Chapter Text
“Look, man, whatever this thing is, it’s—I can’t just fuckin’, y’know, compartmentalize it the way you do.”
Axl freezes, his neck taut and his jaw fixed into a tight, nigh painful clench. No. He’s always dreaded this moment, always feared the instance in which Slash decides to break the ice, the day Slash has enough. If it’s just physical—if it’s all just fun and games, something to cure the boredom or still the adrenaline high—he can write it off. It doesn’t need to mean a thing, it doesn’t need a name, it doesn’t need to be defined. It shouldn’t, it mustn’t.
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he grits out, voice gravelly and he can’t seem to lift his gaze enough to meet the other man’s haunting eyes; fixating blindly on the obscenely poised lady printed across the guitarist’s faded tee instead.
“Yeah, that’s bullshit and you fuckin’ know it.”
Slash rarely ever bristles. Well, he didn’t use to, but a lot of things have changed in the past three or so years, haven’t they? Erin has grown cold, Slash developed fangs. Axl supposes that even he used to be a bit more mellow, a bit more jovial. Nicer, as Izzy puts it. You used to be nicer. Axl scoffs, rolling his eyes a lot more overtly, a lot more dramatically than he'd planned to and he’s met with a staunch huff of disapproval, watching Slash defiantly fold his arms over his chest.
“I don’t care whatever you wanna call it, Ax. I don’t give a fuckin’ shit, but it’s messin’ with my head. You get off on fuckin’ with me or somethin’?”
“You never fuckin’ complained before,” Axl snaps before he can let the admission sit with him, before he realizes he might have taken it the wrong way, “y'don't think it's a bit too late to back out now?”
“Not that, you fuckin’ cunt!” Slash retorts as if on que, throwing one arm out and raising his voice in a rare display of sheer frustration. “D’you think it’s the goddamn sex I’m fuckin’ yappin’ about? I don’t care about that, it’s good—no, fuck that, it’s great! You know that, and don’t fuckin’ tell me you don’t agree ‘cause I can fuckin’ hear it. I can feel it, every motherfuckin’ time! So don’t you dare stand there and tell me that’s what you think this is all about. You fuckin’ love that shit, and you know it.”
The heat that rises in the redhead’s cheeks is born out of equal amounts shame and rage. He wants to lean into the anger, hands curling into tight balls as he straightens up—but he still can’t seem to find the courage to look the other man in the eye. It’s pathetic; enough to make his stomach churn, enough to make his throat constrict as he swallows down the bitter taste of bile and regret. His face burns, his fists shake but he continues to glare unseeingly at a printed pair of tits and long legs in stockings.
He's been known to disassociate, say where's that particular skill now, he can't help but wonder. The tone Axl settles for is a low hiss, loathing the mortification of being forced to admit it—he does enjoy the sex, in fact, he'd wager it's some of the best he's ever had.
“Seems you got your answer, so I don’t know what the fuck you’re moanin’ about.”
An unamused bark of a laugh, sarcasm laced with utter disbelief, is all Slash offers for a reply. It stings, almost as much as the sharp pang ricocheting inside Axl’s chest. Guilt, pure and unbridled, because he knows he’s destroying something beautiful. Something ravenous and unquenchable, yes, but beautiful nonetheless. He doesn’t want to name it, but it’s there and it’s real and it’s tangible and it’s overwhelming. It’s terrifying.
A long, loud sigh fills the empty space between them as Slash tips his head back in half surrender, and Axl catches every tiny movement in his periphery. When he speaks again, his voice is back to that trademark soft, almost docile tone everyone knows him for. Building bridges where Axl always seems to want to tear them right back down. Offering an olive branch when Axl is ready to set the city ablaze.
“I’m tired s’all.”
“Got it,” the redhead nods curtly, unable not to visibly flinch at the awkward silence that follows.
His skin crawls. It was never supposed to be this way, it was never supposed to have any weight to it. When did it change, where did it all go wrong? Men don’t care for other men, not the way he and Slash have grown to care for one another. Axl knows that; it's been thoroughly drilled into his skull since he was a toddler. He adores Erin, he worships her, she's everything he's supposed to want. He's a man, he reminds himself. Men like women and only women, men don’t pursue other men, men don’t get aroused by other men, men don’t—
“Are you always gonna be this way?”
It’s a rhetorical question that pulls Axl out of his internal struggle, because they both know Axl will never change. He can’t. He wants desperately to reply with something witty, something to distract them both from the seriousness of the moment. Something to reassure them both nothing has shifted. For having been called so brilliant and praised for his lyricism, he sure can’t seem to find any words and ends up offering a half hearted shrug instead.
“Alright,” Slash says, and normally that would be it. “Okay.”
Normally, they would take it as a truce and move on to lick their wounds. Except the tone is one Axl doesn’t think he’s ever heard before; weak, unguarded, vulnerable. Deflated, and defeated. It’s enough to fuel the fire of the redhead’s shame once more, until he feels sick from it and he can’t help himself but look up. The second he locks eyes with Slash, he knows he shouldn’t have.
There’s no tears—Slash isn’t much of a crier, that’s another stark difference between them—but there’s an ashen sheen to his dark complexion. He looks drained, his curls less bouncy, and Axl knows it’s his fault. He’s not sure what his own expression reveals but it can’t be good, because the guitarist seems to be turning away, getting ready to leave. Getting ready to walk away, and Axl finds he can’t allow it.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Slash stills, brows furrowing and the singer swallows hard. Usually, he stays silent. Usually, he lets the other man go—but something is different and he can’t afford to take the risk of the guitarist not coming back.
