FicWad

Long after the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame was over, Slash stayed at the building, signing autographs and taking pictures, faking smiles and wishing to god he had a cigarette. Duff had gone, said he needed to get home and see Susan, Grace, and Mae—though Slash knew he was probably making the drive to Lafayette so he could visit Izzy. Gilby and Matt were gone, too—they’d only come to show Axl up, and didn’t really give a shit about Guns anymore. Steven had stayed for a while, the usual huge smile on his face, but Slash was having trouble dealing with his infectious, over-enthusiastic attitude, and eventually had to lie and say he was heading off, so Steven might as well go, too.

Myles had left almost immediately after the performance, and Slash knew why—Myles wasn’t up to hearing about Axl, and all his shortcomings. Honestly, Slash was sick of it too; the fans were all over Twitter, talking about what an asshole Axl was for not going to his own ceremony, though personally Slash thought Axl wouldn’t have done it any differently if this were the nineties. Perla was giving Axl hell, too; she’d gotten drunk for the first time since London’s birth and spent the better part of four hours ranting about how fucked-up Axl was, how he had no respect for the fans or the media or his former band mates. And though Slash had listened politely, lips hovering over a cup of hot coffee he was using to stay awake; privately, he’d wanted to kill her.

Though Slash would never admit it out loud, he had a feeling that he knew exactly why Axl hadn’t performed—and it had nothing, really, to do with what the letter had said. He’d been remembering moments with Axl for a while now, and among his more distinct memories of the singer were those of how close Axl seemed at times—physically, not just mentally—and his scent, attractive even after prolonged, sweaty concerts; and the way Slash had occasionally caught Axl looking at him, both during shows and when they were in the studio, like the redhead was searching in vain for some hidden emotion in the guitarist. There had only been one instance when Slash had endeavored to try anything with Axl—late May, 1996, after years of viewing quiet hints and seeing in Axl’s eyes the occasional bitter longing and sadness, bordering on hopelessness, which always accompanies unrequited love; and really, secretly, wanting the singer too, just a little bit. He didn’t like thinking about it, really, because of how it had ended, and because of the events which had followed it, but he couldn’t deny it had happened, or that it was the probable cause of Axl’s refusal to ever speak to him again… or that he had never, before or since, had a better sexual experience.

He envied DJ Ashba. The man had Axl now, in a way Slash never would again. They probably weren’t doing anything, but with Axl, you never knew—it was entirely possible that the redhead genuinely trusted DJ, and therefore was letting him into his pants. Still, whether they were fucking or not, DJ was in Axl’s inner circle now, in a place Slash had once been, a place he’d never expected to leave, and it hurt like hell to know that Axl was far happier with DJ than he’d ever been with Slash.

