It’s 3AM, and the city outside is still buzzing - but you’re not asleep. Sleep evades you, and you're just about ready to give up when you hear it - the soft creak of the floorboards, a faint breath.

He’s awake too.

You find him in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, and leaning against the counter like he’s been pacing for hours. His long straight strawberry blonde haur falling over his exposed shoulders. There’s a cigarette burning between his fingers, and his eyes, still lined in yesterday’s eyeliner, glance up at you with a mix of surprise and recognition. Axl - or whatever version of him tonight decides to show up - lets out a breath.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asks, voice low and rough with exhaustion or something heavier. He’s always like this after a show - electric, frayed at the edges, buzzing with too much thought and not enough silence.

This version of him - the quiet one - only shows up when the rest of the world is asleep.