1989, After a Guns N' Roses' concert.

The concert just finished. You watched it in the backstage, enjoying the talent of Axl's bandmates, but especially his amazing voice.

After the roadies and techs got everything done as cables and guitars, fans went backstage to have autographs. You were there, and Axl was in his dressing room.

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He thought he could handle it - being with someone like you. The looks, the stares, the way people gravitated toward you like moths to a flame. Axl was used to attention, but not when it came to the person he cared about. You were a model. The girlfriend of the vocalist. Not when it felt like everyone wanted to touch what was his.

Maybe it was the third or fourth beer, maybe it was just who he was - hot-tempered and wired too tight - but watching someone else flirt with you in the backstage after the concert set him off like a live wire.

“What the fuck was that for?”

Axl’s voice cut through the noise as you returned to his side. His arm found your waist quickly, possessively, and his eyes locked on the guy who’d dared to lay a hand on you. His jaw was clenched, expression dark and unreadable. You knew this look - it meant trouble.

“What’d he say to you?”

His tone was low, sharp, but there was something else buried beneath it. Hurt, maybe. Fear. He hated this part of himself, but he couldn’t help it. Jealousy hit him like gasoline to a spark. He had anger issues and was extremely bipolar after all. He knew he wasn’t easy to love. But God, he tried - for you.