Ch. 3 – Estranged
… 'I'll never find anyone to replace you
Guess I'll have to make it through, this time - oh this time
Without you
I knew the storm was getting closer
And all my friends said I was high
But everything we've ever known's here
I never wanted it to die' …
['Estranged'… Guns N' Roses]
….
Warnings: M/M/M semi-explicit sex
….
1994 – Malibu, Axl's mansion
Axl sat at a white piano in a white room, fingers trailing idly along the keys, slipping through melodies as the sun sets to the west of his mountaintop Malibu home. The notes rang clearly in the open space…the intro to 'November Rain' warping slowly into 'Estranged' as darkness wraps around the clean, sterile building.
A half empty bottle of brown liquor casts shimmery reflections around itself from its seat atop the piano. A fingerprint-stained empty glass rests on the far right end of the keyboard, overflowing ashtray on the left.
Everyone's gone, even the housekeeper, leaving Axl in hollow isolation, breaking the silence with bittersweet, melancholic music, played softly against the inky backdrop of the California hills at night.
He's been idly tracing the same few keys over and over again for a while now, mind buzzing blankly like the white snow of a TV with all the channels off-air.
"Well…this seems…brilliantly depressing."
Axl whips his head around, hand flattening on the keys to a discordant noise. Behind him stand two blonde men dressed like street trash…or, nearly identical to the jeans and flannel Axl's clothed in. Anger and vague unease rise as Axl does, stepping easily over the piano seat to face the intruders.
"How the FUCK did you get in here? Leave now or I'll call the fuckin' cops."
The young man with the loose, shaggy wheat-blonde locks smirks, stirring an odd sense of familiarity.
"Is that any way to treat old friends? I'd thought you'd be pleased to see us again."
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about asshole, I've never seen you before in my life."
"So sure about that, hmm?" The smirker takes a deep draw on a cigarette, while his companion's tongue darts out of an almost-shy smile, drawing a lower lip in to chew on idly, eyes bright with humor.
Axl stared hard at the two, something about the one with wild curls and deep sea-green eyes drawing out old memories, and he grimaced at the pain it brought. It all came back like a hammer blow; the feel of a wild summer night, their music exploding out of them, wild and loud, rolling over the audience that screamed and writhed and poured that energy right back; his broken, beautiful family leaning on each other and playing, screaming, drinking, fucking till they succumbed to inebriation. He looks again at the two, recognition dawning.
"You…you two were part of that biker gang."
"Bingo. Someone hand the man a prize."
At Axl's frown, the taller man chuckles. "David." He indicates himself, then the curly-haired younger man. "and Marko. At your service." Marko's smile grows wide, crinkling his eyes.
"SHIT, yeah!" Axl starts, suddenly remembering. "But how the fuck did you get past the gate?"
David's smirk turns into a friendly grin, shrugs nonchalantly. "Just hopped over. Not that hard."
Eyes narrowing, Axl considers the pair. He knows the security in place, though caught in the gaze of those cool blue eyes his concerns fade, growing hazy and unimportant.
"Oh…yeah. I guess."
Marko is now chewing on a thumb, glancing with amusement between the redhead and David. Axl fixes on the younger man, brows knitting.
"Jesus, you don't look a day older. Bet you still get carded, yeah?"
Marko frowns as David's laugh booms in the echoing space though he moves in when David throws an arm over his shoulder. "Yeah, he still does."
Axl is giving David a shrewd look, taking in the face-framing pale gold hair, the matching beard kept short, the pale suede jacket and flannel beneath lending the man a Seattle-meets-Texas appearance that's at odds with Marko's ragged LA street-urchin vibe. Another image flashes in the redhead's mind as he considers them.
"You…I've seen you since then…I remember."
David flashes bright white teeth. "That's right."
"You were alone last time."
Glancing at Marko, there's a softer look on David's face as he gives a quick squeeze with the arm draped on the curly-haired man's shoulders.
"Yeah. It's taking a while, but my brothers are starting to come back to me."
Axl looks at the two, aching loss hitting him like truck. Anger boils up, till he's snarling at pair.
