Coma ➷ Izzal

Chpt.6

Perhaps this was what flying felt like.

Release. Allowing your body to take upon itself, trusting yourself amidst that churning petrification in your stomach, and trusting yourself amidst the reluctance prodding at your head. So many possibilities lying beneath you; the ground you can fall upon and seize everything, or the clouds above your head waiting for your arrival. However, you're flying, trusting nothing but that teensy part of your soul that expected something greater.

Expectations, and the way they diverge from reality. And if Axl was trusting his expectations, than just maybe he could reach the clouds, and reality wouldn't be such a haggard disgrace.

Except, when he takes off, he is encompassed by nothing more than white walls and an incessant beeping that defies stopping. His eyes are wide open, shifting across the room slowly to make out a couch beside him. Two people are laying on it, one with a mob of wiry blond hair, and another with voluminous black curls; Duff and Slash.

A spark of excitement flares in Axl's stomach as he peers at them. Their hands are intertwined, Duff's head nuzzled into Slash's neck, and his head is too dazed to acquire a memory of them ever being intimate in this way. When Axl continues to scan the room, he spots Steven curled up in fetal position at the foot of his bed, careful to not come in contact with the singer.

And when he makes a full turn to his right, a lump forms in his throat as he makes out Izzy's sleeping figure right beside him. Gentle breaths escape Izzy's cracked lips, his sable bangs dangling over his relaxed, lidded eyes. There's an apparent wrinkle between his brows, stress and age beginning to show on his face.

Axl wants to reach out and tenderly caress the guitarist, although he's frozen in place, watching the man sleep with a serenity so foreign.

"My—" He pauses as his breath hitches, his throat hoarse and his tongue throbbing. The short word alone feels incorrect on his tongue, and he finds himself whimpering in attempt to emit it. Axl inhaled slowly, shuffling his body uncouthly before whispering, "My Izzy."

Izzy's brows twitch ever-so-slightly, yet he remains inert, and Axl sighs softly before tilting his head closer. He allows his lips to awkwardly linger on Izzy's forehead before pushing himself closer. When he pulls away, he's confronted by hazy emerald eyes enlivened with absolute astonishment.

"Axl," he breathes out, and for the first time in reality, the singer watches tears well in Izzy's eyes. "Axl.. Axl, my Axl," Izzy whispered, and Axl could hear that rasp in his voice so authentic; real, true, everything that's been locked in his head now appearing right before his eyes.

And Axl released a full sob as he weakly threw himself into Izzy's arms, not caring for the accelerating beeping of the machine, or the gasps of his other bandmates. Feeling Izzy's arms grasping onto him, holding him tighter than ever, Axl could care less if the world was ending.

"It's okay, you're back now. You're back now," Izzy cooed, and Axl felt his body rack with tears as he inhaled the guitarist's familiar scent of cinnamon incense and that alleviating tang of nicotine.

Home was with Izzy.

He was home.

Axl's body shuddered as he heard the door whisk open, and instinctively clung to Izzy tighter.

"Mr. Rose?" A voice called, and Axl shook his head into Izzy's chest, refusing to meet who he proposed to be a doctor.

"It's okay, Axl. He just needs to ask you a few questions," Izzy murmured softly, cautiously leaning a little ways from the singer. Although, Axl clutched onto him, peering at him with tear-glossed eyes just the way he had in his comatose head. Izzy's lips curved into that mundane frown that always seemed to fulfill his expression, but this time, there was something obscure swiveling in his dilating eyes as he looked at Axl.