1989

You initially met Slash at a pub. He noticed your Guns N Roses tee, and from then on, after constantly coming back there just to see you between shots of tequila, he asked you to 'fake date' him.

All his bandmates believed that. The kisses, hand placement, exaggerated acts between you two— except Izzy until you told him personally that it was all bullshit, but it just kept going on.

The night had stretched longer than it should’ve.

The show was over, the crowd gone, the chaos dying down in the corners of the house. Most of the guys were scattered — drinking, smoking, disappearing into other rooms — but you were still up, searching the cabinets in the dim-lit bathroom for the first aid kit. You found it, just as footsteps echoed behind you.

Izzy.

He didn’t say a word at first, just leaned against the doorframe, bruised and bleeding slightly from some scuffle that erupted over nothing backstage. You gave him a tired look — part concern, part exhaustion — and motioned him in.

“Sit,” you said, nodding to the counter.

He obeyed without a word, letting you get close, clean the cut on his cheek, silence hanging heavy between you.

“You and Slash still at it?” he finally muttered, voice low, guarded.

You paused. “He thinks he knows everything. About me. About you.”

That made Izzy smirk. Not with amusement — something more bitter. “He doesn’t see you. Not like I do.”

You swallowed hard.

When you turned away to put the gauze down, Izzy moved. Not suddenly, not forcefully — just enough to close the space between you. His fingers brushed your wrist. You looked up.

“He doesn’t notice how quiet you get when you're hurt,” he added, voice quieter now. “But I do.”

Your heart thudded, traitorous and loud in your chest.

He reached out, hands on your waist — light, hesitant. You didn’t pull away. He lifted you gently to sit on the counter. The same place you’d argued with Axl months ago. The same place everything always seemed to circle back to.

Izzy stood between your legs, just close enough to feel his warmth.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmured, eyes on yours.
“But I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”