Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > Dance of Pales
Heavenly Doorway
0 reviewsThe boys play their first live show in a while, with unexpected events...
1Ambiance
The first show was set to go and the energy was high. The band would be, once again, breaking curfew by a long shot, but since they technically were indoors… Warren wasn’t even sure how they’d managed to secure that venue, watching people swank around with drinks before the show started. He though they’d agreed to… fuck, this was going to lead to trouble, and he just knew it. The least of which was Slash and Steven trying to get fans to buy drinks for them. He took three beers and two Hurricanes from the youths in an hour. There was also Duff’s margarita and Izzy’s Mai Tai, which both swore up and down were supposed to be non-alcoholic. Right. The last time they’d gotten into the liquor cabinet, Izzy had decided to play gymnast on the balcony railing. The 12th floor balcony railing of their hotel in Texas. That would have ended in a fatality if he hadn’t made a very good grab for the back of Izzy’s jeans.
Despite a few issues, the show kicked off well. Axl was developing a penchant for talking to the audience, and he had a skill for whipping them into a frenzy. Several fans were tossing things onto the stage, and at one point Izzy and Duff made a dive for a plush dog that landed between the two of them. Izzy, a bit quicker, came up the victor, plunking the animal onto his stack in triumph. The audience had to be warned, though, to stop throwing the plastic soldiers. Partly because they hurt when hit with them and you could trip on them, and partly because the more landed, the brighter Stevie’s eyes got, and they didn’t need a plastic fire on stage. The last batch he set on fire took an hour to clean up between the five of them.
The boys were having a ball, but the concern continued to grow in Warren’s stomach. The crowd was drinking, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. Someone dove up onto the lip of the stage and grabbed Duff’s leg, causing the bassist to stumble, nearly knocking Izzy over as he tried to pull free. Security jumped on the guy, but they were slow. He never should have gotten that close in the first place. Another drunk dove for the stage, encouraged by the first, and security pounced him next. The later it got, the more hectic it got, and he could see the worry starting to spread among the band.
It was one of those things that you see in the seconds before it happens, and though you know you don’t have time to stop it, you blame yourself anyway. Axl brushed by the edge of the stage, in touching distance of the audience, and suddenly, before he could move back, a fan had clambered onto the stage and grabbed him, curling an arm around his narrow waist.
The mike picked up Axl’s swears, and then the terrified squall as steel pressed to the side of his face, the barrel dragged down his cheek to his lips. It picked up the softly spoken words of the man holding him “You stopped writing…” and “I love you.” The click of the safety coming off was a loud as a gunshot in the suddenly silent theater. “Don’t you love me anymore?” echoed off the back walls. Axl’s stammered response was so soft, it was lost behind the sudden feedback of the microphone as the man pulled him closer, trapping it between their bodies. The faint double thump of hearts, one calm, one racing, whispered faintly from the speakers.
The kiss was hard and rough, teeth drawing blood from Axl’s suddenly dry lips. Axl could smell the gun oil and steel, sharp in his nostrils, and the faint scent of gunpowder. The barrel was moving again. It slid under his chin, to his throat, back up. Then it was at his lips again, pressing the lower one down, metal clicking painfully against his teeth.
The explosion was deafening, reverberating through the microphone before it hit the ground, no longer trapped between the two bodies.
Despite a few issues, the show kicked off well. Axl was developing a penchant for talking to the audience, and he had a skill for whipping them into a frenzy. Several fans were tossing things onto the stage, and at one point Izzy and Duff made a dive for a plush dog that landed between the two of them. Izzy, a bit quicker, came up the victor, plunking the animal onto his stack in triumph. The audience had to be warned, though, to stop throwing the plastic soldiers. Partly because they hurt when hit with them and you could trip on them, and partly because the more landed, the brighter Stevie’s eyes got, and they didn’t need a plastic fire on stage. The last batch he set on fire took an hour to clean up between the five of them.
The boys were having a ball, but the concern continued to grow in Warren’s stomach. The crowd was drinking, and that wasn’t supposed to happen. Someone dove up onto the lip of the stage and grabbed Duff’s leg, causing the bassist to stumble, nearly knocking Izzy over as he tried to pull free. Security jumped on the guy, but they were slow. He never should have gotten that close in the first place. Another drunk dove for the stage, encouraged by the first, and security pounced him next. The later it got, the more hectic it got, and he could see the worry starting to spread among the band.
It was one of those things that you see in the seconds before it happens, and though you know you don’t have time to stop it, you blame yourself anyway. Axl brushed by the edge of the stage, in touching distance of the audience, and suddenly, before he could move back, a fan had clambered onto the stage and grabbed him, curling an arm around his narrow waist.
The mike picked up Axl’s swears, and then the terrified squall as steel pressed to the side of his face, the barrel dragged down his cheek to his lips. It picked up the softly spoken words of the man holding him “You stopped writing…” and “I love you.” The click of the safety coming off was a loud as a gunshot in the suddenly silent theater. “Don’t you love me anymore?” echoed off the back walls. Axl’s stammered response was so soft, it was lost behind the sudden feedback of the microphone as the man pulled him closer, trapping it between their bodies. The faint double thump of hearts, one calm, one racing, whispered faintly from the speakers.
The kiss was hard and rough, teeth drawing blood from Axl’s suddenly dry lips. Axl could smell the gun oil and steel, sharp in his nostrils, and the faint scent of gunpowder. The barrel was moving again. It slid under his chin, to his throat, back up. Then it was at his lips again, pressing the lower one down, metal clicking painfully against his teeth.
The explosion was deafening, reverberating through the microphone before it hit the ground, no longer trapped between the two bodies.
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