You Could Be Mine ➷ Slaxl

Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ Tᴡᴏ

*italics signal a flashback*
•.•.•

I fiddle with the lighter in my hands, watching as Steven, Izzy, Slash and Duff get right in each other's faces, rambling their asses off. But I'm not hearing anything. Instead, I sit here lost somewhere in my thoughts, attempting to fathom the absurdity of this mess.

When did we get here?
How did we?

They're all standing up now, and I'm slumped into the couch, my eyes fixated on them with a distant focus.

"What's on your mind, Axl?" Izzy asks as we lean into each other, watching birds fly over the beach with grace. I shrug and turn to watch him exhale smoke from his full lips.

"Many things. Too many things."

He's frowning now, but he won't admit his disappointment. He offers another joint, and I willingly accept it, sticking it between my lips and inhaling enough smoke to send me into a coughing fit. He smirks and ruffles my hair.

"It'll settle in eventually," he reminds, but I'm already feeling it. My thoughts are no longer succumbing me into a cage I cannot escape. Instead, I'm here with him, focusing on nothing more than the environment we're in— the experience.

"There ya go," he whispers.

I'm suddenly snapped back into the present as Steven launches his glass across the room. We all watch in shock as it shatters with impact, scattering around the studio. His face is reddened, his light hair hanging over his eyes. Anger. Vivid anger.
They all fall silent, and turn to me expectantly, as if I'm a parent bound to scold them.

"What the fuck is going on?" I hiss, and Slash instantly scurries to my side of the room, prepared to defend my take on the situation.

"They want to leave the band," Duff informs, and my eyes widen in instantaneous panic. My grip on the lighter tightens, and my knuckles whiten with the pressure.

They're all eying me down, but I'm looking at Izzy.

What was this? Betrayal?
I couldn't decipher it, nor could I breathe properly. There's a hand moving in circles against my back, but I'm frozen in place watching Izzy with my eyes dilating in and out of focus, and my lips trembling as the lighter begins grazing into the palm of my hand.

"We can't do this anymore. The late shows, the constant arguing, your temper!" Izzy's words are directed towards me, and it's then I realize that I'm to blame for the downfall of Guns N' Roses.

"We can get it under control," Duff chimes, yet Steven quickly snaps his head around to glower at the other blond.

"We've been saying that shit for five years! Take a fucking hint!"

Izzy lowers his head. Exhaustion was clear in his semblance, displaying the torture I had put him through. But I had too much pride, enough to shake my head and emit the anticipated order.

"Then leave." But no one hears me. I then find myself standing up with tears brimming my eyes and my arm elongating to gesture towards the door. I glare at Steven, and then Izzy. This time, I scream it. "Then leave!"

Steven scoffs, and he doesn't waste a second spinning on his heel and storming out. I could hear him sputtering profanities from down the hall, but before the door closes, Izzy catches it and turns to me.

"Izzy," I breathe out. "Jeff." The name felt foreign on my lips, especially the obscurity of hearing it after so long. Who was he anymore? The boy I befriended in the depths of audacious, teenage decisions? Or the man who grew to despise me for the path we had taken, for the involuntary control I had over him— the reverse of our past lives.

I can't bring myself to yell again, nor can I find the correct words. I'm stuck in place, remorse shining through my veneer and exposing my tribulation.

"Remember 1982, okay Axl?" His voice is soft, and he purses his lips as he awaits my response. But I could only feel my heart shattering within my body. That year, an unforgettable year of reconciling and intertwining our paths once more, failing to realize that it'll bring us here into an inescapable ordeal.

I nod, my lips parted, and my vision blurred with the nagging urge to cry. And then we watch him walk away, but not before granting me one last frown— a frown that revealed the disappointment he had endured because of me.

"We can't do this without them," Duff instantly spoke.

The hand that was caressing my body retreated. Slash. Who else could it have been?

"Give us a second to process the goddamn situation!" Slash declared, picking Izzy's guitar up from the ground— which he had previously thrown out of spite— and resting it against it's stand.

Duff frowned and chewed his knuckles nervously, mumbling a lilting, "Right", before sitting on the couch and rubbing his temples in deep thought. Regret was distinct between us, and in the midst of this all, I had come to the realization that perhaps this band would've been practicing instead of arguing if I wasn't the one fronting it.
I sit back down beside him and hesitantly snake my arm around his neck, unable to admit my contrition, but desperate to alleviate the bitterness he felt.
I could feel the weight shift beside me, alerting us that Slash was seated too. And just like during the party, it was only the three of us.

The studio was no longer a happy, vociferous place. Instead, it grew desolate— tense. All instruments are set down, the recording booth is swallowed by caliginosity, and no one is smiling. We're not speaking, but we are thinking the same things.

Where do we go now?
From five to three— what now?

Slash is running a hand through his hair, and Duff is chipping away at his fingernails— a clear display of the abhorrence he was experiencing. The words were framed against my lips, vivid and obscene, yet I couldn't bring myself to emit them.

'Which one of you is next?'

Who else is going to leave me? What else had I done wrong?
But my questions remain unanswered, because my mouth remains shut.

I couldn't lose them.

Stay with me.

Time continues the pass us, but we are too distraught to check it. Duff is stirring a glass of Jack Daniels and coke, while Slash tosses a small rubber ball into the air. Over, and over.

I'm no longer sitting down, but instead, I'm walking back and forth inside of the recording booth, knowing well that they were eyeing me down from the outside. Duff averts his gaze to Slash before standing up and tapping the mic gently, erupting a cacophonous buzz from inside the booth.

"What are you doing now?" His voice bleeds through the static.

"It's not our last time in here," I declare. He turns around to waver Slash over, and finally getting the idea, the curly-haired man rests down his ball, grabs his guitar, and dashes into the booth with me. Duff picks up his bass and follows, and suddenly, the three of us are in here.

There was more space, and I couldn't tell whether or not it brought me sadness or fear. But I was willing to try this, even if it meant no Izzy, or no Steven.

Slash begins strumming indistinct chords, and I watch in mesmerization as his fingers glide along the fretboard with such ease. He smiles, yet it's all a facade used to make me feel better. What amazed me the most was the fact that his little gesture was working, and I found a new confidence riveting through my body as I grabbed the mic, slowly swaying my hips to his tune.

And then, I began singing.

•.•.•
A/N
Welp, this is the beginning of a long ride.
The whole Slaxl concept picks up from here, don't worry.
Thank you so much for reading, and if you enjoyed, please vote or comment any feedback.

Much love <3