At around one in the morning, the fans finally dissipated, and Slash grabbed his car keys, intending to make a rapid exit. He was staying at the Hilton closest to the Hall of Fame building and checking out first thing in the morning, heading home. He nearly ran to his car, got in, and drove off, and never heard what would have been a very familiar voice calling his name from the shadows.

~~~

From the moment he started the letter, Axl had known he was going to get shit about it. All he’d been hearing for the past sixteen years—ever since he’d written up the contract for the band’s name and Slash and Duff had walked out on him—were demands to get the Appetite line-up back together. The few times he’d granted TMZ or Entertainment Weekly an interview, all they’d wanted to know was when there would be a reunion tour. He hated seeing fans after shows now because all they wanted to know was, is Slash coming back? or, when are you playing another show with the Loaded? He couldn’t figure out why they couldn’t just appreciate what he was doing—he hadn’t worked for fifteen years on an album as complicated as Chinese Democracy just to have it spat back in his face. Yeah, it wasn’t with the old guys, but that didn’t matter. Guns was legally Axl’s band, and anyone who didn’t like it could fuck off.

The letter itself wasn’t entirely accurate. Axl was mildly concerned about losing Daren—the closest thing he’d had to a relationship since Sasha—as well as Ron, Richard, and all the others, and he still had no idea as to the true nature of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame, but in all honesty, the real reason why Axl didn’t show up had nothing to do with any of that. The real reason was hiding behind a guitar and a shock of jet black curls; the real reason smelled like cigarettes and laundry detergent; the real reason had the faintest traces of his British hometown still lingering in his soft voice.

Axl had always subconsciously suspected that Slash knew, but not until May 20, 1996 (yes, he remembered the exact date; not that he’d ever admit it) had his suspicions been confirmed. It had been a hot night, even for southern California, and Axl could still remember every glorious detail… though he rarely allowed himself to think about it, and when he did, it was always with a feeling of lust that had been drenched in shame.

He’d liked Slash from the beginning, liked the heady, earthy scent of his skin and the way he could almost make his guitar speak for him; how well he listened, empathized, understood. Looking at Slash made Axl’s stomach jerk in a way that was not entirely unpleasant, despite his brain’s warnings, reminders of a strong Fundamentalist upbringing, of all the hellish fates that befall homosexuals. The first time he’d ever really been turned on by Slash had been after an early Guns concert at the Roxy—they’d stumbled backstage, sweaty and exhausted, with adrenaline still coursing through their veins. Slash had fallen on the couch beside Axl, and the sight of his slick, dark chest, his muscular arms and long fingers, had brought an electric fire to Axl’s groin that hadn’t gone away until much later. After that, Axl’s fantasies became centered on Slash, and the images his brain gave him were both disgusting and fascinating; images that made him blush if he so much as heard the guitarist’s voice. Shame made him block them out; lust brought them back. Always.

Axl hated Slash. He blamed the guitarist for his feelings, for entrapping him in a place he didn’t want to be and had spent all his life trying to avoid. They fought a lot as Axl struggled against his desire, his longing. Several times, Slash asked why he was being such an asshole; each time, Axl avoided answering. He was a freak; an unnatural member of society; terrified beyond reason that someone would find out and word would get back to his stepfather. But he couldn’t keep away, not for long. He and Slash were joined by some invisible thread; they were best friends, and Axl would be shot to hell before he let that go. Eventually, he learned how to keep his emotions hidden, even from himself, and it got a little easier.

But there were times when Axl slipped. He knew how to flirt, and he did it so subtly and so naturally that Slash never noticed. He touched him a lot, hugged him, occasionally bumped their legs together. And often, without realizing it, he found himself looking for signs of returned affection in Slash—not that he was ever successful, not even if Slash was drunk off his ass. It was the worst onstage, because their chemistry was so evident; he’d once spent a full ten minutes staring at Slash as he sang, raw desire and pain and longing so strong in his eyes it was a wonder no one noticed.

And then 1996 happened.

Axl had been avoiding Slash ever since the end of the Illusions tour, trying to form heterosexual relationships that wouldn’t end in tears because he couldn’t control his anger at himself and who he truly was. But in May, Slash went to Axl’s, and Axl, reluctantly, let him in.

Why the fuck are you avoiding me? Slash asked. Axl didn’t answer, and Slash gripped his wrist, hard. Tell me.

Let go, Axl had snarled, but Slash wouldn’t, and suddenly Axl had found himself in Slash’s arms, their faces inches from each other, irises burning and darkened with lust.

Is this why? Slash had asked, and all of Axl’s buried desires had come rushing to the surface, and with the swift feline grace only he possessed, Axl had pinned Slash to the wall. He cupped the younger man’s jaw in his hands, hesitated, ran his thumb over his lips, then kissed him, eleven years of held-in passion coming out as their tongues found each other, as tastes mingled. Then they’d traveled to the couch, and clothes came off, and the backs of Axl’s thighs were rubbed raw by the rough fabric while Slash slammed into him, pain mixing with pleasure. They’d smoked a cigarette down together afterwards, limbs intertwined, Axl’s head snuggled into the slope of Slash’s shoulder. He’d felt so happy that night, so secure in Slash’s arms. But reality came crashing down around him the next morning—he’d allowed another man to fuck him, to control him, and he’d liked it. He woke Slash up, hit him, screamed at him to get the fuck out and never come back. And then there’d been the lawsuit in July, when Slash came over drunk, and now the guitarist was avoiding him, had moved on. And it hurt like hell to know he was happier now, with Myles Kennedy, than he’d ever been in Guns.

So Axl wrote the letter, omitting their history and how his feelings were still there, just below the surface. He didn’t watch the live feed—no use in seeing Myles fuck up his songs—but he did go to the Hall of Fame itself, secretly, when he was sure no one would notice. He wasn’t entirely sure of what he was doing there—until he saw Slash, and then he knew. Watching him go out to his car, Axl saw his former guitarist’s shoulders slump, and without thinking, he called out, “Slash!” but he was too late.

And then suddenly, inexplicably, Axl had to see him.

