Coma ➷ Izzal

Chpt.1

A/N

Welcome to my Izzy x Axl fanfic!

⚠️Please don't read if sensitive to topics of depression, addiction, and abuse.⚠️

I'm not quite sure what the duration between updates will be, but I hope you all enjoy.
Thank you!
•.•.•

Axl knew he was losing his mind.

He thought too much about life, pondering visions and dreams that would one day hit the sun and crumble to nothing. They would be the seeds of yesterday, drifting through fields before touching the ground and then growing into new dreams. If Axl were to water that seed, believe that he was going to come back, the dream wouldn't die. But there was a thin line between hoping, and being blatantly insane.

He could feel reality slipping away from him, just the way his head battled between the need to keep fighting, and the urge to give up; to let go. Was he petrified of losing the life had had spent forever chasing? Or did he need to set it free, just the way he got himself into this situation in the first place.

Axl treks across the fields of barley, and it's felt like hours had passed since he'd seen anything other than this aimless land. The sun beats down upon his face with no remorse, garish streaks of radiation seeping into his skin and broiling the blood within his body. His clothes dampen with sweat, fabric sticking to his skin like his diaphoretic hair, and a part of Axl feels like collapsing and allowing his body to rot amongst the heat.

However, he's yanked from his morbid urges when a soft voice murmurs, "God, you look so pathetic."

Axl turns around, and although that obstinate part of his head yearns to retort with something as helplessly convincing as 'No I don't', he could only emit a frail gasp.

Izzy peers back at him, his paperboy hat tilted over his forehead and casting an obscure shadow over his pallid face. His eyes search Axl for a terse moment before his hands find their way into his pockets, a sheepish gesture. "Hasn't your Mama told you it's rude to stare?"

Axl gawks at Izzy in spite of the inquiry, and when he finally gathers enough saliva in his sore throat to form words, he finds himself taking a stride back into the depths of his past. "How is she— Mama?"

Something nips at Axl, reminding him that Izzy isn't here. But a part of him leans closer just to gently capture that homely smell of nicotine and lavender.

Izzy shrugs, his gaunt shoulders poking through his thin white blouse and reminding Axl of the former's pitiful health in their fierce reality. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

Or perhaps illusionistic Izzy has no goddamn sense of how despondent their reality truly is.

"When has that mattered?" Izzy asks, and Axl sighs when his thoughts catch up to him. The guitarist allowed his eyes to roam Axl for a terse moment before muttering, "You should be taking care of yourself. Your father came lookin' for you."

"What did you tell him?" Axl interrogates, feeling like a prototype of the child he once was in Lafayette. If this is his illusion, then Axl expects Izzy to look out for him just the way he always has. Just the way he promised to.

But do expectations ever meet his reality?

The differences between reality and expectations come through in slivers of disappointment. For as, if reality lived up to extraneous expectations, than perhaps philosophy would be altered. The nature of life withstanding normality and delving within things that appear more grand would be be case of imagination, and hopes and dreams. Reality wouldn't be so bland, pathetic as it may seem. And philosophy wouldn't be a roadblock on the path to chasing the wildest of dreams. It would be transferred into a spark of encouragement to ignite that flame of wild desires. Although, if expectations remained expectations, and reality remained bland, the hardships of life wouldn't come to such dismay. You learn to expect to be disappointed. Just the way you expect to have the unexpected.