“I don’t know. It ain’t like I’m expectin’ some… y’know. I just—I care. About this. About you, about us,” Slash weakly waves one hand between them, the gesture as lackluster as his solemn stare.
Axl can't decide whether he wanted or even needed to hear Slash voice his concerns, but it knocks something loose. Axl hates the way his breath hitches, the way his heart stutters, the way his mouth goes dry. Fuck you, he wants to say. Fuck you for making it so easy, fuck you for just saying it outright, fuck you for forcing me to acknowledge it. He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. There’s no bite there, no venom to spit.
“I know,” he finally settles for, voice barely above a whisper. “Fuck, I know.”
“I know,” the guitarist dumbly parrots back at him, a soft yet sad smile tugging the corners of his lips upwards. “That’s it, huh? You just… know.”
God, there’s so many things Axl could say, so many things he should say. I care about you, too. I care, I always have, I always will, you’re the most important person in my life, you’re all I have, you’re the only one who gets me, the only one who knows me. If he wasn’t who he is, he’d let it all spill out like a waterfall—but there’s a blockage somewhere and he can’t seem to get it out of the way. He clenches and unclenches his fists one, two, three times. Fuck, it’s pathetic.
“I…” he tries and fails, the sound dying away on his tongue before he clears his throat and tries again. “Saul, I can’t…”
“But you do,” Slash presses, a lot more determined now as he twists back towards the singer. “Don’t you?”
It’s Axl’s turn to let out a sharp, hollow little laugh that has nothing to do with amusement. Of course he does, he’s not made of stone however much he’d like to be. He’s made of glass, and just as brittle, just as easily shattered. When Slash takes a tentative step to close the gap; he doesn’t rear back, he doesn’t startle, he doesn’t wince. He forces himself to stand still, to accept it because it’s different. Something has changed, something is shifting between them.
“Don’t you?” the guitarist repeats, closing what’s left of the distance between them.
The singer feels too much like a deer in the headlights as the other man’s sincere gaze finds his and clings to it, holding onto it with such fervour that he couldn’t look away if he wanted to. Perhaps he does, perhaps not, Axl’s not even certain himself anymore. When a hesitant hand comes up to cup the side of his face, he’s surprised to find that he allows it—not only that, but the redhead leans into the caress, resting his suddenly heavy head firmly against a familiar, callused palm. Has Slash always been this gentle with him? This patient? This compassionate?
“Yeah,” he breathes at last, finally breaking their stare and he feels his bottom lip quiver with something that isn’t quite anticipation. “Yeah. I do.”
They don’t do this. They don’t do this sort of schmoozy, lovey-dovey shit. They don’t pine, they don’t long, they don’t do tender. They do rough, they collide, they fight and fuck like two animals in heat. They do brotherhood, always there to rely on one another, always there to have each other’s backs. This isn’t a relationship, men don’t do that. This is a friendship, an unbreakable bond, something clear-cut and clean and easily defined. They care, but there’s no love—and if there is, it’s not that kind of love.
That’s it, that’s all it’s meant to be.
Except Axl has known for longer than he cares to admit that it’s not enough, and it hasn’t been for a long time. He cares about Slash, but not in the way he ought to. It goes far beyond that, far beyond convention, far beyond friends or family. Far too much like how he cares for Erin, and nothing like how he cates for Izzy. His chest tightens because he knows the term, but he can’t say it, he can’t even think it. It shouldn't even be an option.
“Axl.”
Slash’s voice is just as much of a plea as it is a demand, but it’s strangely reassuring. It should be what breaks the spell, it should be enough to materialize every single one of the redhead’s wildest fears. It isn’t. When he fully closes his eyes, he doesn't need to see it to know that the smile plastered across the guitarist’s face is much warmer, much more genuine—so full of adoration that it ought to be a felony. It’s ridiculous, really fucking ridiculous.
Without thinking, Axl’s hands come up. He doesn’t care to open his eyes, even as his fingers clumsily find the sides of Slash’s head, even as they wind themselves into soft dark curls. He tugs gently: both surprised and not to meet zero resistance. The exhale he lets out is unsteady at best, the tip of his nose briefly bumping against the other man’s like a bumbling, foolish teenager. They don’t do tender, they don’t do sweet, they don’t do romantic because this isn’t a romance, this isn’t a fairytale, this isn’t a dream. But perhaps it doesn’t need to be?
They don’t kiss on the mouth, they don’t hold hands, they don’t cuddle. Except now, as the redhead crowds himself into Slash’s personal space—their lips meet. It’s not electric, but it is exhilarating. It’s not sinful, but chaste and uncertain. As if neither of them have ever kissed anyone before in their lives, as if this moment somehow cancels out all the teeth, the nails, the bruises and cuts and scratches and scabs. It’s not just nice. It’s not just sickly, sweetly saccharine and insanely cheesy. It’s everything, and just this once, Axl allows himself to admit it if only to himself.
He won’t say it out loud, and he knows deep down he doesn’t need to. Not anymore, not now, not yet. But he can think it, he can feel it, and he can express it. Their mouths slot together, a soft humming sound of approval coming from Slash, like he's a purring pussycat and the redhead replies with an airy sigh, letting the tension of the unknown fade away. For now, Axl allows himself to care more than he ought to because he knows he's not the only one.
I love you, you absolute motherfucker, he thinks. God-fucking-damnit, I fucking love you.