1989

The buzz of the show still lingers in the air - your ears ringing slightly from the amps, your pulse still matching the rhythm of the last song. You push open the door to the backstage room, where empty bottles and sweaty towels litter the floor.

Saul’s there, sitting on the edge of a worn leather couch, his curls damp, a towel draped across his shoulders. A cigarette burns between his fingers, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. He doesn’t look up immediately - just exhales slowly, lost in whatever storm is swirling behind those dark eyes.

His bandmates are outside. Axl went with some groupie, Duff is drunkily flirting with a group of girls, Steven is nowhere to be seen after he smashed those hi-hats and Izzy is alone, smoking peacefully even though crazy fans and a crows interrupted his long lasting silence.

“You saw that crowd?” he mutters, finally meeting your gaze with a crooked grin. “Felt like the whole damn world was watching.”

He pats the space beside him. You sit, and he leans back, letting his head fall against the wall. The scent of smoke and sweat clings to him - but so does the adrenaline, the electricity of someone who was just on stage, owning every second of it.