Colors of Love

Eleven

I wanna make note of at least a couple things before we actually get into this chapter.

        First and foremost, I wanna make it known that I'm well aware that the Timeline's a bit messed-up here–I did that on purpose. Duff actually suffered a bout of acute pancreatitis after the conclusion of GN'R's Use Your Illusion tour and his 30th birthday in May, 1994–I Changed the Year to 1990 for purposes of keeping the story line in my head flowing the way I wanted it to.

        Secondly, while a few of Duff's reasons for getting his act together in this story're the same, a few obviously didn't and wouldn't have existed when this actually happened to him. Again, I Changed those details for sake of keeping the story flowing.

        That being said, let's End this author's note and get to it! Hope y'all enjoy!

~Banshee

The first few months after he and Bobby effectively split up, Duff was an utter mess, and his entire band could see it. Even Slash and Izzy could when they were so high on smack, all they could do was nod on and off for most of the Day–or more aptly, Night. Hell, even Axl could see just how far downhill the giant of an Irishman was going, not to mention how quickly it was happening.

        By the Time his twenty-sixth birthday rolled around in February, even Steven was really starting to worry about him and his condition. Needlessta say, they were all highly disturbed when he announced that he was going back home–and by home, he meant his hometown of Seattle. They honestly thought that if they let him leave now, it might be the last Time any of them–even the older bassist–saw him alive. What none of them realized was just how closeta being right they were, 'cuz if they had realized it, they'd have dragged him to the nearest rehab center to get dried out, kicking and screaming.

        Up at the vacation house he'd bought on the Shore of Lake Washington, the younger bassist holed up and locked himself away from the World. As far as he was concerned, there was no point in even being a part of it, if he couldn't have his mate–and therefore the kits he'd been considering legally adopting as his own. In fact, there was no real reason for him to bother putting down the bottle, considering he didn't have so much as the kitsta help out with on a daily basis.

        About three months after making the move back to Washington State–roughly six after the effective breakup–Duff'd passed out around four in the Morn. He'd gotten so wasted that he'd barely made it upstairsta his bed, so he definitely didn't realize just how off he felt by the Time he got there. It was only when he was jolted from sleep by a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut the next Morn that he realized something was wrong. The pain was worse than anything he'd ever felt–including practically having his right arm skinned at the age of twelve–and he couldn't even try to call out for help. Hell, he couldn't even crawl or scoot across his bed to grab the phone on the nightstand so he could even try to call EMS.

        Oh, Gods–Andy, I'm upstairs! he thought when he heard his childhood best friend call out from somewhere on the first floor. Wish I could come down, but I can barely breathe right now!

        It was almost as if he'd literally projected his Thoughtsta the other man, 'cuz only moments later, he appeared in his bedroom. "Duff!" he cried, darting over to the bed when he saw him curled up in the fetal position. "What on Earth's wrong with ya?"

        "C-Can't," the younger bassist tried to force out. "H-Hurts!"

        Gently pulling his arms away from his middle, Andy noted something he hadn't–and that was how swollen his belly looked. "C'mon, man–I'm taking ya to see Dr. Thomas."