~~~

The singer tailed the guitarist back to the Hilton. He was shaking as he watched Slash get out of his car and go into the lobby; he hadn’t formulated a clear plan in his mind as to what he was going to do if and when Slash noticed his presence. He wasn’t even sure why he was here, honestly; he didn’t want Slash back in his life, he was terrified of what would happen if he allowed himself to fully let go again.

But he did miss the rush he felt around Slash. And maybe, now that he was older and less driven by emotions, he could see the guitarist without feeling the urge to tackle him the minute he walked in the door.

Taking a deep breath, Axl opened his car door, got out, and headed in the direction of the hotel.

He walked into the lobby, eyes scanning the room surreptitiously for the guitarist, but Slash had evidently already gone up. It was quiet, because it was one-thirty in the morning, and the only person in the room was a tired-looking desk clerk, staring with bloodshot eyes at the computer screen. He walked up to her and planted both elbows on the table, and she looked up, her mouth falling slack as she recognized him.

“Hey,” he said. “Can I have Slash’s room number, please?”

She bit her lower lip. “Hotel policy states that I’m not allowed to give that to you, Mr. Rose,” she said hesitantly. “I can call his room if you like, and see if he’ll allow you to go up there yourself.”

Anger, brief and lightning hot, surged through Axl, but he clenched his fists beneath his leather jacket and plastered a smile on his face. “That would be fine,” he said, rocking back on his heels. She nodded, smiling a bit nervously, and, picking up the phone, dialed a number. There was a pause which seemed infinite before she said:

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but there’s a man down here who would like to see you.”

“Who is it?” Axl heard Slash say, faintly, and his heart stopped at the sound of the guitarist’s voice.

“It’s Axl Rose,” said the desk clerk, glancing sideways at the redhead. He heard Slash say something indistinguishable; then the girl hung the phone up and turned back to Axl.

“He’s in suite 1121, on the top floor,” she said. “He wants to see you.”

“Thanks,” Axl grunted, walking out of the lobby and to the elevators. He punched the down button; a moment later one arrived, and he got in and hit the button that would take him to the fifteenth floor. As he rode up, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans, it suddenly occurred to him that he still didn’t have any clear idea as to what the fuck he was doing. There was a probability that Slash didn’t actually want to see him, that he’d just said for Axl to come up because he was a nice guy who wanted to give the young, pretty desk clerk a break. And Axl wasn’t entirely sure if he wanted to see Slash. He’d just spent sixteen years hating the man; everything wasn’t going to turn around in one night.

The elevator stopped, and Axl, reluctantly, got out. He walked down the hall until he came to Room 1121. There was a hesitation, then he lifted his hand and knocked.

A moment later, the door opened, and then there was Slash, face-to-face with Axl for the first time since 1996. They sized each other up for a few seconds, Slash taking in the frayed rips in Axl’s jeans and the slight flecks of gray in his mustache and the soft curls at the place where his hair now hit his shoulders, Axl taking in the weight Slash had gained and the dim sadness at the backs of his eyes and the new tattoos on his arms; then Slash stepped aside, inviting Axl to come in.

“Hey,” Axl grunted as he passed the threshold of the suite, eyes sweeping over the luxuries Slash was now wasting his money on—not that Axl really had room to talk.

“Hey,” Slash replied cautiously, shutting the door behind him. He led Axl into the room where his bed was, but didn’t sit down, just stood, shoulders hunched, against the wall. “What brings you here?”

