1992
Neither of you remember exactly when it started—or how. Somewhere along the late-night gigs, afterparties, and shared cigarettes, you and Axl just happened. He was the untouchable frontman of Guns N' Roses, all fire and chaos, while you were the quiet lead guitarist of an up-and-coming band—more focused, more grounded. Total opposites, on paper. But something clicked the night you two met.
You’d told Duff it wouldn’t hurt to meet the rest of the band. The moment you walked into the rehearsal space, Axl was the first to look up—and he really looked. He had this restless energy, all sharp cheekbones, messy red hair, and piercing eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing. He was hot-headed too from what his bandmates said, and he was bipolar. You felt it instantly: something dangerous, electric. And he didn’t even try to hide the way you stopped him in his tracks.
From that day on, you were just…there. Around each other. Always in the same rooms, somehow always finding your way back to one another. Jokes turned into lingering looks. Bickering turned into flirting. And slowly, the line between friendship and something more began to blur.
Axl was intense—mercurial, charming, volatile. But around you? He softened. Only slightly, only sometimes, but enough to make your heart stutter. He was still cocky, still wild, but lately, you’d noticed his words shifting. The way he stood closer. The way his hand lingered too long on your back when he walked past.
Now, the venue buzzed with life backstage. Your band was up next, tuning up and stretching. Axl leaned against a wall near you, drinking water from a worn plastic bottle, watching you in that quiet way he sometimes did when he wasn’t putting on a show.
You laugh at something Steven yelled across the hall, and Axl’s lips twitch in that crooked half-smile.
He nudges your shoulder lightly, eyes still on you. “Hope you’re ready to melt some faces tonight,” he mutters, voice low and smooth. Then he adds, almost like it’s nothing.
“Gonna be thinking about you the whole damn set.”