"Get the fuck out of here, I don't know what the fuck you want anyway. I'm not offering handouts."
The redhead turns away, hands clenched and shaking, even as something in his mind screams not to turn his back on the two men. A hand on his shoulder has him spinning, fist already swinging wildly.
It's caught and held so easily he nearly collapses against David, catching himself at the last moment to sway erratically, eyes wide-rimmed at the near collision. Icy blue eyes are pinning him again, full lips so close he could lick the smirk off of them without moving an inch.
"Easy there. We're not looking for charity. We just came to talk." Cool breath puffs soothingly over Axl's skin, as the silken voice slips under it, to leave the redhead trying to hide the faint shiver flowing from David's touch.
"And maybe get a drink." Marko pipes up.
Round cheeks covered in golden down curve up with amusement, but something dark glints in the cool gaze boring into Axl. His mind goes foggy again, but he catches the hint, swallowing dryly and turning his head as that magnetic glance sets him free.
"Drinks? Yeah, I can do that. Come on."
Walking towards the kitchen, he gives only a quick look back to ensure his guests are following him. Opening a wide set of cabinets filled to the brim with bottles, it's his turn to smirk.
"Pick your poison."
They pluck a couple of bottles of JD off the shelves, and he grabs one as well. He opens another cabinet, and they pick up glasses, then follow him out a sitting area with plush white couches and a low table.
Axl sits first, frowning slightly as Marko sits next to him on the sofa, David off to his left has pulled up a chair and turned it, facing him nearly head on. The shaggy blonde throws a leg over the nearest arm of his chair, sharp smile weaving behind a full glass of whiskey as he lounges back.
Marko's got his own glass topped off, and reaches over to fill Axl's as well, his sly look ruining the sense of deference to the redhead he's crowding as he pours. Axl mutters thanks, picking up the glass and leaning back to toss half of it down in one go, one leg tucking crosswise under the other. Marko nods, bringing a bent leg up, boot resting on the edge of the couch, pale knee peeking thru tattered jeans nearly brushing Axl's hip as he angles to face the other man.
The sense of entrapment rankles, and Axl shifts uncomfortably, glancing around but unwilling to look directly at either of the men sitting so closely.
"This house just for you?"
Axl's head snaps up, sucked in once again by David's gaze. He tries to shake his head, but his eyes won't seem to move when his head shifts back and forth.
"It was…I had a family…almost."
The redhead finally wrenches his eyes away, glancing at the darkness outside the window. Angry at himself for giving away more than he wanted to. The wife to be, the child that never was, the last things he wanted to discuss with a couple of bikers from a debauched gig in the far distant past.
David's gaze never wavers as he watches the musician sigh and shift in his seat.
"Too bad. Some of us just aren't meant for normal family life."
Axl's eyes flick David's way without meeting the blonde's glance before dancing away. Heaving another sigh, he brushes back silken red locks in defeat, slumping down in the couch again and nearly emptying his glass.
"Yeah…but it would have been…nice, I guess. Could have been."
"What about your band? And your music?"
The velvet voice wraps like a shroud around his heart, a sharp pain flashing through Axl's gut, and he grunts, leaning over the arm of the sofa, head turned away from these too-curious acquaintances...strangers, really. Tears sting his eyes as he covers his face with his free hand, breathing heavy, wishing they'd just go away and leave him in peace.
It's too much to take tonight, the empty darkness closing in, aching loneliness a howling void inside him. He's got nothing left, nothing to give these vultures that have come to pick at his bones and jeer about the past and what had been.
"Just FUCK OFF!"
Axl screeches back at their imagined jibes, hands waving, liquor spilling across the white carpet. He pulls in on himself, knees up in attempt at a barrier as his chin dips toward his chest to shut out the world.
There's a hand on his shoulder, so light and gentle it makes him shake, lightning rage boiling up to snap his limbs, sending glasses, the coffee table, the mostly full bottles, flying haphazardly away in a chaotic spray of liquid and shrapnel. More hands now, holding him without malice, restraining his flailing with care, soft voices whisper reassurances in his ears, in his head, almost driving out all other thoughts, almost drive away awareness of encroaching dark.