Like they’d just seen each other last week, and this was just a casual visit on some world-wide tour. A small frown creased the space between Axl’s eyebrows, and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

“I was at the Hall of Fame,” he said. “I saw you go; I tried to call you but you didn’t hear me. I… I had to come.”

“Why were you at the Hall of Fame? What happened to that letter you wrote?”

Axl shrugged, still not entirely sure of his reasoning. Slash hesitated, waiting for an answer, but when he didn’t receive one he sighed.

“Did you go in, or—”

“I stayed outside.”

“So you didn’t hear our performance.” A tiny note of bitterness crept into Slash’s voice, and Axl latched onto it like it was the lifeline that would pull him back to the ship.

“Why would I want to hear some guy barely out of diapers performing my songs?”

Slash thought for a second of DJ Ashba, of his baby face, how goddamn young he looked next to Axl and all the other guys. “You should have thought of that before you declined entry into the Hall, Axl.”

“You know why I declined entry, Slash.” Axl managed to put just as much scorn into the guitarist’s name as Slash had put into the singer’s, and the younger man winced slightly. Memory flashes flooded his brain—Axl spread out beneath him on the couch, the scent of sex rising up between them, the animal-like howls that had emitted from those perfect, pale lips as Slash drove himself into an insane frenzy of lust. With an effort, he dragged himself into the present, and locked his eyes onto the singer’s emerald green ones.

“If anyone is bitter over that night, it should be me,” he said. One of Axl’s eyebrows arched up, nearly into his hairline, and he took a step forward, so that they were slightly closer than before.

“Why the fuck should you be bitter over that?” he snarled. “You weren’t the one who spent eleven years trying to repress some unnatural emotions you knew you’d get sent to hell for if you let them take over; you didn’t lie awake in torment over how you felt versus how you were supposed to feel; you weren’t at war with yourself because you had a wife but wanted to fuck the guitarist of your band…” His voice trailed off, and he stopped talking, a flush rising up on his cheeks. Slash bit his lower lip to fight off a smile, and Axl glared at him. “It’s not fucking funny.”

The younger man rearranged his features. “Sorry, Ax,” he said, and couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “But I have as much right to complain as you do.”

“Enlighten me, Slash. Tell me why the fuck you feel entitled to complain at all about fucking me and then thinking it would be okay when we woke up.”

“Because you fucking… you…” Slash let out an exasperated sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “You woke me up out of a dead sleep, beat the shit out of me, and threw me out of your house, all in the space of about ten minutes! What the fuck am I supposed to do, say, ‘oh well’, and move on? I don’t think you get how fucking shitty that was for you to do.”

“You fucked me,” Axl retorted, fully aware of the whiny note which had crept into his voice.

“You wanted it! You were practically begging me to do it; you were always flirting with me and teasing me, if you were trying to be subtle about the way you felt, you weren’t doing a very good job at it. It’s not my fucking fault I was turned on by you; it’s your fault for avoiding me all those months and expecting me not to go to your house and see what the hell was going on. If you didn’t want me to have sex with you, you shouldn’t have sent me all those signals for all those years.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” Axl was furious, partially because he’d allowed himself to walk into this conversation, partially because he knew that Slash was right. “It’s my fault for having feelings that were beyond my control, Slash?”

“It’s your fault,” said Slash slowly, his eyes darkening in anger, “for fucking messing with my head for eleven years; for leading me on and then rejecting me when I finally took the step you were obviously never going to take. You shouldn’t have fucking entrapped me if you were that ashamed of how you really felt; you should have just left it hidden and jacked off under the bed like I had to do!”

This statement, unexpected and sharp, cut into the room and shattered the air like glass breaking. For a few seconds, Axl just stared at Slash, and there was that emotion in his irises again, that raw, naked longing the guitarist hadn’t seen since the nineties. Then the usual shutters came down, and Axl turned away.

