that such a shitty joke was even remotely humorous.

Saul thought for a moment, silenced by his pondering, and felt his amusement crush with the weight of his returning sadness upon his shoulders as they slouched noticeably and he fell back, into the cushions of the couch. Sloan would have snorted her memorable laugh at that joke, he thought, and it was as though every moment he and Aveline had just shared were no longer there, his smile erased for another day.

Aveline noticed the way he moved, his limbs heavy and warn, as he lifted the neckless from his neck,  placing it around the body of his top hat instead, smiling weakly and standing to his full height, stretching tiredly and exhaustedly. But it was the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fixed.

Lord knows he'd caught enough sleep from black-outs and overdoses resulting in mini-comas, however they never seemed to remove the growing bags beneath his empty eyes and the amount of weight he was losing so rapidly. Saul was a fucking wreck. And he made no efforts to change that any time soon.

"You okay, Hudson?" Aveline asked, glancing up beneath the lip of the black hat, concern thick in her tone. See, she may have been drunker than an Irishman on St. Paddy's day, celebrating with uncanny amounts of beer, but she still cared for her curly haired friend. Even if that's all he'd ever be; a friend.

Saul decided not to lie to the girl with brightly coloured hair, shaking his head silently as a pitiful response, before taking off for his bunker once again. He was frustrated at himself for consistently feeling so fucking bummed out. And he was pissed off with the fact that he couldn't go a day without scarring flashbacks of the same woman and his old best friend - two people he still adored yet couldn't have by his side. Though he didn't expect anyone to understand his pain - of course they wouldn't- so he kept it to himself, drinking it all away until their names and their voices became nothing but a hurtful blur.