Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses
Cigarette-Stained Lies
1 reviewAxl and Slash reconcile after a fight. Inspired slightly by a quote of Slash's in an interview.
4Exciting
He sits on the mattress, naked but for a pair of boxer shorts, artistically long fingers loosely holding a smoldering cigarette. Slowly he brings it to his lips, breathing in, watching the embers glow red as his hair. He draws his knees to his chest, wrapping his free arm around his legs, and suddenly he’s crying again, silvery tears marking their course over his enhanced cheekbones, down the hollows of his pale face.
He hears footsteps, but doesn’t turn. A moment’s pause, and then there’s Slash in the doorway, at the bed. He sinks down beside Axl, holding his own cigarette, and the singer hesitates before offering him his lighter, an unspoken reconciliation of sorts. The guitarist takes it and Axl watches out of the corners of his eyes as the flame leaps up to catch the filter, as Slash brings the cylindrical stick to his lips, pulling in, blowing out. The sensually acrid scent of slate-gray smoke fills the room, clouds their senses. There’s a record running off in another part of the house: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.
Eventually, Slash speaks, voice quiet as usual.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did, Ax. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Axl murmurs, watching Slash carefully. The younger man shakes his head, dark curls flying, twining with Axl’s copper strands.
“It’s not…” He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. “This is not ‘just a fucking band’ to you.” He slides his hand hesitantly over Axl’s, then up over his tense, sinewy shoulders, and the older man can’t help it—he relaxes into the touch. He takes another drag on his Marlboro before replying:
“It’s my whole world, Slash,” and both of them are surprised at how raw and heavy Axl’s voice sounds. He hates this; hates how vulnerable Slash makes him feel. He looks for a second at the guitarist, then back at the opposite wall.
“But you also have me,” Slash reminds him gently, crushing out the stub-end of his cigarette and bringing his hand around to cup Axl’s jaw. “An’ I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Axl locks his emerald irises onto Slash’s. “Yeah. I know.” He takes in one final breath of his cigarette, puts the butt into the ashtray, and kisses his dark-skinned lover slowly, blowing the smoke against the inside of his cheek. As Slash pushes him back against the bed, as Axl rocks his hips up, feeling the beginnings of arousal through the rough fabric of their jeans, as Slash pulls his callused fingers through Axl’s fiery hair; he clutches at the guitarist’s shoulders, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, tasting spice and chocolate and nicotine. In the end, he knows it’s too late, knows that by falling in love, he’s already made himself way too vulnerable. Knows that no matter what, he will forgive Slash, if it means staying with him.
But in the end, the weakness he feels doesn’t matter either. Axl inhales Slash’s scent, and a thousand indescribable emotions rise up in his chest. This, he thinks, forgetting his anger and susceptibility, forgetting Slash’s cruel words from earlier, his cold, cigarette-stained insincerity. This, this, this.
He hears footsteps, but doesn’t turn. A moment’s pause, and then there’s Slash in the doorway, at the bed. He sinks down beside Axl, holding his own cigarette, and the singer hesitates before offering him his lighter, an unspoken reconciliation of sorts. The guitarist takes it and Axl watches out of the corners of his eyes as the flame leaps up to catch the filter, as Slash brings the cylindrical stick to his lips, pulling in, blowing out. The sensually acrid scent of slate-gray smoke fills the room, clouds their senses. There’s a record running off in another part of the house: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.
Eventually, Slash speaks, voice quiet as usual.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did, Ax. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Axl murmurs, watching Slash carefully. The younger man shakes his head, dark curls flying, twining with Axl’s copper strands.
“It’s not…” He taps his cigarette against the ashtray. “This is not ‘just a fucking band’ to you.” He slides his hand hesitantly over Axl’s, then up over his tense, sinewy shoulders, and the older man can’t help it—he relaxes into the touch. He takes another drag on his Marlboro before replying:
“It’s my whole world, Slash,” and both of them are surprised at how raw and heavy Axl’s voice sounds. He hates this; hates how vulnerable Slash makes him feel. He looks for a second at the guitarist, then back at the opposite wall.
“But you also have me,” Slash reminds him gently, crushing out the stub-end of his cigarette and bringing his hand around to cup Axl’s jaw. “An’ I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Axl locks his emerald irises onto Slash’s. “Yeah. I know.” He takes in one final breath of his cigarette, puts the butt into the ashtray, and kisses his dark-skinned lover slowly, blowing the smoke against the inside of his cheek. As Slash pushes him back against the bed, as Axl rocks his hips up, feeling the beginnings of arousal through the rough fabric of their jeans, as Slash pulls his callused fingers through Axl’s fiery hair; he clutches at the guitarist’s shoulders, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, tasting spice and chocolate and nicotine. In the end, he knows it’s too late, knows that by falling in love, he’s already made himself way too vulnerable. Knows that no matter what, he will forgive Slash, if it means staying with him.
But in the end, the weakness he feels doesn’t matter either. Axl inhales Slash’s scent, and a thousand indescribable emotions rise up in his chest. This, he thinks, forgetting his anger and susceptibility, forgetting Slash’s cruel words from earlier, his cold, cigarette-stained insincerity. This, this, this.
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