“I was only ashamed because of how I grew up,” he said, a bit quieter than before. “You should have known I was going to react like that. You should have—” The end of Axl’s sentence was cut off as Slash, with a fluidity that surprised both of them, grabbed his shoulders and slammed him into the wall, intense anger mixing with hurt in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Slash snarled, and without waiting for a response, he leaned in and captured Axl’s lips between his own, in a vicious, heated kiss that was more teeth than tongues. His hands came up and around Axl’s throat; if he pushed his fingers just a few more centimeters together, he’d be choking him. Slash could feel Axl’s pulse hammering at the base of his neck, felt all his muscles constricting as he stood tense and hot against the wall, struggling to break free, against all his urges to kiss back.

Eventually, though, Axl gave in to his feelings, and his arms came around Slash’s waist, fingers hooking into his belt loops as he slid his tongue along the roof of the younger man’s mouth. He grunted softly at the back of his throat, and Slash pulled away, leaving much to be desired. Both men were breathing hard, staring at each other.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Axl said hoarsely, and his tongue came out to lick the salty sweat off his upper lip. Their mouths were reddened and bruised, and Slash felt like he’d just been half-drowned. Axl’s eyes dropped up and down Slash’s face, and he swallowed hard. The desire burning in his emerald irises darkened their color until they were almost black.

In response, Slash reached down and lifted Axl’s left arm off his waist, bringing it to his lips. He kissed each of the singer’s fingertips, his knuckles; then flipped his hand over and kissed his palm. His lips traveled down to Axl’s wrist, burning the sensitive skin with each touch… and then, suddenly, Slash stopped.

Axl froze.

Slash looked up at him, a question in his eyes which didn’t really need to be answered. Axl winced, tensing, hating himself for his own stupidity. Criss-crossed along Axl’s wrist, visible because the bracelets were gone and his jacket sleeve had been pushed up, were thin scars, paper white, visible against his pale skin only because they were raised. Axl had forgotten about this particular setback—he couldn’t remember when he’d first started cutting, only that now, it wasn’t entirely conceivable that he would be able to stop. He cut because it was an easier release of energy than playing piano, and because he was fascinated by the sight of his own blood running crimson along his skin… and because the pain of the razor digging into his flesh was a distraction from the almost cavernous pain he felt in his chest, late at night when he allowed himself to think about Slash for too long.

He looked at Slash, now, waiting for him to judge Axl and cast him aside, like everyone else who knew had ever done. Instead, the dark-skinned man lifted his wrist to his mouth again, and pressed his lips against each cut, with surprising tenderness. He paused only to remove Axl’s jacket before kissing the rest of his arm, up to his tattoos, then starting on the other, kissing his hand, and his wrist, and his shoulder. He slipped Axl’s shirt over his head, and kissed over his collarbones, his sternum, the hollow of his throat. The singer’s heart was pounding again, but for an entirely different reason than before. Slash kissed across his jaw line, kissed each cheek and the tip of his nose, before capturing Axl’s lips between his own yet again. Only this time it was gentler, less savage. This time they kissed leisurely, slowly, like they had all of eternity to make up for lost time, instead of just one night. Axl’s arms went around Slash’s waist again; his fingers snaking beneath Slash’s shirt, stroking the soft skin of his lower back, and Slash caressed Axl’s cheek with one hand, using the other to start trying to undo their zippers. Each time they pulled away was an excuse for Slash to run his thumb across Axl’s mouth and stare into his eyes, reading a million emotions on his face.

They backed up to the bed when their zippers were undone, gripping each other like they would explode if they let go. Axl fell back against the mattress, moving up and allowing Slash to crawl between his legs. He was shaking, and his thoughts were racing a mile a minute. He wasn’t entirely sure of what he was doing, but he knew what he wanted, and that was Slash. And Axl liked to be in situations where he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. He unbuttoned Slash’s shirt, and slid it off his arms, gasping into his mouth as the younger man pulled down on his pants, revealing thin boxers and a thin line of fire-red pubes pushing out from the waistband. Slash’s pants came off, too, and they grinded their crotches together for a moment before Slash dipped his head and kissed Axl again, tasting peppermint and cigarettes, a combination which reminded him vaguely of Christmas parties at Vicky’s.