Axl sobs at the image, the dark like an enfolding monster from one of Slash's favored campy horrors, a hungry void sucking them in one by one till he was the only one left, too tired and empty to fight as it loomed over him, poised to drag him under.
The hands are soft, enfolding in their own way, one that doesn't leave him frozen with fear. The lips are soft too, and soothingly cool on his fevered skin. Bright, almost blinding light becomes a dim glow against his eyelids.
He feels bare, shivers at the feeling of vulnerability, exposure. Tender voices fill his mind, dry and warm and calming, easing the ache with words that fade before he can grasp them, commit them to his poetic memory.
Those cool lips meet his, and Axl finds himself frantic, reaching out with desperate arms, an insatiable mouth, wrapping around the body draping itself atop him. There's another body, slipping under his, strong and comforting arms pulling him close, a mouth trailing kisses along his shoulder, the feel of flannel and denim, soft and rough and hard in places anchoring him, giving him shelter from the void still trying to batter his soul to pieces.
Above him, there's a smooth and hungry mouth devouring him, inch by inch, strip by strip. A tongue that touches, laps, suckles, prods as it tastes every bit of his nakedness till his damp skin trembles with cold, and an aching, diamond-hard hunger. Hands that caress, roll, pull, spread, leave him writhing and arching, begging for more contact.
Axl's eyes are clenched shut, yet still drown in twin ice blue oceans that flood his kaleidoscope mind. His skin burns where cool hands brush it, and somewhere on the outside of him a mouth and tongue like silk work him ravenously, while insatiable weight and pressure spark lightning through his groin with every tap. He's dimly aware of his own cries, the keening wails and gibbering curses pulled out of him as he's brought to the excruciating edge of savage release again and again, only to be tortuously denied, becalmed, driven mad once more.
Time drifts, and his mind with it, awareness whittled down to blind, voracious need, a pressure building so intense his balls have surely become a grenade, threatening an explosion to leave him in pieces, strewn wet and red across the entire room. When the dark gods finally have mercy on him, he's not wrong, the gut-twisting climax a hurricane of lightning; sparks of pain and pleasure so intense his screams rattle the floor to ceiling windows, body arched like a bridge between two mouths locked so tightly on him it feels as though they stretch his skin taut, anchored by sharp pins.
He's sure he's seizing, his body ready to fly apart, taking his mind with it. Just before he passes out, piercing blue lights flood his brain, and the darkness within him recedes, pales, burning away like fog under the morning sun, leaving only traces of damp and a few echoes of soft grey behind, and a single word, at once bitterly ironic and desperately hopeful. "Patience."
….
The late morning sun is cooking him as it pours through the two-story bank of windows that face the eastern Cali mountains. Axl plants a hand over his face to shield his throbbing eyes, gradually becoming aware that his bare ass is laying sprawled out in the common area, though it feels like there's maybe a t-shirt or something covering his dignity, or what's left of it.
Sitting up slowly, Axl groans, tucking long strawberry strands behind an ear. He squints as he looks around, hoping no one's arrived yet and he can make it up to his bedroom to peel off the shirt he's quite sure has glued itself to his crotch with hard-dried jizz.
It takes a second pass to realize Duff is sitting right next to him, bottle in one hand and cigarette in the other. Duff's eyebrows are crawling up toward his hairline, eyes bright with humor as he meets Axl's gaze. Axl scowls, hand snaking out to grab the lit cigarette and taking a deep pull that leaves half of it ash.
"Wild night?"
Axl growls. Duff hands him the bottle as a peace offering.
As Axl takes a swig, Duff looks him over. "Haven't seen a hickey that dark in years. You could at least share the dirty details." Axl does a spit-take, whiskey spraying wide as he coughs and heaves. Luckily, Duff is off to his side and mostly out of the splash zone, laughing too much to be sore about it.
Swearing, the redhead holds the shirt in a death grip as he clambers over the couch, stomping towards the stairs, Duff's laughter trailing after him. He heads for the shower still clutching the shirt, knowing he'd snatch his crotch bald if he didn't soak it down first. Stopping a moment, he glared at the mirror and the dark purple bruise staining the juncture of his neck and shoulder, advertising his escapade to the world.
