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Axl walked in the living room and threw himself on the old brown leather sofa. It smelled of coffee and Jack Daniel’s. And also of Slash’s cologne. He liked it. The sun was staring at him, warm and yellow. He could see dust flying in the air. Sighing, he closed his eyes, thinking of words and chords, hoping to fall asleep, ‘cause he hadn’t slept for two consecutive nights. He was tired. Clenching his fist and his teeth, he forbade himself to think about what had happened. But eventually he did, and couldn’t sleep at all.
How long had he laid there like that? He couldn’t stop thinking. The sound of the door slammed reached his ear, making him open his eyes again. The dust had disappeared, now resting somewhere on the floor and on the sofa. He stood up with a jerk and suddenly hoped he hadn’t done it.
“Fuck, hurts like a bitch,” he whispered to the wind.
He slowly walked to the piano, a hand on his right hip. Sitting in front of it with a moan of pain, he rested his hands on the keys, without playing any note. He closed his eyes, trying to find some sort of peace; but peace was a bitch and hid where he couldn’t reach it. Fuck it, he said to himself, and began to play, bending on the piano. He let the notes ran through his veins with his blood, he let them reach his heart and make it beat hard and crazy. Footsteps were getting closer. His tongue moistened his parted lips, his mouth still tasted of JD. His throat hurt and itched, and he kept trying on clear it, coughing slightly.
Did he know that he was there? Did he hear the piano playing? And why the fuck did Axl care, anyway? Shit, he had to stop. So he played harder, his fingers pushing white and black keys quickly, so quickly that a stab of pain at his hip made him shiver and groan. The music was loud, so loud that he couldn’t hear steps anymore. So he slowed down, his burning hands started to play softly. Axl opened his eyes.
“Rose.”
His heart missed a beat and he pushed the wrong key, making all that wonderful harmony become weak and fall under his fingers to a loud silence, which still tasted of chords. Slash was there, beyond the piano. Axl couldn’t decipher his look, so he looked at his eyes too and tried to resist the urge to look anywhere else.
“The fuck d’you want,” he said after a few moments, starting to play again. Now he could look away.
Slash was making himself closer, until he stood beside him. Axl decided to focus on the music, but it was like something inside of him knew what he was doing. Slash was behind him. He felt a hand touch him – Axl tried not to shiver – and slowly caressed his bare shoulder, just with the fingertips. As if Axl was Slash’s guitar and he had to be delicate.
“Could you –”
“Shut the fuck up,” Axl interrupted him. He knew that he was going to ask him to stop playing and talk.
Slash did, he shut his mouth. He didn’t remove his hand, though, probably because Axl hadn’t said anything about it. Why wasn’t he saying anything, then? Slash was now moving his hand to his arm, up and down, surpassing his tattoos over and over again and shit why was he allowing him to do that? He bit his already swollen lip until he tasted blood on his tongue and he threw his head back, moaning. This time it wasn’t for his hip. Slash had reached his left nipple and was now playing with his piercing. Heat spread all over his body, from his ears to his growing erection. How could he be able to turn him on just with his hands?
“Saul –” Axl called and heard him moan. “Go the fuck away.”
Axl’s hand was now rubbing his own cock with his right hand, searching for friction. The left was still playing, slowly, a melody that always reminded him of Slash. He couldn’t stop, otherwise he would’ve surrendered to him.
“Why?” Slash asked.
He was pinching his nipple, now, soft and then hard, again and again. Then his hand went down, caressing Axl’s stomach. Axl was heavily breathing, panting, unable to answer that question. He knew the answer, though. He just wanted more and more, he needed Slash to touch him fucking more and take care of him like he always did, the way he liked.
Then something happened and he couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. It was like he had swallowed oxygen down his throat. Slash had knelt beside him and was staring at the black and blue spots all over his right side, like big scary freckles. He had touched them with his hand.
“Jesus, fuck, don’t fuckin’ touch it!” he yelled.
Axl had stopped playing, his hand had gripped the keys, producing a crazy uproar. He was trembling, trying to resist the urge to punch him, a hand reached the wounds and his eyes went shut for a moment, until the pain went away.
Turning he started to play again, with both hands. Hopefully that bastard would’ve gone away, now. Bits of two days before reached his mind. Yells, shouts, the two of them fighting between alcohol’s confusion. Jack Daniel’s and joints making them push each other on the wall, with violence, making the anger increase. And that because Axl had touched and caressed Slash’s thigh in front of the guys, Izzy and Duff. He was joking, and they knew it. They were laughing.
With those memories in his mind he kept on playing. The sharp keys of the piano cut his fingertips, and he wrinkled his nose as crimson red started to appear on the white keys.
Then he felt something wet and warm over his wounds, touching him almost sweetly. It was delicate and it unleashed electricity throughout his body. Slash’s lips. Axl lowered his gaze to him. He groaned, feeling his knees shiver and his cock pulse in his grey too tight jeans. Slash’s hand was rubbing gently on his back, up and down. So he had bruises on his back too? Good, he hadn’t noticed.
“Feels good?” Slash asked between a kiss and another.
Yes, it did, but no fucking way he was going to tell him. Slash continued, and then he was leaving trails with his tongue, and Axl fucking loved it. They knew each other’s weakest points. He was moving with the kisses near his jeans. His hand was caressing his thigh.
“Slash, I mean it– get the fuck out,” he said, hoarsely, trying not to moan when Slash touched his cock.
He wanted to push him and shout at him. Because he had bruises on his back and his right side and it was Slash’s fault: when Izzy and Duff had gone away, they had started talking but then it all turned into a fight. Axl was too drunk, he had tried to beat him back but he couldn’t and he managed to punch him twice. At least Slash had a black eye and his bottom lip was swollen.
