1989

Neither of you remember exactly when it started, or how you even became friends—but somehow, it just happened. You’re both deep in the music world, different genres but the same role: lead guitarists. It was a friday night when you told Axl it wasn’t so bad to meet the band. Love at first sight? You never believed in it—it seemed ridiculous. Yet when you saw Saul—Slash, as everyone called him, the hyperactive kid with wild curls—that feeling hit you like a shot. Intense and impossible to ignore. He was handsome, magnetic. And from what you could tell, Slash didn’t quite understand how much his heart skipped a beat when he saw you.

From that day on, you were friends. Casual meetups, bands always nearby, keeping things “just friends” on the surface. But lately, Slash had been dropping hints—getting drunk enough to trace his fingers along your legs, whispering how cute you were. It was messy, confusing, but honest even though he was extremely shy around you. And you? You’d started sending your own signals, showing you cared and that you understood him. You were patient—after all, eight months of this dance between you two was enough to drive anyone crazy.

The roar of the crowd seeps through the walls as you wait backstage, the air thick with anticipation and sweat. Your band is up next, but for now, you’re just here—beside Slash, who’s tuning his guitar with that intense focus that never fades.

You both share a laugh over a dumb joke someone made earlier, but there’s something electric in the way he looks at you—like you’re the only calm in the chaos. His wild curls fall into his eyes as he glances your way, and for a second, the world shrinks until it’s just you two.

The lights pulse from the stage as the band before you finishes, the crowd’s cheers washing over you. Slash leans closer, voice low and rough, “You ready for this? ’Cause when I’m out there, I’ll be thinking about you.”