….
They finally make it to the studio, Axl with a high collared shirt and a scarf wrapped like a bandage around his neck, much to Duff's continued amusement. Everyone else is there and ready to go, though Slash is flying again, if the dreamy look and the way he's splayed across one of the lounge couches is any indication.
Scowling, the redhead moves to stand at the edge of the couch, looming vulture-like over the lead guitarist.
"Hey… Axl. We gonna…play?" Slash's quiet words slip slow and hazy from his full lips.
"We are. Are you?"
Axl kicks the couch with enough force to make Slash bounce, and the mocha-skinned man yelps and grabs at the cushions like the furniture was gonna buck him off. He sits up, rubbing the back of his head, just in time to see the singer storming off towards the sound booth. Duff gives his fellow guitarist a sympathetic shrug before trailing after Axl.
The afternoon is fraught with tension and conflict. None of the songs are finished, pieces of riffs and lines of lyrics are jarringly out of sync and apparently no one can craft a bridge to save their miserable lives. By five o'clock, Slash and Duff are crashing hard, several large and empty bottles scattered around their feet as their scattered instrumental ramblings rise and fall without regard for the rest of their bandmates.
Axl finally goes off, throwing an epic fit, complete with thrown bottles and (the cheaper) equipment, screaming vulgarities that make the windows rattle, and it's almost shocking they don't actually melt from the base vulgarities pouring out of him. Matt, Dizzy and Gilby decide to take a break, and, dodging missiles, slip away from ground zero.
Finally noticing half the band has vanished slows Axl's tirade, and he pauses, panting and glaring at Duff and Slash. He wants to scream at them until he knows they see how everything's falling apart. His fists itch to wail on them till they're free from the hold of the drugs and drink that dull them out, numbing the fierce passion that they used to have. He wants to shake them, hold them, beat them, cry on them, do whatever it takes to show them he cares, to find out if they still do too.
He stands, trembling in the aftermath of adrenaline, blinking too-moist eyes, arms crossed protectively, fingers digging deep into his own skin. They sit, sharing cigarettes and one more bottle, guitars resting at their feet, seemingly unconcerned, untouched, almost unaware that he's even still there.
"We're done. I'll have someone call you for the next rehearsal." Axl's voice is low and deep and soft, and he turns away without looking to see if they've heard him, heading out of the studio, waving and tossing an "I'll call you." over his shoulder at the trio chatting quietly in the outer sitting area.
The driver looks up as he dives into the back seat of the car. Hearing a mumbled "Home." he fires up the engine, pulling out and pointing the vehicle in the direction of the shining white house on the hill.
Barely a full day has passed, and Axl is right back where he started, hunched over his piano in the sterile silence of his fortress of solitude as night descends. Knowing he'll get nowhere with his music tonight, he pours a full glass of whiskey, drinking it in two long gulps.
He carries another full glass with him as he heads up to his bedroom, placing it on the nightstand and crawling under the covers. As he'd hoped, the amber liquid has dulled his racing mind, and he relaxes as he's finally able to drift away from the heartache the day has brought.
Deep in the night, Axl dreams of a pair of pale blue eyes, cool and clear and bottomless as icy mountain lakes, drawing him in till he's drowning in their depths. Sunk down deep, he's almost numb, the pain of caring so deeply for a fractured family that's crumbling to dust a hazy, distant feeling.
Cradled softly in his glacial dream-sanctuary, there's a sense this isn't just his own place of peace, that someone else is sharing the refuge, not demanding anything of him, just existing quietly in the same space. It's even more comforting, knowing he's not the only one that needs this distance, this shelter from the storms of life.
When Axl finally wakes, the day is still young, sun low over the eastern hills. The glow and the stillness of the house have a tranquility that's nourishing to his injured soul.
In some small measure, there's an ease, a patch of restoration inside him that wasn't there before. He lays in bed and watches the light travel over the room as the sun slowly rises, feeling as though there's a path to the future; that despite the trials surely to come, he'll find the patience he needs to see him through to the better, brighter day glinting on the far distant horizon.