Izzy felt a lump forming in his throat as he melted into the kiss, the urge to cry becoming inescapable as he caressed Axl's cheek, pushing himself closer, melding his soul into the singer's as though this was their last moment on earth together.
Axl's lips were gentle, not kissing him with as much hunger or impatience as he would a stripper hanging about their premise, but instead with an unfamiliar gentleness. Izzy leaned into the soft hand which cupped his cheek, his lips parting slowly as Axl respired life and its glories back into him. With Axl, Izzy felt grounded, as though this spontaneous paranoia that came upon him was nothing more than yet another obstacle, one Axl would always guide him through as usual.
His eyes flutter open as Axl pulls away, his vision substantially refocusing from the odd haze that'd taken over him.
"Are you done being a maniac?" Axl laughs breathlessly, and Izzy can't help his lips from curving into an amused grin.
"I'm sorry—"
"Don't be, it isn't your fault," Axl says, gently tucking a strand of Izzy's hair behind his ear. "Let's stop somewhere and freshen up."
•
.
•
After a while of driving around and avoiding their home city, Axl found a vacant motel room dwelling within some ghost town.
While Axl perched himself on the single bed centered in the room, wriggling his feet out of his boots, Izzy peered into the mirror. It'd be wrong for Izzy to say that he didn't look quite like he used to, because he was always a gangly guy growing up. On many occasions, he'd been compared to either a scarecrow or a ghost, and on others, he stood exactly for what he was; the enigmatic dealer you see hanging about the streets.
However, now, he wasn't sure what he was.
Izzy didn't feel human, as much as Axl reminded him that he is. Instead, he felt as though something inside of him has already died, and he was just the cold corpse remaining. There was no more soul, no acumen that could properly function.
He looked back at Axl, seeing the very angel that had graced him in every manner, yet not able to comprehend how it'd come to be. How was the person who caused so much tumult in his life— in the band's life— the one person who could push away his tumult?
Axl eyes Izzy in the mirror as he makes his way to the restroom, turning on the shower. "Come on, man, you smell like something found at the bottom of a dumpster."
Izzy chuckles as he pulls off his shirt, and he can feel Axl's gaze prying into his awful condition. But the guitarist didn't need to hide anything. He didn't need to hide all of the needle scabs that Axl had patched up for him, or the bruises from the accident that occurred when he was too strung out, nor the way his bones could easily be identified through his skin. Axl and Izzy had some underlying telekinetic way of communicating with each other, the idea that they'd both seen each other at their very worst— it was enough to leave all the concernment from coming out.
He stepped into the shower, feeling Axl enter behind him, yet not making an attempt to look at him. The light shudder that crept down his spine reminded him of the first time he'd recognized his feelings for the singer.
Growing up, Izzy never anticipated struggling with understanding his sexuality. Things were simple in the mediocre ways he lived; things were black and white, and there was no grey to heedlessly confuse him. He had many girlfriends, while none he devoted all his time and attention towards, and his social life was anything but complicated. The youthful Jeffrey Isbell would ride his skateboard all throughout the August-hot afternoons, missing classes now and then, yet managing to attend just enough to where his parents didn't have room for worriment. Everything made sense back then, yet when he met a rather headstrong strawberry blond who sang for the church choir and competed for the school's cross country team, Izzy was left scrambling in a sea of grey.
