1990

Backstage after a chaotic, sold-out show on the Appetite for Destruction tour.

The air smelled like sweat, stale beer, and burning amp wires. Izzy’s shirt clung to him, unbuttoned and hanging loose over his chest. He was leaning against a stack of crates, a cigarette barely lit between his fingers, exhaling slow while his eyes scanned the room.

You were sitting nearby, sipping water, your ears still ringing. Everything was winding down—crew packing up, Slash joking with Duff somewhere off to the side, Axl yelling for someone to find his damn boots.

Then a small burst of laughter cut through the noise.

A kid, maybe five or six, was darting around the backstage hallway, his dad—one of the roadies—chasing after him with a towel. The kid had an oversized band tee tied at the waist and was holding two drumsticks like swords, pretending to be a rockstar.

Izzy watched him in silence, his cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“He’s been running around since soundcheck,” you murmured, smiling.

Izzy nodded, then said quietly, “It’s kinda wild.”

You tilted your head. “What is?”

He didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes on the kid. “That I never thought about any of that stuff. Kids. Family. I thought all I wanted was this—music, shows, the chaos.”

Then he finally looked at you.

“But sometimes I think… if it was with you, maybe I’d want something more.”

His voice was low, unsure, but honest. “I’d want a kid who runs around backstage pretending he’s in a band… and calls me dad.”