After that, everything came as sort of a blur to Axl; a heated, sexual blur. He watched Slash pull off his boxers, felt his lips on his chest again, tugging the nipple ring. A stirringly electrical heat had begun in the base of his stomach, an ache which he hadn’t felt since the last time, but which he didn’t entirely mind. Sweat was forming on his skin in a thin sheen, and in desperation, Axl gripped Slash, who was pulling his own boxers off, and tugged him back down, slamming their mouths together. Everything was melting together in a blissful, hot sensation of pleasure, and there was only one moment of uncertainty: when both of them were there, naked and vulnerable before each other, and a slight flash of panic crossed Slash’s face as he realized there was no lube.

“Axl…” he started, looking upset and confused, and without thinking, Axl reached between them and stroked his cock until his hand came off sticky and hot with precum. He spread his legs further, reaching between them and spreading himself open. Slash watched this, his eyes wide, feeling more turned on than he had all night at the sight of the singer’s long fingers disappearing and pushing. When Axl was done, he tilted his head and gripped the mattress with both hands, an invitation. Slash swallowed, coated his own length with his hand, and, positioning himself carefully, slipped into Axl for the first time since that hot night on the couch, so many years ago. Axl winced, and Slash stopped instantly, staring down at him through the thick tangle of his hair, waiting. A few seconds later, Axl lifted his hips invitingly, pushing forward, not trusting his voice, and Slash slipped in further and began to thrust.

It was nothing, nothing like it was with Daren. Axl could feel nerve endings reawakening as electricity and heat began to course through his body; the longer Slash went, the louder his moans became, like a wild animal in the jungle. He moved his legs higher on Slash’s waist, forcing the guitarist in deeper, gripped his hair, clawed his back, bit his neck. Slash slammed into him, grunting into Axl’s mouth, matching pitch with each primal scream that Axl emitted. They danced on the mattress, tangling sheets around themselves as they found what they’d been missing, found each other.

Eventually, chest heaving and slick with sweat, Axl felt a familiar build-up in his lower abdomen. He gripped Slash harder, clenching around him, and made an effort to speak:

“Sla’… I… I’m going to…” He shut his eyes and threw his head back, and as Slash ran his dexterous fingers expertly along Axl’s throbbing cock, the redhead came, muscles quivering, toes curling, biting Slash’s shoulder to muffle his screams and drawing a small amount of blood. Slash came a moment later, tumbling downward into a dark spiral, vast and infinite and beautiful as the universe. There was a buzzing in their ears, a gray film over their eyes. Slash held himself up long enough to ride out the final shocks before pulling out and collapsing alongside Axl. He was shaking violently, every muscle in his body alive and charged. He shut his eyes, and moved his hand along the sweat-soaked mattress until he found Axl’s. Their fingers intertwined, and Axl rolled over and kissed Slash’s shoulder, shutting his own eyes and resting his head against the soft slope where his collarbone met his neck.

“Should I go…?” Axl asked softly, after a while.

Slash swallowed. He didn’t say anything, and Axl sighed. Both of them knew the answer to Axl’s question, and both of them knew how hard it was going to be to let go again.

The redhead slid his hand out of Slash’s and he got out of bed, reaching down to pull his jeans and boxers on. “I… Slash…” He hesitated. “Thank you…”

Slash couldn’t bring himself to meet Axl’s eyes. He took a deep breath and, wishing his voice wasn’t shaking so badly, mumbled, “You’re welcome…”

After that, there were no more sounds in the room, except for the quiet shuffling of Axl’s feet as he pulled his clothes back on and found his car keys, resting next to Slash’s. When he was fully dressed again and ready to go, he walked over and stood beside the bed for a moment, staring down at Slash, not saying anything, his eyes brimming over with unshed tears. He reached down and ran his fingers over Slash’s jaw line, down his neck. He breathed in heavily, and the guitarist thought he was going to say something, but he just turned away and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Axl walked down the long corridor, until he got to the elevators. He hit the down button, stepped in, and punched the button that would take him to the first floor. But halfway down he stopped the gears, landing somewhere between the sixth and seventh floors. He sank to the ground in a corner of the elevator, smelling of fresh metal and a faint trace of cleaning liquid, and, with the memory of Slash’s lips still warm on his, Axl Rose began to cry.