Slash kept on kissing his bruises and it was so fucking sweet that he could actually throw up. Still, he didn’t want him to stop. What was that? Some sort of way to say he was sorry? Kissing him like a fucking woman? And when had he stopped playing? The all situation was fucked up.
“More,” he found himself saying in a needy whisper. He wanted to regret it but he didn’t, ‘cause he did want more.
Slash got the message and started to undo the button of his jeans, hastily. Axl moaned because Slash’s palm was rubbing his cock and he really needed something to be done with it, so he helped him. His pants reached the wooden floor, his belt rattling against it. Slash got between his legs and kissed his erection above the fabric of his boxers, then removed them too and started licking his inner thigh. Axl’s hands reached his curly black hair and tightened it, making him groan. He wanted more, and he would have had it. Slash moved to his cock then and kissed the top, before sucking it in his lips. Axl had to grip something and it happened to be the piano. Slash started moving faster, down sucking his skin in his warm mouth, and touching it, and his cock was pulsing. Axl pulled his head back from his hair only to see his dark brown eyes and loose himself looking at them. Fuckin’ Slash.
Slash got up from the ground with a push and kissed him, their mouth clashing together. Axl instinctively opened his and pushed his tongue on his lips, hard, until he parted them open and allowed him to trust in his mouth with violence. It was a wet kiss, and hot too, and tasted of whiskey.
Suddenly, Axl was too naked and he was too dressed, so he moved away from the kiss to get on the floor and remove his black Guns ‘n’ Roses shirt. Slash lifted his arms and he threw it on the floor, then took his face and kissed him again. Axl bit him hard on his bottom lip, where it was already wounded and swollen, and the kiss now tasted of blood too and he liked it way too much. He liked to hurt him, to see him in that state, flushed, looking for air, pupils dilated with desire... and blood draining a little to his chin.
“Axl,” he murmured. “Axl...”
He loved the way he would tell his name. It sounded so sexy and so victim. He bent over him again and buried his face in his neck to suck his skin between his lips.
“No marks – Rose,” Slash remembered him.
“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit.”
Returning to his hickey, he sucked harder, reaching his pants with his right hand and cupping his erection, then he pushed.
“Fuck!”
Laughing slightly, Axl licked the red-violet mark burning on his skin and kissed it. It said that Slash was his. He pushed him to the ground and removed his pants and his boxers, seeing his erection slip out of the trap and curve to his stomach. He took it in his hand and started pumping it, and with his mouth started kissing his chest, following a path made of little brown moles that he knew by heart. What the fuck was he doing? Being sentimental when he just wanted to kill him with his hands. But still, still he couldn’t get himself to hurt him more than that.
Axl stopped and just looked at him. He felt Slash’s hands on his back, gently touching him, then reaching his head, his fingers tangled with his hair. Closing his eyes, he let himself focus on those hands and on his heart pumping fast in his chest. Slash was now removing his blue bandana, pushing hair strands behind his ear.
“Does it hurt?” Slash asked.
“My dick? Yes, it hurts, hurry.”
“Not your fucking dick. You know what.”
Axl opened his eyes and smiled. Nothing was funny, though.
“What? You talking about those black and blues?” Slash didn’t say anything. “They were drunk, for fuck’s sake, did you have to beat me like that?” The rage came back all together and he was stroking his erection now, didn’t care about Slash’s moans. “You left me on the floor. I couldn’t fucking move, you dick.”
But then why was he talking? He wanted to be fucked so he just shut the hell up and bent to kiss him again and lick the blood on his chin. Slash must have understood his needs because kissed him back, lifting his hips to gain some friction between their cocks. They moaned in each other’s mouth. Resting their foreheads one against the other, Axl felt Slash’s index and middle fingers push inside his hole. He arched his back and gripped Slash’s arm, nearly sticking his nails in his flesh. Slash started moving, slow, moving in and out him for a few moments. Axl was now breathing against his mouth, nodding, because the comfortable feeling came back from all the fucks they had.
“C’mon –” he painted, biting at his neck and his shoulder, spreading his legs and moving until he felt Slash’s cock’s top on his opening. He spit on his hand and reached his erection, giving it a few strokes before sticking his hand in his hair. “Fucking hard.”
And Slash did. He pushed hard in him, making him shout his birth name to the air. He then started thrusting, fast and hard like Axl wanted. He felt heat to his cock and to his cheeks, he felt Slash’s cock fill him up so well, so nice and deep. Each thrust, he moaned more and louder, touching his chest and legs. He lifted himself up and threw his head back, starting to push himself down on him, reaching him like they always did.
The air filled with the smell of sex, sweat, and Slash’s cologne. Axl took his erection in his hand to stroke it, following his thrusts. He loved to hear his voice moan, he fucking loved that his hands were still touching him so softly. Axl could tell that he felt guilty. With his other hand he was caressing himself, pinching his nipples.
“Fuck, do it again,” Slash said, biting at his bottom lip.
Axl did. Because he wasn’t mad anymore, because Slash’s voice was sexy and ‘cause maybe he loved him like stupid girls did love men. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like he had to tell him.
“Jesus! There, Saul, there!” he said, and then came all over Slash’s chest.
Slash came too, a few thrusts after, inside him, screaming his name. Just like Axl wanted.
Usually they dressed right after, but in that moment something happened and Slash just held him down, touching the bruises on Axl’s skin with his fingertips, making him shiver. Then they kissed, a tired kiss, slow and sloppy.
“Don’t you ever fucking leave me,” Slash said.
They finally fell asleep, there, on the floor.